The direct order was finally given, and the rescue teams of SHIELD were deployed. They split off in packs of three or four, each with the express directive of finding any and all injured parties, removing them from the dangerous conditions and placing them in the proper hands. That meant ferrying people out to the paramedics, to the nearest hospitals, and it also meant that no discrimination was to take place. Any injured enemies were to be taken in as well, if they were not directly incarcerated; legality issues aside, it meant that there would be more interrogation opportunities to be had. Or, at least, that was Kay's cynical assessment of the situation. Still, her loyalties would not prevent her from doing her job. She would just keep her pistol at the ready when she was unloaded into the fray.
It was what Kay Szymik was trained to do, had been her field for years before she'd started working under the Avengers. Granted, it was atypical to be sent in when the action had completed, but for that, she was grateful. Taking time was not exactly an option, but it would not be a helter-skelter dash to extract people while under heavy fire. She, along with her assigned coworkers, were flown in, dropped on the veritable back doorstep to canvas the interior of the collapsed building. The front was swarming with bodies as it was, and they had no other choice than to be left there. The teams assigned were split up, hers being ordered to check out the upper floors. There were reports forwarded that indicated there were individuals inside, and they needed to ascertain whether or not that was the case. Taking out her scanner, the device started to blip and blink as she moved. Steps taken were cautious, as the explosives that had been rigged to the building before had made it all unsteady. Carefully, she picked her way across the floor, gingerly hopping over fallen columns and caved-in sections of the ceiling that had come loose. The distant wail of sirens permeated the silence for long moments, before her scanner started to beep. It had picked up the form of a person, trapped under the splintered part of the building at the end of the hallway. The heat signature picked up by the machine told her that the person underneath was still alive.
"Got one over here!" Kay called back to her teammates, pocketing her device as she crept closer to the trapped individual. Getting on her hands and knees, she lifted a few pieces of the debris off the fallen fellow, blowing a piece of her hair out of her face as she did so. She focused on freeing the area where the scanner had told her the head was. If the person was conscious, she wanted them to be able to see what was going on, knowing how disoriented he or she was likely to be. Dumping the pieces to the side, she did something completely out of her character in times like those. She froze, stared at the man under the rubble. "Oh, my God. Sam."
It was Sam Wilson, dust and blood on his face, but still alive. The rebar and broken beams pinned him there. All her training was screaming at her to maintain her impartiality, to treat the situation like it was just any other person. But it was overwhelmed by the cries of the person was Sam, and no matter what falling out they'd had, she still cared for him, and she couldn't just act like it was nothing. No matter who or what was at hand.
"Ugh," he groaned, blinking rapidly against the pain in his body, his head.
"Sammy," she gasped, her voice drawing him out of his fog. Hearing even that little bit of noise made a frisson of relief shoot through her. However, she knew better than to let herself give into it. He was still trapped, and she could not let him stay that way. Gently, her hand reached in and cupped his cheek, and she whispered, "I'm gonna get you out, honey, okay? Hang on, just hang on."
Calling out again, Kay could barely contain herself as the other members of her team finally responded. Pitching in to help her clear debris, she heard one or two of them mutter about the pinned Avenger. How had this happened to him? Wasn't he trained to avoid situations like that? She nearly bit through her tongue to stop herself from telling them off, from reminding them that disasters and circumstances such as the ones that led to him being trapped could happen to anyone, regardless of their training. Instead, she let them work, the flimsy pieces of ceiling and wall pushed to the side. Once most of the lighter pieces had been cleared, she instructed the others to grab the rebar at key points, to lever it up while she pulled him free. Though she had superior strength on her side, she had made a promise to be the one to get Sam out. And she would do it; she would be the one to free him bodily from the wreckage. Shifting on his back, Sam moaned a little, one palm rising before it fell back and he hissed in agony. Not a broken arm, she mused, but perhaps his clavicle? She would know for sure once he was out and could use her scanner properly.
"I know it hurts, but you have to give me your hand," she said, coaxing him to do so. Holding out her own, she waited until he sucked in a deep breath, a bare nod and growling groan crawling out as he complied. With his fingers laced tightly around her palm, her other hand reach down further, gripping at his bicep. Looking up at her comrades, she inclined her head. "On three...one, two..."
The remaining debris was lifted from his legs, and swiftly she tugged, pulling him away with ease. Once his legs were clear, they dropped the rebar and sheet rock back down, all of it thudding as it landed.
"Gah! Damn it!" Sam barked, a stray tear or two leaking out of his eyes as fire ripped from shoulder to shoulder. Kay ignored his curses, digging out her scanner and recalibrating it to show her the damage. Shuffling around him on her knees, she waved the device, ticks and pings showing her what she couldn't see.
"Broken collarbone, bruising and lacerations, possible concussion," she rattled off under her breath, tapping the scanner in hand to record the potential injuries. Another look at his blown pupils confirmed that last suspicion of hers, and she sighed. Looping one arm around his waist, and locking the other across his shoulders to keep his broken bones in place, she hoisted Sam onto his feet. "We gotta get you to a medic."
To her team members, she bade them to continue their sweeps, as she would assist the Avenger out to find aid. One of them objected, stating that she shouldn't go off on her own. Blearily, Sam raised an eyebrow at the guy, bluntly stating that she was more capable than most to do so. Grimacing and grunting at the pain, his fingers curled into the material of her suit, bloodied knuckles bunching at her waist. Holding her ground, she stared down the fellow until he backed off, his grumbles at the others to join him in doing sweeps melting as they strode away, picking their way up to the next floor. As one, Kay and Sam started to walk, slow steps taken as they carefully went down the back staircase. A few steps had been knocked loose, and her grasp around him tightened as feet slipped and slid on occasion. Trying to keep his balance (and not throw up as the world spun and shifted around him), his dark eyes squinted, focusing on the blue-haired woman beside him as they went.
"And how are you, Kay?" he huffed, a ghost of a chuckle at the back of his throat. The enforced joviality was keeping him steady, something she recognized. Her thumb brushed along his hip, and she canted her head to the right.
"Could be worse," she retorted, almond eyes narrowing in slight humor. The corner of his mouth turned up at that.
"Could be me," he joked, wincing as he stepped too hard, the jarring sensation shooting up his leg and rattling his torso. Kay snorted at that, pausing with him as he tried to steady himself.
"True."
Once he'd found his equilibrium again, they continued the journey, side-stepping debris and making their way out the front steps. A team of paramedics were already posted there, and pick-up for hospital transfers would be called in if needed. Before they reached the (shattered) front doors, Sam stopped again. Kay paused, the quizzical set of her brow unmistakeable. Balancing precariously beside her, he bent his head, swaying a little as he gripped her harder.
