“Motherf—” Jaw locking, you seize the flaring shin.
Hop.
Grunt.
“I’m detecting a spike in your vitals.”
“Top—” Hop. “Marks, F-R-I-D-A-Y.”
Brow sticky, you swipe an arm across it.
“You’re still recovering. Should I alert Captain Rogers or Sergeant Barnes?”
Lip curling. “Oh, what a wonderful idea—”
“Proceeding now.”
“No, F-R-I-D-A-Y—” Chest rumbling, a growl bursts out.
Two.
On—
Oak trembles.
Metal whirs.
An arm.
A shield.
Jabbing at the bed. “Assailant’s there, if ya fancy a pop at ‘em.”
Metal slackens. “C’mon you. Back on the sofa.”
“My book—”
“On it.” Steve’s quick footfalls.
Thud.
“Ow. Motherf—”
“Language, Cap.”