Work Text:
You jolted awake to the heavy slam of your bedroom door and a shaking room. The blinding lights of unclosed curtains forced your eyes shut again, but you didn’t need them, you knew already that a slammed door was a precursor to Jeff barging in and, sure enough, the pattering of feet soon greeted your ears, growing louder as he approached. In your mind, Jeff stood beside you – where his footsteps had placed him – waiting impatiently for you to wake up.
"Mrrrr," the land shark whined then, as if confirming your visualisation.
You opened your eyes slowly to see a blurry, silver blob taking up most of your sightline – he was closer than you’d thought. As Jeff came into focus, you noticed he held a small white sheet of paper in his mouth, so propped yourself up to get a proper look.
Or, at least, you intended to…
In your newly awoken state, you’d forgotten the injuries sustained on your most recent mission and soon collapsed back onto the mattress with a yelp, your arm still pulsing with painful shocks. Jeff came to your side in an instant, nudging inquisitively at the damaged limbs, then rolling you off of them and onto your back.
“Thanks buddy,” you sighed, “what’ve you got there?”
Jeff traversed the bed, erasing all the work he’d done to make you comfortable by trampling right over your stomach, then spat the paper onto your chest. You looked down at the paper. Then at Jeff. He sat by your side looking proudly between you and the paper, which would have been all well and good if he hadn’t settled right on your good arm, pinning it to the bed with his full body weight. Your gaze shifted to your other hand; it unfortunately hadn’t healed in the 5 minutes since you’d woken up, so your forearm and hand remained in a solid plaster cast, lacking the dexterity to even hold the paper.
Jeff nudged it again.
“I’m a bit stuck here, can you just read it out to me?”
“Mrrrrr. Mrrr, mrrrr, mrrrr!”
“Natasha wrote that?”
“Mrrrr!”
Jeff maintained eye contact for almost 10 seconds as you pondered Natasha’s message, until your brain finally kicked into gear. “Wait, you can’t read. That was all made up?”
“Mrrrr,” Jeff confirmed, sheepishly burying his head into your side.
He was too cute to scold, and really, you should have known they weren’t Natasha’s words when all the requests involved keeping Jeff happy – including driving him to the beach while half your limbs were still non-functional.
“Alright, tip the paper towards me, I can probably read it like this.” Jeff obliged your request. “We do have to work on your reading though, what if you want to read a Best Man speech for mine and Natasha’s wedding? Or would you rather be a flower boy?”
“Mrrrr.”
“Okay, yeah, we’ll work on the details later. Letter first.”
For all the hassle it took to read it, the note itself was fairly simple. Natasha had been called on a mission, she hadn’t wanted to wake you, so she wrote a note and asked Jeff to deliver it once you were awake. She seemingly hadn’t predicted that Jeff would nearly break the door down and wake you just to complete his task, but that was just one of his many quirks.
Unfortunately, your brain had quirks too, and they weren’t as easy to brush off as Jeff’s door slamming habit. Your whole chest seemed to sink into itself as you read, the familiar twisting of your stomach accompanying a racing mind. Worrying for Natasha wasn't something new, but it rarely reached this extent. Lately, fear for her safety seemed to be all that could occupy your mind; even when she'd be sat right beside you, thoughts of what could go wrong flooded your brain without reprieve.
You blamed the injury. Memories of the mission were scattered, but you remembered the explosion, the pain, and the fear in Natasha's eyes. You would do everything in your power to never experience what she felt, and ensure she never went through the same again, but with your line of work, what could be done?
Memories of being trapped under the rubble flooded your brain, even when you clenched your eyes shut trying to think of anything else, all your brain conjured were alternative scenarios, which choices might have caused a different outcome? But after flashes of every possible ending, you came to the same realisation that you'd known on the field.
There was no better outcome.
Nobody has known about the explosive, and there was no way for anyone to have found out. In every mission play through, someone had to be in your position at the time of explosion, doing your job and paying the price. And that terrified you.
Suddenly, your face was engulfed in a wetness that brought you sharply back to your senses. One hand instantly gripped the sheets beneath you until your gaze settled on the culprit; Jeff sat by your side with a new look of pride on his expression, the tongue which had just been on your face still lolled out of his mouth. When your eyes met his, he moved into action, climbing onto your chest.
"Hey again Jeff," you said, then wrapped the shark in your arms as best you could with a broken arm. He mumbled softly, then splayed out his limbs to lay flat on your chest; his weight provided an unexpected comfort.
You had been so caught up in your brain that the physical reactions seemed almost secondary, but Jeff's reminder that the real world existed made you take note. There was the uncomfortable awareness of your beating pulse, hurried breaths, and your hand still clenched into a fist around the sheets.