"Baby, I..." he murmured, gathering steam to keep going. His brown gaze raised from the floor, connecting with hers, and she could see the swirl of all the things left unsaid between them, of all the things that were trying to force their way out. Shaking her head, she brought a finger to his lips, stemming his speech. She would concede that they did have much to discuss, but for now, that was not the primary concern.
"Later, alright?" she said, the pucker of his frown under her finger making her smile wanly. Removing the digit, she instead cupped his cheek again, the world contracting to just the two of them. Taking a shaky breath, she went on, "I promise. Let's get you patched up first."
Exhaustion lining his features, Sam dipped his chin, the fingers still at her waist squeezing before she guided him to walk once more. There would be time, and plenty of it, to talk. It could wait until he was tended to, at least.
xXxXxXx
The news feeds had cut out, the stations recalling their reporters as the rescue crews began their sweeps into the battle-torn streets surrounding the United Nations buildings. The officers of the National Guard were escorting them and other civilians away from the perimeter, orders given to allow efficient clean-up and arrests of the offenders who still were alive. Detainment vehicles were speeding onto the land, the cameras catching the barest glimpse of SHIELD agents swarming the field before the studios assumed control of the airwaves again. Speculation as to the underlying causes, and what would happened to the apprehended perpetrators, were bandied about, but Holly's concerns were elsewhere. Muting the feed before her, she stared down at her cellphone, the device silent for the first time in hours.
In between helping Maria intercept and deflect calls from the separate organizations who were in league with the team, she'd been getting her own desperate messages. Her parents had left one, begging her to tell them what was going on out in the city, if Steve was in trouble. Heather and Hank left separate messages after that, telling her that she needed to call in with Mom and Dad before they exploded, their own fears for her husband lacing their tones and pleas. One from Jane Foster had sneaked its way onto the device, another from Pepper Potts joining it. Sarah had taken it upon herself to text her repeatedly, knowing she would be more likely to get an answer that way. When quiet moments fell on the main lines, she rattled off messages to them all, telling them what she knew, and offering to share more when she had more information.
There was no news to share, and she was unsure whether that was good or bad. Sighing, her free hand scratched at the curve of her belly, the ache of her back finally registering as she sat back in it. Still, she continued to stare at her phone, hoping to receive some kind of word soon. Alone in the conference room for the moment, the silence ate at her, and she almost leaped from her seat the moment Maria returned from her private call. However, her action was stilled as she took in the hard expression on the older woman's face. Bright eyes swept up, meeting her dark gaze, and they flashed with an emotion she never thought she'd see in Maria.
It was pity. And it chilled her insides to see it.
"Holly..." Hill paused, trying to find her tongue again. There had been many times in the past that she'd received news such as had been relayed to her, and had given similar speeches as well. However, it was never easy news to give, particularly when she cared for the people involved. Drawing upon her courage, Maria managed to look Holly directly in the eye, her shoulders squared and her back stiff. "Steve's been hit. It's bad."
The tight spring of denial in Holly flowed up, wanted to ignore or refute the other woman's claim. But the honesty in her gaze, the sadness that hovered behind it, told her that Hill was telling the truth. Ice flooded her veins, and her phone dropped onto the table before her, bouncing and clattering across the glass. Sinking back into her chair, she buried her face in her hands, dread and horror robbing her of her voice. After all that time, after so many missions and close calls, it had happened. It was a nightmare coming true, disgust and sorrow climbing up her throat and threatening to push out. Her shoulders shook, eyes watered, and several long seconds passed in which she could do nothing else.
Dully, she recalled a story Steve had told her once, about his year spent touring the country. Though he did not care to speak often of the experience (frankly, aspects of it still embarrassed him to no end, as well as irritated him), there were things that he could not allow himself to push away. He'd gotten to know the girls he'd performed with, along with the stagehands who traveled along with them and joined up between cities. They spoke of their families, their loved ones, of their brothers and fathers who had gone off to fight. As proud as they were of their fellas, the others were afraid for them. He had been, too; after all, his best friend was out there, risking his neck daily overseas. What most of them dreaded, when they made calls home in between shows, was the news that a telegram had been delivered.
Telegrams were the chosen way to inform a family that their soldier was grievously injured, missing in action, or killed. The poor boys assigned to the job were known as angels of death, and were feared more than any stage superstition he'd learned about.
One of the girls, Ruth, had found out about her brother that way, the news having been forwarded to the theater they were performing at in Chicago. Collapsing into tears as the unfortunate teenager assigned to the task had tried to hand over the telegram, Ruth was ringed by the rest of the girls before the dressing room door was slammed in the boy's face. Intercepting the kid, Steve escorted him safely out of the theater, the younger man shaking his head and sincere sorrow decorating his features. Ruth, understandably, could not pull herself together in time for the show, and everyone chipped in to send her home to her family immediately after the curtain fell.
The girls feared telegrams, the Barnes family was terrified they would receive one...it was not something he would wish upon anyone, he'd told her. Finding out about a loved one's hurt or demise via unfeeling text on paper, the idea made his heart ache.
She remembered taking his hand, her head resting on his shoulder, and whispering that she feared that, too. It would not come on paper, not nowadays, but a message of that nature could find its way to her. She was afraid of receiving something like that, knowing it very well could happen due to the lives they had chosen to lead together. He could say nothing to that, his eyes closing and his cheek pressing to her hair as he'd squeezed her fingers.
And now, there it was. The telegram at the door, delivered in spite of her wants and wishes. Sniffing hard, the frightened tears dripped down her cheeks as she scooted out of her chair. Her hands flew, scooping up her phone and abandoned laptop, the pile of Steve's clothes rifled through until she extracted the ring of keys within. Gathering up all that and her purse, she shuffled as fast as she could out the door, as close to a run as she dared as she pushed herself to get to the elevator. Heels clicked behind her, easily catching up to her as she went. A hand curled around her elbow, Maria trying to stop her.
"Where are you going?" she asked, new concern blossoming inside her. Frantically, Holly tried to shake her off, her breathing growing more ragged as she tried to pull away.
"I've gotta get there. I gotta go right now, Maria," she huffed, red splotches blotting her face as she squirmed. Twists and twinges in her gut wracked her, but she could not pay them any mind. "Steve, he, he..."
Hill's free hand gripped her shoulder, and a mild shake was given to stem the onslaught of her anxiety.
"Holly, you can't. You're in no condition to drive, and you don't know where you're going. The city is a war zone right now," Maria reminded her, watching as the younger woman started to deflate before her eyes. Shaking her head, she continued, "Besides, driving would be too slow."
Putting a hand to her ear, she tapped her comm link, her call connecting in a matter of seconds.
"This is Hill, is the jet ready?" she inquired, ignoring the quirk of Holly's brow. A quinjet had been left at the base in the unlikely event that evacuation would be necessary, and as the trouble in the city had passed, she could commandeer the craft. Receiving an affirmation, she grunted, "Good, go through take-off prep and mark a course for New York. We're on our way up."
