Lobby; ["Get me out of here and we'll figure it out together" That's the last thing he remembered really well before the support beside him was gone and he was leaning up against a wall. A worn wall, and that smell...chemicals? He couldn't have gotten back to base so quickly. HYDRA had enough allies they could have slept in perfect comfort and there had been those who'd taken rooms in a local hotel. He had been there, managing men but 33 wouldn't have been stupid enough to take them back there would she?
She's not exactly firing on all cylinders captain. It was a terrible unworthy thought, especially knowing what she'd been through but each step was starting to cause pain that ran from his back to his side and down his legs. Numbness and tingling in the fingers.
He needed medical attention.
Really that was the first thing on his mind, the forefront of it. He'd been shot (he'd process that later.) So he's on his feet and moving from point A to point B walking. Uninhibited with a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead darkness soaking from his side into the rest of his shirt.
His fingers tremble. Zipping up his jacket he breathes deep. Sure. It's a hotel okay. (a hotel?) he closes his eyes and stares at the front desk, standing there under his own power and staring at it like a ghost before he takes a step forward and then another. Pamphlets, information, something has got to be available right there to tell him where the hell he is and what the hell is going on.
Never mind if he's making a mess while doing it, knocking things to the floor and watching them fall.]
stairs;
[Only so far you can go before shock sets in. That's what he knows. He's treated gunshot wounds before. It's not as bad as it could have been really. All four shots could have gone in. No. Instead just two, and one he's pretty sure he was able to dislodge. His precautions hadn't been enough - but they'd helped. He'd expected a degree of violence. He hadn't expected that...
Fine. He could weather that.
He's found a patch of stairs to the upper rooms where he's...sitting, trying to gather himself enough to stand up and crawl to the room he found out he'd been assigned (315. room 315) but it started to hurt to breathe then his chest started to clench then he started to get sick. Slight nausea accompanied by a clenching in his chest.
He'd always gotten sick when he'd gotten anxious. Until Garrett (not John, never John if it wasn't for him, for his agenda he wouldn't be in this mess.) Garrett who had pushed him past it because it was a weakness...
Grant Ward makes a noise, part moan part growl before he leans back. One more minute to rest then he'll be back on his feet. One more minute.
Just one more minute.
Anyone who might happen to stop and investigate gets a very world weary smile (Ward's pale as a ghost and sweating like a pig).]
Lobby; front desk; stairs.
She's not exactly firing on all cylinders captain. It was a terrible unworthy thought, especially knowing what she'd been through but each step was starting to cause pain that ran from his back to his side and down his legs. Numbness and tingling in the fingers.
He needed medical attention.
Really that was the first thing on his mind, the forefront of it. He'd been shot (he'd process that later.) So he's on his feet and moving from point A to point B walking. Uninhibited with a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead darkness soaking from his side into the rest of his shirt.
His fingers tremble. Zipping up his jacket he breathes deep. Sure. It's a hotel okay. (a hotel?) he closes his eyes and stares at the front desk, standing there under his own power and staring at it like a ghost before he takes a step forward and then another. Pamphlets, information, something has got to be available right there to tell him where the hell he is and what the hell is going on.
Never mind if he's making a mess while doing it, knocking things to the floor and watching them fall.]
stairs;
[Only so far you can go before shock sets in. That's what he knows. He's treated gunshot wounds before. It's not as bad as it could have been really. All four shots could have gone in. No. Instead just two, and one he's pretty sure he was able to dislodge. His precautions hadn't been enough - but they'd helped. He'd expected a degree of violence. He hadn't expected that...
Fine. He could weather that.
He's found a patch of stairs to the upper rooms where he's...sitting, trying to gather himself enough to stand up and crawl to the room he found out he'd been assigned (315. room 315) but it started to hurt to breathe then his chest started to clench then he started to get sick. Slight nausea accompanied by a clenching in his chest.
He'd always gotten sick when he'd gotten anxious. Until Garrett (not John, never John if it wasn't for him, for his agenda he wouldn't be in this mess.) Garrett who had pushed him past it because it was a weakness...
Grant Ward makes a noise, part moan part growl before he leans back. One more minute to rest then he'll be back on his feet. One more minute.
Just one more minute.
Anyone who might happen to stop and investigate gets a very world weary smile (Ward's pale as a ghost and sweating like a pig).]
Thanks, I'm fine. Just - something I ate.