Chapter Text
“Oh my god.”
Danny’s voice is shocked and hollow.
“Oh my god.”
The second time, at least, there’s a hint of relief, as Danny, and Steve, process the scene. Overtop of Danny’s exclamation comes the sound of two guns hitting the floor. Azra’s gun, which never fired.
Jerry’s gun, which did.
Then there’s shushing and footsteps as Danny whisks Khalid from the room; Steve’s already at Azra’s side, clasping his hands around the wound on her ruined leg. She’s screaming. Below the sound of this, Steve can hear Jerry vomiting, and Lou calling for a bus.
Then Azra stops screaming. Shock, if she’s lucky, although Steve can’t rule out the possibility that she’s actually dying. It’s clear the bullet hit her artery. Blood pools on the floor around them, its movement familiar and not quite like water.
Lou brings the first aid kit and pulls out the tourniquet. Together they keep the woman alive until the paramedics come.
A few minutes later, Steve’s on his office couch. Trying repeatedly to take Jerry’s pulse, because Jerry’s shaking so badly that Steve keeps losing track.
He already knows it’s too fast. He’s trying to figure out if it’s calm-words-and-breathing-exercises fast, or call-another-ambulance fast.
It’s probably, honestly, the second one.
But Steve knows how he himself would feel, if somebody took him to the hospital just to sedate him; he’d feel even worse, after the fact, so he tries to avoid it. Instead he just stays at Jerry’s side. Keeps a hand on his back, keeps the trashcan steady in his lap whenever a wave of sickness hits him. Not that there’s much left to bring up. Most of whatever was in Jerry’s stomach is on the other side of the door, in a puddle a few feet away from the blood.
Steve gives up on the pulse. Times Jerry’s breathing instead, alarmed when he counts almost fifty breaths in a minute.
They can’t stay here. This isn’t helping anyone.
“Jerry,” Steve says, quietly. Jerry startles, but the movement of his head, to meet Steve’s eyes, is slow.
“I’m taking you home.”
Jerry tries to speak, but nothing comes. He clears his throat a few times and tries again. “Don’ I have to—‘slike, paperwork, ‘r s’mthin’?”
“Not tonight. Do you think you can stand up?”
Jerry nods.
For a moment he’s so unsteady that Steve revisits the ambulance idea. Jerry sways on his feet; lists against Steve’s side, heavy as a tree whose trunk has splintered. But with Steve’s help he stays upright. And they do make it out to the truck—though it takes a while, and by the time they get there all Jerry can do is curl up in the seat and shiver.
Steve drives; prays that Jerry will fall asleep. If he does, the plan is to keep going: head for the highway, and loop the island until Jerry wakes. Even if that’s not until morning. He’s got a full tank.
But Jerry doesn’t fall asleep. He just sits, hugging himself, breathing marginally slower now but still trembling head to toe.
Soon they reach Jerry’s apartment. Jerry gets to the door by himself, but then drops his keys twice trying to unlock it. He scowls blearily as Steve does it for him.
Inside, he stands and stares at his living room like maybe he’s never seen it before. Steve stays close, but doesn’t touch him. “You should lie down,” he advises, after a minute passes in silence.
Jerry sighs, and seems to shake himself. “No, I. I need a shower.”
“Okay. Go ahead. I’ll be out here.”
“’cause you think I’m gonna fall?” Jerry grumbles.
Quite possibly, Steve thinks; but aloud he says, “because I think you’re going to need someone to talk to tonight.”
Jerry says nothing, just lumbers from the room.
He’s in there for the better part of an hour. At first Steve takes his shoes off and lies down on the couch; but that opens the window too wide for his own thoughts, so he tidies up in the kitchen instead. Empties Jerry’s dishwasher, then loads the few glasses he finds in the sink. Then cleans the sink. Which leads to wiping down the counters, which leads to scrubbing beneath the grates on the stove, clearing away splatters of dried sauce and pieces of desiccated rice.
On two separate occasions he hears a bout of retching over the rush of water.
He’s just finished swiffering when Jerry shuffles in and sinks down at the table. He’s damp-haired, in sweats and a t-shirt; his eyes are bloodshot and a little spaced out, but at least he’s not shaking anymore.
Steve gets him some water. Then he settles in the chair beside him.
When the glass is mostly empty, Jerry sighs. “You didn’t have to stay, commander,” he grunts, not looking up.
Steve hesitates on the next words for a moment, licking his lips and taking a slow, deep breath before finally just saying them anyway. “I gotta be honest, Jer, I’m pretty worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. And that’s totally understandable.”
“Then why are you worried?”
“Did you really just ask me that?” Steve smiles at the slight petulance, hoping it will earn him a smile back. It doesn’t. “Because you’re my friend. And you’re a member of my team. So I’m allowed to worry about you whenever I want to.”
Jerry doesn’t respond. Instead he picks his water glass up again, scowls at it, and puts it back down. Then he hides his face in his hands.
