Despite the significant discomfort from having basically tased herself, Natasha sprinted to the nearest functional vehicle—a little single-engine speed boat. She plugged a GPS receiver into the controls and took off. "Sam, are you still in the air? Any sign of movement around the wreckage?"
"Unfortunately the wings are done for, but there are a few choppers down here that might still fly. I'll snag one," the flying soldier replied over the comm. "We're talking about a pretty wide debris field, though. Where do you propose we start looking?"
"I'm seeing what I can get."
"Doesn't he have some kind of tracker on him?"
"The newer suits have, but this one is from the first go-around. I was able to slip one of my units into a pocket, it's just not built to stand up to everything he gets himself into. " She fidgeted with the receiver. "Must've gotten damaged along the way. Last known location was about two clicks from the Triskelion. I'm heading that way now."
"You know the chances he's buried at the bottom of the Potomac at this point, right? I mean, I'm not gonna stop 'til we find him, but that thing got shredded around him before plummeting 3,000 feet."
"Just get back in the air and keep your eyes peeled!"
Nathasha swerved around wreckage into relatively open water, scanning everything around her for some hint of red, white, and blue. Luckily, the speedboat also had a mini sonar unit (thank goodness for SHIELD overcompensation). She flipped that on as well to look for anything of human shape underwater.
She almost would have dismissed it as imagination. As she slowed down to check a protruding skeleton of twisted metal, she spotted it—him, a dark, dripping-wet figure on the far bank. His silver hand gripped his flesh-and-blood arm, which seemed to be injured. They made eye contact. Natasha could have sworn she saw the man tilt his head opposite the direction he was heading, as if telling her something. Then a large piece of airship blocked her view for a second, and he was gone.
"Natasha, do you see anything? Come in!" Sam suddenly barked into the comm.
"Wha, what?" Eyes back on her trajectory, she sped around a sharp bank…and her heart leapt into her throat. "I see him! West side of the river, lock onto my signal."
She practically beached the boat with the engine still running. Only when she vaulted over the side into water and loose pebbles did she remember the stilettos on her feet, promptly discarding them.
"Cap!"
Steve didn't move. Blood spread from a bullet hole in the middle of the red and white stripes, more around what looked like a knife wound to his right shoulder. Half his face was misshapen from a superhuman pummeling. He wasn't breathing.
"God, please don't be dead, you can't be dead…" Natasha crashed to her knees, frantically opening his collar and starting rescue breaths. She couldn't help but remember their hasty cover on the escalator even as she went on autopilot. After the first few, she checked—no dice, but still a flighty pulse—and started again. C'mon, don't do this to me now!
This time she was rewarded by watery reflexive coughing, though he remained unconscious. "Yes! That's it, just breathe." Once she was sure that it wasn't a fluke, she tore off her blazer, opened his suit further, and put pressure on the gunshot wound while visually checking for any other notable problems. A possible second hit darkened the back of his left thigh. "Agent Hill, alert the nearest hospital that we will have a code one incoming ASAP. Cap's down, bad. I'm doing what I can, Sam's on his way with a chopper, over."
"Read you loud and clear, keep me updated," Hill answered.
At that moment the wash of helo blades buffeted her head. Sam sent pebbles flying as he appeared on Steve's other side. "How bad is it?"
"Significantly," Natasha shouted over the idling engine. "At least two GSWs, puncture to the right shoulder, face contusions…"
"The Winter Soldier did all this? I'd like to beat his face in a bit right now."
Natasha swallowed hard. "I think…I think Barnes saved him. They both had to've gone in the water."
"Say what now?"
"Look at him! I found him like this, no way he got himself up this far on the beach and ended up in this position. I think Barnes pulled him out."
"Steve's tough, he would have found a way—"
"Plus I saw him, heading into the trees on this side. I'm pretty sure he pointed me in this direction."
"Okay, now I think whatever hits you took with Pierce messed with your brain." Sam shook his head. Natasha glared at him.
