moved to propiratey

He’s got questions.  Oh, does he have questions.  He’s not going to ask any of them - he’s pretty sure any answer she gives him on the origin of the swaddled, onesied bundle he’s handed will not be answers he really wants to know - but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s got them.  Why does she have a baby?  Who does this baby belong to, because he’s pretty sure it’s probably not her.  Why is she handing it to him?  Does it have a name?  What does she expect him to do with it?  Where are this child’s parents because - again - he knows it can’t be hers.

It’s distressing, is what it is, but this kid’s by far better off with him holding it than it is her.  He gets his arms situated, feels the kid settle against his chest securely, and make it a point to bore holes in the side of Liz’s head with his eyes, because he knows that she knows that he’s got…Concerns.  Tiny fingers tangle in his shirt over the glow of the arc reactor, and it’s almost unconscious, the way he reaches up and offers a finger instead, where it’s latched on to with gusto.

“So, this is…”  He pauses, asks himself if he really wants to ruin that plausible deniability he has going right now.  ‘Sorry, officer, I have no idea who the baby belongs to, she just handed it to me and bolted.’  What this is is a moral conundrum that he doesn’t have a solution for.  On the one hand, he’s not entirely sure he should, at any point, hand the kid back.  On the other, keeping it without those answers to those questions is morally and ethically questionable.  Probably illegal, too, he’s not entirely sure on that front.

“Liz, where’d you get the baby.  And better yet, why are you handing me the baby.  This isn’t something sparkly you picked up at Barney’s, okay, this is a living, breathing child who-”  Said baby sticks a knuckle of the finger it’s clinging to right in its mouth and bites down in gummy fury.  Great, he’s a teething ring.  “What’s the name, I can’t keep calling it ‘it’.  Especially now that I’m being drooled on.  What the hell are you doing?”

she can already feel the accusations building, and frankly, for someone who likes to involve himself in her life as little as possible, he sure does have a lot of questions. 

“        you can relax, i didn’t steal her. i’m a thief, not a kidnapper.    “ honestly, there were some lines even she wouldn’t cross. as for what she was doing, well, she had hardly thought that through. she like to plan her actions, thoroughly examined a scenario and selected the best course to take, planned contingencies. finding a baby living up in that shack, surrounded by drugs and death-- it had been the very last thing she had been expecting to find and elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to leave her there. maybe she was finally going soft, because this was going to do absolutely nothing for her reputation. it had been pure impulse when she snatched the baby up.

“    suffice to say she didn’t have a home, and whatever family she had is most certainly very very dead    “   possibly her fault, but she very much doubted the sorry excuse for a smuggler would have made a fitting guardian, let alone provided anything like a stable home for the little thing. elizabeth knew approximately nothing about childcare but she was fairly certain they were supposed to be chubbier than this one was. elizabeth had only had her for a day and a half, and she was already looking better-- properly clean and dressed, a touch more color in her cheeks. 

“     her name is sophie.    “ or at least, thats what elizabeth has named her. shockingly, her guardians hadn’t kept much in the way of documentation for the child. 

wrecc ma girl | @starkunlimited | accepting

1. with a broken arm 

elizabeth scrubs her good hand over her mouth in a halfhearted attempt to staunch the blood leaking from her nose which, by some small miracle, was probably not totally broken. probably. her arm, on the other hand, was most certainly very broken and shooting pain that cut to her core with every little move she made. not that she was making many, huddled on the ground cradling her arm between her knees and her chest. she was trying her best to gather herself, slowly taking deep, shuddering breaths... 

but that was proving far too difficult when every part of her body was thrumming with pain. she was lucky to be alive, she knew. the triggermen were brutes-- she had seen them do much worse with much less cause, and considering all that she had seen she was very very lucky indeed. she can only thank her lucky stars that they didn’t know just how much she had been observing. 

 a magical girl

 fabulous

 the ability to fly

tagged by   : @deathisachoice

some fuccin meme | @starkunlimited​

220 years. 220 years and tony stark will be the reason she dies because if he doesnt immediately shut up and stop insinuating that the supermutants that have taken over the abandoned factory are      fucking      she’s going to kill him and then herself. 

