ƁЄƜƛƦЄ ƬӇЄ ƁЄƛƧƬ @beastlyhuman-blog - Tumblr Blog

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

Scott shrugs, “I’m trying to distract myself from the giant hole in my leg,” he comments. There’s only so much he can take, or rather ignore, before the pain seeps back in. He had a high tolerance yes, but it didn’t mean he still didn’t feel it; he was just able to endure it. “Does it look like I’m wearing one anymore? Go ahead, I’m naked, feel free to check my body, I don’t have one anywhere.”

He narrows his eyes at him, “I think we both know I don’t cry, I don’t even know if I can, or if they’d also be optic blasts.” To be fair, he did know that he could tear up, he just didn’t want to admit to it; especially because he’d blatantly lied about it at the time. Furious 7 made him cry, and regardless of what everyone knew, he wasn’t going to admit to it; most of all to Bobby. “Good, because I don’t need her mad at me too.”

The wound on his leg was bleeding, yes, but it wasn’t all that bad. “Oh come on Hank, it’s just a flesh wound,” hopefully that would get a laugh out of him. He needed this to be less serious. But when the gown’s thrown at him he tosses it back, rejecting it entirely, conceding defeat and laying back. “I’m ready when you are, Doc.”

"Good coping mechanism." Hank sighed, gathering the things he needed to take care of the wound. "Fine, fine, I believe you. We will just get you patched up and probably get you a restraining order from the Danger Room for a month." Was he joking? Scott had to decide that. He set up his things on a table to the side, fixing the gloves on his hands as he waited for Scott to settled.

"You may still very well be able to sob and blubber." He commented in return as if that was an upside to this all. "Maybe we should grab some onions and test that theory. You don't tear up when you yawn?" Of course now that they were getting closer to the actual point where he was going to need to stitch him back up, he was trying to distract him away from it.

Okay, the Monty Python reference pulled a laugh out of him. "You're just about as stubborn as the Black Knight as well." He caught the gown as it was thrown back, rolling his eyes and placing it aside, "Suit yourself, Mr. Summers." He chided lightheartedly, now examining the wound properly as he grabbed gauze in order to stop the bleeding. "Luckily, you managed to get shot where you have no major blood vessels. When are you going to share all that good luck with the rest of us?" He chuckled, understanding the fact that they both needed to keep this from being far too serious. There's something he didn't think he'd say while going through medical school: don't be too serious. However, his life was anything but a picture of normalcy.

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

Scott blushes at that information, “Wait what?” he asks, unsure of how to process it. “I mean I noticed Warren once, it was hard not to see that thing, but really? I made every attempt not to look, and if it has anything to do with the time my glasses slipped that so isn’t my fault. I closed my eyes almost immediately.”

He’s left to wonder now if that’s where half of Bobby’s jokes started to come from.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hank,” he says, batting his hand away while holding his costume to his junk with his other. His skin shivers at the touch though, something throwing him off.

“Yeah, I’m barely walking so we’re clear. I have a high pain tolerance,” he clarifies. He’d spent years getting hurt at the hand of unsavoury characters, he knew how to take a hit and keep going. “And as for this whole thing, Jean doesn’t find out I got shot in the Danger Room. She hates it when I turn the safeties off, and this’ll give her fuel to her argument.” Scott looks down, it was a clean hit, missing his vital areas as far as he can tell, but it still hurt like a bitch. “I’ll take a seat now,” he states firmly. He limps over to the table and takes a seat, “I don’t need to be carried, especially when I’m naked, Hank.”

Hank kept his expression straight, perking a brow. "This is hardly the time to be discussing the Worthington family endowment." He brushed the topic away with that comment though he wondered if it was better to keep Scott distracted at the moment. "Of course you don't." He snorted lightly, getting back to work.

"Barely walking is better than nothing. I know your pain tolerance is high, so it would truly be a problem if you were crying on the floor." He moved next to Scott once he sat down, sighing aloud. "I'm not about to run off and snitch on you." The last thing Scott needed now was to have both a bullet hole in his leg and an angry redhead on his ass.