"Arguing about it is doing zero good. Help me get him in the chopper."
Carefully lifting Steve between them (after establishing reasonable surety that he didn't have a major spinal injury), they shuffled toward the waiting side door.
"Definitely heavier than he looks," grumbled Sam. "Get in and keep an eye on him. You might have that shoulder looked at too, when we get to the hospital." He pointed at her now-exposed bandages, which were coming loose, fresh blood seeping through.
"Just get us in the air."
A trauma team waited for them at the helipad. Natasha wearily relayed to them the same thing she told Sam, and then one of the techs check her shoulder while the others started transferring Steve to the gurney.
Suddenly he jerked into semi-consciousness, nearly knocking the doctor into the chopper when everyone tried to restrain him. Natasha fought to get in there as well.
"Don't fight them, they're trying to help!"
Ruffled but still businesslike, the doctor dove back into his assessment. "Can you hear me, Captain Rodgers? You're among friends. We're taking you into the hospital so we can get you taken care of, okay?"
Despite disapproving looks from the techs, Natasha squeezed in, reaching Steve's cheek with one hand. "Listen to my voice, it's me, Nat. I'm right here with you. The fight's over. You did it. Just let them help you." Whether he actually registered her presence or simply slipped under once more, Steve's movements quieted.
"Somebody get her to triage. I need that surgery suite ready to go, let's move move move move!" rapped the doctor.
"I'm right behind you as soon as I park this thing," Sam said into Natasha's ear before she was pulled away.
This had to be a record, even for their line of work. For the second time in less than a week, Natasha stood behind the observation window in surgery. She adjusted her left arm so it rested better in the sling, meant to keep her from disturbing the new stitches. Except Steve wasn't there to keep her company—he was on the other side, with a machine breathing for him and doctors pulling bullets out of his body. Figuring out anesthesia had been bad enough, not knowing how the super serum would play into everything.
She registered a knock at the door, though she didn't shift her gaze. Sam's reflection in the window approached, his figure much less bulky without the flight suit and mech gear.
"They say anything yet?" he asked by way of greeting.
"Critical, they're worried about possible abdominal aorta damage, and how much blood he lost in the field. The rest is all pretty straightforward, as far as our situation goes. The fall alone would have killed a normal person." Natasha took a deep breath. "He came away from it with a few broken ribs, thankfully none bad enough to puncture anything."
"Are you okay?"
"I've done worse. Had to get the stitches redone, plus that nice electrical burn from the shock pin. Few days, maybe a week, I'll be back to work. Got a favor I think I'm going to call in."
"You sure? This whole mess has been a hell ride for both of you."
"You're a fine soldier and a great asset, Sam. We'd be lucky to have you stay on the team. But no offense, you haven't worked at my level long enough." She gave him a bittersweet smile.
They lapsed into silence, watching the doctors work. Something about the steady heart monitor was soothing, a reminder that Steve wasn't going anywhere just yet. After a few more minutes, one of the surgeons handed off his instruments, gave a thumbs up to the window, and headed for the scrub out room. Natasha and Sam rushed to the hallway even though they knew it would be a while before they could actually speak with him.
The greying man emerged from the surgical suite with a pleasant expression on his face. "Ms. Romanoff. And I don't believe I've met you—"
"Sam, Wilson. I'm…new to the team, as it were," Sam told him. Obviously this was a particular doctor who dealt with SHIELD matters when needed.
"Good to meet you. Well, the good news is the damage was minimal, considering. Captain Rodgers will be in the hospital for a while, but I expect he'll make a full recovery. I suggest getting something to eat, if you haven't already. By the time you're done with that, they'll have him finished up and in the recovery room. Fourth floor, ask for Cindy."
"Thank you, Dr. Sterling," Natasha said with genuine relief. The surgeon shook their hands, and returned to his duties.
"C'mon, I am starving now that he's mentioned it," quipped Sam.
