lumeria (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lumeria) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2016-10-13 10:09 pm
lumeria) wrote in bakerstreet2016-10-13 10:09 pm
nursed back to health shipping meme.
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[ Can be either role! Cross-canon and shipping are great, too. ]
[Definitely more likely to be the one hurt or sick, but could also care for someone]
[Would Steve like to come help this French mutant kid, maybe spots him getting the crap kicked out of him and steps in. (Could end up with them having to help each other out because whoops Steve you are not big yet why are you fighting everyone stoppit)]
[Either role!]
Edited 2016-10-14 03:35 (UTC)
[ Either role, M/M for shipping!]
[ He tries, really he does. To disappear for good. He's learned his lesson this time — another shot to make things better, to do something good, only have it blow up in his face and hurt god only knew how many people in the process. (This is a lie. The statistics are public domain and of course Bruce makes it a point to tally casualties from Reuters and AP wires. New York. Johannesburg. Sokovia. The numbers are burned into his brain and it's not an equation that will ever balance out because he just won't. Fucking. Learn.) Common sense tells him he belongs far away from people who'll just end up dead, and personal sources have told him just what he's good for. (I need the other guy.) If neither of those things were enough, the experience of waking up alone in a quinjet in the middle of the South Pacific certainly ought to have been enough. The solitary weeks and months that follow are just additional citations to a well-documented thesis.
The world is better off without Bruce Banner.
But as deep as he buries his head in the sand, he's still— What? A masochist? It's the only explanation as he keeps abreast of the team. (Not his team. Never was. Should've known better. Idiot.) It's something to do in the odd hours of the night. God knows he doesn't sleep much but a tan camouflages the growing bags under his eyes, loose-fitting shirts hide the weight he's losing, and it's not like there are many locals to notice how twitchy he is save when he sails to town for supplies. Maybe he should take better care but what's the worst that'll happen — he'll die? Ha. That's almost funny now.
Almost as funny as Thaddeus Ross being confirmed as Secretary of State. (When Bruce first reads that, he can't help the hysterical laughter bubbling up out of him until his sides ache and his stomach churns and his eyes burn from crying and the only thing that stops the wheezing, broken, giggling sobs is the sudden tightness at his temples and the reflection of sickly bright green eyes in the screen.) But the joke doesn't end because the two people he'd grown to trust most join up with Mr. Secretary and Bruce can read the punchline written on the wall plain as anyone down to the little postscript just for him. Supers would go from registered to rounded up to worse, and just who would be topping the list of most wanted if a certain general had his say?
Sure, the world was better off without Bruce Banner but as if Thunderbolt would allow him to fade into well-deserved obscurity. When faced with the choice of waiting for Ross to sic Tony and Natasha on him to drag him back or finding Steve... It isn't that much of a choice. Then again, he's never had that much of one so at least that isn't anything new.
Wakanda is the crossroads and after quietly traveling halfway around the world to get there, he gets pointed toward where Steve and the rest are camping out in between... Whatever it is Steve thinks they'll be doing now. Does it matter what that is? Bruce won't be involved in it, not technically. He'll just be the guy waking up after the other guy's made himself useful again when Steve tells him where to point.
When he arrives at the safehouse Steve actually— Hell, Steve looks glad to see him, tells him it's good he that he's back, acts like nothing is wrong. Like Bruce stepped out to the corner store for milk instead of having been gone for a year. Clint offers a tight smile and seconds the motion, comments that he hopes the doc enjoyed his "vacation" and was ready for work. The new guy — Pym's kid, or maybe not, Bruce doesn't remember all the details — doesn't seem to have an off switch; it takes a good ten minutes and a description of his daughter's Avengers figurine collection before he finds the brakes and Bruce hadn't missed having to fake a pained smile at merchandising he never agreed to. He doesn't look at Wanda so much as watches her out the corner of his eye, never allowing her to get within ten feet of him because he doesn't give a shit what Steve says about her being on the team. She got in his head once. He's not about to let it fucking happen again. Please, god, don't let it happen again.
