Alice Dempsey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wasamazing) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2016-12-08 12:37 am
wasamazing) wrote in bakerstreet2016-12-08 12:37 am
injured/hurt meme
THE INJURED/HURT MEME
This meme contains triggers of violence/possible sexual assault, proceed with caution.
- Post your character, name/series/preferences in the subject.
- Others go to random.org and roll numbers 1-8 to choose a scene!
- Play it out!
1. Stabbed. You were stabbed, maybe multiple times.
2. Shot. You were shot either once or multiple times.
3. Broken bone(s). You're suffering broken bones.
4. Head injury. Enjoy that concussion...
5. Beaten. You were beaten to a bloody pulp.
6. Used. You were used for some kind of physical labor to the point you can't move anymore... or maybe it was more base than just 'labor'.
7. Abuse. Your injuries stem from a long period of abuse and torture.
8. Other. Is there something else? Want to combine something? Do so here!
Taken from
i am sorry for this novel
… The bar blows up. Predictably.
To be fair to the ragtag bunch of misfits, the bar blowing up is only partially their fault, but it kicks them off into some crazy shit, like a suicide mission to save a planet that would’ve much preferred to see them behind bars, like facing down a psychopath high on the power of some ancient gemstone, like holding fucking hands in some weird game of Red Rover to finally save the day.
Like finding themselves saddled with the title of heroes and having no idea what the fuck to do with that.
But, hey, Peter’s good at improvising. So he grins, he signs the occasional autograph, and he rolls with it as best as he can. The team – they can’t be anything but a team at that point, forged by the fires of an Infinity Stone as they are – moves on, takes on work, but their assignments stray more toward the legitimate. The good.
Mostly.
Peter’s good at working in grey areas, too.
Today finds Peter and Gamora collecting their payment in a dingy night club for their most recent job – a simple job, delivering medical supplies to a buyer; said supplies had fallen off the back of a freighter and constituted a large chunk of the original shipment. And they hadn’t “fallen” so much as they were “forcibly taken,” but that’s just splitting hairs. And Peter has the sneaking suspicion that those medical supplies weren’t going to be used as the manufacturers directed – but that’s not really the Guardians’ problem, right?
The three of them sit at a table in the center of the club – some dingy place, dark but surprisingly tame, with the low drone of conversation in the background rather than the deafening, rhythmic bass of music, as some other places typically featured. The units stays on the opposite side of the table, and as the man who hired them drags out the small talk, Peter suddenly sees this for what it is. The guy is buying himself time. Stalling. And Peter’s gaze flicks to Gamora in silent warning. Still, as suspicious as this all is, Peter hardly knows what the guy is stalling for.
… up until Peter sees a curious little speck of light dancing on his own chest. Peter’s shoulders sag, and he has time enough to murmur “Oh, god dammit—” before the crack of a rifle shatters the relative quiet.
Peter’s good at a lot of things.
What Peter is not good at, however, is dodging bullets.
Good thing he’s got a the galaxy’s best assassin on his side, though, right?
Because one second, he’s sitting, tense in his seat. The next, he’s knocked flat on his back, stars flitting in his vision after his head slammed onto the sticky floor. The thick, heavy table lies on its side, upturned to provide a dubious sort of cover. Startled screams surround them, glass shattering as bottles and cups fall, and the thunderous crack of another shot being fired rings out above it all.
It’s fucking chaos.
Something warm spreads across his shirt, the material sticking to his chest, and he grimaces, waiting for the wave of agony to hit. But it— doesn’t. He’s dazed, sure, and his head sort of aches from meeting the ground as he had, but he doesn’t feel any pain.
