@thundersouled​ | ❝ we’re gonna have to keep ice on that. ❞

“Oh, come on, Don.  It’s-”  Barely a bump, is the bullshit he’s been meaning to lead with but…That…Doesn’t really fly here, does it.  Too accustomed to Tony’s particular brand of it, too smart to let it slide.

This sucks.

He pauses.  Blows out on an exhale, making his bruised ribs sing the song he’s way, way too familiar with, and making other assorted bruises and bumps and scrapes twinge with the movement.  Pulls at his shoulder, now in a sling after being slid back into its socket, slightly swollen, with him holding an ice pack to it with his good arm.  Steve’s the one who helped with that, with his own injuries besides, because everyone here knows Tony’s stupid enough to do it by slamming that shoulder into a wall.  He’s good at it, he patched himself up for years, he knows the right angle and everything to make it work.  It’s fine.  It’s not as bad as it looks!  It’s not, he ran a scan in the suit before even submitting to…Well.  If he’s being honest, what passed for Don’s bedside manner.  He’s already pitched a fit about no painkillers, even though he knows Don damn well knows he’s an alcoholic, but it’s the Tony Stark Medical Treatment song and dance.  He’s got it down by rote now.

(To be fair, having Tony Stark as a patient - a patient you damn well know isn’t gonna listen to a word you say the minute you turn your back, is enough to sour even the sweetest medical disposition, but that’s not really the point here.)

“I don’t have time to play invalid, you know that.”  There’s data to be trawled through, repairs to make, teammates to check in on - he should be doing that right this second - assessments to be made, debriefings to be done, he probably needs to squeeze a little sleep and food in there somewhere in the near future (but not too soon, his stomach is always jittery with battle nerves before and after a fight, and today is no exception)…There’s just…Too much still to be done.  And it’s not over, this is a lull in the storm.

To make a really shitty pun.

So yeah, the minute Don turns his back on him, he’s pulling off this damn sling and getting back to work.  And, hey, at least he’s out of the armor.  That counts for something, right, even if it’s only because he knows good and well a certain someone who shan’t be named would use his override codes to get it off of him anyway.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”  That he does mean.  Sincerely.  It’s stamped - too honest - all over his face, too clear in his voice.  “I am.  But we’re down…You see how bony of a skeleton crew we’re working with.  But unless you plan on tattling to mom, I can’t sit with an ice pack.  It’ll heal.  It always does.”

soft caring compilation starters | accepting

DON’S NO HERO. Not in the way they are; he doesn’t have a metal suit, he doesn’t have a super-serum running through his veins. He’s human, or at least the closest facsimile to one that one can be when tethered so closely to a mythological god.

It doesn’t stop him from narrowing a glance sidelong at Tony. ❛ If you’re going to say it’s nothing: don’t. ❜ It’s not harsh, not really; it’s more long-suffering. He likes Tony, he does. He’s smart, he’s sharp, his heart is in a good place.

He’s also as reckless as any of them are.

❛ You also don’t have time to be having to be put back together if you don’t take care of it. ❜  It’s —— a little exasperated, but at least it’s nothing he doesn’t already know. Trying to mend any of them has ever been like trying to herd cats.

And so: he doesn’t leave. Not yet. He perches on the edge of a counter, cane loosely resting against a knee. Tony can be stubborn: he can be too.

The apology earns a glance, though. It’s fleeting, blue eyes catching Tony’s, and —— it’s appreciated, but unneeded.   ❛ Kind of a hazard of the job. ❜   He smiles, though, and with that he lets the mien of doctor slide a little, though he does look a little wry at the notion of tattling.   ❛ You think he would have any more luck at convincing you than me if I did? ❜   It’s a rhetorical question, and not one he lingers for an answer on.   ❛ And they always heal until they don’t. ❜   

@thundersouled​ ASKED : ❝ Sorry to be so theatrical. ❞ 

                               >> MEMES | OPEN

He’d reacted entirely on instinct, moving the mug before hands caught it in their little rampage path through his lab. Unusual, typically a whirlwind of attitude came on a red cape and wide smile, accidental in it’s warpath but at least predictable. Donald Blake was… less predictable but then Bruce was still learning, still working on figuring where new lines lay and how to adapt their situation about the pairs comfort.

It was something new entirely, getting used to someone else with the same living arrangement but it did bring on a bought of empathy. 

He couldn’t blame Blake for ending up here, not when Bruce understood. When they both understood. Living in a double head space, well, no matter the sympathy and attempts no one truly understood it unless they experienced it themselves. Duel existence with no extra time, an eternal partner in your head. It’s logical they would seek each other out usually, however, the other was typically a little less explosive about it.

