#lowqualityrp

“--it was just a grenade, John. You didn’t have to rush to med bay.”

Says the man who’s closed one eye to keep blood from dripping into it. (It’s fine, though.)

It gets exhausting looking after the Zero Point day in and day out. He’s lucky the other hunters are so willing to care for the Child while he’s away (sometimes he hears the kid humming that song Mancake’s got going at the Butter Barn, he spends so much time there), but when he finds himself unable to care for the little one even in his free time, that’s when Mando realises he needs a freakin’ break.

Kondor’s more than willing to take up his place on the cliff overlooking the Zero Point and the desert beneath; Mando figures the guy’s got the whole permanent helmet-wearing intimidation thing down pat. And though Lexa complains at him, telling him that she should be the one closest to the Point to kill the idiots that come too near, she seems pleased when Mando tells her she’s in charge of killing anyone unknown passing by his apartment... which, honestly, happens way too much, if the sound of her assault rifle going is any indication.

Anyway, it’s just his luck that the first day of his actual holiday he’s called to the IO offices underground.

Sitting in Jones’ little office, Mando looks over the files of the new hunters he intends to bring to the island with his next few rift jumps. He’s doing his best to listen to the man’s descriptions of them, but... honestly, he couldn’t care less about this Sarah Connor or this Ellen Ripley, and when Jones mentions having to interact with some “Yautja” to “keep them in line”, all Mando does is nod dully in passive agreement.

Gods, he’s tired. He’s so tired that when his helm slips from its place propped against his fist, he doesn’t even have the sense of mind to stop his forehead from bonking against the metal desk.

Tony’s mouth opens. Shuts. And then, his brows furrowing, he drops to sit on the floor by Bruce’s side instead, silently glad he’d had the forethought to buy an exceptionally wide desk.

One of the downsides of a lab with a huge, glass window to look out of is seeing all the crap that goes on outdoors. Lightning strikes. Thunder follows.

Why is on his tongue.

It takes Timothy a moment to register what the man had said. He’s panicking, he knows that much, but who wouldn’t? He’d shot the woman that had leapt at him, he’s certain of it, then why had he only gotten a moment to catch his breath before she had risen to her feet again?

If it wasn’t for the stranger coming in and shooting her straight through the head she would’ve likely killed him. It’s not the first time he’s watched somebody’s head explode, not even the first time the remnants of that explosion have decorated his mask. Still the poor man is shaking to his very core.

Stephen would be more easily persuaded if he couldn’t quite literally peer into the shades of Thor’s soul. Five years is a long time-- a long time that he’d been gone for-- and it’s clear to him even without the senses he owns that’re mystical that Thor hadn’t come out of them unscathed.

Stephen knows they don’t have a real connection, nor do they have a true friendship that would give him any right to question anything. He remembers the touch of Thor’s hand, though, and the glimpse he’d had into his future, and he can’t help but think all of that and more had transpired since they’d parted ways.

The smart thing to do would be to drop the subject. Stephen still has things to fix, balances to restore-- though half of the multiverse had been gone, the dangers had continued nevertheless, and Stephen has to catch up.

Still. The universe had allowed him to glance into Thor’s future for a reason, surely. The universe had let him see the five years of Thor’s life that he’d miss in his non-existence because of something.

“What’re you doing,” Chris grumbles, irritated even without the light of the moon shining in his face. Ethan’s stood up for whatever reason, leaving the bed colder than it was, and Chris reaches out a clawed hand with a low snarl building in his chest without his prompting.

When Ethan doesn’t respond right away, Chris gets up, touching the sharp end of a nail to a slender waist before he curves his whole hand around it. His claws shine under the light, and each fine detail of the fur growing on the back of his hand is visible under the pale beams coming from the window.

“Ethan.” It’s a lower sound, growling. “Come back to bed.”

And, not feeling any resistance (is he hearing shit in his head from the Mold again?), Chris pulls until he has Ethan’s back to his chest, huffing warm breath into his hair.

“Uh... thanks.”

Chris almost worries Alcina’s only saying this to disarm him before she suddenly says something incredibly insulting, but he’s polite as he says, “Yeah, I thought if Ethan and I were gonna settle down for real, it’d be nice to have something... I don’t know, special.”

Hence the crib he’s now lovingly varnishing in the garage, carvings of rosemary in the wood that Chris had done himself in deft works of a knife. Ethan had liked the simplicity of it, but he’s expecting something harsh from Alcina any moment now.