"Your own nudity is of no concern to me---I'm simply here to help you from bleeding out." He was awfully blunt about that, but he knew Scott for long enough that this really should not have been such a big deal. He'd think that his own health would override such modesty. He went over to a drawer nonetheless, digging around before pulling out blue patient gown and tossing it over to the younger mutant. "Fine, cover yourself before you have an aneurysm as well." He plunged his hands into the sink to wash himself up before grabbing gloves from a box. "Once you're finished, I'm going to need you to lay down."

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

Scott gives him a look, his eyebrows providing all the expression necessary. “Did you check me out in the shower, Hank?” he asks.

With a sigh he gives in, turning around to pull the fabric down, grunting in pain when the fabric pulls away from the bullet wound on his left thigh, a through and through. “Please don’t make a comment about the mole on my butt, I know I have to get it removed.” Stepping out of the suit he bunches up the fabric and covers his particulars up to turn around. “Where should I sit, Dr. McCoy?” he asks with as much sass as he can muster.

"Yes." The response came immediately. "You were horribly clumsy, though. I wouldn't call it 'checking you out,' per se. You managed to set yourself up for all three of us to see you at one point or another whether you noticed it or not, Mr. Summers."

"You should also refrain from busting capillaries on your neck." He jested in as serious of a tone he could manage, brushing a finger over the side of Scott's neck to the imaginary hickey in mock concern.

He looked down to the bullet wound, keeping his comments to himself on how bad it is. "Well, you're still walking so that's good." He tried to reassure him, "Don't sass me or you'll stand." He spoke with equal sass, not meaning that in the slightest. "Over on the table, please. Do you want me to carry you?"

#notlasers

emcraldoath

That's dirty.

Send me “that’s dirty” and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.

“I’m not wearing any underwear.”

beastlyhuman-blog

"Scott, we showered together for years and I’m a doctor. There are very few things in this world that are left to surprise me and I won’t be finding them today. Please, just take off the uniform so I may dress the wound.”

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ɢᴀᴍᴏʀᴀ

“Care to join me?”

"I would be delighted."

#exdaughterofthanos

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ᴍʏsᴛɪϙᴜᴇ

“And until an hour before the Devil fell, God thought him beautiful in Heaven. Two can play at the quote game.“

"I don't recall making it a game. I was simply venting. Did you need something?"

#mystiquexandxproud

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ᴛᴏɴʏ sᴛᴀʀᴋ

“I don’t see why not.” Tony replied, glancing at the younger boy.

“I’ve heard plenty about what happened prior to my arrival at the school---do you have any semblance of what could've went wrong? It seems that my sources have left out your findings."

#ironxbillionaire

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀ

“Yes, he is a Reverend, but the line following the one you quoted simply refers to him as ‘Mr. Hale.’ That’s what I was referencing.” He smiled wryly. “The world is full of ignorance and stupidity. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

"... Aah--"

The embarrassment from his accidental mistake made his face flush a bright red, bowing his head forward to mask that fact. "Correct." His voice was quiet for a moment as if the hit to his ego had exhausted the anger from him as well. "Forgive me, Dr Banner." He apologized. "Children, I'm accusing the children of being wrong for deciding they know what's best for their own health."

#notajollygreengiant

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ɢʀᴀɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀᴅ

Part of him–the part that was shaped in Garrett’s image and had learned never to trust anyone no matter what wonderful things they promised him–didn’t believe that the doctor’s kind intentions were genuine. Distrust ran deep in his veins, shaping most of his decisions, but he was trying to do better. He wanted to learn how to rely on people instead of constantly believing that everyone would damage him.

But that, as he’d been told, was weakness. Trust and kindness was something that could be exploited, like an chink in someone’s armor where you could drive a knife. As much as he wanted to believe in the goodness of people around him, he knew the world was full of liars and killers just as awful as him and he couldn’t bear the idea of being betrayed the way he had betrayed those that he loved.