Words failed Holly for several seconds, the implications of Maria's commands forcing their way into her understanding. Fresh tears spilled over, and one arm wormed loose, catching the older woman around the shoulders and pulling her into a grateful hug.
"Thank you, thank you," she crowed, and Maria, after a couple of moments, managed to return the embrace, patting her back gently.
"Thank me later," she returned, carefully prying her away and turning her back towards the elevators. "Let's go."
The two women were on the platform in no time, Hill sending last-minute instructions to her assistant as they strapped themselves into their seats. Harnessed and ready to go, the quinjet rose rapidly, the agents with them utterly silent (save for establishing radio contact). As soon as they leveled out, Maria was back on her comm link again, determined to reestablish connection with the team. Tony Stark failed to answer, but Bucky picked up on the third try. Though she was only able to listen in on part of the conversation, Holly was able to pick up a few things. With Steve effectively down and out of commission, it had fallen on his erstwhile best friend to man the helm, the rest of the teams either too preoccupied or too injured themselves to do so. The rescue and evacuation groups were making their final sweeps, collecting the last of the fallen and shipping them off to different hospitals, clinics, and prisons around the city. ("What? New Jersey, too?" Maria had croaked, and Holly's eyebrows inclined, imagining Bucky's reaction to the sharp tone.) The U.N. members that had survived were also being treated, but most of them were in decent shape. Cutting to the chase for Holly's benefit, Maria asked for Steve's location. New York-Presbyterian had sent out some of the members of their emergency medical services, but it seemed that the captain had been taken to the facility on the Lower East Side. Passing the word onto the pilot, the jet turned sharply, making Holly's belongings slide and her stomach lurch—which prompted one of the agents to find a bag to put all her things in, at least. In under an hour, the jet was landing on the rooftop helicopter pad, special permission granted by the head administrator when Hill made a final round of calls. Both women were quick to get inside, the posted staff directing them deftly down the back elevators and away from the paparazzi that was ringing the hospital. Security was on high alert, supplemented by SHIELD agents at Fury's behest.
At the back of her mind, Holly was grateful for it, but could not express it. She could only concentrate on getting inside, getting to her husband. As she and her companion were guided out into the public areas of the hospital, she felt her heart thump hard in her chest. So many people were there, survivors of the attack waiting to hear about affected friends and family members, and she almost felt like she couldn't breathe. Glancing around, she did not know where to start. Sure, Maria had made sure to inform the passing nurses that Captain America's wife was on the premises, and that she would need to be informed on his condition as soon as possible, but that was all that had been done. At a loss, she gripped Maria's wrist, her other hand wrapped tightly around her borrowed bag's handles.
"Over here!" A metal arm glinted under the florescent lights, dropping once she spotted the owner of it fully. Something akin to relief flooded her, gladness working its way under the fear as she spotted him. He was bruised, and a couple cuts were slashed across his jaw, but he seemed alright. Holly made a beeline for him, just shy of actually pushing through the crowds in the waiting room to get to Bucky Barnes. Maria followed behind her, the hold the younger woman had on her wrist finally loosened. Dropping her bag on the floor, she wrapped her arms around the solid wall of armor and muscle, hugging Bucky for the first time ever in their association. Unbeknownst to her, he shot a shocked look over her head to Maria, who shrugged a shoulder at him. Awkwardly, he patted her back, waiting it out until she let go.
Swiping at her face, she stepped back, sniffing hard as she met Bucky's gaze.
"Where is he? What's, what's going on?"
The awkwardness melted into seriousness, and he replied dourly, "He's in surgery right now."
Her fingers shot out, curling into the ragged material of his jacket.
"Tell me," she pleaded with him, needing to hear it from someone. Reluctantly, he nodded, first pulling her over to a set of empty chairs that had been vacated only minutes beforehand.
"He was shot in the chest," he told her without preamble. He grimaced as she cupped a hand over her mouth, his lips thinning briefly. "Well, there and in the leg, and the arm, not to mention a few other things...anyway. The bastard managed to get the gun wedged between the plates, got off a good one. Stark slowed the bleeding some, long enough for the medics to get a hold of him. They don't know when he'll be out."
"Or if?" she blurted, fear coloring her forthrightness and pushing it out of her. When Bucky failed to respond, she tipped her head back, slumping in her seat and thumping into the wall. On her left, Maria perched on the edge of her chair, her palm coming to rest on her shoulder and rubbing gently. It took several long moments, but she managed to choke out, "You know, you talk about these things, when you're in this life, but when it happens...it's like a nightmare. Your worst dreams coming true. And I can't do anything but sit here and wait."
Bucky shared another glance with Hill, both of them all too aware of the truth of that statement. For his part, duty and obligation had forced him from Natasha's side, and by the time he learned she was to go in, he could do nothing but stand idly by. He was certain that for his friend's wife (maybe one day his friend, too), it was all the more painful. Unsure of the intelligence of his next action, he took Holly's hand in his, the cool metal of his fingers warming under her heated palm.
"He was...being himself. Protective, and stubborn, didn't want anyone else's safety compromised," he informed her quietly, the chatter of the other waiting people nearly drowning him out. Fatigue danced over his features, along with regret. If only he had acted quicker...well. Coughing, his blue gaze met Holly's watery brown, and he murmured, "I know it's not much of a consolation, but it wasn't a misstep or something. In case you thought..."
She shook her head, swiping a hand over her face once more. She knew it was not a misstep or a mistake. Steve's top priority of a mission was always to ensure the safety of the people around him, even at the cost of his own.
"I'm not surprised," she remarked. The cast of her face became hard, and her eyes were like flint when she looked at him again. "What happened to the prick who did it?"
Bucky's gaze did not waver a moment. "It's taken care of."
Holly took in the mirrored expression on Bucky's face, and her fingers curled around his hand, squeezing the metal once before dropping into her lap. Nodding once, she took a shaky breath, the race of her heart and the snap in her veins refusing to abate. With the time passing, she asked after the others, wanted to know how they all were. Barnes complied, gesturing for Maria to sit closer and hear his informal report. Chapman's team had come away with the least amount of injuries. Scrapes and bruises littered them liberally, though Pietro had walked away with a couple of bullet burns and Emily was bleeding heavily from her nose (the result of straining her powers beyond her personal capabilities). Joe had broken a couple fingers, and Finesse had twisted her ankle in the last bout with Doctor Jensen. Exhaustion and soreness tended to be their worst foes at the moment.