A light huff from Jeff refocused your attention on him. He resettled (still on your chest), then closed his eyes to sleep, his whole body rising and falling thanks to his slow, deep breaths.
Slowly, you released your grasp of the covers and moved your hand to hover above Jeff; he seemed so peaceful, it made you almost guilty to disturb him while you dealt with racing thoughts and an agitated existence. Then, the land shark shifted, it was as if he'd sensed your anguish and taken action himself, since he shifted his body to the side just enough that your hand now rested on his midsection. You smiled.
Jeff's chest expanded as he breathed air in, and it moved your hand with it. You watched as it stayed stationary for several seconds, before eventually moving in with Jeff's deflated form. That became a challenge – the next 5 minutes passed where your only thought was Jeff's breathing, everything else falling away while you mimicked Jeff's slow and sleepy inhalations.
And for the first time in a long time, you coped without distractions. Jeff alone had you feeling that bit better.
—
You noticed too late the shift in your mood.
Jeff came and went, the light outside faded; time moved on. You hardly noticed it at all. You weren't caught up on other thoughts, or even nervous like you had been in the morning, there was just… nothing. What was there to do in a day? The injury meant no work, no exercise, nothing strenuous at all. And Natasha was gone, so nobody expected you up and out of bed.
You had no reason to get up and hardly any energy either, so in bed you stayed. Sleep took its hold on you for brief patches of the day, but the rest was spent with glazed eyes, half-focused on various parts of the room. It wasn't until Jeff interrupted (again) in the late afternoon that things began to change.
Jeff was not one to judge an unproductive day in bed. After all, they were his speciality! A good day for the land shark involved sleeping for at least 75% of it. But for you, that behaviour was unusual, and Jeff knew it; he also knew that it was dinner time, and the 25% of the day he allocated to 'eating (and other)' was in danger if you didn't get up and feed him. So he took matters into his own hands.
He pushed the door open with a light headbutt and asked, "mrrrr?" You shifted in bed, but ultimately gave no reply, so he stepped closer and pawed at your bedsheets.
"I know, Jeff, I know," you said. Though you carried so much resignation in your tone that the land shark hurried to reassess the situation; your smile was weak, eyes bloodshot and swollen, and your arm buckled as you tried to rise yourself out of bed.
"Mrrr!" he squealed quickly, before he hopped onto the bed and pushed you to lie back down with a more controlled "mrrrr". He could handle this.
"That was weird," you said to yourself once Jeff walked out; his pleas for food had been cut short by his U-turn into looking after himself. The speed of his turnabout did concern you, and as his guardian you knew you should be getting up and ensuring he was okay, but for some reason – be it laziness or belief in your land shark – you trusted his judgement.
The bed enveloped you again and by the time the bangs and crashes started from the kitchen, your brain was tuned out.
—
Small nudges from Jeff roused you for a third time that day, but he didn't care to loiter this time. As soon as you displayed signs of being awake, he dragged the covers off of you for the chill of the room to rouse you fully, before he nipped at your leg.
"Ow, Jeff, it's broken, remember?"
Jeff gave an apologetic murmur, but continued tapping at the floor and turning in a clear sign for you to follow him. He did his best to help as you got up, pushing your crutch closer and offering his body as support (which might have been more useful if he was any taller than your shin), then led you through the house, looking back every few seconds to check you were still okay.
Various guesses of where Jeff may be leading you to were discarded as the walk continued; the route was long, and only came to its conclusion on the far side of your home, in the dining room. Two dishes caught your eye, laid side-by-side on a table that was properly set with cutlery, glasses, and a whole choice of drinks – anything you would need to just sit down and enjoy the meal. It was only then that the hunger hit you; you hadn’t even noticed the mealtimes pass you by while you lay in bed, you hadn’t even felt like a person enough to remember them, but clearly Jeff had taken note.
Your jaw hung open when you looked at Jeff, who grinned proudly up at you. “Did you make this?”
“Mrrrr!”
“How did you ev-” In looking around to take in the scene, you suddenly noticed the opening to the kitchen, and the mountains of stacked plates, pans, and utensils lining the previously empty sink. Jeff could cook, you concluded, but he couldn’t clean. “I’ll deal with that later,” you told him.
Jeff rushed ahead to pull out a chair for you, making it easier for you to hop over and take your seat, but you had one thing to do first: you pulled out your phone and photographed the scene (excluding the dirty dishes), then sent it to Natasha.
*Y/N: Our boy can cook 🥹*