Chapter Nineteen

As they sped away from the battlefield and the adrenaline faded, Sharon's hands shook on the steering wheel.

"Keep it together, Sharon," she said aloud, gripping the wheel. "Steve's depending on you."

Steve, for his part, was sprawled on the backseat where she'd left him, unmoving except for the occasional sway as she careened around a curve on the windy two-lane highway.

"C'mon, Sharon," she said between gritted teeth. "This wasn't your first combat situation."

But it hadn't been like any of the others.

She'd been a good SHIELD agent, rising through the ranks and on her way to becoming a Level 6 when Fury tapped her for special services. She'd been pleased with the assignment but also surprised; she'd always been a better analyst than operative. She could handle a gun, she could handle a knife and she could handle herself in hand-to-hand but she would have never been considered a one-woman assault team like Black Widow or the Calvary.

Not until today.

From the moment Steve went down to the moment she lifted him into the jeep, there'd been a clarity Sharon had never experienced before. Everything seemed to move faster and more slowly at the same time as she was able to anticipate and block the Hydra agents who got in her way. She'd hit and kicked with more strength, speed and accuracy than she'd ever done before.

And all without breaking a sweat.

Even getting Steve into the jeep had been easy. He was two hundred and forty pounds of gloriously solid muscle, of which she had intimate knowledge. She'd been pinned under his hunky bulk during make-out sessions or the odd nap and knew if he didn't move on his own, she wasn't going anywhere. Yet, only minutes ago, she'd hoisted him into the backseat like he'd been his ninety-five pound pre-serum self.

She needed to call Bucky. And Sam. Maybe even the National Guard.

She reached into the pouch at her waist only to discover her phone must have fallen out during their escape.

She hit the steering wheel in frustration, only to be distracted by the indicator light that drew her eyes to the temperature gauge. They were in danger of overheating - not surprising since the radiator and other parts of the engine had been compacted several inches when Steve crashed into the jeep.

She opened the windows, cancelled the air conditioning and opened the vents to draw the heat from the engine. The air came out hot and ugly but the needle on the gauge dipped ever-so-slightly which made the discomfort worth it.

Seeing that they wouldn't make it much farther in their damaged vehicle, Sharon began searching their surroundings for a suitable place to hide - someplace where she could stash the jeep and take care of Steve.

She spotted a foreclosed property sign a few miles down the road, the house obscured by the trees that lined the property.

Sharon navigated the vehicle up the long drive and breathed a tenative sigh of relief at the modest two-story with attached garage.

"Hold on, Steve," she said to the not-entirely-conscious hero as she got out to investigate. Judging by the overgrown grass, the property had been abandoned for several months, or at least hadn't been attended in that time.

The front door was bolted shut and Sharon made short work of the padlock on the garage door so she could pull the jeep inside.

She cut the engine but left the headlights on as she jumped out to pull the garage door shut, plunging them into darkness save for the lights from the jeep. Rakes and a shovel hung on the wall, leaves and debris were scattered on the floor and random hardware littered the workbench.

She took a screwdriver and hammer from the bench and used them to pop the lock on the interior door.

Leaving Steve in the jeep, Sharon did a quick walk-through of the house, seeing that it must have been abandoned in a hurry by the previous owners. Though a layer of dust covered everything, they'd left a collection of dishes in the open cupboards, a couch in the living room, an upturned mattress and boxspring in the first-floor bedroom and a pile of linens in the upstairs closet. The blinking clock on the stove and dripping faucet in the kitchen even indicated that the utilities hadn't been shut off yet.

Sharon grabbed blankets and towels from the closet and carried them down to the bedroom where she set the boxspring on the floor and the mattress on top. She threw the blanket over the bed and turned the hot water on full in the kitchen sink while she went out to get Steve.

He came partially awake as she moved him, shouldering most of his weight as he limped along beside her.

Once he was settled on the bed, she filled two bowls she'd found in the kitchen with now-hot water and tore a sheet into useful strips. With painstaking care, she slowly cleaned and assessed Steve's wounds.

As she wiped the blood from his face, she saw that the swelling in his eye had already gone down and some of the bruising on his cheek and jaw had already faded. She cut the straps of his shield from his arm and examined the break that seemed to have already started to knit itself together. She set his shoulder, her teeth gritted in effort and sympathy as he hissed in pain.

Sharon tried to muster some of the professional detachment she'd been taught in med school as she carefully removed Steve's jacket and pulled his shirt over his head but she couldn't help the tears that rolled down her cheeks. His entire left side was a series of purple and yellow bruises. She pressed her ear to his chest and let more tears fall as she heard nothing but unobstructed air moving in and out of his lungs, confirmation that at least none of his ribs were broken.

Sharon followed the trail of bruises from his chest, to his abdomen and down as they darkened toward and below the waistline of his pants. She emptied his pockets, the pieces of his shattered phone falling on the bed and floor, and untied his shoes, letting them drop to the floor. Slowly, she unfastened his jeans and pulled them down, carefully lifting his hips in the process. With no choice, she pulled his boxer-briefs down to examine the darkest of the bruising on his left hip.

She probed gently, the flesh raw and embedded with jagged pieces of his damaged phone. Sharon ran out to the garage for a pair of pliers, sanitizing them as best she could using the stovetop in the kitchen, and used them to remove the largest of the plastic pieces from the wound, and cleaned and dressed it as best she could.

When she was finished, she draped the second blanket she'd taken over him and set his clothes neatly aside.

She laid a hand on Steve's forehead, his face, and heaved a sigh that at least he seemed to be fever-free and had transitioned into a deep sleep rather than the pain-filled haze he'd been in.

It would be dark a a handful of hours. By then, if he continued to rest and heal as he was, Steve would be ready to move on his own and they could figure out their next move.

She placed a kiss on his forehead, took a seat on the bed beside him and watched over him in the fading light.