Peter blinks up at the dark ceiling, then looks down at himself. Sees Gamora atop him, sees blood that most certainly isn’t his, and finally puts two and two together. ]
Shit. [ He tries to maneuver himself out from under her, flinching as another bullet slams into the top edge of the table, showering them in debris. ] Shit. Fuck. Gamora—?!
what have i done to deserve this beauty
well, that's progress, at least?
she falls into the rhythm of working with quill and the rest of the team, and as much as they can occasionally get on each others' nerves, there's a balance to it, a comfort and closeness that she hadn't known since she was a small child, since before thanos. she'd called nebula sister, but that bond had deteriorated into resentment, had left gamora with another empty place in her heart, but here? now? she's found something she'd almost go so far as to call family (not that she'll be owning up to that anytime soon), and she'll follow them all the ends of the universe.
of course, that usually means mismatched jobs and whatever else they can do to scrape a living. some of it is something bordering on noble, lending aid where they're needed, but gamora has to give it to quill: he can find the less seemly opportunities just as easily.
she's not there to question where the supplies came from or what will be done with them, and instead, she's quiet at the table with quill, watching as he negotiates and chatters with their "employer." she isn't much for needless small talk (she'll always leave that to quill, when given the chance), but she picks up on the oddness of the exchange just about when the terran does. her eyes meet his, and there's a tension in her posture, a preparedness that's come from years of honing her instincts and skills, and something feels off—
—and then she sees the light on peter's chest.
she's in motion before she bothers to look for the source of the shot, far more preoccupied with knocking peter out of his chair and the line of fire (because why is this damned terran so slow?), and as she barrels into him, she only has time to realize that she's put her own body exactly where it shouldn't be.
pain lances up her side as she crashes to the floor with quill, and she catches herself on her hands, keeps from toppling entirely onto the man beneath her, but the agony of the bullet radiates out from her ribs. she registers quill trying to wriggle out from under her, and she forcefully shoves a hand onto his shoulder, not wanting to see him accidentally expose himself for another shot. ]
Stay. Down.
[ the words are bitten out through her teeth, followed by a few choice curses. the pain isn't as debilitating as it could be for another being, and she sits up, leans her back against the table that's provided them some measure of cover. ]
Why do you— have such a talent for getting us into these situations?
[ she forces her breathing to even out as she presses her hand over the wound in her side, unable to completely fight down the hiss of pain as she puts pressure on the bleeding hole. while the damage may have been far more destructive for someone else, she knows it will regenerate, that she'll be fine, but for now, it hurts like hell. fortunately, years of training (
torture) have taught her to ignore the pain, to fight through it, which is why she reaches for the godslayer at her hip, curling her fingers around the hilt of the sword. ]no subject
Luckily, Gamora's voice cuts through his daze, and he looks up at her. Blinking as the words settle, his expression twists into something affronted. ]
Wait, what? How is this my fault?
[ Though his outrage fizzles out immediately at that hiss. His gaze stays fixed on where her hand presses against her side, where he sees blood seeping out from between her fingers, and icy dread plummets in his gut. Quick on the heels of that, though, is confusion, as she moves to draw her sword. ]
Whoa, whoa, whoa— [ He holds up both hands as though to stop her, though he doubts he'd be much of an obstacle to her if she really cared, even wounded as she is. ] What the hell are you doing?
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Is that an actual question?
[ because she thinks it's pretty obvious what she's doing. she's going to get up and fight, because that's what she does; she's a warrior, and since when is an injury going to keep her down?
of course, it's taking a great deal of effort to ignore the radiating throb in her side, and even more so to maintain steady breathing. every inhale is like an extra little dagger, and she has to grit her teeth as she presses more firmly against the wound to slow the bleeding. ]
I've been shot, and I intend to separate the head of the person responsible from their shoulders.
[ duh. ]
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[ Because what the Christ?
He can see the way her jaw clenches, sees the effort it takes her to keep herself controlled, and panic threatens to steal his breath away again.
Another bullet chips away at the table; sturdy as the table's top is, it was never intended to guard against high caliber bullets. Still, it's doing an admirable job, all things considered, even as each shot chips away at more of the material.
The shower of debris has the unintended effect of letting Peter regain his focus, and his frown deepens as he tracks the steady flow of blood at her side. He yanks off the scarf hanging from his neck, moving forward to help wrap it around her as a makeshift bandage. ]
How bad is it?
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refocusing on quill, she opens her mouth to respond, but a bullet finally rips its way through the surface of the table just above their heads, and her hand flies back to the hilt of her sword. ]
I have had much worse.
