In the Hands of One Like

When the search for one thing may have led Steve to something else entirely.

Great use they have, when in the hands

Of one like me, who understands,

-Charles Churchill, "The Ghost", 1762, Book IV, lines 1379-1380

The next time Steve wakes he discovers that Sam is gone and Maria is sitting in his place. "I sent him home," she says before Steve can do more than blink at her. "He was beginning to smell," she adds in a whisper, her tone part conspiracy and part joking.

"How long?" Steve begins, but his voice is rough and his throat scratchy and he has to break off to cough. Grimacing, he wraps his arm around his ribs; even with the serum it'll be a few days before he'll be healed up enough for that not to hurt.

"It's been seventeen hours since they found you on the shore. Twenty one since we took down Project Insight."

"Casualties?" he rasps.

Maria looks away and that's when Steve knows that it was bad, really bad, and that she wishes he hadn't asked. She turns to grab a cup from the table beside his hospital bed, probably trying to hide her reaction, but it doesn't work because as she fills it he can see the tension in her frame and her slight frown. "Rescue efforts are still ongoing," she says as she offers the water to him. His hands shake as he leans forward and reaches for it though so she doesn't let go, instead holding it steady while he takes a long sip.