Flying lessons

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

Lesson 3 continued: No MMA with a broken leg

A half hour later I am sitting in the kitchen with a blanket wrapped around me, drinking a cup of kamilica tea at the round table. I have not changed my shirt, even though it is stained with the captain's blood.

Vision sits with me, although he doesn't drink tea or, well, anything. He has been prattling away awkwardly for at least the past twenty minutes about everything and nothing, while I just sit silently and let him talk. At least he doesn't demand anything from me, no questions or pointed comments, which is good because if I try to talk, I'm likely to start crying again. I'm sure neither of us wants that.

Vision's endless stream of chatter does little to distract me from my thoughts, however, which are dark and stormy like the weather outside. Guilt, anger, grief, pain, all chase each other around and around in my skull. It is taking a superhuman effort to keep them from opening the door and releasing the Chaos to destroy everything.

I'm suddenly startled by my phone ringing. I didn't even remember that I had put it in the pocket of my borrowed shorts. To my recollection it has never rung before, which is fine with me. I rarely leave the compound, and everyone I care about is here anyway.

I throw off the blanket and take my phone out to see "Romanov, Natasha" flash across the screen. If Natasha is calling me, maybe she has an update on the captain. With shaking fingers, I press buttons until I find the one that will answer the call.

"Hello?" I say in a tremulous voice. Vision puts down his (empty) cup that he has been using to pretend to have tea with me, and leans in closer to quite obviously eavesdrop.

"Where the hell are you?" Natasha barks without preamble.

Flustered, I stutter out a reply, "I'm—I'm at the compound."

"Why aren't you at the hospital? Steve came to in the ambulance and was asking where you were. I told him you were coming."

"You all left without me. I thought I would be in the way. . ."

"Ask Rhodey to drive you. What the hell have you two been doing, anyway?"

"It was. . . training exercises," I breathe.

"Yeah? Well, they've been asking me a bunch of awkward questions about why his ribs are broken and he's covered in all different shades of bruises."

My hand flies over my mouth. Broken ribs? Covered in bruises?! "It was his idea!" I choke out.

"His idea to do what?!"

"He was trying to teach me how to throw him up into the air."

"Seriously?" I hear Natasha sigh. "Yeah, that sounds like the kind of idiotic thing he would come up with. God, almost a hundred years old and he's still making stupid kid decisions."

"I'm so sorry. . . " I say lamely, which is all I can come up with at the moment. I'm sorry I went along with it. I'm sorry I lost control. I'm sorry I hurt him. I'm sorry I'm going to end up out in the cold now, or worse.

"Yeah, well, I told them he's into MMA. May be enough to keep the police from coming around the compound asking more questions."

I don't ask her what MMA is. I may not know Natasha very well, but I know she doesn't respond kindly to stupid questions like that.

"Oh, and I may have told a nurse to go fuck herself."

"Will he be all right?" I ask hesitantly. I'm afraid to hear the answer.

"Compound fracture of the right femur. They've got the bleeding stopped and they're prepping him for surgery, which is going to be a bitch."

"Why?" Surgery sounds like a good thing, necessary to set his leg. Better than what Pietro got after he broke his arm when a Stark bomb destroyed our house. No fancy cast or a sling or even an aspirin. I just had to lie there and listen to him cry all night in pain. It never healed properly after that.

"He metabolizes the anesthetic so fast it's hard to keep him under. When he got shot, he kept waking up on the table screaming and crying for Bucky."

"Bucky, his friend?"

"Yeah, best friend slash platonic we think life partner slash unstoppable killing machine who shot him and left him for dead."

"Oh. He never told me that part." I had just heard the fun stories, about him and Bucky hiding out behind the barn attempting to smoke cigarettes until they threw up, or going out on double-dates that always ended with both girls hanging on Bucky.

"Anyway," Natasha continues. "They finally had to give him a massive dose, so much they thought he might never wake up. Only good part is I don't think he really remembers it.

"I told the doctors here about that, but I don't know if they really believed me. I hope they'll figure it out before he wakes up on the table and starts fighting them. God, I hope that doesn't happen this time."

"Oh god. . . " I choke back a sob.

"Oh, stop sniveling; he's going to live. He wants to talk to you, Maximoff. Better get your witchy little butt down here."

My heart sinks. "Now?" I had hoped for at least a few more hours before I was informed I would have to leave the compound for good.

"No hurry. He'll be in surgery for the next couple of hours. Oh, and Maximoff?"

"Yes?"

"He said you owe him some 'berrick'?"

"Burek," I correct her automatically.

"I know that," she says, and I can hear the eye-roll in her tone. "But apparently he doesn't."