Don is nothing like Thor. He lacks the boisterous hyper-hero attitude and the weirdly endearing speech habits, he’s modern, more reserved in a sense but under it all there’s matching hearts of gold that give him an eye twitch anytime a debate on missions come up. 

It seems this time those golden goods weren’t on the same page. Interesting.

“At least my coffee survived the show.” 

Deadpan but expecting anything else this late would be an impressive show of optimism and all Bruce can do at the colour on the other guys cheek is raise an eyebrow, bringing said aforementioned, rescued coffee up with a light sigh towards the clear guilt creeping into his features. 

Even that looks nothing like Thor, full body morphing to match personality until now he was one of the few with the experience, it made things easier telling them apart of course but he had a new gleam for how jarring it was from the outside.

Both of them were cute though, good old fashioned universal favouritism at play.

“Stop looking like a kicked puppy, it’s fine, really. Your other halfs a thunder God with a hard on for vikings, I go green and half the team literally bend space in their hands. Swiping my paper work is probably the least theatric thing I’ve seen this month.” 

Cocking his hip against the desk Bruce has a flashing moment of mourning for the mess made. Rearranging those files on Vibranium cellular rebuilding would be a bitch…. but he’d live. More important question is why Blake felt the sudden need to explode. 

He had a sneaking suspicion it might be Thor’s talk of going home. The two had only just begun truly getting on but it was slow work, hard work. Learning to compromise, to take into account how each other would feel. In some ways it’s almost juggling a relationship in its own right and going back to Asgard…

It complicated things. Especially if Thor intended on it being long term. Last he checked neither had talked it through entirely, he can only imagine how it must seem. A world of Gods, where would Blake fit in? Would they take him seriously? He adored Thor but it was something to think on, to plan, not something to rush and work out along the way. 

It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. 

“So… going to talk about it?”

IT’S EMBARRASSING. It’s embarrassing, and it’s frustrating, and trying to talk REASON to a damned GOD OF THUNDER is like talking to a brick wall that’s already made up its mind ten times over, and ——

—— and that metaphor is falling short, even in his own head.

He drags a hand over his face, raking fingers back through his hair and leaning a hand against the corner of the lab table. The edge of it bites into his palm, but he doesn’t much care, not really. It’s grounding, it’s bracing, it reminds him that he’s here and present and in this moment, and that’s a reassurance. 

The tiniest glance is given over to Bruce, and his face flushes with a self-awareness. ❛ Still not an excuse, ❜ he mutters, and he limps over to a chair and slumps into it; it spins lazily a half-turn, and he catches himself from turning all the way with a heel. ❛ I’m sorry, I’ll —— help you get it back together. ❜

He’d built up a —— it’s hard to say a life here, really, because his life is complicated, but they had worked out a routine. His career, unsettled in recent days with all the mess ever surrounding gods, had finally felt like it was falling into something resembling normalcy —— or at least as close to normal as he would ever get.

And here it is again, him getting swept along in the doings of gods and though he recognizes that it is far more important in the cosmic scheme of things, some little petty part of him resents it all. ( Another part of him feels good that he’s aware enough to feel a little petty about it; it makes him feel like he’s his own self. )

❛ You know what he’s like when he has his mind set to something, ❜ he says at last, and there’s no self-pity in his voice. It’s not like him. ( He ASKED for this, did he not? Dragged the Thunderer from the void. Brought them back together. He KNEW what he was getting into. ) He sighs, long fingers of one hand steepling against his forehead like he’s fending off a headache. ❛ Sometimes I just feel like I’m just along for the ride. ❜

He’s thankful for the moment that Thor has given him this moment of peace —— the god is quiet in his mind, though his presence is huge. But say what one will of their —— arrangement: he is left to live his own life when he has it. That, he can be grateful for. 

❛ Things were just —— working. ❜

Relief floods his face when the door opens and he doesn’t need to be told twice. Huffing through the darkened clinic, shoes squeaking on once clean floors. The drip-drip of water and blood trailing after him even as he slips a bit. Shoulder jamming into the wall with a thud that is lost to the fact the kid on his back groans.

He’s never been so relieved to hear another in pain. “Yeah, yeah, complain at me later…”

Door shouldered open, the beanie finally admits defeat. Lost to the floor as Barney lays the teen down. Hands come away red as he steps back, surprising himself with how rubbery his legs feel. Skin prickles as the warmth of the room begins to creep in.