(Nobody mentions Tony. Nobody mentions Natasha. Two things to be grateful for.)
Sam is the best option of all of them — neutral territory. Bruce hardly knows him, and he only offered a nod and few lines in greeting. It's why when the welcoming party starts to break up Bruce tags after him for questions. (Better this than flimsy small talk excuses and fleeing any attempt Steve might make to actually talk to him.) ]
There any particular place I should bunk, or. [ His knuckles are white round the strap of his duffel as he shifts it higher onto his shoulder. Everything he has in the world and even then it could all be tossed away without batting an eye. Isn't as if he can't get by on less. ] Or what.
[ God, he hopes wherever it is? It's as far from Maximoff as humanly (what a fucking joke) possible. ]
The world is better off without Bruce Banner.
But as deep as he buries his head in the sand, he's still— What? A masochist? It's the only explanation as he keeps abreast of the team. (Not his team. Never was. Should've known better. Idiot.) It's something to do in the odd hours of the night. God knows he doesn't sleep much but a tan camouflages the growing bags under his eyes, loose-fitting shirts hide the weight he's losing, and it's not like there are many locals to notice how twitchy he is save when he sails to town for supplies. Maybe he should take better care but what's the worst that'll happen — he'll die? Ha. That's almost funny now.
Almost as funny as Thaddeus Ross being confirmed as Secretary of State. (When Bruce first reads that, he can't help the hysterical laughter bubbling up out of him until his sides ache and his stomach churns and his eyes burn from crying and the only thing that stops the wheezing, broken, giggling sobs is the sudden tightness at his temples and the reflection of sickly bright green eyes in the screen.) But the joke doesn't end because the two people he'd grown to trust most join up with Mr. Secretary and Bruce can read the punchline written on the wall plain as anyone down to the little postscript just for him. Supers would go from registered to rounded up to worse, and just who would be topping the list of most wanted if a certain general had his say?
Sure, the world was better off without Bruce Banner but as if Thunderbolt would allow him to fade into well-deserved obscurity. When faced with the choice of waiting for Ross to sic Tony and Natasha on him to drag him back or finding Steve... It isn't that much of a choice. Then again, he's never had that much of one so at least that isn't anything new.
Wakanda is the crossroads and after quietly traveling halfway around the world to get there, he gets pointed toward where Steve and the rest are camping out in between... Whatever it is Steve thinks they'll be doing now. Does it matter what that is? Bruce won't be involved in it, not technically. He'll just be the guy waking up after the other guy's made himself useful again when Steve tells him where to point.
When he arrives at the safehouse Steve actually— Hell, Steve looks glad to see him, tells him it's good he that he's back, acts like nothing is wrong. Like Bruce stepped out to the corner store for milk instead of having been gone for a year. Clint offers a tight smile and seconds the motion, comments that he hopes the doc enjoyed his "vacation" and was ready for work. The new guy — Pym's kid, or maybe not, Bruce doesn't remember all the details — doesn't seem to have an off switch; it takes a good ten minutes and a description of his daughter's Avengers figurine collection before he finds the brakes and Bruce hadn't missed having to fake a pained smile at merchandising he never agreed to. He doesn't look at Wanda so much as watches her out the corner of his eye, never allowing her to get within ten feet of him because he doesn't give a shit what Steve says about her being on the team. She got in his head once. He's not about to let it fucking happen again. Please, god, don't let it happen again.
(Nobody mentions Tony. Nobody mentions Natasha. Two things to be grateful for.)
Sam is the best option of all of them — neutral territory. Bruce hardly knows him, and he only offered a nod and few lines in greeting. It's why when the welcoming party starts to break up Bruce tags after him for questions. (Better this than flimsy small talk excuses and fleeing any attempt Steve might make to actually talk to him.) ]
There any particular place I should bunk, or. [ His knuckles are white round the strap of his duffel as he shifts it higher onto his shoulder. Everything he has in the world and even then it could all be tossed away without batting an eye. Isn't as if he can't get by on less. ] Or what.