He knew the man was right. As much as he wanted a simple explanation, an easy solution to all of the mistakes he had made and the crimes he’d committed, there was none. He would have to work and learn how to be the good human being that he had never been taught how to. Maybe he could do it. Maybe he’d fail. But remembering the way he’d looked when he’d met his eyes in the glass earlier, he knew he had to try.

“Thank you, Henry. Thank you.”

Hank, in this moment, hadn't a distrustful bone in his body. He'd stand before Charles Xavier himself and pledge his promise. The good doctor, armed with his own wits, wanted to help the man. He'd raise his hand up to God, though he never found himself to be a man of faith. He wanted to teach others that it was okay to trust, even if that trust was extended to a cautious few.

As much as Grant may have found trust to be weakness, it was also a double-edged sword. One man cannot protect advances from every side. He needed another at his back to guard him. There was strength in numbers. There were numbers they could trust. One man against the world could never succeed. To make the world a better place, they'd need to work together. Wishing to bring the world down onto its knees was a fool's dream. If hope existed, very little in life was impossible.

There wasn't a simple solution to all this, but there was a solution in the end. It just took patience and time to reach it---like any complex equation. He offered a very slight smile to the man in front of him, pleasantly surprised by the words of thanks.

"I need no thanks until we've accomplished our goal."

#notanaziward

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

He shakes his head, “That’s nonsense. You are a doctor, so you’ll know I’m in peak physical condition, my cholesterol is well below any dangerous levels, and I manage my stress quite well. Besides, you said it yourself last time, I’m in great shape, a specimen I believe you said?”

He reaches over again, smacking him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t ever say that, you understand me, Henry? You’re family, and I don’t give a damn what people say, us five, we stick together. I would never ignore you, I trust your advice above anyone else’s, with the notable exception of the Professor that is.” He clears his throat, “So go on, tell me.”

"You're indeed in peak physical condition, but also in your prime for giving me a migraine. However, yes. I suppose you're not wrong, though I'll take none of the responsibility if you drop over in front of me... but I'd be required to help you nevertheless."

He catches Scott's hand the second time, keeping it still with a tense jaw. "No one has corrected me in the past." He notes, further proving his point. "... The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." He releases the hand and sighs, a bit of regret blossoming over his face. "Forgive me, you've never done wrong toward me and I shouldn't take out my frustration on you." He exhaled a sigh. "There was a group of students planning to take a trip to... ah, I don't recall where, but I was attempting to stop them from leaving---not solely because they were leaving, but due to the fact most of them were underage. After I heard them talking about alcohol and strippers, that's when I decided to step in. Albeit, my advice fell upon deaf ears and I fear I will be a busy man for the week to come if they decide to go through with all their plans. None were happy I knew of them."

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

“You know,” he starts. “Unlike how it usually goes when you speak, I actually completely understood that.”

Scott then reaches over and smacks him on the cheek, “English, Hank. Please?”

"Ah---"

"That was English. Arthur Miller was indeed one of the most prolific American playwrights in his day. You've never been the most indulgent of the fine arts. I dare not speak anymore. I might be a doctor, but I'd rather not treat an aneurysm today... nor a myocardial infarction. I fear you might suffer both, so please ignore me. I don't believe most people find that too difficult in general."

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ sᴄᴏᴛᴛ

“What are you talking about, Hank?”

"I'm talking about the amount of disrespect in this school. However, don't mind my McCarthyism-infused rage. I'm sure I'd wind up bound with my mouth gagged if I spoke another word to you."

#notlasers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀ

“Easy there, Mr. Hale. Are you just quoting, or is something actually wrong?”

"I believe Reverend Hale is more accurate. Stupidity is what I find wrong. Careless ignorance and stupidity."

#notajollygreengiant

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ᴍʏsᴛɪϙᴜᴇ

“It’s not as bad as Salem, Hank yet.“

"And the day this personal Salem pulls down Heaven and raises up a whore, I'm packing up my bags and skipping town."

