Captain On Ice

Chapter 8

It took all of Bruce's concentration, all of his well-honed skills to keep his hands from shaking as the sparkling silver blade punctured the pale white skin as though it was paper. He extended the line horizontally, pulling his hand downward across the soldier's chest slightly below the ribcage, coming to rest when he sufficed that the incision was large enough. The blood pooled upward at an alarmingly slow rate, overflowing from the chasm as though it was a waterfall of scarlet syrup rather than human blood.

I need to hurry; he can't afford to lose any more blood, Bruce thought as he plunged into action.

Natasha fought back the urge to destroy the man who was causing Steve so much pain. Even though she understood that Bruce was only doing what needed to be done - operating on Steve when no one else would, which was exactly what may save Steve's life - she couldn't stop the primal instinct to defend her comrade. She wasn't quite sure if it had sunk in yet; it seemed so surreal, so unbelievable that Steve had been subjected to this. She was Natasha Romanoff - cold-hearted assassin raised and trained by the Red Room. She had dealt with pain, had mastered it; it was long ago that she accepted her own mortality, and she was only winding the clock to buy herself more time. She had accepted the fact that she had an expiration date, just like everyone else. Except Steve. Now was not his time. It couldn't be.

Her steely gaze was focused in on Steve, his face contorted in pain as his eyes were scrunched closed, locking the electric blue orbs in a cage of darkness. He grit his teeth as Bruce extended the incision beneath his ribs and beneath the original wound, which had turned from an agonizing eruption of blood to a slow, steady ooze from beneath the once-white bandage.

At first, she resisted the impulse to run her hands through Steve's hair. It was foolish, she knew, but it was her instinct to remain distant. Unattached. But what Steve needed right now was comfort and a familiar face. Bruce was busy. Clint was the farthest thing she knew from compassionate; she knew that he tried, he really did, but he was still Clint. And Tony was Tony. So that left Natasha. She took one of Steve's hands, prying his fingers from the metal hand rails to the ambulance's stretcher. She briefly noted the crushed steel, reminding herself of the previous night when she had found Steve staring into the black sky as snow fell down in bundles. Tony saw this as well, and before he could get the words out of so that's what's been happening to my expensive furniture, Natasha shot him an icy glare, and Clint let out a simple "not now, Stark."

Like there's going to be a later, thought Natasha before she brushed it from her mind. No, Steve was not going to die. He couldn't. What was she supposed to do with herself? She couldn't handle the Avengers by herself, and while they could go on without her, she was absolutely positive that without Steve, they would crumble. He was the foundation that kept it all together. She nearly chuckled at this - a man who was just barely older than her - still a kid, even - was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not only did he keep the Avengers from killing each other at the dinner table every night, but he was also an American icon. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He was a symbol not only to the nation, but also to his team and his coworkers. Everyone he had ever known, loved, befriended - they were all dead. Yet here he was, alone in a world that lived on without him even when his own world had come to a screeching halt. Despite being alive and putting on the show of moving on, Steve was still a fossil, a relic from another time that had been thrust into action. They expected him to be fine, needed him to be fine. But by the look on Steve's face, he was anything but.

"Rogers," Natasha's voice was just above a whisper as she tried to communicate with the older man. "I need you to look at me, okay?"

He blinked.

"I'm going to take that as a yes. Stay with me, okay?"

"G-g-going to c-crush your," Steve stopped, gasping for air in short, shallow breaths. "Your hand-d."