bakerstreet | They may bear their teeth to all the world, but never to you

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They may bear their teeth to all the world, but never to you

S T R A Y
shipping meme

Taking in strays is, all in all, an understandable vice. The dips in between their ribs, those large and forlorn eyes, they can help you forget the claws and the teeth and the danger lurking beneath fur. But the habit's a knife edge; your efforts may not be rewarded with kindness (animal instincts aren't discretionary) and you may get bit despite what you've overlooked. A stray doesn't care about pity. All it can know is survival.

These warnings apply to strays of the more human(oid) sort, too.

But what may even more perilous with this type than any drawn blood is what you can get when they grow to trust you. You can earn their undying loyalty...or their love. Either from such a wild thing is a precarious path to go down, if you allow yourself to do it.

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ғɪɴᴅɪɴɢ — Who's that? They're no ordinary passersby! Were they in an accident? Are they foreign? ...should you approach them?

ʀᴀɪɴ, ʀᴀɪɴ, ɢᴏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ — The elements make this night no time to sleep out of doors.

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ — Cuts, broken bones, injuries all of sorts...you have to stitch them back up, then make sure they don't get any

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — It's all you can do to show gratitude to the person who took you in. Fix them a meal, care for their house, whatever you can do once you're able.

ʙᴀᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ — FUCK THIS PERSON AND FUCK THEIR COUCH. You didn't ask to be brought here. Let them clean up after you, you don't even care.

ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ? — How you got into this situation is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is your identity, and why the person you were would be so displaced.

sᴇʟғʟᴇssɴᴇss —

ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ — If you've been injured badly enough or can't remember all too well, you might have to relearn a good deal. Luckily, you have a helping hand.

sᴄᴀʀs — Scars from the encounter that lead you here or scars from prior, you don't want them to see either. You still have your secrets to keep.

sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ — Ugh, your house guest is so stubborn! They always get up when they should be resting, have the worst habits, and completely disrespect your home! You'll get to them, one way or another. Or you'll throw them out. You don't want to, but you will.

ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ — Bad memories or nightmares wreck you; your host and nurse comes to your side unexpectedly.

ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄʟᴀsʜ — The person who's taken you in is from a different culture or lifestyle than you, and adapting is harder than you thought.

ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ — Think learning about a new culture is hard? Try being a different species. Can you keep your little eccentricities at bay for the good of your station?

ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ — Now that your emotions towards your caretaker/host/jailer are softening, you're finding yourself unusually jealous of those in their life who were close to them before.

ɴᴇᴡ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs — You never thought you'd have fun after all that's happened, yet such simple gestures as a picnic or a movie make all the difference.

ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ — You love them, this person who's taken you in or this person you've found. It's not a pity or a thankfulness, it's love, and you know that now. What you choose to do with this information is

ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ — Suddenly, the person who's been so nice to you finds out that the two of you have a history. You killed their loved ones or caused something terrible. How can they forgive you?

ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ — So much has been done for you. The least you can do in return for the one who helped you at your lowest is make sure they never have such a low point.

ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ — Anyone in the way of getting to you will be destroyed, and that includes the person you're staying with.

ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — You've been given a home, maybe which you've never had before. You don't want to leave.

ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ — Not only are you living with them, but you're starting a proper life with them.

ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ — All secrets are laid out on the table. You've decided to tell about your past and what lead you here.

ʀᴇᴠᴜʟsɪᴏɴ — What you've done and who you are is so heinous, they want nothing more to do. You're to leave their home and leave them alone.

ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ — It doesn't matter what they've done. You've opened your home and your heart to them, and nothing's changed.

ᴘᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ — All things must come to an end. No matter what you feel for each other, it's time to leave. Hopefully, you'll see each other again.

ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ — Come what may, you've decided to stay at your new home with the person you love. Now, it's safe enough to do so.

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

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"Oh, that's for you. Unless you turn out to be a shitty doctor, then maybe it'll be for me." Dry humor seems to be the order of the day. Which is fine by Matt, it's easier than trying to deal with someone's panic on top of his own injuries.

The loss of his shirt makes him sigh in resignation, but it was probably ruined anyway. What's more interesting to Matt is how the guy doesn't miss a beat when he finds the wound; no spike in his pulse or hesitation in his actions. So apparently the part about being a doctor wasn't a lie.

"Nowhere that's as bad as this. Just some cuts and bruises, wrenched my knee. Probably have a nice black eye in the morning." If it wasn't for the bullet wound, he could have taken care of everything himself. This is part of the reason he gets so pissed off about guns. "Didn't go too deep, it's lodged in the muscle. You're probably gonna want a knife."

