ic contact

[whizbangs]

HOUSE #1470
mayo ✧ little shit ✧ loving daughter







 "You've reached Carol Danvers, aka Captain Marvel. I'm not here, leave a message!

If it's urgent... uh. Leave it urgently."


speed dial
steve
sakamoto
gremlin

( call | text | voicemail | mail | action )

 

Comments

Re: action

[badbreak]

[thoughts of that cold-blooded fucker, that fucking reptilian corpse of a person, instead of the way his achingly empty words had made Badou (hate)feel, has temporarily distracted him; he's too busy giving a sharp fuck you to himself to have time to give another to Carol]

[the frantic, hateful energy leaves him like steam off of a hot plate under water. his hand goes back to being numb and dumb accordingly, finding the task she's ordered him difficult; but he works at it mindlessly, forcing fingers to task, until he's cuffed the cotton above his razor-sharp knee]

[Badou's character is summed his joints; jutting stubborn and too sharp, too awkward to make contact with anything]

[it's certain; he's going to make contact with that reptile again]

[he comes to himself.]

I can do it.

Re: action

[whizbangs]

I don't doubt it, but I got here first.

[the disinfectant's in the form of little wipes, like towelettes, and she busts open the package without any real care for keeping everything tidy; that can wait.

the wipe is bunched up and dabbed gently along the length of the cut, while carol's other hand hovers by his knee, to steady it in case he flinches.

she's intent on her task, brow furrowed in concentration (frustration, helplessness, worry that he's always trying to convince her is misplaced), but she has to say. she has to try.]

You know you can trust me, right? If you ever decide you want to.

Re: action

[badbreak]

[it's not a successful operation; the boy's put himself together all backwards, must have, because for once his mouth is slower than his mind]

[like that's a option? he thinks, but doesn't say]

[and why the hell would I want to? he thinks, but doesn't say]

[the antiseptic hurts like a too-rough hair ruffle, like a friendly whack on the back (his wires feel all crossed sometimes, even when they're not sparking and overheating)]

[he doesn't flinch as anticipated, but the familiarity made estranged stings so much more than the skin-level sizzle of disinfection]

[what he actually ends up saying, feeling so fucking distant inside, is]

Ya should know ya can't trust me.

[the boy stands up, un-applied bandages and clumsy care non-withstanding, numbly kicking glass aside with each paced step]

[it's not really for Carol, but more like a narration for himself (I am standing, I am walking, I am breathing, I am heading to the door...)]

I'm goin' back up ta sleep.

[and he won't look back for anything (Nails tended to leave scenes of destruction even more easily than they created them)]