For the Love of a Patriot || 𝗖𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 ✔️ [#wattys 2018]

29 | Helter Skelter

Y'all I'm freaking out. Like...Look at Steve Look. At. Steve. I'm freaking out, lmao.

~Location~
~Khalid~

•••

Day three of being awake. No immediate sign of Oya besides the healing. I'd graduated from ice chips to drinking soup out of a cup with a straw and grape popsicles. The pain came and went, and when it came, it was excruciating.

They finally let me put toothpaste in my mouth and soap on my body—though it was harder than expected to shower when I couldn't stand—and they finally got me a pair of glasses so I could see. The left half of my face held scratches and bruises but they were healing nicely. My hair was half in curls, half sweat out, always up in a messy bun.

Everything was going well. I'd received mail and many many flowers from people I knew who'd caught word of my predicament. Richie sent me a shit load of potato chips and sour skittles because they were my favorite. Devon and Naomi gave me a call and apologized for not being able to come. They sent a care package.

Still no word from my father or Christopher. Understandable.

"Deep breath," Steve said, leaned down with my arms around his neck. This was always the worst part.

I took a deep breath as he lifted, nearly making me scream. Some parts of my spinal nerves were still intact—it was a partial L1 injury. If I wasn't an enhanced human I would've had complete lower waist paralysis. I could still feel the pain of things coming apart when I was pulled, especially when I still had my back incision, my abdominal stitches, and a healing hole. So when it was time for me to get into the chair, Dr. Sossamon and Steve both made sure it was during my pain killer interval.

"Fuck!" I squeaked, my nails digging into his back and I kind of bit his shoulder to ease the pain.

"Hard part is over..." he said softly, rubbing my back as I breathed. "You ready?"

"Just put me in the chair, Steve," I muttered, half letting go to wrap my arm around my own body.

He crouched down so he was level with the wheelchair and sat me in it. "Alright..." he said, adjusting my legs for my would-be comfort. After adjusting my colorfully socked feet—they were fuzzy Batman socks that Steve lamented were awful, and I could only retort that he was jealous that I didn't want the Captain America ones—he kissed me on the cheek and began to push me out the door with a helpful tune on his lips.

"Where are we going?" I inquired, semi-bored. It was only twelve and physical therapy didn't start until one-thirty. I waved at a few familiar faces before resting my cheek back on my knuckle.