If Sam had voiced his thought about staying in Wakanda, Steve would have agreed, albeit for different reasons. Steve should have left Wakanda on his own, even if it meant stealing away in the night and denying Sam the chance to argue his case for coming along. Steve wasn't strong enough, then, to tough it out alone, and now look what's happened. He can't seem to stop putting people in harm's way.
Enough. There will be plenty of time for kicking himself later. Right now, Sam has a wound in need of tending.
Their better-than-average first aid kit includes a supply of local anesthetic, because Steve knows what it's like to go without and doesn't wish it on anyone. When Sam comes to, Steve is laser-focused on administering the anesthesia.
"I know what I'm doing," he replies without moving his eyes from the syringe, which he holds at eye level to check for air bubbles. Satisfied, Steve turns his attention to the wound. "Little prick," he warns before the first injection, starting from the top of the slash, just a few millimeters from the actual cut. He injects a small dose of anesthetic and pushes the two-inch needle a little further, keeping parallel with the wound, until he’s deposited the anesthetic evenly. He has to repeat the process two more times to span the length of the wound, then start again from the opposite side.
When it's done, there's nothing to do but wait. In a few minutes he'll test if Sam is fully numb, but for now…
Finally, Steve looks up and meets Sam's eyes. He hates seeing Sam like this, hates hearing him sound so weak and tired. Karmically speaking, Steve has probably earned this, with the number of times that Sam has had to sit at the edge of his recovery bed. It just makes him feel worse for not having appreciated how it must have felt on the other side.
It fucking sucks.
"You scared the shit out of me," he admits. It isn't pointed or bitter; he isn't trying to guilt Sam. It's just the plain truth: he was worried. Is worried, even if Sam cracking wise about his predicament is a good sign.
no subject
Enough. There will be plenty of time for kicking himself later. Right now, Sam has a wound in need of tending.
Their better-than-average first aid kit includes a supply of local anesthetic, because Steve knows what it's like to go without and doesn't wish it on anyone. When Sam comes to, Steve is laser-focused on administering the anesthesia.
"I know what I'm doing," he replies without moving his eyes from the syringe, which he holds at eye level to check for air bubbles. Satisfied, Steve turns his attention to the wound. "Little prick," he warns before the first injection, starting from the top of the slash, just a few millimeters from the actual cut. He injects a small dose of anesthetic and pushes the two-inch needle a little further, keeping parallel with the wound, until he’s deposited the anesthetic evenly. He has to repeat the process two more times to span the length of the wound, then start again from the opposite side.
When it's done, there's nothing to do but wait. In a few minutes he'll test if Sam is fully numb, but for now…
Finally, Steve looks up and meets Sam's eyes. He hates seeing Sam like this, hates hearing him sound so weak and tired. Karmically speaking, Steve has probably earned this, with the number of times that Sam has had to sit at the edge of his recovery bed. It just makes him feel worse for not having appreciated how it must have felt on the other side.
It fucking sucks.
"You scared the shit out of me," he admits. It isn't pointed or bitter; he isn't trying to guilt Sam. It's just the plain truth: he was worried. Is worried, even if Sam cracking wise about his predicament is a good sign.