[As both a soldier and a war hero back home, perhaps this makes him especially daring. After the accident, he’s only felt keener on proving himself, on being viewed as more than just a young amputee, an unfortunate victim of a grenade blast on the field. At least he had served as more now than an oversized paperweight - but his efforts to transport Peggy didn't compensate for the poor judgment he'd shown while swinging.]
A. A-positive.
[He watches as the clinic door flies open, his steps slowing to a halt at last. But rather than smoothly sinking into a crouch as intended, he drops to his knees as if his legs had buckled beneath him, his head slumping forward while he waits for Peggy to climb off his back.
A quiet noise somewhere between a croak and a dry cough issues from him as if in some half-hearted attempt to speak, his jugular veins pressing rod-like against his skin. It hurts more than he’ll allow himself to admit, the sort of hurt that sucks the breath from his lungs – what little of it he felt he could sneak in, at least - and at its worst, threatens to have tears springing to the corners of his eyes in reflex and faster than he could determinedly blink them back. Back in boot camp, drill sergeants had tried to hammer home that pain was just a state of mind. Something, moreover, the enemy could and would be glad to use against you if given the chance.
Buck up, Spencer. Let’s go - on your feet.
He braces a hand against the outer wall of the clinic for support, tremblingly pushing himself up. But his body barely budges. Panting, he give in briefly to his crippling sense of weakness, half-absently touching a hand to a wet patch on his sweater - and all that flashes through his mind is how hard it'll be to get the stains out. Not that it matters when it would be cut away, anyway, once he got the chance to lay down.
A fierce shout escapes him as he tries again to stand, the bones in his legs feeling like wet noodles. It's a Herculean effort, and thank God the wall's where it is; he promptly leans against it, too spent to feel very grateful. In this moment of idleness, his gaze drifts to Peggy and it's then that he notices the blood spotting the side of her dress. Had it always been there?]
no subject
A. A-positive.
[He watches as the clinic door flies open, his steps slowing to a halt at last. But rather than smoothly sinking into a crouch as intended, he drops to his knees as if his legs had buckled beneath him, his head slumping forward while he waits for Peggy to climb off his back.
A quiet noise somewhere between a croak and a dry cough issues from him as if in some half-hearted attempt to speak, his jugular veins pressing rod-like against his skin. It hurts more than he’ll allow himself to admit, the sort of hurt that sucks the breath from his lungs – what little of it he felt he could sneak in, at least - and at its worst, threatens to have tears springing to the corners of his eyes in reflex and faster than he could determinedly blink them back. Back in boot camp, drill sergeants had tried to hammer home that pain was just a state of mind. Something, moreover, the enemy could and would be glad to use against you if given the chance.
Buck up, Spencer. Let’s go - on your feet.
He braces a hand against the outer wall of the clinic for support, tremblingly pushing himself up. But his body barely budges. Panting, he give in briefly to his crippling sense of weakness, half-absently touching a hand to a wet patch on his sweater - and all that flashes through his mind is how hard it'll be to get the stains out. Not that it matters when it would be cut away, anyway, once he got the chance to lay down.
A fierce shout escapes him as he tries again to stand, the bones in his legs feeling like wet noodles. It's a Herculean effort, and thank God the wall's where it is; he promptly leans against it, too spent to feel very grateful. In this moment of idleness, his gaze drifts to Peggy and it's then that he notices the blood spotting the side of her dress. Had it always been there?]