The good luck ended there, really, as he moved on to describe the primary team's ailments. Sam was in the same hospital, being treated for a collarbone break and concussion, due to being caught in the building when the explosives went off. The blue-haired woman was with him, keeping an eye out for him while he was tended to. Colonel Rhodes fared even worse, as he had been knocked down a flight of stairs and had some rubble collapsed upon him. His lower back was injured, both hips shattered and a leg broken. Hill and Holly shared a glance at that, but did not interrupt as he continued. Natasha had taken a bullet to the leg, along with a few bruises, and was on a separate surgery floor at the moment, with no report since she'd been brought in. The metal fist clenched hard when he relayed that, but he pushed himself to finish. Stark was with Rhodey, barely allowing the doctors time to look at the black eye he'd received, nor the cuts on his face. Lang was banged up, but nothing terrible had happened to him, and so he was left escorting another fellow back home. The spiked eyebrow Maria arched at him was lost on Holly, as she was absorbing all he told them.
They had all come through, some barely holding it together. Still, they had not lost anyone, and that was what counted. So far, at least. With little else to say, the trio lapsed into silence, save for when Bucky and Maria were forced to answer calls made through their comms. Hill was in a long, ongoing conference with Fury about how to handle the public relations aspect of the attack, and Bucky was trying his hardest to keep in touch with the teams, to keep things on an even keel as he responded to questions from other agents about next moves. The hours passed, and Holly had her own calls to make, relaying all that she knew to her family and friends. Food was passed into her hand by Maria as she talked her mother down from buying a plane ticket to be out there with her, and she had swallowed the last bite as she had to repeat the same conversation with Sarah, not even knowing what she had eaten. Though she was glad to have the support, she knew that extra bodies surrounding her would not do any good. Her mind raced too fast to settle long on any single thought, save for the fact that she just wished she knew how Steve was doing.
The door at the far end of the room, the one that led back to the patients' areas, had swung open and closed many times that afternoon, all for the others who were gathered in that small area. The light of the setting sun was streaking through the windows when it opened once more, but she did not react to it, assuming it would be for someone else.
"Mrs. Rogers?" Turning, Holly saw the doctor approaching, a middle-aged fellow with sharp lines cutting around his mouth. His surgical mask was looped below his chin, and his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for an answer. Rocking forward and rising, she padded over to him, hands wringing for a moment before curling around the hem of her blouse. Spotting her anxiety, the doctor's expression softened. "He's come through surgery. At the moment, he's stable, but the next twenty-four hours are critical."
And it was critical; it had been some miracle that the captain's body had not shut down by the time the EMTs had taken him in. Profuse bleeding had come from the wound, but by the time he on the surgical table, it appeared that it had tapered off. The path of the shot had carved through him, curving after bouncing off a rib, and so they had to repair the cracked bone and retrieve any possible splinters from it. However, aside from the obvious damage—and the minor burns around the exit and entry wounds—it did not appear that his major organs had suffered much. If the bullet had just been a little lower, it might've nicked an artery, or his lung, and he would've been...well.
Exhaling through his nose, the doctor finished, "He's resting now, but you can come see him."
Holly's shoulders sagged at the thought of finally being able to see Steve, even if he was asleep.
"Thank you, doctor," she said, before asking him to wait a moment. Going back to the chairs, she quietly informed Hill and Bucky of the situation, knowing that they could not be left in the dark indefinitely.
"Alright, good. You go see him, then. We'll be here," Maria told her softly, Bucky nodding in agreement as he passed her bag into her hands. Dipping her chin, she gave a waggle of her fingers in farewell as she followed the doctor out the waiting room. Through the labyrinth of halls they went, stopping at the end of one before too many minutes had passed. Fetching up the chart from the holder by the door, the doctor bid her to come find him if she had any additional questions, and that the nurse call button was at Steve's bedside in case anything was needed. A hand dug in his pocket, and he held out his palm, the circle of tungsten sitting in it. They had to remove his wedding ring to splint some fingers on his hand, barely able to get it off without cutting it. It had survived the fight as well, and it would not do to lose it. Final thanks were passed, and she was pushing her way inside, the wedding ring snug in her hand as she went in.
The room given over to her husband's recovery was decently sized, with a sink and counter to one side, and a couch below the window on the other. However, her gaze was riveted to the bed in the center of the room, to the large man nestled in it. Steve was unconscious, his chest rising and falling with constricted breaths. A wrap was around his arm, covering the stitches there, and it appeared that similar treatment was given to his chest, if the lump under his hospital gown was anything to go by. Massive bruising swelled his face, and the jagged split in his lip was barely healing. A heart monitor beeped softly as a respirator whirred, pumping additional air through the tube looped around his head and into his nose. An IV drip was attached as well, and her stomach twisted at the familiarity of it all. The last time Steve had been that broken was two years ago, when she had first found him after the helicarrier disaster. Once again, she was uncertain of her ground, but the reasons behind it were very different. Setting her bag on the floor, she walked over to him, almost in a daze as she looked down at him. Her right hand rested over his, his wedding ring loose around her thumb as she brushed the skin peeking through the brace. Her left rose, started to card tenderly through his hair as he continued to rest, oblivious to her presence.
"Steve," she started after a minute or two, her voice wobbling as she addressed him. Casting her glance over him, then down at her belly, she smirked humorlessly. "You know, I figured the next time you would be in a hospital, it would be me in the bed. And you'd be holding my hand. And it would be a lot happier...overall. Probably not so much in the moment."
Her joke fell flat on her own ears, and inwardly, she mused that it was better that he wasn't able to hear it. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, her breathing made her heart beat erratically, and she did her best to speak with some level of normalcy.
"I should've been here faster, should've...I don't know. There isn't much I can do, anyway, right?" She looked at him, picturing the shake of his head and the calm complacency he would have answered her with on any other day. Another ragged breath, and she mumbled, "Either way, sweetheart, I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
Holly would hold true to that promise. She couldn't leave him, couldn't let fate and life tear them apart like that. He had to wake up, get better, live...she needed him. Their son needed him...if she had to be the second Widow Rogers, she didn't know what she would do. The thoughts were spinning out of control, and she could not keep up with them. Her breath was coming in hard and fast now, her mind whirling with all that she had been told, all that she had surmised on her own. The rate of her heart had it beating wildly in her chest, and she felt dizziness swim up into her head. Fumbling, her free hand found the call button, her thumb jabbing down on it furiously as she scrambled to get a hold of herself. By the time the door had opened, she was half-bent at the waist, her head against the bed rail and her limbs shaking.
"Ma'am, is something—" the nurse started, cutting herself off as Holly barely turned to look at her.
"Can't...breathe..." she managed to squeak, a sudden pain ripping through her lower belly and making her cry out. At once, the nurse called out into the hall, requesting assistance. Hands curled over her shoulders, pulling her up. Another rip, and she cried again, the nurse looping her arm around her lower back and forcing her upright. Another person in scrubs came into the room, questions flying around her as she desperately tried to understand what was happening to her.
"...Gotta take her out of..." one of them said, and though she was struggling to even stay upright, she shook her head in denial. No, not now, she couldn't leave him now...