#mystiquexandxproud #// I LOVE THE CRUCIBLE OKAY #// best thing my drama club did besides west side story okay #// and yes hello this is hank <333

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ɢʀᴀɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀᴅ

Once upon a time, Grant Ward had wanted to be a hero. When he was still little and things weren’t quite as broken, he’d wanted to help people with all of his heart. He’d wanted to be a firefighter, a policeman, a soldier that worked every single day to keep innocent people from being hurt. But then he’d seen Thomas at the bottom of the well, dark water threatening to choke the life out of him as he begged for the help. That was when the hate found a home in his heart, twisting around him with its thorns in delicate flesh. Christian had forced his hand so many times, but now he was locked up like an animal for the worst betrayal. It was like the Friedrich Nietzsche quote, he thought, remembering back to school days.

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster…for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

He shook his head, wincing when the action brought him pain. “Trust me. This is nothing.” He’d had worse before he was walking properly, all thanks to his dear and loving parents. He still hated them–and Christian–more than anyone else in the world. He wanted them to suffer the way he had, wanted them to understand what it was like to be terrified of waking up every single day. He wanted them to understand the desperation of a child with no one to turn to. But they never would. No physical pain would ever be able to teach them that.

As he stared at the man in front of him, he repeated in his mind the manta he had read once and never forgotten. It was one he told himself often, brought from a book that Garrett had insisted he read. ‘Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.’ No matter how much he wanted to label himself a specialist, he was a soldier in the end. It was only now that he had the choice of who he would serve.

It was odd to think that a stranger had so much faith in him when the people had come to love had rejected him so thoroughly, but he was grateful to have someone who truly believed he could make a change. “I don’t know how to be the person everyone wants me to be.”

In his own younger years, Hank had never expected to be a hero. He never expected to be one to help save the world from certain demise. He expected to see himself as a world renowned doctor saving people in different ways.

He started as a young football star and top student. He was shunned for the mutant physique he was born with and the skills his genetic had granted him from birth. The world was full of second chances. He could never repay Professor Xavier enough for the changes he granted him by taking him under his wing at the Xavier School all those years ago. It was nothing as drastic as the chance he wanted to give to the SHIELD traitor, but he couldn't say with a sane mind that he'd rather see him rot down here than become something more. He drew his hand away from Grant's shoulder and closed up his bag, still crouched in front of him. He looked into the man's eyes and took a moment to imagine the hatred they'd seen---the bloodshed and betrayal. A traitor was rooted to be betrayed. He was betrayed by all he once knew... or he'd simply not be in this cell. He was making it his personal goal to help him. Oh, stars help him now.

"Neither does a child." He carefully spoke, not meaning an insult, but an example. "No one truly knows how to be the person that they are expected to be. They need to learn. Knowledge can be the greatest power someone could hold against this world." His eyes were locked with Grant's with a small, sympathetic yet determined smile appearing on his face. Both his hands locked onto his shoulder's now, keeping him in place as he watched him. "All you need is someone willing to teach you. I believe I might be the person for that task. Henry McCoy---at your service."

#notanaziward

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ʀᴀᴄʜᴇʟ sᴜᴍᴍᴇʀs

“You are pulling Heaven down and raising up a whore?” Rachel isn’t sure why she still remembers those words, and the last time she’d heard them, it had been a bit more censored, for an almost ten year old's ears, but she’d since found a copy of the play.

"Ah--- They are blind in faith and to their own hypocrisy that compromises the very beliefs they are supposed uphold and cherish." There was a visible relaxation in the older mutant's form, watching the young woman with a slight smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. "A learned young woman, aren't you? I give my sincerest apologies if I frightened you, miss."

"There is reasoning behind my madness though I'll not trouble you with those details. Have we met before? You look oddly familiar though I don't recall a name to go with that lovely face."