[ the bullet hit something, that's for sure, but gamora is stubborn, insistent. she's fought through broken bones and worse than a bullet wound, but it still feels like it's torn through some part of her that's going to take her regenerative implant longer than usual to repair. ]
Now would you stop hovering over me and do something about that gun? That is the priority.
[ her tone is clipped as usual, but not quite as firm as she draws the godslayer. she pushes away from the table (not enough to actually expose herself), but she's trying to get her feet underneath her, ready to spring—
—but that makes her side scream in protest, and instead of being able to leap out from behind cover, she has to catch herself on her bloodied hand.
damn it. ]
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Of fucking course she’s not okay, Quill. She just got fucking shot. All because he was too slow.
Guilt twists in his stomach for a second, dances alongside the worry already churning there, and he backs off enough to give her some space. Gamora’s clearly gearing up for a battle, and as short as their friendship has been, Peter knows better than to get in her way when she’s got that particular sort of fire in her eyes. He follows her lead, pulling a blaster from one of the holsters on his thigh, waits for her to dart out to provide cover fire—
Except that doesn’t happen, and he hisses out a curse as she wavers. For a second, that uncertainty rears its ugly head, makes him freeze in place. ]
Hey, hey, take it easy—
[ Another bullet, taking off a chunk of the table, and Peter grunts in frustration, shouting, ]
Jesus Christ. Give us five seconds would you?!
[ After that, he turns to Gamora, his free hand on her shoulder. His expression hardens, grim and determined. ]
Stay down. I can handle this.
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she wants to fight (and knows she can if she absolutely has to), but for the moment, they need speed; they need to take the gun down before they can do anything else.
she meets quill's gaze, and she finds she appreciates his determination a whole lot more than that poorly-placed concern or guilt. a short nod, and though she still looks inclined to try going after their shooter, she knows quill is capable enough to do this. ]
Don't get shot.
[ but she's not arguing with him, and that should say a lot about how much that bullet wound hurts. ]
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Part of their charm, Peter supposes.
But Gamora doesn't argue, which is fucking worrying, but for now, Peter just feels relieved. They don't have time for Peter to talk her down – not with their cover slowly being whittled away by each high caliber bullet. He puts on one of his little impish smiles, though it's clearly forced. ]
Your concern for me is really touching, sometimes.
[ Peter takes the inch she's given him and goes the whole mile, hitting the trigger behind his ear to deploy his mask. Blue light flickers around his face, solidifying into metal, and he takes up both of his blasters. He presses his back against the table, both guns raised as he takes a few fortifying breaths. ]
Wish me luck.
[ Though he doesn't wait for it, instead darting out from behind their cover, firing up into the dark balcony overlooking the ground floor – some area meant for VIPs, and the most likely hiding place of their shooter. Another laser point flickers on his chest, but only for a second – Peter keeps himself moving, dancing to a silent rhythm, and the bullet takes out the table that had been standing behind him.
There are a few folks still cowering beneath tables or behind the bar, frozen with terror, and Peter tries to avoid getting the civilians in the shooter's sights, leaping and rolling into cover as he draws closer to the balcony. And— there, he sees it, the lens of the rifle's sights catching the low light of the club, giving away the shooter's position. Peter waits for another shot to ring out before he takes his chances and runs toward the balcony. He jumps up onto the seat of a chair, onto a table, and leaps, the heels of his palms hitting both triggers for the rockets on his boots to help him close the distance.
He clears the railing and lands beside a man in all black, with lime green skin and the fucking best look of surprise on his face when Peter's feet hit the ground. ]
Hi.
[ There's a misplaced, chipper quality to Peter's greeting. The sniper struggles to bring the gun around, but the rifle is large and unwieldy in the tight space between them. He manages to fire off one last shot, the bullet taking out a chunk of the ceiling, but Peter fires off a shot, too, electricity arching over the sniper's body as he falls to the floor, motionless. In an effort to check that he's well and truly down (but mostly out of spite), Peter kicks him in the head with predictable results.
