THIS PROBABLY WON’T EVER HAPPEN, PROBABLY.
“I won’t patronize you,” Bruce says, handing the charts over. The circles under his eyes are deeply discolored, and you briefly wonder how long its been since he slept.
You accept the tablet, taking a step back as Rogers crowds you, his anxiety fueling your own. The words that scroll down the screen are clinical, facts and figures, stats, measurements, and medical jargon.
But it all adds up to one inescapable truth. Something inside of you breaks, and you know there’ll be no putting it back together.
“What’s it say?” he asks, crossing and then uncrossing his arms, restless and damn-near dangerous, frantic.
“He’s in a persistent vegetative state,” you answer, voice flat and foreign-sounding to your own ears.
“Like a coma?”
“No, Steve, not a like a coma.” You hand the tablet back to Banner, nodding your thanks before heading for the door.
“What’s the difference?” Rogers asks, his voice breaking, breath catching in his throat. He’s got his hands on his hips, but he’s half-doubled over, and some voice in your head says: Panic attack. Heart palpitations, dizziness, shortness of breath. Feelings of unreality.
You hate to be the one, truly, but he asked and Barnes is his friend, Rogers is your friend.
So you tell him.
“Sometimes, people in comas wake up.”