"Do you want him trying to get up again?" It's cross and implacable and they're half-way to the infirmary already, so there.
Steve gets put under as soon as they get there, stripped down to his boxers, his wounds cleaned and bandaged but otherwise left alone. His cellular functions are still enough of a study that seeing him recover and taking data on it is more important than the guesswork of helping him heal. Tony leaves as soon as Olivia has been tended to and thoroughly questioned - and instructed not to leave the room without permission. The doors get locked behind the last person to leave, aka a very reluctant Jane Foster, but the monitors on the walls keep a steady stream of information logged from the various bracelets and monitoring plugs affixed to the patients' skin.
About fifteen minutes after the room empties, Steve wakes up. He's aching all over in that distant way that promises far greater pain once he's fully aware. The ceiling takes a few seconds for him to place. "Oh," he says. It's still a little muzzy.
"Hi," he tells the ceiling. "Been a while."
He glances down at himself, clad in the white nighty of a hospital stay under the sheets with a thread count higher than most five-star hotels. He tries to sit up, feels fresh blazes of pain from his injuries and thinks maybe he'll stay put instead.
Can't get drunk, can't use painkillers. Sometimes this super soldier thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.
no subject
Steve gets put under as soon as they get there, stripped down to his boxers, his wounds cleaned and bandaged but otherwise left alone. His cellular functions are still enough of a study that seeing him recover and taking data on it is more important than the guesswork of helping him heal. Tony leaves as soon as Olivia has been tended to and thoroughly questioned - and instructed not to leave the room without permission. The doors get locked behind the last person to leave, aka a very reluctant Jane Foster, but the monitors on the walls keep a steady stream of information logged from the various bracelets and monitoring plugs affixed to the patients' skin.
About fifteen minutes after the room empties, Steve wakes up. He's aching all over in that distant way that promises far greater pain once he's fully aware. The ceiling takes a few seconds for him to place. "Oh," he says. It's still a little muzzy.
"Hi," he tells the ceiling. "Been a while."
He glances down at himself, clad in the white nighty of a hospital stay under the sheets with a thread count higher than most five-star hotels. He tries to sit up, feels fresh blazes of pain from his injuries and thinks maybe he'll stay put instead.
Can't get drunk, can't use painkillers. Sometimes this super soldier thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.