[ God, he hopes wherever it is? It's as far from Maximoff as humanly (what a fucking joke) possible. ]
Edited 2016-10-16 06:43 (UTC)
[Vigilante's showing up at Claire's door seems to be a thing now. Except with Daisy it wasn't intentional and it wasn't exactly at her door.
It was late and Daisy was struggling to stay conscious. Her arm was giving her so much grief and all of it was her own fault. She couldn't stop herself, she had to keep going. Keep protecting people. Keep taking out the bad guys. Well her body finally had enough. All the hairline fractures from her powers had become even worse when she really overdid it by helping a young man not get shot in the head.
It was honestly rather disgusting to look at and hurt even worse than it looked, if that's even possible.
Unable to go to a hospital and risk getting caught, Daisy went to the bodega to try and find something to help. She's trying to look as inconspicuous as possible but that's kind of hard to do when she's hunched over clearly in pain and there's hardly anyone in the store this late.]
It was late and Daisy was struggling to stay conscious. Her arm was giving her so much grief and all of it was her own fault. She couldn't stop herself, she had to keep going. Keep protecting people. Keep taking out the bad guys. Well her body finally had enough. All the hairline fractures from her powers had become even worse when she really overdid it by helping a young man not get shot in the head.
It was honestly rather disgusting to look at and hurt even worse than it looked, if that's even possible.
Unable to go to a hospital and risk getting caught, Daisy went to the bodega to try and find something to help. She's trying to look as inconspicuous as possible but that's kind of hard to do when she's hunched over clearly in pain and there's hardly anyone in the store this late.]
it looks great :3 should I avoid Luke Cage spoilers or no?
stitchup
- 2016-10-15 10:54 (UTC) - Expand[She's a nurse, but she can be injured as well.]
[Éomer has always known his temper would one day get the better of him. It has always burned too hot, too fast, anger swelling up and overtaking his good sense, making him blurt out something that he would soon come to regret. He had even suspected that that foul creature, Gríma Wormtongue, would be the engineer of his demise. He just hadn't expected that to come from six burly men bursting into his room late at night to haul him bodily from his bed and beat him in the market square while accusations of treason were flung at him from atop the steps of the Meduseld. None in town had dared intervene on his behalf for fear of those same accusations being leveled at them, and he had eventually been run out of Edoras with no weapons and no horse, wearing only the clothes on his back, clothes that had been shredded by the horse whips employed to punish him for his fabricated misdeeds.
Finding a horse to ride in Rohan is a simple matter, however, and he had managed to rope a docile enough mare that let him swing himself up onto her back so he could escape at a slightly-faster pace than his own stumbling feet could manage.
That was before a hunting party was sent to make sure he didn't survive.
The fact that the men that had been chasing him from Edoras on the road to Dunharrow were likely men that Éomer grew up alongside was a thought he had to work hard to suppress. Once upon a time, he would have felt charitable enough to admit that they were only doing what they were told, that perhaps their own families were being threatened and they had been forced to choose between Éomer and their wives. It was cold comfort for him however, his head still ringing from the blows he's endured, attempting to coax the old mare to go just a little faster so they do not present such easy targets.
He's feeling especially uncharitable towards them now, stumbling along the path as he is, blood dripping down his back and his head ringing with every awkward step. He's pretty sure he damaged his ankle when his horse stumbled and fell over with him still in the saddle, but there's no time for him to stop and examine it. Even if he did have time, there's nothing he can do right now, out here all alone in the wild with not even a dagger in his boot for protection. All he can do is press on and hope that the darkness will cloak him for a little bit longer, until he can stumble onto the road that leads towards the refuge of Dunharrow.
He has no idea how far away the settlement is, or if he could even reach it in his condition. But he has to keep moving.
