Wow. So I finally updated this. Hope you all like it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America.
He slips through people and places with barely a thought. He just goes through the motion of disguising himself, of obtaining food, of stealing a first aid kit, of avoiding the people looking for him. He finds safety in an abandoned warehouse, and once he is sure he will not be found he opens the first aid kit in a corner and sees about the first order of business, his dislocated shoulder. He tries to push it back I place but he doesn't have enough leverage and his body is too weak at the moment, too starved for food he hasn't yet eaten. He isn't strong enough to shove it in place even if he could nor has his legs the strength to brace himself if he slams it into a wall to push it back in place. But it has to be done now. His healing at the moment will now hurt him rather than heal him.
He takes stock of his surroundings almost mechanically and his gaze finally rests on one of the metal supports inside the warehouse. It is made up of two solid beams on either side with smaller metal bars criss-crossing between them.
He walks over to the support, grits his teeth and lifts the arm and slides it between two of the criss-crossing bars at shoulder level. He wedges his fist in a corner, tests to make sure it will stay, sets his metal arm onto his shoulder, sets his jaw in a stubborn grimace, breaths in and out a few times and then twists and pushes. With a sickening, squishy pop, the arm slid back into place. He lets out a muffled noise, and then another as his legs buckle under him and he almost drops, which causes his arm, still wedged in the support to be yanked higher than it should be lifted at the moment. He catches himself, straightens up, pulls his hand out of the support and lowers it gingerly. He rotates the shoulder a little mentally calculating how long it would take to heal, and running through what he could still use it for even damaged at it is. His limbs are just tools. They work as they are supposed to and when they don't, he improvises with them. He's just a tool. And until recently he worked well. He did good work. But now he doesn't work so well. He doesn't know what he supposed to do. He'll just have to improvise.
He sets his mind to the next order of business. Food. He had chosen mostly semi- liquid foods as that is all he's known for decades. All he's ever eaten. He did not think changing it was advisable. Perhaps when he was stronger. Besides he needs liquids to rehydrate. He scarfs down the food at a set pace then lays aside the containers, gulps down two bottles of water, sets those aside as well and reaches for the open first aid kit.
He strips out of the jacket he had thrown over himself ad tossed it in the corner with the hat he had also stolen. His pants had been neutral enough and he really hadn't gotten time to get anything better. He had needed to take advantage of the panic that came with the destruction of the helicarriers. Now he painfully starts to strip out of his uniform which had been hidden by the jacket. It was still damp and it stuck to some of his still open wounds. He hadn't gotten more than bruises in his fight albeit some of them were terrible, but when he had jumped out of the crashing helicarrier, a number of pieces had cut him as he fell, not to mention whatever debris that had fallen after him. He swabbed out all of them, taking care with the worst of them working with single minded intensity. His body would certainly heal on its own, but sparing it extra work when he was already so weak was only logical. He worked on them, stitching the few that needed it, and dabbing plasters on others. When he was done, he pulled back on the jacket, swallowed half the painkillers in the kit to deal with the always-there-pain from where his metal arm meets his flesh, curled up in a corner and fell into a restless sleep.
R&R Please!