Your Local Witch

“That’s one word, Steph. And come on, superheroes aren’t that interesting. They probably do their own stitches and skip their regular check-ups.”

“Is she still bothering you about the Avengers job?” asks the bartender, Chet, as he hands Steph a towel full of ice from behind the bar.

“Yes,” you groan as Steph mumbles a thank you and plops the iced towel on her head, still lying on the bar. “And it’s not an Avengers job. It’s just a job at the Tower. I probably wouldn’t even see them. I bet I’d be giving SI employees their immunizations and checking for fevers in the on-site daycare.”

“Or working with Bruce Banner?”

“There’s no guarantee of that!”

“Oh yeah? Is there a security clearance involved?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Working with Bruce Banner,” says Chet sagely. “And you know, wiping snotty noses in the daycare and chasing down superheroes for their yearly check-ups.”

“I like the ER,” you insist.

“We know you do,” says Chet. “But we like seeing you, and this is the first time you’ve been out since you got the job two years ago.”

“I miss you,” moans Steph to the bar. Well, in the direction of the bar, but presumably to you. “You’re my best friend and the only way I see you is by breaking my ankle.”

“Oh my God, Steph, tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Just apply,” says Chet. “If nothing else, it’ll give you bargaining power when your contract comes up again.”

“It does have better hours. And dental.”

“Dental,” sighs Steph longingly.

*

“I got the job!”

“What?” Steph yells back. Clearly, hunting down Steph while she’s on the dance floor was a bad idea.

“I. GOT. THE. JOB!!!”

“Oh my God!” shrieks Steph, encasing you in a huge hug. “My best friend’s gonna be an Avenger!”

You burst into laughter, glad no one else can hear you over the music. “Not an Avenger, Steph. Just a nurse working in the medical bay in the Tower. I probably won’t even see them.”

Steph holds your shoulders firmly. “You are not allowed to replace me with Black Widow.”

“As if!”

Chet gives you a free drink, as do a few others nearby who overheard the part about “new job.” Only one of them actually asks where the job is.

“Stark Industries,” you say, because it’s basically true. “Probably not as exciting as the ER was, but the hours are way better and so’s the pay and benefits.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” says the man, lifting his glass in a toast. He’s got a really pleasant accent, wire-rimmed glasses, the scar on the side of his face barely noticeable in the dim light. You’d like to keep talking to him, but Steph distracts you for a moment, and when you turn back around, he’s gone.

*

Okay, so you hadn’t really lied to Steph. You don’t see the Avengers very often, but that’s only because you don’t work nights and they only ever show up in the med bay when it’s dark outside. Or seem to, anyway.

But you’ve met just about all of them for one reason or another, and so far, every encounter has shown them to be pleasant and friendly as can be.

Until one afternoon, about six months after you started working, when you overhear two very loud, very shouty voices, in the hall outside the nurse’s station.

“I DO NOT NEED STITCHES.”

“You’re worse than Clint! Get in there!”

“Come on, Stevie, they’re gonna heal up on their own in ten minutes.”

“Not if you don’t get the broken glass out first.”

Broken glass? You immediately reach for the kit with the tweezers and a pair of nitrile gloves.

“So you do it.”

“I can’t do it, I have to go brief Hill.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Yeah. For the nurse.”

“Stevie,” groans the guy. “Is this what it all comes to? Saving me from the clutches of Hydra only to make me relive my worst nightmares? You’ve seen the nurses here, Stevie, they all look like my Uncle Maurice.”

“Not true, Buck.”

“They’re cold, heartless bitches, Stevie, the lot of them.”

“Hello,” you say cheerfully, entering the room where Captain America straddles a second man, face-down on the floor and long past fighting. “I’m the attending cold heartless bitch who looks like your Uncle Maurice, I hear you’ve got some glass embedded somewhere?”

“A plate glass window attacked him,” Captain America tells you. “It was brutal.”

“You should’ve seen the window,” grumbles the man to the floor.

“I’ll be sure to send a sympathy card,” you say, setting up your tools on the tray table. “I can do this on the floor, but it’d probably be more sanitary up here.”

“Right,” says Captain America, and he gets off the floor.

The man immediately makes a break for it.

“Nope,” you say, and grab one of the conveniently-placed straps on his leather coat. He spins and stares at you in shock.

He’s cute, you think, or would be if it weren’t for the gaping wound in his forehead. It sparkles, though that’s probably the glass catching in the light.

“So that’s what the straps are for,” says Captain America, impressed, right before he grabs the guy by the ear and hauls him up on the examining table.

“OW.” The man glares at Captain America, who doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. Even though that glare’s probably the scariest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Hold still,” you tell the glare, and start removing the glass from his forehead.

It’s a nasty wound, too. You work as fast as you can, fully aware of how the man you’re treating is—despite all outward appearances—scared to death.

Not that he’d admit it, or even realize you know it. But you worked in an ER for a while. You’ve seen everything, from spaced-out junkies to suicidal octogenarians to homeless vets.

You know which this guy is most like. The way he’s not shaking or trembling, the way he’s so tense and unable to breathe. Not just not breathing, but actually, physically, unable to take a breath because he’s working so hard to keep from screaming.

“The only way out is through,” you murmur as you pull another shard of glass from his forehead.

“Hmm?” asks Captain America, but the guy watches you: wary, assessing every move, even as you telegraph them as plainly as you can.

Calm, almost, despite the now-shallow breaths.

“Nothing,” you say. “One more piece.”

You pull it out, cleaning the area again. “Now, unless I miss my guess, you’re both thinking he’s going to self-heal fairly quickly?”

“By suppertime, probably.”

You nod. “I’d still recommend a steri-stitch or two. Just to keep it clean until the healing’s done. You don’t have to return to remove them, either.”

“Perfect,” says Captain America gratefully, and after a few more minutes, they’re both gone.

But the next morning, when you come in, there’s a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter with your name on it, and a note written in perfect copperplate handwriting.

I’m sorry I said you looked like Uncle Maurice. You’re much prettier. –JBB

The smile on your face is so big, it stays the rest of the day.

Chapter One ->