“Jerry,” Steve tries again, quieter now. “You’ve gotta realize that I’ve been where you are, man. Whatever you feel like saying, I’ll listen. And I’ll probably understand.”
He moves his hands away, but doesn’t raise his head. Encouraged, Steve leans closer. “Whatever you’re thinking, man, we can talk about it. I’m serious. You don’t have to worry about how it’s gonna sound to me. Let me help.”
Finally, painfully, Jerry sits back. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again.
“She’s gonna die.”
His voice cracks. He nods, and can’t seem to stop for a moment. “I’m gonna—I’m going to have killed her. Any minute now, I’m going to be—someone—who has killed someone.”
Out of nowhere, Steve remembers tracking down depleted uranium at the old naval base with Catherine. Desperate to come, Jerry had made up a story about hunting there as a kid. When he’d been found out, he’d been mostly sheepish—but Steve had the vague impression that he was a little offended they’d believed the part about hunting.
“She was at the hospital within ten minutes,” Steve reminds him, firmly. “I know it looked ugly, but her odds are actually really good.”
“No. I thought—” he cuts himself off with a hiccup, then presses on. “I thought I would just disarm her, y’know? Knock her down. I knew it’d hurt. But I didn’t think—”
“It’s hard to process,” Steve offers, when Jerry’s voice trails away. “To look at someone wounded like that, and know you did it.”
“I should’ve aimed lower,” Jerry mewls, hugging his arms around his belly. “But I—I’m not the best shot, I didn’t think—I didn’t think if I aimed for her lower leg—that I would’ve gotten it— still I didn’t think anywhere in her leg would—would be that fucking bad—”
“GSWs are incredibly unpredictable,” Steve says, and wonders if he got that sentence directly from a manual at some point. But he knows the truth of it from experience. He’s seen people survive bullets to the head, and he’s seen people die from bullets to a limb.
He doesn’t say the rest of this aloud.
“Jerry, listen to me. You saved my life. You know that, right?”
“There was just, like, more blood— than I would have exp-pected— oh fuck—“
He goes for the sink; he doesn’t make it. Watery puke splashes onto the just-swiffered floor, and for a moment Steve honestly thinks that Jerry’s going to cry.
He doesn’t. He just stands for a second, staring at the mess; then he lunges over the sink and throws up again.
Steve counts to ten before going to his side. Once there, he runs the water and lets it wash the mess away, then wets a paper towel and holds it out to Jerry.
Jerry doesn’t take it. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled, and rocking a little, probably to the time of his pounding heart.
Steve shuts the water off, puts the towel down. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. “Can I put my hand on your back?”
Jerry nods, tightly. So Steve does, pressing between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay to be freaked out, man. But listen, even if you don’t try to, you’re gonna level out soon. So just hang in there.”
“I,” Jerry croaks, then has to pause. “I can’t stop thinking about—about her.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
“About Susie.” Jerry shudders as he pulls a breath, laboriously, like the air has to filter through cracks between stones.
For a moment, Steve can't breathe, either. He still remembers Jerry in the minutes after Susie's death, hands bloodied, muttering to himself; still remembers seeing the pictures of Jerry holding Susie's body, screaming. “This wasn't anything like that."
“I know. I’m not comparing them. I know what I did was different.” He hasn’t released the edge of the counter, and as he speaks, he gazes into the sink. Steve looks too. Stares at the little drops of water that got left behind, when the rest of them went down the drain.
“The thing is,” Jerry continues, after a little while, “I know what it’s like. To watch somebody die from a gunshot. So, to have caused that—”
“She’s not dead.”
“But to—to be on the other side of that. Even though it’s different, I know. I can’t—I can’t take it. I did to somebody else what I watched happen to Susie. You know it’s been—it’s been like two and a half years. And I still dream about it. I know what that looks like. I know—how much blood there is—I know what the bullet hole— looks— looks like—”
Another shudder, another splatter of vomit. This time around, Jerry does cry; tears and spit drip into the sink, and a quiet keening fills the kitchen. Steve rubs Jerry’s shoulders, making contact with both hands now.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, because the time for coherent comfort seems over. Now comes the time for nonsensical reassurances. “You’re okay, hey—”
“Stop.”
Steve stops.
Jerry wards him back with one trembling hand.
“Please leave.”
“Jer—”
“I don’t want you to see me like this, commander. I’m serious. I’m serious,” he says again, when Steve doesn’t react.
For a moment he still doesn’t. Instead he looks Jerry over; sees that his nose is running, badly, and his hair is frizzing as it dries. His belly is hitching a little. But with sobs or fresh heaves, it’s hard to tell. “I’ve seen worse than this, brother,” Steve says, holding his hands up, pacifying. “You don’t have to be embarrassed—”
“Steve,” Jerry growls. “Get. Out.”
“Okay,” Steve breathes, though it maybe breaks his heart, a little. “But listen. Call me, and I’ll come. Midnight, three in the morning, I don’t care. Understood?”
Jerry doesn’t answer.
And Steve walks away, hoping that it’s the right decision to make.