"No, no, don't make me—" The pain stifled her words again, and her hold on Steve's hand was loosened, the contact broken mere moments later. Bracing support went to her back and shoulders, the chaos in the room falling to silence as she was led away from his side.
xXxXxXx
"Hey, kiddo."
The bowed form on the edge of the bed looked up, a hand on her belly and eyes red-rimmed as she looked up. Brown eyes only a few shades darker than her own stared back at her from the doorway, dark hair mussed and his form slumped against the jamb. A newcomer had arrived at her enforced sanctuary, an unexpected visitor, and she found herself pleased to see him. Though the doctors had seemed to want her in exile, that was not to be the case.
"Tony," Holly said, gesturing for Stark to come in. Quickly, he did as he was bid, perching in the chair Bucky had abandoned mere minutes beforehand (the two had passed one another in the hall, curt nods given and no words exchanged, though she was unaware of it). Scooting forward slightly, she dragged the back of her hand under her eyes, attempting to erase the tear tracks still present. "You just come from Rhodey's? How is he?"
Stark nodded, hands folding in his lap.
"Holding steady," he reported, glad that his friend was bearing up under the strain so well. If he were in his position, he would be bitching a lot more, that was for sure. Looking at the toe of his boot, he muttered, "He's scheduled for hip surgery in the morning, coupled with new casting for his leg. Until then, he's in the loving care of morphine."
The younger woman inclined her head, gaze scanning over his face. "You alright?"
Tony shrugged, a rueful cast coming over his features.
"Just the perpetual black eye I seem to get whenever I get involved. That, and this," he confessed, pointing to the butterfly bandages holding the edges of the cut on his cheek together. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "Other than those things, just dealing with my creaking old bones settling after bouncing around in the air."
All of which Pepper was thankful to hear, as soon as Rhodey was riding high on the drip and he had a free moment to do so. For his part, he was dismayed that the suits would need another tune-up; evidently shocks would have to be a thing to consider for the future. Canting his head, he conducted his own examination, looking over her and letting his smirk twist into a frown.
"Heard you had a thing of your own, came to check on you," he said, sympathy lining his eyes as he stared down at her belly. "You seem...whole."
A frown grew, and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
"It was a panic attack, with onset Braxton Hicks," she said, discontent lacing her words as her brain went back to those frantic moments. Being forcibly removed from her husband's side, she was taken to another patient room, led through calming exercises to slow her heart rate and bring her back to herself. The contractions did not help the matter, and a muscle relaxer had to be administered. The fear that the baby was coming early was abated, but then it was replaced by embarrassment—which still lingered. She did not know what she was more frustrated with: the fact that she had a panic attack in the first place, or that it brought on false contractions. Wincing, she gasped, "I'm not giving birth today. It just hurt like hell in the meantime."
Assuagement shot through his system, and Tony sank back into his chair.
"I'd say welcome to the club, but nobody likes to be part of an anxiety thing." Raising a hand, he smirked darkly. "Speaking from experience."
"I'm sure," she retorted after snickering dryly. Off his questioning expression, she clarified, "I've yet to meet someone in this whole outfit who doesn't have an anxiety thing."
The smirk turned genuine, and Tony raked a hand through his disheveled locks.
"Heard they tried to get you to go to a hotel to recuperate," he said after a few seconds of quiet. Holly snorted out loud, tipping her head to the left.
"You've heard a lot, for a guy who supposedly just left his friend's bedside," she quipped, only receiving a small smile in response to that. Squaring her shoulders, she braced her hands on the swell of her stomach as her back went ramrod straight. "I'm not leaving. They'll have to throw me out first. And I doubt they'll do that while I'm carrying the little guy."
Tony chuckled at that. "Do what you gotta do, right? Play the pregnancy card; you've only got a little while left to use it."
The ticks of the clock on the wall echoed in the silence as it settled around them, the creak of the bed as her leg swung back forth joining it. Tearing his eyes from the nicks above the far windowsill, he caught her chewing her lip contemplatively, a blush staining her face when he caught her out. Her eyes stared down at her fingers, at the three rings she toyed with (the two on her left hand, and the new one on her thumb, which he knew was not hers). Curiously, he watched as she took in a few breaths, meeting his gaze when she'd gathered her courage again.
"Tony...I...I was told that you helped stop the bleeding," she said, stumbling a little in her speech. The grin on his face fell, and he stared down at his hands.
"Slowed it down for a bit, that's all," he excused his actions. Quirking a brow, he muttered, "No matter how much we like to pretend, none of us are bulletproof. Well, most of us aren't, anyway."
Leaning forward, Holly pressed her palm to his shoulder. "Still, I want to say thank you."
Jerking his head up, his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, a cough barely knocking the lump forming there loose. It wasn't something she should've had to thank him for, in his opinion. Given that he was a loquacious man, moments like this frustrated him. Moments in which his emotions stymied him, choked him to the point of being unable to articulate. Still, he had to try, and he was going to say something.
"I, I couldn't let..." he trailed off, tongue sticking on the words. An exasperated groan tore out of his mouth, and his eyes slammed shut. Her face creased, and she couldn't help but finish it for him.
"Couldn't let your friend die."
His own breathing grew heavy, and his mouth felt dry. Ticks clicked, the clock wound down, and his voice was found again after a full rotation of the minute hand.
"No. I couldn't," he admitted, guilt and sorrow warring with principle and betrayal. In the end, he did not think he could have done any differently. There was too much there, too much to deny or ignore, to discard. However, it did not mean that he was able to let it all go. Verbally, at least. "Despite what he chooses to tell me or not tell me, despite...everything."
Holly sighed through her nose, her hand falling away then. "He didn't tell me, either, until after you were told. For the record. He didn't tell a lot of people until after that happened."
Blinking, Tony was unsure how to process that. Nevertheless, that wasn't to say that he did not have some form of response on hand.
"Yeah, well...it's out there, now." A shoulder lifted, and his lips twisted bitterly. "Can't forget something like that."
"No," the younger woman agreed, irises sparkling from the harsh lights above, "but maybe it's not about forgetting it."
The sentence soaked into the air around them, coloring the seconds as time continued to slip by. Shaking his head, Stark raised himself out of his seat, scratching at the back of his neck. Tipping his head at the door, he strode towards it, pausing with his hand on the knob.
"Um, the night patrols are light," he informed her, his tone deceptively nonchalant. When she did no more than narrow her eyes at him, he licked his lips and sighed. "We could probably get you back into Steve's room without too much of an issue. If I run some interference."
The flash over her irises was difficult to ignore, and as she rose from the bed, she smiled at him. Taking in another deep breath, he held a palm up, compelling her to listen a moment longer.
"And if, if you do want to stay somewhere else, the Tower's still available."
