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April 26, 2014
Steve never showed his face at the hospital; Indigo has called him every day, and every day, he doesn't answer. Tony's been here every day this week, and Nat hasn't left her side.
As the days stretch into an agonizing eternity, the sterile confines of the hospital room begin to feel more like a prison than a sanctuary. The monotony of endless hours spent confined to the confines of the bed weighs heavily upon her, a relentless burden that gnaws at the edges of her sanity.
Desperation drives her to plead with Tony, to beg for a reprieve from the suffocating monotony of her surroundings. "Please, Tony," the words escape her lips in a breathless plea, the desperation in her voice echoing the turmoil that churns within Indigo. "I can stay on the infirmary floor at the tower, and Bruce will be there to watch over me. I'm dying of boredom laying in this bed, I need out of here...please."
Tony's response is measured, his expression a blend of concern and reluctant acquiescence. "Okay, kid," he finally relents with a nod, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. "But if something happens, I'll bring you right back here myself, got it?"
Relief floods through her like a tidal wave, washing away the oppressive weight of confinement with a sense of newfound freedom. As Nat springs into action, her movements a flurry of efficiency as she gathers Indigo's belongings into a bag, a surge of gratitude wells within her for Nat's unwavering support. With practiced ease, she navigates the room.
Seizing the opportunity while Nat is momentarily occupied, Indigo discreetly retrieves the burner phone from its hiding place beneath her pillow, slipping it into the depths of her purse. The weight of secrecy hangs heavy upon her, knowing that if they found the phone Bucky would be caught.
Before Indigo can fully process the implications of her actions, Tony returns, "Ok, we're good to go," he announces with a sense of finality, his gaze sweeping over the room in a silent assessment of their readiness. "The Doc is gonna bring in a wheelchair, and then we'll be out of here."
"Fuck, a wheelchair? Can't you just Ironman up and carry me out of here?" Indigo says not wanting to be in a wheelchair.
"Sorry, Willow," he chuckles, his expression softened by a warmth that belies the gravity of his words, "you gotta be in a wheelchair until the Doc says you can start walking again."
As the weight of Tony's words sinks in, a sense of frustration bubbles to the surface. The realization that her independence has been compromised, tethered to the confines of a wheelchair, leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
With a heavy sigh, Indigo resigns herself to the harsh reality of her situation, the echo of her own pride clashing with the undeniable truth of my dependency on others for mobility. The prospect of constantly relying on someone else for assistance gnaws at the edges of her resolve, a silent reminder of the limitations imposed by her physical condition.