Colonel Rhodes drives me to the hospital in an enormous truck with tires that are nearly as tall as I am. I almost have to ask him for a boost into the passenger seat, but at the last minute I notice a step hiding under the running board and manage to hoist myself aboard. The engine is loud, so he doesn't say much on the drive. I have to shout over the noise to give him directions to the Hungarian restaurant, Kafana, on a narrow back street. I tell him I don't mind if he waits in the truck out of the rain that is still pounding down, but he parks and accompanies me past the ragged homeless men lounging under the tattered red and green awning. I have been here alone several times and never worried, but the colonel's body language is alert and watchful. When he holds the door for me, he makes me duck under his arm and follows me inside, where the interior is unexpectedly brightly lit and cheerful.

I order three pieces of burek and make small talk in Sokovian with the elderly man behind the counter while he wraps it up. He calls me "dragi", which reminds me of my grandmother. This man, this place, these foods, are some of the few things I have found in this foreign place that bring back happy memories from my homeland.

When we get back to the truck, I present one of the pieces of burek to Colonel Rhodes, and he flashes me a delighted grin. I think I have actually surprised him, which surprises me. Why wouldn't I include him? He says, "Thanks, Wanda. I'll eat it later," and sets the bag down next to his leg while he starts the truck up with a clatter.

Then we are on the way to the hospital, where I will most likely hear that I have been dismissed from the Avengers. I am sure the captain will decide it is too dangerous for me to stay, and he will be right. On their own, my hands twist the top of the bag of burek until the white paper goes wrinkly and soft under my fingers. The world is red around the edges, but I keep a tight lid on the Chaos. Don't go near the door. Let nothing out lest I damage something or someone else.

Colonel Rhodes doesn't say anything on the rest of the ride, but he keeps shooting me concerned glances. After he has turned off the engine in the hospital parking garage, he finally turns to me. "Wanda," he says gently. "I don't think the captain will blame you for what happened."

I keep my gaze locked on the bag to hide the tears which are standing in my eyes. "Do you know what happened?" I ask tentatively.

"Yes, Natasha called me. It's really not your fault. That boy is desperate to fly. He and Tony are in some sort of pissing contest over it. Tony offered to carry him once and they almost ended up in a fistfight."

"He lets Sam carry him."

"Sam doesn't rub it in. Anyway, you don't need to worry. He knows it's not your fault."

I sniffle and unbuckle my seatbelt. "Thank you, Colonel Rhodes," I say in as confident a voice as I can muster. "That's very kind of you." I open my door and climb down, and he follows suit.

"No, I mean it. You're going to be fine."

He's being very kind to me, but I'm sure he's wrong. Anyway, the only person who can make that call is the captain, and at this point I've given him so much pain that he would probably like me to go straight to hell.

On the way in the door, I get a text from Natasha that the captain is out of surgery, but he's still unconscious.

Did he wake up on the operating table? I have to ask.

Yes, is the only response. No explanation or details.

I clutch the bag on the way up the elevator, and when we get out, Colonel Rhodes puts a comforting arm around my shoulders to lead me down the hall. "It's going to be all right, Wanda," he says quietly.

We find Natasha and Sam sitting in plastic chairs with their feet up on the captain's bed, their faces buried in their phones. As soon as we enter, before we even have a chance to greet them, Natasha is up pulling on her jacket. "Oh good there you are should be waking up soon he'll be in a shitload of pain okthanksbye," she says all in a rush while she shoves her arms through the sleeves and gathers up her shoes.

She scoots out the door, leaving me blinking after her in confusion. Sam also stands, stretches, and heads toward the door. "Sorry, Wanda, I gotta go back with Rhodey. You'll be fine, right?"

He doesn't give me a chance to answer, just claps Colonel Rhodes on the back and pushes him out the door. "It's ok, Wanda," Rhodes calls back over his shoulder. "I'll come back for you in a few hours. Just relax." Wait, they aren't going to all leave me alone here, are they? Yes, they are.

Rhodes closes the door behind them, leaving me alone with the unconscious captain, who will wake up in "a shitload of pain" any minute because of what I did to him. And then probably immediately order me out of the compound, either onto the street, or more likely, straight to jail.

I step up next to the bed and look him over. His elevated leg makes a misshapen, oversized lump under the blanket. His arms lie at his sides on top of the blanket, fingers slightly curled. His forearms are covered in dark bruises.

Steeling myself, I lift my gaze to inspect his sleeping face. Someone has cleaned him up, because the blood is gone from under his nose and around his mouth, but that only makes the injuries more obvious. Both of his closed eyes are blackened like a raccoon, with a purplish smear across the bridge of his nose, and his lower lip is split and swollen. I'm sure he didn't hit his face when he landed, so these injuries must be from the impact with his shield when he crashed into the ceiling.

