Doc Summers arrives eventually, brisk and compact, brown hair twisted into a knot that looks as if it’s been redone three times today already. She waves Carolina toward the door with that deceptively gentle tone that always means now, not later.
Carolina hesitates, but one sharp look from the Doc sends her out.
I'm propped against the table, shirt off, chest a masterpiece of purple and black bruising. Summers doesn't bother with preliminaries—she's already pulling gloves on.
"You Guardians," she mutters, probing my ribs with practiced efficiency that still makes me wince, "one of these days I'm putting a revolving door on the trauma bay. You think Kevlar makes you immortal."
"Just durable," I answer, trying for humor.
She snorts. "Durable doesn't mean bulletproof. You've got three cracked ribs and bruising that goes down to the bone." Her fingers find a particularly tender spot, and I can't suppress a grunt. "Multiple impacts like that could have caused cardiac contusion, pneumothorax, all sorts of fun complications. You're lucky."
"Nothing I haven't worked through before."
"Don't give me that Guardian stoicism." She starts wrapping my ribs with compression bandages, the support immediately helping with the pain. "You people act like pain's a personality trait."
I let her finish the wrapping, saying nothing. When she steps back, she folds her arms, measuring me. "Regulations say you're off active duty until those ribs heal."
“Regulations also give you discretion for field necessity,” I remind her.
“Field necessity,” she repeats, exasperation thick. “You mean you’re short-staffed and too stubborn to sit down for three days.”
I lift a brow. “You said it, not me.”
For a long moment, she studies me, weighing risk against reality. Finally, she sighs, pulling off her gloves. "Fine. You're cleared for limited field ops. No hand-to-hand combat, no jumping out of helicopters, and if you puncture a lung being heroic, you crawl back here on it. Understood?"
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “You Guardians never learn. Try not to die before I get a coffee break.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She's halfway out the door when she calls back, "Tell Carolina she owes me a new roll of bandages. She was pacing a groove in the floor with worry."
I can't help the slight grin that follows. The compression wrap helps stabilize everything, and with the pain medication kicking in, I can move without feeling like my chest is caving in. Ugly, painful—but functional. Good enough for now.
Good enough.
CJ comes back with my gear—fresh clothes, a new vest since mine took too many rounds, weapons cleaned and reloaded. He watches me dress with the critical eye of someone assessing whether I'm fit for duty, but whatever he sees must satisfy him because he doesn't object.
"Transport leaves in twenty minutes," he says. "FBI has the site secured. Sutton will have full support—bomb techs standing by, medical on standby, Guardian HRS team for security. Your job is to keep her breathing while she works."
"That's the plan."
"Flint." He waits until I meet his eyes. "She's going to be focused on that device. Tunnel vision. She won't be watching for threats. That's on you, injured or not."
"I know."
"And if you go down, there's no one else who can protect her the way you will."
"Then I won't go down." I check my Glock, chamber a round, and holster it. "Anything else?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Don’t come back in a body bag."
It's as close to sentiment as CJ ever gets, and I nod once in acknowledgment. Then I'm moving toward the transport area where Carolina and the rest of the team are waiting.
Carolina looks up when I enter the staging area. She doesn't say anything, just moves to my side like it's the most naturalthing in the world. Like we're already a team, already partners in whatever comes next.
The helicopter is warming up outside, rotors beginning their familiar beat. Ten hours. Maybe less. And at the end of them, either Carolina disarms a device that's designed to kill her, or people die, and Greer wins.