Bruce just hums out a curious sound that could almost be mistaken as a chuckle, turning back to the kitchen to get a rocks glass full of whiskey. He doesn't take it for himself though, just presses it in Matt's hand once he's settled, pulling on a pair of latex gloves from the box.

"I take this happens more often than you'd like." He still won't ask about the other scars, but the casual reaction to the new wounds is telling enough. This isn't unfamiliar to him, he works with a surprisingly wreckless bunch.

He presses the aspirin in his palm too, just in case. It won't help now, but maybe later...

"The forceps will do." And yeah his heart is steady, his temperament too, though he runs a little hot, like there's a strange sort of unchecked rage just beneath his skin, dispte how cool his demeanor seems to be. He doesn't so much as hesitate or warn Matt before digging in for the bullet-- and it's how before he knows it. Why beat around the bush?

Matt accepts the whiskey with a shrug. His rescuer's hands are steady enough without it, apparently. The way the muscle around the bullet aches, suggests Matt may end up wanting that drink himself regardless of how good a doctor the guy is.

Turns out, he isn't wrong about that. With a sort of choked, hissing sound, he clenches his teeth and his fists against the pain, glad that he isn't strong enough to shatter the tumbler in his hand. Once he feels the forceps slide away, he drains the glass empty.

"Yeah." Matt needs a couple steadying breaths before he can continue, but despite the pain, the wound feels better just for having the intruding metal out. "Well, not this exactly. Not getting shot."

Christ, this is going to lay him up for a while. Foggy will be pissed when he finds out. "I take it this isn't exactly your first time either."

The bullet clatters down on the empty space on the side table after he inspects it to make sure it was whole and there wasn't the possibility of any shrapnel left inside the other man.

"I've picked up a thing or two in my life, my profession goes somewhat hand-in-hand with medical practice." He steadies Matt with a hand against his chest, pouring saline, then a disinfectant over the wound, wiping away any blood that wells up before applying firm pressure with a stack of gauze. "Besides, my frie---" He clears his throat. "Some of my acquaintances can be rather reckless. I do what I can."

"I imagine you're sort of their type, looking like that." There's amusement in his voice as he sits, unmoving, keeping steady pressure on Matt's wound until the bleeding slows to something a little more manageable. "I can stitch or cauterize this, your choice."

Matt could tell him that there's nothing of the bullet left in him, but that would require explaining things that he doesn't really want to get into right now. He does appreciate the man's thoroughness, and does his best to remain still and not flinch too much as Bruce continues to treat the injury.

"And what profession is that?" The hesitation over the word 'friends' doesn't go unnoticed; Matt wonders what happened to make a man afraid to admit to having friends to a complete stranger. Tilting his head slightly, he acknowledges that yeah, reckless is probably a good descriptor. "Stitching's fine. There's a suture kit. I'm sure you can see it won't be the first time."

"I'm a nuclear physicist, though I have a PhD in biochemistry as well." Among others but that's neither here nor there, he'd dabbled for awhile but never got his MD, which was probably for the best, he shouldn't risk accidentally contaminating patients, no matter how much he wanted to help people.

"I see it." Bruce lets up on the gauze, checking the wound again before going for the kit. "You should invest in surgical glue if this becomes a habit. It's easier to apply without immediate assistance." He casually threads the curved needle, wiping at the wound again before going for the first stitch. It must hurt, he knows, and part of him is more than sympathetic, but he doesn't allow it to interfere with his professional approach.

"Do you have access to antibiotics?"

"Wow. I think that more than qualifies you for this."

A cloud crosses his face at Bruce's suggestion, not because of any preference for needles over glue, but because this isn't supposed to be a habit anymore. Matt shouldn't have a need for better first aid supplies because he shouldn't be getting into fights at all. He'd promised to give it up, and had honestly intended to keep that promise. "I appreciate the advice, but I'm sure it won't be necessary. This isn't- I don't do this anymore."

He's about to wave off the need for antibiotics as well, but realizes that he's not talking about abrasions from a fistfight or a superficial cut from a blade. "I think there might be something in the bathroom cabinet." Leftover from the last time Claire came to take care of him. That seems like a lifetime ago.

"Do you have a name?"

That earns a soft huff of laughter from him, though he keeps steady in his motions, delivering stitch after steady stitch until the wound is closed. "I'm not sure I have the proper bedside manner." He knots the thread and cuts off the remainder, smoothing a bandage over the cut.

"I'm told I have something of a temper." There's humor in his voice like there's some kind of inside joke there that he won't let Matt in on. "There now." More to himself, and he moves to check the other man over for the rest of his injuries, cleaning and wrapping what he can, examining him. Ice would probably help.