After that, he scoops up the rifle as he moves to the railing, gaze honing in on the floor below, to the upturned, bullet-ridden table. He shouts down into the still club, ]
Got 'im.
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—the distinct whirrrr of quill's blaster, and then complete stillness.
she didn't realize she was holding her breath until peter's voice carries through the quiet, and she finally exhales, finally leans back against the table with relief. she reaches up, waves her bloody hand over the edge of the table in acknowledgement, then starts to go about getting to her feet.
it takes effort, but with nothing short of titan-like determination, gamora shoves herself onto slightly unsteady feet. her eyes flicker up to peter on the balcony for a moment, but her hand is still holding her sword at her side, prepared as always, because she knows well enough not to expect complete safety, knows not to let her guard down entirely. even though the sniper has been taken out, gamora doesn't trust that the every threat has been eliminated (but, then again, that's just consistently true in any situation).
"relaxing" isn't really a practiced pastime for the assassin. ]
Is that all?
[ just the one, is what she means.
there's still a flash of relief that the shooting has stopped, and at this point, she's mostly eager to leave (with the units, preferably) so she can actually see to the bullet in her side. she doesn't imagine pulling it out will be much fun, but she also doesn't want her implant trying to regenerate around it either —or, in an equally delightful possibility, the bullet may just be shoved right back out when her body repairs itself.
in any case, staying put isn't ideal, even if she really wants to know who the hell thought they could get away with staging an (arguably clumsy) assassination attempt.
(gamora's mostly judging them because if they were worth anything, she and quill would be dead — so obviously the would-be assassins don't have much merit.) ]
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Bullets fall to the ground floor as Peter unloads the sniper rifle, nudging the small ammo box through the space between the balusters. The metal makes a pleasant, tinkling noise as it lands. ]
No one else up here.
[ He tosses the rifle away, and it clatters behind some tables and chairs. He wastes a second to peer at the unconscious man at his feet, wonders if maybe they should question him and see why the hell their "boss" wanted them dead. But then again, Peter supposes the two of them were kind of a big deal, what with the whole infamous heroes thing, and he's been on the wrong end of deals going sour more than enough times to know that sometimes? People were just fucking dicks.
So in another fit of spit, he shoots the guy with another blast of electricity, before leaping back over the railing. The jets on his boots aren't strong enough to delay his fall, but living the Ravager lifestyle meant Peter knew the best ways to do reckless shit without suffering a handful of broken bones afterward. He lands, shoulder rolls to lessen the impact, and brushes himself off as he gets back to his feet. ]
Did that prick leave any of the units? [ He asks it with a touch of doubt in his voice as he approaches. The guy was probably waiting for the sniper to get into place, and Peter wouldn't be surprised if he pocketed everything just before the chaos erupted. Still, maybe knocking the table over had surprised the guy, and maybe the units had clattered to the floor before the asshole fucked off. ]
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...which is probably why it's a good idea quill is taking care of the asshole instead.
when quill bounces back onto his feet after a fairly impressive landing, gamora just shakes her head in response. ]
Nothing that I've seen.
[ because of course he'd bolted with the money in hand.
just their luck. ]
We should go. The more we wait, the longer they have to retaliate.
[ and the sooner they get back to the milano, the sooner she can tend to the searing ache in her side. it still hurts when she breathes, but not quite as much as before, so at least some of the damage seems to be repairing itself. ]
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[ Eloquence, thy name is Peter Quill.
From this close, he can see the blood soaking into the scarf they had tied around Gamora's side, coating her fingers, and he grimaces behind his mask.
There's an unmistakable note of concern as he comes closer, unconsciously reaching out a hand as if to help steady her. ]
Are you sure you should be moving around like this?
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And how else would you suggest I leave if I'm not walking out?
[ she's not in any rush to accept help out of the club, and she's clearly determined to leave by her own power. however, she does slide her sword back into place at her hip, less immediately ready to lash out without the threat of other attackers. ]
I am perfectly fine.
[ well, as "perfectly fine" as she can be with a bullet in her side, but that's beside the point.
she tightens the scarf a bit more around herself, actually managing to keep the wince off of her face this time, before she takes a controlled, careful step forward.
