nightcathedral | (no subject)

Apparently it doesn't matter to nurses or orderlies if you're Captain America or Captain Kangaroo - Steve had to ask about that one - if you're hurt, you're a patient, and if you're a patient, you get wheeled to the front door. He had to smile in the face of the scowling woman in nurse's scrubs who made the comparison. Her expression reminded him of his mother.

So he submitted. He probably would have tired himself out making the exit doors. He's still stitched, bandaged, bruised, scraped. Breathing too deep pulls at his insides.

The press is at the court-mandated distance outside the exit. He holds up a hand, getting the orderly to stop with a quiet "Please."

He levers himself out of the chair as the man protests, surprised, and walks for the door. It takes effort to regulate his gait, and he angles for steady and slow. Solid. He has to be Captain America, battered or not.

Standing and waiting for his ride, whoever it is - Natasha was vague - is hard. And hurts.

Being injured is really irritating.

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He nods, watching her go and wishing she wouldn't, which is silly, because someone needs to answer the door.

A sudden, paranoid part of himself demands to know why he isn't with her making sure it isn't Rumlow or another Hydra goon, and he tells himself firmly that Olivia can handle herself, first off, and second, she'll shout if something's wrong.

Steve turns to put both feet on the floor and his head in his hands, then hisses and sits up quickly as pain jabs through his gut at his slump. Ginger, Steve peels his shirt over his head to examine the bandages at his midriff. Sure enough, one sports a spreading red stain. He watches it for a few seconds.

"First aid kit, Rogers," he says, happy for something to do to put the dream out of mind, and struggles to his feet.

Edited 2014-04-23 03:23 (UTC)

No one is trying to kill her at the door. It was, she'll admit, a minor concern, but for once, nothing disastrous happens just when they're starting to relax. Maybe just this once, they get a break.

She tips the delivery girl, shuts the door, and isn't especially surprised when Steve isn't there when she turns around. She has a guess where he's gone. She sets the bags of food on the table and spends a moment unpacking them before cautiously following Steve to the bathroom.

"Are you alright?" she asks softly, hanging in the hallway just outside.

Steve finishes cleaning up - putting away the first aid kit, tossing dirty gauze pads and used bandages - before he opens the door and comes into the hall, drawing his shirt back on. His head pops through the hole, hair sticking up in all directions. He kisses Olivia's forehead.

"Pulled a stitch. I'm fine."

"Thank you for not bleeding on my couch," she murmurs softly, though she honestly wouldn't have been too upset if he had. She appreciates the courtesy.

Olivia flicks a glance to his abdomen even though she knows he's just patched it up. There's a little blood on his shirt, but she assumes it was from before he got to the bathroom. She's had worse, and she doesn't have his healing factor.

"Food's here, if you're still hungry."

"Yes," he says, relieved yet again to have something to do, and that it's something he wants. He is hungry, as long as he doesn't think about everything else going on.

He practically inhales the food, grateful (not for the first time) that Olivia knows what his appetite is like. Steve scrapes the bottom of several containers before he even slows, and by the time he's full there's very little left to stash in the fridge. He sits back against the couch, careful of his injuries this time, and rubs his thumb across a speckle of something gravy-like on his shirt. "Much, much better than hospital food."