In my shock, I never stopped to really think about what this means, that he's from so far back in my past. And frankly, I don't stop to think about it now, either. There are far more pressing matters at hand; namely, making sure he doesn't die. Whatever baggage there is between us, whatever there is he doesn't know and I won't tell him... None of it's important. Not now. Those are concerns for the healthy and the whole. Getting him to a damn medic is the one and only priority.
That's easier said than done. He's bigger than I am -- a full five inches -- and all dead weight. I can lift him -- with my arm, I can lift him -- but it's awkward, and my enforced calm is slipping. Shock is giving away to panic I absolutely cannot afford to acknowledge; were this any other soldier on the field, I wouldn't have to worry about making sure I keep a level head, but Steve Rogers isn't just any other soldier -- even if he doesn't see it that way.
Back home, he ended up unstuck in time, but the chances of history repeating itself here are slim to none, island tricks be damned. There's just the one wound; he dies here, it's for good, and that's not an option I'm willing to so much as entertain. He wouldn't give up on me; I'll do him the courtesy of returning the favor.
So I don't think about the fact that I'm covered in his blood once I get him on his feet, propped up, bodily, against me, at the foot of the steps. Distantly, I'm aware of the fact that I'm panting, that my eyes sting from stubbornly unshed tears, that my heart's pounding from rage that he'd get his life turned upside down at the moment of his death. I'm too busy trying to figure out the best way to get him to the O.R. without causing more damage when the Compound door swings open, dragging me from my thoughts like a wild horse, because there's my answer right there: Peter Parker, Spider-Man. That it happens to be someone I know is convenient, but the truth is, it could've been anyone, and I would've asked for help.
"Peter," I say, even but urgent, my eyes flicking from him back to Steve's shoulder. "We've got to get him to a doctor ASAP."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-04-08 07:44 am (UTC)Jesus Christ.
In my shock, I never stopped to really think about what this means, that he's from so far back in my past. And frankly, I don't stop to think about it now, either. There are far more pressing matters at hand; namely, making sure he doesn't die. Whatever baggage there is between us, whatever there is he doesn't know and I won't tell him... None of it's important. Not now. Those are concerns for the healthy and the whole. Getting him to a damn medic is the one and only priority.
That's easier said than done. He's bigger than I am -- a full five inches -- and all dead weight. I can lift him -- with my arm, I can lift him -- but it's awkward, and my enforced calm is slipping. Shock is giving away to panic I absolutely cannot afford to acknowledge; were this any other soldier on the field, I wouldn't have to worry about making sure I keep a level head, but Steve Rogers isn't just any other soldier -- even if he doesn't see it that way.
Back home, he ended up unstuck in time, but the chances of history repeating itself here are slim to none, island tricks be damned. There's just the one wound; he dies here, it's for good, and that's not an option I'm willing to so much as entertain. He wouldn't give up on me; I'll do him the courtesy of returning the favor.
So I don't think about the fact that I'm covered in his blood once I get him on his feet, propped up, bodily, against me, at the foot of the steps. Distantly, I'm aware of the fact that I'm panting, that my eyes sting from stubbornly unshed tears, that my heart's pounding from rage that he'd get his life turned upside down at the moment of his death. I'm too busy trying to figure out the best way to get him to the O.R. without causing more damage when the Compound door swings open, dragging me from my thoughts like a wild horse, because there's my answer right there: Peter Parker, Spider-Man. That it happens to be someone I know is convenient, but the truth is, it could've been anyone, and I would've asked for help.
"Peter," I say, even but urgent, my eyes flicking from him back to Steve's shoulder. "We've got to get him to a doctor ASAP."