Gratitude bloomed over her features, the red in her eyes deepening as she approached him. Swiping at the growing water in them, she let her free hand fall onto his arm, squeezing in appreciation.
"Thank you. Again," she said, and she was pleased to see the friendliness return to his gaze when he looked her over once more, his own hand patting hers before leading the way out the door. He would get her back to her husband, back to his erstwhile friend, and he would convince the staff to let her stay. It would be done, he resolved inwardly, glancing over his shoulder at the trailing, pregnant shadow behind him and nodding to himself.
xXxXxXx
Lashes fluttered, and slowly, groggily, the lids opened. The blur of the white ceiling tile above was softened in the early morning light, the blue irises clearing slightly with every blink. The scent of antiseptic and sterility hit his nose, the familiar smell having colored many an hour of his childhood and bringing a sense of calm as he realized where he was. The hospital. Which one, he did not know, but that he was in one was undeniable. It was driven home by the fact that he could feel the tubes hooked up around him, connecting him to various machines and such. Weighed down by the scratchy blankets and his own exhaustion, he inhaled, a great burst of air filling him as the scent sank in again.
Steve had been somewhere far better mere moments beforehand. Well, in comparison to the torn streets and steps before the United Nations Assembly Hall. But had he really been there? Was it just a product of his imagination? He couldn't be sure. What he was sure of was that he would not forget it.
The cliff's edge. Steve remembered it, as it had featured in his dreams after his awakening from the ice. The cliff, the edge from which the Valkyrie launched, the point from which his life had changed so drastically. The point from where things inevitably were meant to end. Snow gathered and swirled around him, peppering his uniform briefly before the wind flung it away. Strangely enough, there was no noise save for his boots ringing along the ground, the air not frigid, the snow leaving no frozen bite on the exposed skin of his face. Instead, it merely swirled, as though he were caught in a snow-globe, the cavern of darkness looming behind him, and the white beyond stretching before. One step after another propelled him forward, towards the edge, his gloved hands swiping at his uniform as he went. He was wearing the old one, the model from which all the others were based. His shield was strapped to his back, his helmet dangling from his grip. He did not focus on any of that. Instead, he focused upon the sight before him, of the lone fellow standing at the lip of the cut-off, hands linked behind his back and his spine stiffened. Hearing his falling steps, the fellow turned, a smile threatening to bloom on his lips. He looked no older than twenty-five, no older than Steve himself, but there was a wisdom there that betrayed his age, told him that the man had an experience that he did not share in. Strawberry blond hair, distinctly different from the captain's gold, flopped in the fellow's eyes, his matching blue eyes almost flashing as he stared on him. When he got close enough, the other fellow's smile truly grew, lighting up his face and making him appear years younger.
"Steven," he breathed, the lilt and cadence to his voice recalling the tones of home, the accent of Eire refusing to leave him no matter where he roamed. His strong jaw tipped up, and he held out a hand, gestured him forward. "Come here, boy-o."
Steve's eyes widened, raked over the man as he recognized him. Though the khaki and olive drab uniform were outdated, he knew the eyes, the nose, the tilt of the chin. He passed them on his way through the living room everyday, the framed photograph gracing the wall. He saw them reflecting back in the mirror as well. He gaped, and the other man shook his head after a few moments.
"What you staring at?" he asked, slight reprimand in his voice. Twitching his fingers, he repeated his forward gesture, his tone brooking no refusal. "Come on."
"I...I..." Steve stuttered, utterly befuddled as he did as requested. Crossing the last few feet, he stopped beside the fellow, swallowing hard as the wind stirred around them. Nodding to the mountains and the cliff's edge, the other man crossed his arms over his chest, the action so familiar it took Steve aback.
"I know, it's confusin'," he commiserated, staring out the layers of clouds, to the ice-capped peaks and keeping his back turned to the darkness. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "But it's not all bad. Least it's quiet."
He had a point, and Steve tipped his chin in acknowledgment as he stared at the white landscape, grays and icy blues splintering through. Clearing his throat, it took the captain a few seconds to find his voice again.
"Am I...?" He could not complete the question, the possible answers already choking and freezing him. Glancing at him out the corner of his eye, the other man sighed and shook his head.
"No, not yet. Just wanderin'." After all, he knew all too well what death looked like, and Steven was not there yet. He had pushed the limits that day, but he was not beyond the pale. A rueful turn curled his lips, and he faced him fully. "Had to take a look at ya, seein' as how you're here and all. You turned out good, son. Your ma's proud. So am I, for that matter."
Steve's smile mirrored his, and he could not help the snort that coursed out his nose.
"Just good, Dad?" he wondered, finally addressing the man by the title he never had the chance to use in his lifetime. By the title that belonged to no other man but the khaki-clad soldier beside him.
Joseph Rogers let his smile grow dim, wistful, as he looked upon his son.
"That's all you can hope for, really, when it comes to kids," he confessed, looking up at his son and maintaining is grin. "Hope they'll be good, and hope they'll be happy. It was all I wanted for you, boy-o."
Struck by his father's sincerity, Steve dipped his chin, the fingers of his free hand fidgeting with his belt as he considered his answer.
"I am." And he was, all things considered. Save for the most recent events, for the obvious mistakes, he was happy. Happy, with far more in his life than he ever thought would be possible. With more than he felt he deserved on most days. A blond brow spiked at him, and his old man reached out, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Good. I'm glad to see it's not all show," Joseph stated, a bright gleam decorating his gaze. Several minutes passed in which father and son said nothing, both choosing to look out upon the winter landscape that stretched before them, the deadened pines blotting the white snow on the mountains and the sun straining to filter its light through the heavy cloud cover. Questions swirled in Steve's mind, even as he enjoyed the quiet moment, and soon enough, some had forced their way to the surface.
"Why here? Why now?" he wondered. HYDRA's secret base could not symbolize anything other than something bad, something dark and evil, but it did not feel that way, not as he and his father peered over the lip of the cliffs. The jagged rocks below melted into blackness, and he frowned. For his part, Joseph tilted his head, the brightness in his gaze growing the longer he looked upon his boy. Upon the grown man his boy had become.
"You know, son," he said, his tone unmistakable and unwavering. It sharply reminded Steve of how his recorded voice sounded, when his speeches had been captured. The tone that held authority and finality was a family trait, evidently, though his father's tended to hold slightly more joviality. Tipping his head towards the cut-off mere feet before them, he murmured. "You're on the edge. Just gotta jump."
Steve shot another glance at Joseph, a long silence descending between them before he managed a small nod. He did know, and he did not wonder how he knew. It would be time, very soon, and he would need to get to work. Several more moments passed as the snow swirled and twirled around them, the flakes dancing and spotting their individual uniforms before fluttering away. Suddenly, Joseph straightened in his stance, as though he had been called to attention. Cocking his head to the left, his smile faded as what sounded like the droning of an airplane seemed to grow louder in the distance. Sighing, he let his head fall back, his shoulders relaxing.