#rachelasummers

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴇᴅ﹕ ɢʀᴀɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀᴅ

In truth, he did not know who Grant Ward was. He knew what he’d been made, a tin man molded in the form of his abusers. He knew what it was like to be broken down and reshaped over and over until the person that he might have been was gone. He knew his training and he knew his orders, but he didn’t know his hopes and dreams. He wondered what he would have been if he’d had a real family, if he’d been able to be a kid. Wondering was pointless, he knew that, but he couldn’t help his mind.

“I’ve had worse,” he said quietly, not moving the ice pack away from where the ache was worst. It was true. He had a fairly high pain tolerance and, if he were treating himself, he wouldn’t have bothered with ice. It was a waste of a resource, a thought he couldn’t shake even with the fact that SHIELD could easily afford a thousand ice packs. It was the very essence of it that bothered him, rather than the actual details. It could be used to help someone who truly wanted help, rather than to soothe the pain of someone who was trying to destroy themselves.

He stayed as still as ever as the doctor worked on cleaning up the blood, lips pressed into a thin line as the fabric tugged against the roughness of his beard. “No. They used to let me have supervised shaving, but that stopped once I was put on suicide watch,” he explained, not sure why he felt the need to answer a rhetorical question so fully. Maybe he just wanted to fill the stagnant air with words instead of aching silent.

The man was right. He wanted to be hated. He wanted violence and anger and the harshness of fury that burned right down to his bones. He wanted screaming and broken glass, shattered bones and bloodstained fabric. That was easy to deal with. Kindness, however, made him flighty and nervous. So, maybe in part, that was why he inflicted such cruelty on himself. He couldn’t imagine a life without it.

“I’m a traitor. I betrayed everyone here and you have hope for me? I think, Doctor McCoy, you might be the only one.”

Hank indeed knew little of this man’s past, but he knew enough to know that he needed help. Help in more ways than one. He knew not of his abused past, however. He could only fumble with guesses and clues as to Grant’s person plainly displayed for his eyes to gaze upon. His mind craved more. He wanted more knowledge, more to help him through the rut he was stuck in. There was a ditch he’d been digging for the majority of his life that the mutant wished to take his hand—pulling him up like the savior he’d trained to become. The hero he wanted to be.

“Worse does not mean that it doesn’t hurt any less.” The comment came out automatically as he tossed the rest of the soiled gauze and bandages into a plastic bag to be disposed of outside. He tied the ends around his hand, pulling it through in a knot and throwing it near the door. He was here to preserve the SHIELD prisoner, not make him comfy in this little cell he’d been caged within. Yet, he found himself wanting to get him cleaned up and back into a reasonable state of mind. There was little he could work with in the way of doing that, but he was trying his damnedest with words alone. He could judge solely off the fact Grant wasn’t moving the ice pack that his pain was concentrated within his forehead where he’d smashed his face off the wall.

He had little expectations in the way of a response, but it made sense for the traitor to have his shaving privileges revoked with something like that hanging over his head. There was little he could say or do to that, at least. However, he could always work to convince them Ward was more stable in the future… if he did prove to have made progress. Again, he was no psychiatric doctor, but he wasn’t completely out of the loop when it came to sensitive subjects such as those.

His gaze met Grant’s directly as he spoke, word for word with the most genuine meaning placed behind each syllable he uttered with slightly choked breath with the heavy air that filled his lungs. He balanced himself by placing a hand on the other’s shoulder, though never putting more than a feather’s amount of pressure down upon him. He was gentle as if touching a porcelain doll though he knew he was touching steel forged in the heart of war.

“The hardest thing in the world is believing someone can change. It’s easier to go along with the way things are than to admit you might have been wrong in the first place.” He recited, the words of Jodi Picoult trained on his tongue. A firm believer in change he claimed to the man, and a firm believe in change he was going to prove himself to be. He desperately wanted to see change in this man. He wanted his pain to go away. He wanted to peel back the layers that would drive a man down into the deep pits of the rabbit hole in order to be locked away in SHIELD custody like this. He had hope for him. He had hope that a miracle would happen.

As the good men and women at SHIELD said:

'Don't forget, there's nothing more horrifying than a miracle.'

#notanaziward

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