Breathe Easy
It was apparent that he was more than unhappy with the wheelchair. He wouldn’t even grace it with a single look as it sat there while the nurse was busy untucking the various pipes and tubes from him. You tried to keep the grin off your face as you came in and placed a bag on the bed next to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, still as suspicious as ever.
“Clothes.” You replied simply, a warning flashing in your eyes for him not to say anything strange that didn’t fit with your official story. “Thought you’d appreciate it, coz.”
He raised his eyebrows, but thankfully refrained from making any further comments until the nurse was done and gone.
“What about…”
“Your gear?” you interrupted, “Yeah, I’m afraid they kinda had to cut that off you in stripes when they were saving your life, so that’s a no. They did give me your boots though.” You fished said boots out of the bag, placing them on the floor.
“As for the rest, I just really hope this fits.” You produced a small pile of clothing items from the bag, placing them on the bed beside him. He glanced at the pile as if he’d never seen a striped shirt.
“Where did you even get these?” he asked, narrowing his bloodshot eyes at the pattern as if it had personally offended him. He looked like he hadn’t slept those past few days.
“Oh, they’re my ex’s. He cheated on me and was too ashamed to come by and pick up his stuff, and rightfully so. I’m not sure why I didn’t throw these out actually.” Except you knew exactly why: you had planned on burning them on the roof when the hurt had still been fresh, but then thought better of it and eventually forgotten.
“Actually I think he’s never even worn these.” You mused, discreetly pulling off the labels that were still attached to the fabric. Why were you even telling him all this? Were you usually this chatty and prone to oversharing or just compensating for his utter lack of conversational skills?
“Anyway, are you gonna be okay here? I gotta go and talk to the doctor again. Sign some forms. All that jazz.”
He nodded after a short moment of hesitation, and you took your leave, allowing him some privacy to get changed.
When you returned about a quarter of an hour later, you found him half dressed, struggling to pull his broken arm through the shirt’s sleeve. You thought he looked a bit paler than when you’d left him.
“Here, let me,” you said, taking the shirt out of his fumbling metal hand. He stared down at you, brows furrowed, but let you slide the shirt up his arm over the splint that had replaced the ungainly cast put on him previously without resistance. Other than that his torso was still covered in angry dark bruises and white gauze bandages. You tried not to stare at the puckered scar tissue where his left shoulder was divided in metal and flesh, but couldn’t help wondering how one sustained such dramatic injuries. That seemed to be a habit of his. The prosthetic arm caught your attention as well, and you sneaked a few discerning glances at the interlocking metal plates sneakily – out of purely professional interest of course. You worked for a company that developed medical technology such as prosthetics, and though your personal strengths were more on the business and management side of things, you still had graduated in health sciences and technology from MIT, figuring that even if you didn’t end up in research it would still be useful to know that side of the business. You briefly wondered what your head researcher Dr Laing would have to say about this – it appeared to be quite a bit more advanced than anything you could currently do. At least the clothes fit, even somewhat loosely so, and you mentally thanked your ex for not knowing how clothing sizes worked.
He swayed a bit, blood draining from his face as he tried to steady himself without leaning on you. You huffed and gently pushed him down to sit on the bed, then proceeded to button up the shirt. You briefly wondered at his detached compliance in the whole thing, but put it down to the painkillers in his bloodstream, and possibly the dizziness at being upright again after spending almost a week lying down. You then went over the same routine again with a jacket, mentioning how it was a tad chilly outside and trying to sound as if this was not an awkward and unusual situation.
He adamantly refused the wheelchair, so much so that both nurse and doctor just gave up eventually and let the two of you walk the short distance out of the hospital and to your car. By the time you arrived there he was trembling slightly. You briefly wondered whether he should not have stayed under professional care a little longer, seeing as he looked like he might collapse at any moment. You quickly threw the bag in the trunk and ushered him into the front seat, then got behind the wheel ad started the engine.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, just as you rounded a busy intersection.
“Just drop me off over there, at the station.”
You raised your eyebrow at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He shrank back into his seat, wincing slightly as he did so, and grumbling something about the deal you had proposed back when you first met.
“Don’t be ridiculous, look at the state you’re in!” you replied, a bit more testily than you’d intended, “I’m not just gonna unload you at the curb like an old microwave, that would be most irresponsible. No, champ, you’re staying with me until you’ve recovered enough to get by on your own. Unless you actually have somewhere to go, which, with the whole amnesia not-even-knowing-who-you-are thing, I’m guessing is not the case.” Who was he trying to kid? He could barely walk half a mile without passing out. You were somewhat offended at the insinuation that you would just abandon him like that. He frowned deeply, opening his mouth to say something in return, but the intention withered before it could take root.
