𝑯𝑬𝒀 𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑪𝑨 | in which a normal, dreary, woman has greatness thrust upon her, and with it an instructor who is not a perfect soldier but a good man.
Join Quinn, a lowly I.T. at S.H.I.E.L.D., as her already chaotic domestic life gets throw...
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THE UNMISTAKABLE SOFT lull of jazz drifts throughout the hospital room. The room is filled with a warm light, along with flowers and balloons wishing the Avenger a speedy recovery. Steve's eyes slightly drift open, his senses too drowsy to even register Amy signs of danger. Yet for some reason, he didn't feel endangered at all. Perhaps it was the familiar sound of the heart rate monitor and the sound of people milling around outside of the room that alerted him that he was in the hospital.
What surprised him was the music. It was unfamiliar to him, but he could identify it as a form of smooth jazz. Nothing like the jazz he grew up with. This was soft, endearing, and told a story. His jaw feels like hell, yet despite the sudden urge to claw at his cheek his arms remain at his sides.
His eyes drift over to his right side to notice the familiar stature of Sam Wilson sitting next to him, magazine in hand. The iPod perched on the bedside table next to him displayed the words "Trouble Man" in large white letters. He tried to smile but his jaw protests this action.
"On your left," he mutters out under his breath. Sam places the magazine down in his lap and lightly smiles at the wounded Avenger whose eyes remained shut. Only a few moments later he barely opens his eyes to take if his features. "I feel like hell," he mumbles, his voice still groggy from the medicine that was given.
Sam chuckles lowly. "You look like hell," he admits, gazing at the large gash that ran beside his mouth. His face also featured an array of bruises he had collected by several opponents. Steve attempts to let out a small laugh but fails to do so, only making the cut of his lip split by smiling.
He couldn't remember how he got here, but he specifically remembered bringing down Insight. That was a load off his chest. To know that millions of people were off Hydra's list and to attempt to eradicate Hydra. "How long have I been out?" he questions, stretching his arms out from underneath the thick blanket the hospital provided him.
Sam tilts his head from side to side trying to remember when Hydra's downfall took place. "'Bout a week," he answers, earning a groan from Steve. A week was too long for him to sleep and recover. He was in the ice for seventy years, sleep was the last thing he needed.
As he stretches his legs he feels something slide off of his knees and towards his feet. He attempts to catch it but his wounds protest him from any sudden movement. He winces in pain and grabs his left side, only to feel a large cotton piece of gauze covering up the area. It takes him a moment to remember what had happened. Bucky had shot him. Bucky. He turns to Sam with a questioning look. "Bucky?" his voice cracks in the process of the question. Sam sighs and merely shakes his head. "We couldn't locate him after the wreckage, it's unclear whether he made it out or not -"