"Well, it's gettin' on, best you be returnin' home now," he told him, dropping his head down and flicking his gaze at the abyss several feet away. Steve grimaced.
"It's gonna hurt."
Given what had sent him to the cliff's edge in the first place, he knew for a fact how badly it would affect him the moment he returned to the conscious world. Joseph chuckled wryly, a hand raking through his blond hair before settling on his hip.
"That is true, but it'll be worth it. You got your wife and boy to look after; you can't stay here." The pain lacing his voice made his son's heart ache, even more so when a hand clasped his arm and squeezed affectionately. The bare hint of a grin returned, and Joseph looked upon his boy one last time. Silent pride radiated from him, and he exhaled sharply. "Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat. I'll give your ma your love."
Taking his words and holding them inside, Steve nodded, gripping his father's arm for the the first and last time for a second or two. With a gentle nudge, he let go, striding up to the edge, stopping at the lip and turning to look at Joseph.
"Thanks, Dad," he whispered, water pooling in his eyes briefly. "Maith thú."
Joseph's answering salute fell away as he did, the short walk to the cliff's edge causing him to tumble over.
There were no assurances that what he had experienced was real, he told himself as he thought back upon it all. It could have all been in his head. But...Steve had experienced a lot of strange things in his life. He had met with gods, fought against aliens, robots. Who was to say it wasn't real?
All he could say, with certainty, was that his father was right, regardless if he had actually conversed with his spirit or not. And that he was correct as well; it did hurt to come back. His brow furrowed as his eyes shut for a few moments, the ache in his body and the leftover fog in his brain distracting him.
Blinking again, his equilibrium returned to him, little by little. Feet twitched, then hands, legs and arms acting accordingly. The uniform he'd been in was traded for the paper-thin hospital garment swathing him, the cool air of the room penetrating it. The pull of the wounds on his limbs was nothing in comparison to the one in his chest. Steve had thought being gut-shot by Bucky two years ago should've felt worse than this one, but the newest wound made him feel like he could barely breathe, and that the sting would not go away. A flow of oxygen was helping combat that, the thin plastic tubing looping around his face to his nose. His wrist twinged a little as he moved it, a soft brace encompassing it for the time being. Sharp twinges raced from his fingers up his arm, and he raised his other hand a bit to look at the wrapped digits on his left hand. When he shifted his hips, an odd sort of tugging came, and he realized that a catheter had been deemed necessary. Grimacing, he winced deeper as the bruising on his face pricked him, his tongue darting out over the dryness of his lips and hitting the healing split.
He was alive, though, for all that. He was alive.
The heart monitor chirped beside him, content to signal that truth over and over. In between that, his ears picked up the barest snuffle, a low sigh. Inhaling sharply, he turned his head towards the sound, the monitor tracking the increased rhythms as he did so. The room that was given over for his use was a private one, the door closed on the quiet morning activities of the staff beyond. The shades over the glass were drawn, one florescent light throwing the counter along the far wall into detail, as well as the couch beneath the window. What he saw filled him with relief, and he nearly wilted. Holly was curled up on her side, facing him, a pilfered pillow under her head and a borrowed blanket stretched over her. Shoes had been abandoned on the floor, along with a bag set beside them. Somehow she'd bypassed the typical hospital rules for visitors (his guess was that her pregnant state had something to do with it), but he was not complaining in the least. At once, guilt hit him, stealing his breath for a moment. The image of her being told what had happened to him rose in his mind, cutting deep, and he dreaded to think of her fear and concern consuming her. The dark circles he could spot forming under her eyes was an indication, but he did not like it, either way. She had to know, had to know for sure that he was okay. Well, relatively okay.
Clearing his throat, a low groan coursed its way out of his mouth as he pushed himself up on one elbow. The sound made her head twitch, but she did not wake. He had to try again, try harder.
"Holl...Holl..." Steve croaked, despising how broken and raw he sounded. The flash of memory, of Rumlow's arm constricting around his throat, resurfaced, but it was shoved to the back of his mind. Instead, he concentrated on saying his wife's name, a hand scrabbling onto the raised rails of the bed as if he could lever himself out of it and run to her. Stirring at the sound of his voice, her face screwed up as she brought her palm up to scrub at her eyes. Slightly disoriented, she sat up, the borrowed blanket falling low on her lap. Glancing around the room briefly, her eyes landed on him, widening as they registered exactly what she was looking at. Seeing his pained gaze, his clenching hand, she gasped, swinging her legs down and doing the two-part shuffle to get onto her feet and over to him.
"Steve," she breathed, crossing the patch of tile that stood between him and her in mere moments. "Thank God, you're awake."
His struggle stilled, and he relaxed back into the bed, savoring the feel of her fingers brushing through his hair, the press of her lips at his unmarked temple.
"How...how are you feeling?" Holly asked, the hesitation in her voice making his gut twist. Still, he couldn't help but be honest in his answer.
"Like someone tried to punch a hole through my chest repeatedly, doll." Steve raised his splinted hand, tapped gently at the bandages that were shielding his stitches and wincing. Frissons of pain sprinting over his muscles and skin stopped that right away. "Ow."
A corner of her lip curled, but the humor did not reach her eyes. "Close, hon."
Pushing his pain to the back of his mind, he let his gaze run over her instead. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, sweetheart," she replied, the sincerity in his inquiry impressed upon her heart. His palm reached out, giving her arm a squeeze before it settled on the swell of her belly.
"And the baby?"
Before she could say a word, a hard thump rebounded in his palm, their son asserting his presence in no uncertain terms. Focused on that, Steve did not see the hard swallow bobbing in Holly's throat. Clearing it, she took a shaky breath before responding.
"He's alright, too," she stated quietly. Panic attack and false contractions aside, he was just fine. The doctor had given her a cursory check when she'd calmed, and determined that there was nothing to worry about. Nothing extra to worry about, at least. Still, she decided it would be better to not speak about it. Dwelling on it would do no good, and Steve would take the blame upon his shoulders. She would tell him later, when he wasn't merely struggling to sit up properly. And after she scheduled yet another appointment with the therapist to discuss the issue. Laying her hand over his, she reaffirmed, "We're both good."
His eyes darted to the ring on her thumb, his brow furrowing as he realized it was his wedding ring. Well, at least it was safe, and not lost after they'd taped up his fingers. Another kick hit his palm, and he let out a low breath.
"Good," Steve responded, his tone turning thoughtful as the word tumbled over his tongue. The stiffness in his back nagged at him, and he wriggled a bit, trying to find some decent leverage to alleviate the ache. Holly, noticing this, pressed a palm to his shoulder, forcing him to stop.