“Besides I gotta take you back there next week for a check-up ad to get your stitches pulled.” You said, nodding your head back in the general direction of the hospital. He regarded you at length, which since you were driving you found a bit unsettling, before speaking again.
“You don’t even know who I am.” He stated, vexed and incredulous.
“Well, that makes two of us.” You replied dryly. His lips parted a fraction in disbelief, which was somehow incredibly adorable. Nevertheless you made a mental not to tone it down on the trashy amnesia jokes; it was a bit tasteless after all.
By the time you arrived back at your apartment building he had recovered enough to manage the paved way leading there, and inside thankfully there was an elevator to take you up to your floor.
You could tell he was exhausted, and it was already quite late in the day, so you sat him down at the dinner table and went into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers for dinner. He hadn’t said a word since the car ride, and wasn’t exactly responding now either, so you just decided on some chicken and broccoli risotto. You were famished and he probably needed to eat, too, since hospital food was notoriously bad.
You were just heaping the food on plates when you heard a chair scrape on the floor. You called out that the bathroom door was the one just next to the kitchen, and carried out the full plates.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
He flinched away from the apartment door, looking somewhat guilty. You set the steaming plates down with more force than strictly necessary, then crossed your arms and put on what Skye called your ‘disappointed mom’ stare. It seemed to work. He unhanded the door knob, but remained leaning heavily against the wall, beautifully illustrating the point you were going to make just now.
“You have been good to me, and I am grateful, but I really cannot stay.” He said quietly, interrupting the impassioned speech you were about to deliver before you could draw the breath to do so. His words sounded stiff, rehearsed; as if he had to put a lot of thought into knowing what to say yet not being quite sure those words were truly the appropriate ones.
“And why on earth not?”
“It’s too dangerous for you; I am too dangerous.” His voice was flat; there was only the slightest hint of emphasis. You found that lack of expression quite disconcerting, especially when you yourself were so upset right now.
“You mean you can take apart two or more armed opponents with your bare hands, yeah I know, I was there. Also you can barely stand and I still have my trusty frying pan, so I guess I’ll be okay.” You spat testily, waving off his objections.
He stared at you, clearly perturbed by your reaction, your apparent lack of concern. You shrugged uneasily.
“Well, I split a man’s skull with said frying pan last week, so…”
“HYDRA will not give up.” He rasped, his knees shaking and ready to buckle away from under him. He was still cowering against the heavy apartment door. Frankly you doubted he could even open it in the state he was in.
“And you wanna be out and about when they get you? Barely able to walk, riddled with bullet holes like a goddamn cheese, with a broken arm? Did you lose any sense of self-preservation along with your memory?” You hadn’t meant to yell. Really, you had not meant to yell at him; you never meant to yell at anyone, but sometimes people were so stubborn and foolish and it upset you.
There it was again, that fear you had only seen glimpses and flashes of, now prominently painted all over his face. Your stomach dropped about four hundred feet. Add ‘very likely torture of some kind’ and ‘PTSD probably, definitely some kind of trauma’ to the list of things those HYDRA people had done to this man. No wonder he didn’t wish to fall back into their clutches. You were in no way equipped to handle this, but damn you if you’d let that stop you. You took a deep, deliberate breath and put your hands out in a placating gesture, seeking forgiveness.
“I’m sorry,” you spoke firmly, putting sincerity into your voice, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I just want you to be safe and get better, okay? I will not make you stay here against your will; I am offering it to you, and I also strongly advise it. HYDRA has not found you yet; I think if they knew where you were they’d probably have been here by now. Please sit down and eat.”
You purposely moved with slow deliberation, drawing out your chair and sitting down in it, you back turned to him. You hoped that demonstratively leaving yourself unprotected like this would inspire some kind of trust. You hoped it would work the way you meant it to, and furthermore you hoped he wouldn’t use this window of opportunity to slip out the door never to be seen again after all. It took about five agonizing minutes for him to muster the strength and courage to return to the table. His breathing was still shallow and somewhat labored as he sat down heavily across from you. You smiled encouragingly as you heaped your spoon and lifted it to your mouth. He imitated your movements hesitantly, hand shaking almost imperceptibly. You hoped the risotto hadn’t gone completely cold by now.