"I do." He wants to leave it there, but instead, he exhales a sigh. "Bruce Banner." Honestly, the chances that the man's ever heard of him are slim, even if the world seems to know about the 'other guy' there aren't very many who've put two and two together, and he prefers it that way. Still, it's no secret that'd he's recently had ties to the Avengers, especially after the incident.

Matt manages to only halfway suppress a laugh, wincing when the effort strains his injuries. "Guess we have that in common."

The name doesn't mean anything to him, although the guy's reaction to being asked makes him curious enough that he'll be doing some internet searching later. For now, Matt knows better than to pry. He'd be a hypocrite if he tried to push for an explanation. "Matt Murdock. I appreciate your help, Bruce. I think I'm lucky you were there for me to run into."

Remembering the aspirin in his hand, he dry swallows it and tries to find a comfortable way to lie on his very uncomfortable couch. "I hope I didn't ruin any plans you had."

He's almost relieved if it doesn't show beyond a soft exhale of breath, but that could have just been a release of stress since he seems to be done patching up his new friend here.

"No plans, I suspect I'd still be where you found me." Quiet and unassuming, and most assuredly homeless, though that doesn't seem to bother him. But now it must seem a little strange for a man of his qualifications lingering on the streets. Still, there's a part of him that seems satisfied with that, hardly any unease in his voice or posture.

Still, he smiles, if brief and unseen, but maybe it spills over in his voice. "It must have been good luck, that happens from time to time." He pulls away, peeling off the latex gloves to dispose of and packing up the first-aid kit.

There's a sudden nervousness to him as if he'd lingered too long, said too much, and was only now realizing it now. "I recommend taking those antibiotics, if you find further issues I recommend seeing a doctor, there are a few clinics in the area that value patient confidentiality, if it worries you."

"Feels like you did a good job, I'll be all right." He smiles wryly as he leans back against the arm of the couch, a position that feels comfortingly familiar in a way that he's not supposed to miss. Nobody checks up on him much these days, it should be easy enough to avoid running into Foggy or Karen for the time it takes him to heal. At least to the point that his injuries won't be obvious.

He can't leave things there, though, not with the new awkwardness in Bruce's voice. Matt can put two and two together as well the next person, and there's no way he's just going to let the guy slip back to homelessness and obscurity. Not without balancing the scales somehow. "Maybe you should stick around for a while, though. If you really don't have anything better to do. I'm told I'm a shitty patient, but I'm not a demanding one."

He starts to speak again, some sort of good-humored witty response, no doubt in an effort to decline the offer so he can slip away and maybe think of the blind man he helped in passing. Bruce shouldn't be so curious, but that was the cursed nature of a scientist; wanting to know everything. "I don't..."

Bruce bites the inside of his cheek and exhales through his nose, drawing out a sigh that might be more fatigue than defeat.

"Maybe until tomorrow." He turns his head towards the window, the rain still pelting angrily at the glass, and he's a little less than eager to return to it. "I'd like to check those wounds in the morning." As if he needed an excuse beyond the kind invitation.

Matt can understand the desire to keep your secrets to yourself, but he can't accept the idea of letting someone help him this way for nothing, when there are clearly things he can do in return. Even if it's just something as simple as offering a roof over his head for the night.

"I really appreciate that." They can use Matt's injuries as an excuse, it's fine by him. He knows about rationalizing your actions, as well. "Help yourself to anything you want from the fridge. I'd offer to get you something, but I think I'll just stay right here for a little while."

Bullet wounds are goddamn painful. And since he's unwilling to take anything stronger than aspirin, he'll be feeling it in full force. Until he can settle into a little meditation, at least. "Just put clean sheets on the bed today, your timing is excellent."

"I think I might use your shower, if you don't mind." Not that food and rest aren't equally as tempting, but he's restless enough in a new space that his appetite has gone, especially now that he has nothing to occupy himself with. He'd been calm before, given a task, helping, but the calm and quiet make his skin itch.

Bruce shakes his head, he can only accept so much hospitality. "Your body needs rest, I couldn't possibly take your bed." He isn't forceful, but there's a soft 'please don't argue with me' waver in his voice, like pleading.

"Not at all, please go ahead. Towels are in the cabinet." Matt would love to clean up himself, but getting the bandages wet at this stage is a bad idea. He'll have to put up with feeling grimy for a little while.

He wants to protest, but he hears that tremor in Bruce's voice, and decides not to push the man any further. The guy's probably exhausted, physically and mentally. Living on the street can't be easy for anyone, even if it's by choice. "Yes, Doc. Think I'll just stay put for right now, though."

Because he's probably going to need a hand to keep him steady when he does get up to move to his bedroom. And maybe because he also wants to use his phone while Bruce showers, and do a tiny bit of research.

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They may bear their teeth to all the world, but never to you

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