...it takes all of her willpower to keep her knees from buckling. ]
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Gamora, you got shot. That is not what I'd call "fine."
[ He takes a step toward her as she moves forward, reaching out to take hold of her wrist. ]
Just let me help, would you?
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in an attempt to prove her point, she moves to keep walking. ]
I do not need he—
[ and mid-step, something pulls in her side, something trying to heal and definitely not ready to be irritated, and on instinct, her fingers latch onto peter's arm to keep herself upright.
she's momentarily silent, not wanting to wait for an "i told you so" or more of quill's concern, before she speaks again. ]
...let's just get back to the ship.
[ which is the closest she's going to get to agreeing to let him help. ]
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[ Is about all he can manage as she stumbles, as he moves into her to help steady her. And maybe if it were anyone else – Rocket or Drax or literally any other asshole – Peter would be gloating, would be grinning that infuriating grin of his and crowing at being so damn right.
But, nope, it's Gamora standing here, bleeding, in pain, because she was protecting his dumb ass. His lips part to ask that stupid question again: Are you alright?
No, you fucking dillweed, she's clearly not.
It's a damn good thing she interrupts him, because he moves after that, ducking down a little to hook her arm on her good side around his neck. He loops his arm around her waist, mindful of her wound. ]
Yeah. Just— hang on.
[ And he hurries off after that, finding his way through a back door just as he hears the front doors burst in, accompanied by shouts. Authorities, maybe, belatedly attempting to make sense of the chaos. Or maybe the sniper's backup, looking to finish the job.
Either way, Peter doesn't dally to find out, hurrying them back toward the docks.
He ushers them back onto the Milano; the others are gone, running errands to resupply the ship before takeoff, which means the ship is blessedly quiet as Peter directs them to the little space they've auspiciously named the medbay – little more than a little corner with a chair and a couple of cabinets filled with medical supplies. ]
What do you need? [ Still that edge of worry in his voice as he carefully helps her into the seat. ]
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fortunately for him, she isn't blaming him for the injury. she's more disappointed in herself for not being faster than she is annoyed that she had to save him, because, well, better she take the bullet when she can regenerate.
...but she usually does that a lot quicker than this.
she forces her breathing to come on a long exhale as quill eases her into the seat in their little makeshift medbay, and she finds herself momentarily grateful that their companions are nowhere to be found right now. less noise, less concern or obnoxious comments to handle with when she really just wants to focus on dealing with the problem in question, rather than the other guardians.
carefully, she unties the scarf, pulling it back to take a look at the still-oozing wound. the blood is everywhere, and it wouldn't be the worst idea to clean it off first, but— ]
I need to remove the bullet.
[ because of course she couldn't be lucky enough for the damn thing to be a through-and-through, and she realizes that's likely what's causing the slowed healing. the foreign object doesn't play well with her implant, and the regeneration is trying to account for something that shouldn't be there.
she feels carefully along her side, pressing in slightly near the site with a small grimace. ]
The wound will heal much faster and more effectively if it's no longer inside my body.
[ d e l i g h t f u l. ]
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"I need to remove the bullet," like that's not going to hurt like fuck.
But that's kind of her thing, Peter guesses, the whole stoic badass thing. He moves to the cabinets, fishing out supplies – bandages, antiseptics, a pair of tweezers, a scalpel. Everything gets deposited onto the counter beside the chair, within easy reach of Gamora, and Peter hovers. ]
What do you need me to do?
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Sanitize the tools.
[ no "please," just a brusque direction, and once she's found some gauze, she shrugs off her jacket, letting it fall behind her on the chair. it was new, too, which is annoying enough on its own now that it's covered in blood, though her shirt has taken the brunt of the damage with a hole ripped clean through the leather. she sits up straighter (which, she discovers, is just about as much fun as the rest of this), and starts to push the material up so she can properly visualize the slowly bleeding wound. at least it's not gushing blood, but she realizes that probably means she'll need to use that scalpel to reopen part of the site so she can retrieve the bullet.
she picks up the gauze again, using some of the antiseptic to clean away the damp and drying blood, for all the good it'll do her right now. it stings like hell, but she keeps a mostly straight face, other than the small wrinkle in her brow. ]
You may also wish to step out, so you don't have to watch.