Natasha said "covered in bruises," which means he has more hiding under the gown and blanket, and "multicolored", which means he didn't get all of them today. I've been basically beating the shit out of him for three days now, and he never told me.

My gaze drifts upward, to where a lock of golden hair has fallen down over his forehead. It softens his face and makes him look very young. Vulnerable. I don't want him to look vulnerable. Captain America has to be strong. The rest of us will never hold together without him.

I reach out a tentative hand and gently brush back the lock of hair, and of course at that moment, he wakes up. When his eyes flicker open, I yank my hand back as if it has been burned. I wasn't touching you. I don't know what you're talking about.

He glances around the room, almost frantically for a second, but then he spots me, and his swollen lip curves up into a lopsided smile. "Hey, Wanda," he says in a soft voice, not angry as I was expecting. Not angry. Happy to see me. Oh, god.

I burst into tears, much to my horror.

While I am sobbing and sniffling, I can see through my tears that his smile has morphed into an expression of consternation. He looks around anxiously, as if hoping someone will come in and tell him what to do. But I can't stop weeping. I could have killed him! I almost did kill him! And he's not mad at me.

Finally he says "Hey—hey, don't cry. I'm going to be ok. See, I'm fine." He reaches down to pat his leg, and then gives an involuntary gasp of pain. He's not fine, and no amount of reassurances will convince me of that. My tears intensify.

"Wanda, look at me."

I sniffle and try to look, but all I can see are the bruises. "I'm so sorry. . ." I wail.

"Look at me. I'm ok, all right? Or I will be. It was an accident; I know that. I'll be ok. Please, just . . .stop crying." When I continue to blubber, his eyebrows pull in, and I see his jaw twitching from gnawing on the inside of his lower lip. "Please."

I push back my hair and wipe my face on my sleeve. I'm upsetting him more by crying. He's not ok, but he's not kicking me out either, so that's something, I tell myself firmly. Pull it together, Maximoff.

"Good, ok," His relieved expression when I finally get my emotions under control is almost comical. "That's better. See, everything's all right. Yeah. Ok?"

I don't trust myself to speak, so I just nod weakly.

He shifts on the bed, winces, and then says, "Does this bed sit up? I think they sit up sometimes."

"Um. . . are you supposed to sit up?"

"Yeah. Why not? It would be more comfortable."

I wipe away the last of my tears and start looking around on the bed for the controls, finally find them on the inside of the bedrail. I point the buttons out to him and let him raise the head of the bed himself. He cries out sharply when the bed jolts as it starts moving.

"Sorry sorry sorry!" I cry. "Are you all right? Do you want to stop?"

"No, I'm ok," he grunts through gritted teeth. A thin layer of sweat has appeared on his upper lip, but he doesn't stop until the bed is sitting about halfway up. Then he shifts his leg just a little, grimacing with every movement, in what looks like a vain attempt to get comfortable.

"Captain, I don't think—"

"I'll be ok. Man, I'm starving. I never got any breakfast. I wonder when they're gonna feed me?"

Oh! The burek! "I brought you something," I say hastily, opening the bag. He watches me with a hopeful expression. When I pull out the piece of burek, the lopsided grin reappears.

"Aces, thanks!" He holds out his hand expectantly.

"Are you sure you're allowed to eat?"

"Yes, I can eat. Why couldn't I eat?" His voice has a note of defensiveness in it.

I shrug and hand over the burek. I'm not going to say no to a man who just forgave me for breaking him.

I fish my burek and a couple of napkins out of the bag, but by the time I look up to hand him one, I find him licking his fingers. All that is left of his piece of burek are a few crumbs scattered on the blanket, and he is looking hungrily at mine.

"That berrick is pretty good."

"Oh. Here." I hand the other piece over as well, just to see him smile, and I'm rewarded with another crooked grin. I find myself smiling in return.

He takes an enormous bite, and while he is chewing, says thoughtfully, "I've been thinking about our next session."

"Next. . . session?" I respond faintly. "You want to keep trying this?"

He swallows thickly. "Yes, don't you?" Another enormous bite. Half of the burek (my lovely burek) is gone now. "It was going great before this happened."

"I lost control."

"So you'll learn from it and keep trying." The rest of the burek disappears into his mouth. "Got any more of that?"

I shake my head and hold up the empty bag. "You just don't give up, do you?"

He smirks at me. "Never backed down from a fight before, not planning to now. I was thinking, they'll probably let me out of here tomorrow, but I won't be ready to start practicing again for a while, at least a week or so—"

"Longer than that, surely."

"I told you, I heal fast. Anyway, I can set you up with some inanimate objects to throw around, get some more practice. And then when I'm healed up enough to try again, you'll be ready."

"I've already tried with pillows," I say dubiously.

"We'll try something else. I'll have Vision set it up. Ok?"