If asked, he would honestly say he has no idea how long he's been stumbling around the Harrowdale valley, forcing himself to keep moving, afraid that if he lets himself stop, he won't ever get going again. But eventually, suddenly, as if between one step and the next, he finds himself in a small little clearing, tucked neatly away between two cuts of stone, moonlight bathing the space in a watery glow. In the center of the clearing stands a little cottage, somewhat squat-looking, with a thatched roof and a warm curl of woodsmoke rising from a round little chimney poking out of the thatch. Its windows showcase a warm glow of light, the door is painted a cheery green color, and the garden sprawling out from the edge of the cottage is a riot of flowers and herbs and green, growing things.
Éomer stutters to a halt, as if perhaps this is a mirage that will disappear if he blinks hard enough, but no matter how often he closes his eyes, the cottage is still there when he opens them again.
What he should do is turn around and keep going. He doesn't want to lead the men chasing after him to this unsuspecting person's house outside the fortifications that Dunharrow's position in the mountains provide, nor does he want to risk the possibility that whoever owns this place might be a sympathizer to Gríma's machinations. What he does, however, is stagger towards the door, thumping on it with one dirty fist, weakly crying out for help.]
Finding a horse to ride in Rohan is a simple matter, however, and he had managed to rope a docile enough mare that let him swing himself up onto her back so he could escape at a slightly-faster pace than his own stumbling feet could manage.
That was before a hunting party was sent to make sure he didn't survive.
The fact that the men that had been chasing him from Edoras on the road to Dunharrow were likely men that Éomer grew up alongside was a thought he had to work hard to suppress. Once upon a time, he would have felt charitable enough to admit that they were only doing what they were told, that perhaps their own families were being threatened and they had been forced to choose between Éomer and their wives. It was cold comfort for him however, his head still ringing from the blows he's endured, attempting to coax the old mare to go just a little faster so they do not present such easy targets.
He's feeling especially uncharitable towards them now, stumbling along the path as he is, blood dripping down his back and his head ringing with every awkward step. He's pretty sure he damaged his ankle when his horse stumbled and fell over with him still in the saddle, but there's no time for him to stop and examine it. Even if he did have time, there's nothing he can do right now, out here all alone in the wild with not even a dagger in his boot for protection. All he can do is press on and hope that the darkness will cloak him for a little bit longer, until he can stumble onto the road that leads towards the refuge of Dunharrow.
He has no idea how far away the settlement is, or if he could even reach it in his condition. But he has to keep moving.
If asked, he would honestly say he has no idea how long he's been stumbling around the Harrowdale valley, forcing himself to keep moving, afraid that if he lets himself stop, he won't ever get going again. But eventually, suddenly, as if between one step and the next, he finds himself in a small little clearing, tucked neatly away between two cuts of stone, moonlight bathing the space in a watery glow. In the center of the clearing stands a little cottage, somewhat squat-looking, with a thatched roof and a warm curl of woodsmoke rising from a round little chimney poking out of the thatch. Its windows showcase a warm glow of light, the door is painted a cheery green color, and the garden sprawling out from the edge of the cottage is a riot of flowers and herbs and green, growing things.
Éomer stutters to a halt, as if perhaps this is a mirage that will disappear if he blinks hard enough, but no matter how often he closes his eyes, the cottage is still there when he opens them again.
What he should do is turn around and keep going. He doesn't want to lead the men chasing after him to this unsuspecting person's house outside the fortifications that Dunharrow's position in the mountains provide, nor does he want to risk the possibility that whoever owns this place might be a sympathizer to Gríma's machinations. What he does, however, is stagger towards the door, thumping on it with one dirty fist, weakly crying out for help.]
[Either role!]
(( either role! ))
[Probably the one doing the caring, but open to being cared for. Bonus: unless you want him to be human instead of android, dude can't get sick. Smut's fine, too.]
Edited 2016-10-14 07:27 (UTC)
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