In which Tony completely ignores her.  Completely.  She sees it as junk, and that’s fair, but, as he stretches an arm into the crack of the flooring of the demolished house, to hook that three pack of duct tape like his life depends on it.  And hell, it actually might.  He knows he’s running a little low on stimpaks, and he can’t imagine she’s looking much better in that department, so she’ll be grateful when and if it comes to a point he has to duct tape her back together again before they can get to a settlement with a doctor.  (”Doctor”, like there’s any real such thing anymore.)

Besides, he can use it to tape her mouth shut, and that idea has far more appeal than it should.

“Listen.”  His voice is strained, as he stretches further, forcing as much of his shoulder into the hole in the busted wood as he can, trying desperately not to think about how bad it can get if he gets splinters stuck in him - nice, tasty radiation-coated splinters.  “You get a say when you’re the one that’s corralling these idiots like cats because they don’t have sense to throw up basic goddamn defenses.  Until then?  Shut-”

His finger hooks it, he gets a grip on it, and with some wiggling gets his arm back out of the hole, holding up his prize, ignoring the bleeding of his knuckles where he’d busted them trying to feel around.  “Got it.  I got it.  Now, are you gonna bitch some more or are you gonna admit I have a point so we can get moving.”

the way this man hoarded she was seriously concerned they might have to stage an intervention for him soon. so she just rolls her eyes-- right, because she’s certain that the pulverized plastic bottles and thoroughly exploded scraps of microchips were      sooooo     valuable-- and turns to watch his sorry backside. they’d already cut down more than a few ferals on their way into this place, and she wouldn’t be surprised if more popped up like the world’s most annoying irradiated weeds. 

since neither option he has presented is to her liking, she opts for a third-- indulging in a long eyeroll and cocking the pistol in her left hand. 

“      i hope you’re not expecting me to carry any of the rubbish you’re collecting.     “    she hadn’t tagged along to play bellhop, and she certainly wasn’t going to haul thirty pounds of broken machinery for him. or at least, not without a copious amount of complaint and at least one bribe. besides, this was tony. she was sure he could sneeze and figure out a way to turn mucus into rubber cement, annoying genius as he was. 

“ Ever fancy yourself as someone–no, something that looks more nightmare than human? ”   Its a rhetorical question, he doesn’t give her much time to answer let alone parse through what he’s suggested. Rolling onto his side, he grunts as he heaves his shoulder into the damp wood of the dock and rights himself.   “ The taste of blood on my tongue, the smell of leather and ocean, the rage–it all felt real. ”

Roberts stares blankly down at his hand. Dexterous fingers reach out to grasp at the part of his forearm where prosthetic meets scarred skin.   “ And I was him–the monster with the cutlass, the nightmare I’ve been warding off for going on two decades. I was him. ”

Whatever silly drunk bravado he had left seemed to vanish in the following silence. What remained was cruel sobriety–or, at the least, some variation of it. His voice was softer now, as if ashamed of the fit of mania that drive him to contact her and then rave like a madman about a vision.   “ I couldn’t see his face but I knew it was me. Thought maybe if I fashioned myself to look like him I could rid myself of him for good. ”

well she can honestly say that’s never been her experience-- and yet, somehow she understood exactly what he means. a wild, vicious woman haunted her own dreams, sword in hand, and a roar bursting from her chest, her face obscured by a tangle of wind whipped hair and smear of blood. and yet.... that woman filled her with a longing, deeper and more acute than any waking desire and far more intoxicating than the fear that urged her to run. 

it’s quite an idea-- to rid yourself of your demons by becoming them. mayhaps not the best idea, but an idea nonetheless. her own doubts as to the success of the concept aside, he had called her here for aid and she was curious as she was sympathetic to his cause. so she uncaps the eyeliner, a thick black kohl she hardly ever found reason to use. 

“        tilt your chin up.         “    she speaks softly. action would bring far more comfort than any platitude she might try to offer. 

lightly, her fingers find purchase beneath his chin and she adjusts the angle of his head to better catch the dim yellow light stretching out from the warehouses at the base of the docks.