"Yes, ok," I respond, because he sounds so confident. At least practicing with inanimate objects won't break anyone's leg. Unless it's bricks or rocks or something. . . My train of thought derails when I look back at his face. He's got his hand over his stomach and he's gone a bit green around the edges. "What's wrong?"

"I think maybe I ate that too fast." His other hand goes up over his mouth. His eyes that peek over the top of his hand are wide with panic.

"Oh, shit," I mumble, looking around for something for him to throw up into. I'm expecting him to respond "Language", but he's too busy trying to keep his stomach contents on the inside. Finally I grab the nearest trash can and hold it up for him, just in time for him to vomit up all of his breakfast. Bye bye burek.

He finishes retching, but I don't pull the trash can away immediately because I'm distracted by the view down the back of his partially open gown—his entire back is mottled with bruises, shading from black, through blue and green, to yellow-brown. No wonder the nurses were asking questions.

Finally he pushes the trash can away and sinks back down against the pillows. "Better?" I ask, and he just nods weakly in response. His hair is damp and his whole pale face is covered with a sheen of sweat.

At that moment a petite nurse with bright orange hair bustles in on squeaky crepe-soled shoes. "Captain Rogers!" she exclaims. "You're not supposed to be sitting up!"

I just step back with my eyebrows raised while she lowers the bed. He is studiously avoiding eye contact. Or maybe he's in too much pain to do anything but stare intently at the wall like he's trying to burn a hole in it.

"You're supposed to keep your leg elevated," she scolds, briskly tucking the blankets in around him. "Keep the swelling down."

"It is elevated," he mumbles.

"Above your heart, dear, which means you have to lie flat. And no MMA either."

He looks mystified, but before he can say anything, I break in with, "Oh, no, absolutely no MMA. That MMA thing is right out. You can't MMA with a broken leg."

". . .Umm. . ." He narrows his eyes and cuts his gaze to me, but I just give my head a small shake.

The nurse gives him a look over her glasses. "Unless there's something else you'd like to tell me."

The captain looks mystified. ". . .No. . ."

"Something that would explain why you woke up on the operating table crying and yelling 'Stop! Stop!'?"

"I did?!"

"Mmhmm" The nurse flashes "the look" at me. I feel the sweat trickling down my back. Don't sink into the chair, I tell myself sternly. Sit up and look innocent.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, then she purses her lips and makes a noise through her nose. With one last glance at me, she turns back to the captain and whips out a thermometer, which she runs across his sweaty forehead with a quick, efficient movement. "99.6. Have to keep my eye on that." She scrutinizes the monitor, writes something on the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed, and then glances around the room. "Were you eating?" she asks in an aggrieved voice.

He has the decency to sound embarrassed. "Just a little bit."

"You're not supposed to be eating solid food today."

"I was hungry."

"And you threw it up, didn't you?"

". . . Maybe."

"No food today," she says in a firm voice. "If you can keep down clear fluids, we'll try applesauce tomorrow. How about some juice?"

"Ok, orange juice."

"Nuh-uh. Clear fluids only."

"Milk?"

She snorts. "I'll bring you some apple juice," she said flatly, and bustles out without waiting for answer. I'm left with a Captain America who is, quite simply, pouting. With an enormous effort I resist the urge to say I told you so.

"What's MMA?" he asks with a grumpy frown.

"I have no idea, but Natasha told them you were doing that to explain the bruises. I don't think they would believe the truth even if we told them."

"Probably not."

"You don't remember waking up during surgery?"

He scowls. "No."

We shut up then because the nurse has come back with a cup of juice with a straw sticking out of it. She sets it on the tray with a warning to "just take sips" and bustles out again. As soon as she's gone, he lifts his head and shoulders, grabs the juice, yanks out the straw, and downs the whole cupful in one long drink.

"Oh," I start. "I don't think you should—". But he has already thunked the empty cup back down onto the tray, so I finish with "Never mind." I sink back into my seat with a sigh. The captain is a terrible patient.

"I hope they let me go home tomorrow," he says wistfully. Home. Yes, home sounds nice. Home with my cozy bed and the door that locks from the inside.

And then I ask myself, when did I start thinking of the compound as home?

I get back to my room that evening, exhausted, to find a new set of clothes laid out carefully on my bed: a red t-shirt in a very soft fabric, with a stylized A on the front, and a pair of black sweatpants. When I try them on, I discover they are extremely comfortable and fit perfectly. I suspect they are a gift from Vision, because it seems like the sort of thoughtful thing he would do. Somehow he always knows exactly what will make me feel better.

After showering to get the traces of the captain's blood off my skin, I decide to wear my new clothes to bed.

A/N: Coming soon, Lessons 4-7: Teddy gets his