Forty-five anxious minutes later there were shown into a room with the blinds drawn and a hallway of guards. Aside from the basic monitor and an oxygen cannula, Steve was fairly unadorned. The right side of his face was black and blue, with a few stitches here and there. One sleeve of his hospital gown bulged from the dressings underneath. The digital sound of his heartbeat paced strong and steady in the small space.
Natasha touched his IV hand with her good one. It was reassuringly warm, not cold and clammy like when she found him.
"You gonna stay a while, or start right in on that favor you mentioned?" asked Sam.
"Maybe I'll step out and make a couple calls, and then catch a short nap here before figuring out what's next. There's a lot to sort out in the coming weeks."
"Welp, I'll be here. And speak now or forever hold your peace about music, because I've got a few albums to get him caught up on."
Natasha smiled. She leaned in to plant a quick kiss on Steve's forehead, and headed out with her phone in hand.
The halls were dim, no doubt to maintain a calm atmosphere. He timed his move perfectly; the floor was momentarily deserted with shift change, an odd little slip in protocols. Right up against the window, he could see just enough through the interior blinds to tell that no one else was in the room, even with only the bed light to see by. The latch was easy enough to lift (after all, even with security concerns, they couldn't have too much of a barrier should there be an emergency).
The man in the bed didn't stir. He looked so much smaller in a hospital gown rather than that bulky monkey suit. Strangely more familiar, in fact. The stitches and puffy, swollen bruises were the only easily-identified signs of the earlier battle. Under his stolen hooded jacket, the visitor clenched his gloved left hand. There was so much he still didn't understand.
"You shouldn't be here," a carefully low voice spoke behind him. The other warrior, the flying one. The visitor turned slowly, hands down but visible and unmoving.
"I just needed to be sure."
"I won't pretend to have any clue what he sees in you, but he sees something."
"It's all so confusing…jumbled," the visitor admitted. "Except for this. Something about this feels right, even if I don't know what."
"How did you make it up here, anyway?"
"The back of the building was easy enough to scale, once my shoulder was back in place. From there it was just a matter of waiting in the service stairwell for shift change. Pretty amateur security mistake."
"Or maybe some of us were willing to see if you took that chance."
He studied the other soldier. Focused, but standing casually, dressed in civilian clothes, no outward show of weapons. Not that this meant much, he knew.
"He…he called me his friend. No matter what I threw at him, he wouldn't fight back. He could have left me pinned to go down with the ship. Instead he helped me…and then he fell, and I remembered…"
"He never really forgave himself, hanging from that train while he watched you fall. So he told me, anyway. Déjà vu, sense memory, PTSD, whatever you want to call it, it's a powerful thing."
"How could he be so sure? I don't even know who I am anymore."
"There's an exhibit at the Smithsonian about the journey of Captain America. You might start there. Other than that, I'm not sure what to tell you. I still can't believe I'm having this conversation.
The corner of the visitor's mouth twitched at the remark. Outside the little room, quiet, ambient noises began to return. He stiffened for a moment. The other soldier nodded to the window.
"Think you could climb down without attracting too much attention if I close it behind you? Don't get me wrong, part of me would very much like to park your ass in some kind of super prison and be done with it. But I trust Cap, and he wouldn't want any more fighting than there already has been."
He stared at the man in front of him, then at the figure in the bed, and back again. Impatiently, this unexpected ally—could he call him that?—strode around to the window and opened it. "Go, before I change my mind."
The visitor paused briefly at the bed, removing the glove from his right hand, and touched the unconscious man's forearm, careful not to bump the wires and tubes around it. It was strangely comforting to purposely make skin to skin contact in such a peaceful gesture. Then the moment passed, and he went to the window as well.
"I know I have done nothing to earn it, but could you do me one more favor?" he whispered to the one letting him go. "Don't…tell him I was here. It's probably for the best, for the whole world, if I just disappear. Less danger for everyone that way."
With that, he slipped out into the cool breeze, scaling the precarious edifice to the ground, and back into the shadows.