"Steve, don't," she reprimanded him lightly, wedging her fingers between him and the bedding for a moment. Carefully, she plucked loose the incline controls for the bed, pushing it into his hand with a watery grin. "These exist for a reason."
Thumbing the controls, the incline of the bed and his person took the pressure away bit by bit, and he sighed in relief. The sound of running water met his ears, and he glanced over in time to see Holly filling a plastic cup filched from the overhead cupboard. Crossing back to him, she put it in his braced hand, helping guide it to his lips. Cool relief coursed down his throat, and he drained the cup dry with her aid. When he finished with that, she grabbed a visitor's chair from the other side of the room, dragging it over and sitting down beside him. After making sure it didn't interfere with the equipment he was still hooked up to in any capacity, of course. Gingerly, she slipped her palm under his, the cloth brace ignored by them both as he held her hand.
"Do you need anything else?" she wondered, a glance cast at the closed door. At some point, they would have to alert the nurses and doctors of his consciousness, to learn what the potential prognosis would be in regards to his recovery. Steve shook his head, leaning back into his pillow.
"Just you," he murmured, the dullness in his blue eyes fading somewhat. Shifting against the mattress, he let out a small hiss, and groaned. "Painkillers would be nice, too."
"You mean painkillers that will last longer than five minutes in your system, right?" She shared a sardonic grin with him before raising his hand to her lips. The gentle caress made his grin more genuine, but it was over all too quickly. Keeping a hold on his fingers, she told him, "Mom and Dad are worried sick about you. Been calling me on and off for hours for progress reports."
Digging into her pocket, she turned on her cellphone, holding it up for him to see. The withering battery unable to hide the multiple notifications on the screen, the given and returned calls shown next.
"Same with my sister and Hank."
The outpouring of affection and concern from her family (his family, too, he reminded himself) still took him aback somewhat. The acceptance warmed his heart after going so long without it, and truthfully, he did not always know how to handle it, even now. So he merely let the corner of his mouth curl, and he said the first thing that came to mind.
"Hank, too?" He chuckled a little, wanting to play off his pain as best he could. "Wow, I really must be in a state if he's in a tizzy."
Any vestiges of humor were wiped from Holly's face, and Steve squirmed a little. A long moment passed in which she merely looked at him, all the emotion in her eyes overwhelming them both in the silence. Dropping the phone onto his blanket, she blew out a breath, her grip tightening around his.
"You scared the shit outta me," she whispered, and his heart thudded hard in his chest.
"I know, I know. Scared me, too," he confessed, the remembered spikes of fear under his hurt surfacing then. Holding her gaze, he willed her to see the truth in his words as he spoke. "Believe me, I wasn't trying to...it wasn't on purpose."
She snorted. "I certainly hope not. I'd kick the crap out of you myself if I thought so."
A bare smile curled his lips, but it faded as soon as she asked her next question.
"What happened?"
Holly knew him, knew his attitude and personality very well. The caliber of his injury (absolutely no puns or jokes intended on that score) was close, too close for it to be written off as mere chance. Whatever had passed between him and the bastard who'd shot him, it was enough to draw him in, take the fight to the level it had reached. Steve's face was drained of all humor, the glint in his gaze turning icy as his features became stony. He gritted his teeth for several seconds, the loose fingers of his splinted hand curling into the blanket.
"He threatened you. And him," he told her eventually, eyes flicking down to her belly and a harsh exhale coming out of his nose. She closed her eyes, a frown deepening as he continued, "Said that he would come after you next, when he was done. There was no way I could just let him think he could do that. He caught me at a bad time, used it, and...then, pop-pop."
The imitation of gunshots made her flinch, but she did not stop him from speaking.
"He was down, and so was I. For awhile, anyway. If he hadn't been..." Steve trailed off, and darkness flooded his features, his chest heaving as he took in harsh breaths. "I would've taken his head off myself, regardless of the pain."
Her jaw twitched, her fingers shifting under his grip. "And then you really might have died, from pushing yourself so hard."
Steve set his shoulders, and he did not drop his gaze or back down. "I wouldn't do any less, if it meant you and our boy were safe."
A beat, then two, and Holly pushed herself out of her chair. Leaning awkwardly over the bed rail, she braced her hand by his head, bending so that she could kiss him. Though it was not hard enough to open the split in his lip, it was firm, an outpouring of all her affection and fear for him descending from her mouth to his. He returned it stroke for stroke, having to pull away to catch his breath. His splinted fingers had found their way to her shoulder, small circles rubbed in by the free ones as she rested her forehead against his.
"I'm glad you didn't," she said, the tiniest quaver under the words. Closing his eyes, the tip of his nose brushed hers. Stray tears dropped down his cheeks, but he did not know if they were hers, or his own.
"Me, too, Princess."
The giggle at the back of her throat was small, but undeniable. "Nerfherder."
A final buss danced over his lips, and then she was drawing back, the pads of her fingers brushing the tears away from both their faces. When she was done with that, she reached across him, picking up the abandoned call button from its perch and pressing it.
"What are you doing?" he asked, spiking an eyebrow despite the pull it had on the shiner. Dropping the device, she sat back down in her chair, scooting it closer still and taking his hand in hers again.
"Calling in the nurse. I can already see the questions circling in your head, particularly the one about how long you'll have to stay here." Catching the impressed expression on his face, she snickered. "You seemed surprised; I do know you, hon."
Chuckling, he tipped his chin up. "Maybe a little too well."
"I disagree. Well, on certain parts, I disagree. With others, you might be right," she amended. His eyebrow raised again, and she smirked at him. "Bathroom habits come to mind."
Steve snorted outright at that, ignoring the rising commotion in the hall in favor of gracing his wife with a faux biting glare.
"Believe me, doll, you ain't all sunshine and roses yourself in that department."
Holly took no offense to his words whatsoever, instead leaning back into her chair and resting a hand on her belly.
"I don't think I ever claimed to be," she retorted, a weak laugh coming out of him just as the door opened. The nurse spilled in with the doctor, and as they showed enthusiasm for his alertness, Steve maintained his small grin, his wife's hand in his and the danger finally starting to pass.
A/N:...Steve's not dead. You can put away your torches and your pitchforks now!
Wow...where will they all go from here? Well, you'll definitely find out over the next few chapters, so you'll want to hang tight for those.
Panic attacks can cause Braxton Hicks contractions, just saying. And also, I am not a doctor and therefore have no real experience with gunshot wounds (thank goodness). So, even if it doesn't appear to be 100% kosher, I do hope you'll suspend your disbelief for that, at least a little.
The two Irish phrases came from an Irish blessings website, and are as follows (if incorrect, I'm sorry):
"Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat."-Good luck to you. Literally, 'that luck may rise with you.'
"Maith thú."-Good on you.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, New York-Presbyterian Hospitals and their affiliates, Star Wars, etc.)
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!