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For a second, he sort of agrees with her suggestion. This is going to be gross, he knows, and probably more than a little horrifying, watching Gamora basically operate on herself, and he should probably step away to give her privacy, let her focus. Another part of him, though, the part that makes him freeze in the spot when he sees his friends hurt, the one that recoils and panics when the cold feeling of helplessness seeps into him, tells him to stay. ]
I’ll stick around. [ He says it without looking at her, drying the tools with a paper towel and putting them back within her reach. ] In case you need another set of hands.
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I appreciate the gesture.
[ which is honest, admittedly. she's not sure if she'll need his help, but having him there just in case isn't a bad idea.
setting aside the gauze, she inspects the tools, then looks back down at the messy, torn skin in her own side. she reaches down to feel around the edges of the hole, but she can tell it's started to slowly knit together deeper inside, which means cutting into herself to get the bullet. well, if she's quick, it shouldn't be as painful as it could be, but she also acknowledges this isn't going to be an enjoyable experience. glancing to the side, she gestures to the pads of gauze. ]
Be prepared to hand those to me.
[ because she's going to slice herself back open again, and she'll want to stem the bleeding efficiently.
without considering quill again, she reaches for the scalpel, takes a deep breath, and then starts to cut.
it's not the first time she's had to remove a bullet (from others or herself), and while she hasn't done it recently, she still remembers how to be effective. in retrospect, the scalpel doesn't hurt too badly, due to its sharp edge, but the tweezers? that's the part that really kills. it takes longer too, because she has to dig around for the bullet, find the exact spot, and then grasp it and pull it back out. she's lucky it comes out whole, no shrapnel left behind, and after a tense moment, she yanks the tweezers from the enlarged hole in her side, and drops them onto the table with the bullet.
through the entire process, the only sounds out of her are her heavy but controlled breathing, and a small, barely there exhale of obvious pain when she digs a little deeper into herself. she manages to still sit up straight, because she needs to dress the wound and bandage it properly now, but she's visibly shaking as she holds her hand out for the pad of gauze. ]
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Not that Peter was really watching, though he hovered nearby, arms folded to keep himself from tapping out an anxious tattoo on the counter as she worked. He only just keeps himself from pacing the room as an outlet for his frayed nerves.
So he keeps still, keeps quiet, listening to Gamora's breathing as she roots around in herself for the bullet. (Jesus, this is like Die Hard levels of insane.) When he hears the clatter of metal, signalling that she's finally fished the offending thing out, Peter turns to her, checking the damage.
She looks ashen, exhausted and pained, and he visibly winces at the sight, scooping up the gauze pads. He should hand them to her, as she asked, but her hands shake, and he frowns. ]
I can take care of it. [ Least he could do is help bandage the wound, considering she only has it because of him.
He moves to kneel in front of her, holding the bandages, glancing up with an uncommon sobriety in his expression. ]
Lean back.
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of course, she could argue that she's not incapable of seeing to the rest of the dressing, because it's not that inconveniently placed nor too overwhelming (just this side of enough that she can't tamp down entirely on the visible physical effects). quill's expression, however, with that unusually somber look, is what actually convinces her not to fight him on this.
to at least give him an inch. ]
You don't have to. I am not so impaired I cannot see to it myself.
[ ...of course, she still has to say something about it, just to be clear that she's letting him do this, not that she needs him to.
she leans back in the chair, giving him more room to maneuver and see to the wound. it's bleeding all over again, a bit more profusely than before, and she's already looking forward to when it heals over enough that she can shower, get the rest of the soon-to-be-dried blood off of her body. ]
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We do a lot of things we don’t have to.
[ Peter especially, for which he typically hears no end.
He presses the gauze to the bleeding wound, holding it there to help tamp down the bleeding before he sets to work. Without glancing up, he adds mildly, ]
Like, you didn’t have to take a bullet for me, but you did it anyway. So.
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