A sigh of relief before he turns to what must be the doctor. Eyes hooded and shoulders straightening. Not a threat, but an assertion as he stares the man down. “He’s bleedin’ from a .9mm to the shoulder; happened 20 minutes ago. Kept pressure on it but only so much I can do.”

To the guy’s credit, he looked trustworthy. But he knew how looks so often didn’t translate to intention. His eyes narrowed. “And yes. He’s got horns.” His voice lowered. “That gonna be a problem?”

  THE HALLS ARE DARK AND THE CLINIC QUIET; nurses have long gone home. He flips on lights as they go, and a glance is given to the kid, mouth thinning.

  He’s scarcely paying attention to Barney as he hangs the cane on the edge of a cabinet, the end of it clanking against metal siding. It’s a soft sound, but it sounds louder in the quiet, quiet room. He’s swift to wash up and pull on gloves, stepping over to start inspecting the wound and nodding along as the other speaks. If he’s cowed by the stare, he doesn’t show it.

  ❛ What? No, of course not. ❜ It’s not even a thought; there’s a part of his brain that wonders at when this all became NORMAL, but he supposes his life is scarcely anything resembling NORMAL. He doesn’t linger on the thought, doesn’t spare them a second glance.

  Gunshot wounds are something that he’s unfortunately seen much of; from his time spent in trauma centers, and time spent lending a hand in other, more war-torn countries. Caring for one is almost second nature.

  The grim reality of the world today, he supposes.

 IT IS NOT for the GODS to decide whether or not MAN exists —— it is for MAN to decide whether or not THE GODS exist. 

starter for @thundersouled​!

Rain drips down through his hair and thunder crackles overhead. He winces with the closeness of it. The storm of the year, the news was saying. Anyone in their right mind wasn’t out in it. He’s hoping against hope, however, that he isn’t the only one mad enough to venture out. Particularly those in the clinic that, by all rights, should have closed five minutes ago.

There’d been a flicker of light in the back however and he pounded on the door. Scraped fingers desperate even as the teen on his back moans. 

Blood drips down from the kid’s shoulder, bullet (hopefully) long since gone though aftermath complicating their escape all the more. The beanie he’d jammed on the kid’s head is water logged, slipping off with each shake of his arm. The kid’s horns slowly coming into view.

It’d been a miracle they’d made it this far without notice.

Now, he hoped for another hail mary stroke of luck. “Hey! Please! Anyone! He’s just a kid, he needs help…..”

  THERE’S SOMETHING HE LIKES ABOUT STORMS. He always has, even in his earliest memories; it’s something that makes a lot more sense these days. The pattering of the rain is a nice and easy backdrop, even despite the thunder that rattles the windows and the lightning that makes the lights occasionally flicker.

  It’s been —— a quiet day, all told. In his field, a quiet day is a good day, though he expects the rain is keeping many indoors and out of trouble. He should’ve left a bit ago, but despite the rain bringing him some comfort, he’s not precisely eager to be out in it, either.

It is time. There are duties in Asgard that do not wait.

  ❛ Yeah, yeah, ❜ he sighs, running a hand over his face, but he relents, reaching for the cane and preparing to get up. ❛ Let me just —— ❜

  He’s just finishing up some paperwork when the beating comes at the door, and it startles him enough to drop some papers and send them flittering to the floor. With a soft curse, he bends and scoops them up, tossing them loosely on the desk and getting up.

  He flips on the front light, and —— anything he could have said to try to dissuade immediately gets shoved aside without a second thought. ❛ You’ll have to wait a little longer, ❜  he breathes, slamming those mental gates firmly shut before protest can come and unlocking the door, ushering them inside.

  ❛ WHAT’S THAT LIKE ? ❜  It’s curious, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s sitting here talking to a manifestation of the UNIVERSE. Blue eyes regard the entity evenly, curiously.

  He got over things being weird a long, long time ago;  being swept along in the matters of GODS gives one a certain perspective on the strange. 

  ARMS CROSSING OVER THE RAILING, Don seems content to WATCH for a moment, cane loosely hanging in his fingers. He’s curious; he hasn’t been watching long, and the claim draws up a smile.

  ❛ I DON’T KNOW.  MAYBE?  PROBABLY. ❜  The doctor looks tired — the kind of tired that speaks of too many long nights and not nearly enough rest of late.  Still, he offers up a smile and a little laugh, looking down at the cup of black coffee and shrugging.   ❛ Would probably explain a lot about why I feel like I feel like I’m vibrating. ❜  He’s kidding. Mostly.