|Wanda Maximoff (daddysredwitch) wrote in oh_marvelous,|
@ 2012-07-01 15:12:00
|Entry tags:||z: om1: !complete, z: om1: character: jasper sitwell, z: om1: character: pietro lehnsherr, z: om1: character: wanda maximoff, z: om1: character: wicked, z: om1: location: new york, z: om1: location: shield headquarters, z: om1: past character: clint barton|
And I started to hear it again, but this time it wasn't the end-
Characters: Wanda and multi-threads open to anyone who wants to talk to her, idk, I like hospital threads
Setting: Medical bay at SHIELD hq
Content: Nothing questionable. This is a sickbed.
Summary: Obligatory hospital/sickbed recovery post. I’m pretty sure I’ve done one of these for all my characters at least once if not more
Wanda was mostly alone at the moment and she didn't belong here laid up in this hospital bed with IV needles in her arms and sutures down her body. She she stared at the door through which Nick fury had just exited. That was a surprise; Nick had been the first person she'd seen when she’d finally woken from what was apparently several days of a morphine induced semi-consciousness. As it turned out, Fury wasn't here to see her at all- he was actually here for the mysterious S.H.I.E.L.D. agent she was sharing a room with, hidden from her view behind a curtained partition. At least she assumed it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, that made the most sense given that she was, Nick informed her, in S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ’s medical bay where the survivors had relocated after the helicarrier went under. Survivors. She didn't want to ask how many dead but she had to know and he told her. The number was too high, any number was too high.
Her first thought was of the Avengers, who Fury assured her had all survived. Her second thought was that this was her fault. This was exactly what Steve and Pietro had predicted, what she’d refused to accept or even to expect. She blurted her self condemnation to Fury, who had stared at her for a long time before he told her about his kidnapped agents, the cure, his rescue mission. If it was her fault, he’d said, then it was as much his, and he didn't seem bothered by the fact at all. Wanda remained unconvinced, thinking how her Father had been so fast, like he was ready, like he was waiting for her. Thinking how the helicarrier made such good bait. Nick was studying her, seemed to read the doubt in her face.
"You can't regret everything, that'll just eat you up," he said. "Learn from your mistakes and then don't fuck up the next time." With that sage advice (that she'd heard before, though perhaps not so colorfully put) he left her alone with her guilt and her wounds and her nameless faceless roommate.
She was of no use to anyone stuck in here. There were other people who needed this bed more than she did and doubtless people who needed healing and both of these things she could provide if the power suppressing serum had worn off. It had. She flexed her fingers, watching the red glow of her energy form around her hands. That was something. Next she had to tend to her injuries. She pulled off her bandages and examined them, still raw and splotched with some foul orange ointment. The stitches weren't dissolvable, maybe those had all been used up or they were running low on supplies. A lot of people would be needing stitches these days; even cured, the infected would have bad wounds.
Removing her stitches proved a difficult task when she had nothing to cut them with. She pulled them out slowly from her face first and then moved on to the ones from her neck to her navel, biting back groans and ignoring the tears of pain that sprung up in her eyes. If Wanda had thought she was hurting before, that was nothing to what she felt now. Every tug was a new agony, every stitch that came loose like some twisted kind of penance. When she finished she took a few shuddering breaths, focused, and ran a glowing finger tip down her cheek and then along long cut on her body. They closed up smoothly, just as if they were never there. The stomach wound was harder, went deeper, and took more energy and concentration to heal. By the time she had closed that one there was sweat standing on her forehead and she was gasping for breath. Whether by divine providence or the increased beeps from her heart rate monitor, a nurse appeared to swat at Wanda's hands as she tried to yank out her IVs.
The woman coaxed her to lay back down, sparing a disapproving glance at the heap of bloodied stitches on the bedside table. After a perfunctory examination of the places where the wounds had been, the nurse listened passively to Wanda's pleas to be allowed to go, she was fine now, really. Unmoved, she informed the patient that her body needed time, not magic tricks, to recover. Weak as she was (as weak as a kitten was the exact phrase), the woman was positive that she wouldn't even make it out the door if she tried. Disobeying crossed her mind, but wasn't that what got her into this in the first place? Brooking no more arguments, the formidable nurse left a sullen Scarlet Witch glaring at the ceiling.