#slow down for a second and let somebody merge into traffic in front of you on a busy highway where they’ll sit there for ages

[united-federation-of-trek]

I hate when you say “it costs 0 dollars to be kind” and they respond like a smart-ass with “how much does it cost to be an asshole?”

The point is not that it’s cheaper or easier to be nice, the point is that there is no detriment to you if you are nice to someone and in a neutral situation where there is no cost to you either way but you have the chance to be kind or to be mean, you should choose to be kind instead. If your response to something determines whether the interaction is a net positive or a net negative, why would you choose to make it a net negative. Being an asshole costs you nothing (tangible, anyway) but it costs the person you’re an asshole to? It makes their day worse to interact with a dick?

You’re not funny or clever or edgy, you’re just an asshole!

#nobody is saying that you have to constantly inconvenience yourself #or be annoyingly positive or happy #but like #if somebody asks you for your seat on the train and you’re able to #you should #or like saying please and thank you and smiling at your barista #slow down for a second and let somebody merge into traffic in front of you on a busy highway where they’ll sit there for ages #if nobody slows down #you’re not funny for creatively insulting somebody #if you’re both aware and comfortable that it’s a joke whatever #but like you don’t need to condescend to other people or make them feel stupid #when somebody says they don’t know how to do something #offer to show them instead of scoffing and making fun of them #like zero dollars #this is about the person who just stared at me when I asked them to pass me something at work #and the other person who saw it happen and went out of their way to grab it for me #also the person who was just walking past but noticed my hands were super full so opened the door for me #not trek #be kind to people #it costs nothing to be kind

[builder051]

Merrily we roll along

For @mohini-musing.  Happy belated birthday, my dear, and I’m very sorry I put you through this terror on a regular basis.

Whoa Bessie, the AU in which Steve is trans and Bucky is a veteran, not that either of those particularly figure into the story. __________

They’re driving.  Again.  James’s slew of twice-a-year check ins with various specialists have rolled around, and more than one has referred them on to yet another more capable doctor friend.  There’s new technology out now, too.  First James let them outfit his ears, and now, finally, he’s thinking about letting them outfit his arm.  

The new prosthetics specialist is Swedish, at least Steve thinks he is.  Somebody Odinson.  Between James’s hearing and the doctor’s accent, their teleconference went less than well.  So now they’re driving.  Not to Sweden, but it may as well be, with all the twists and turns and side streets.  Steve silently tells the GPS to go fuck itself, then mutters to James, “We’re so taking the highway the rest of the way.  Just let me find an on ramp.”

“Ok.”  James doesn’t seem to care.  Why would he?  He doesn’t drive, doesn’t particularly mind if they’re on time for his appointments.  He looks especially blank, though.  Maybe a little grey in the dim afternoon light filtering through the heavy clouds.  

“You doing ok?” Steve hopes James isn’t carsick, though it would make sense if he was.  The path they’ve been following is more akin to Thunder Mountain than an actual street map.  But there’s no self-conscious gulping, no green tinge across his cheeks.

“Yeah.”  James blinks, but doesn’t look at Steve.

“Tired?” Steve guesses.  They were up once overnight, briefly, at one in the morning, but a cuddle and a glass of water put James down again without much trouble, so Steve counted it for a win.  Compared to the sleepless nights they’d endured before the insurance approved the Prazosin, it was practically pleasant.

“Hm.”

“Alright.”  Steve doesn’t push him.  He’s probably nervous about the consultation, and talking about it will just make it worse.  “Here’s the highway.”  Steve twiddles the steering wheel and merges onto the interstate.  “I bet we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

This time, James doesn’t respond.

Steve mentally shuffles his deck of therapist cards.  He’s not technically supposed to treat James, but the techniques have done a lot to calm him through stressful situations.  “You feel like talking it through?” he asks, always wary of chattering too much and getting on James’s nerves.

“Eh.”  James shrugs and looks out the window.

“Ok.”  Steve settles on a CBT protocol.  What’s the positive?  What’s the negative?  What’s the realistic?  “What’s a good thing that could happen at the appointment?”  He looks at James, then quickly returns his eyes to the windshield when a fat drop of rain splatters across the glass.

“Um,” James starts.  He takes a shuddering breath.  “I…  I could…”

“Uh-huh,” Steve encourages him, turning on the windshield wipers.  

“I could… um.”

The traffic slows in front of Steve.  He presses down on the brake, wondering what’s causing the backup.  He shifts in his seat, trying to see around a monsterous jeep.  At first he doesn’t notice anything unusual, then he sees a line of orange barrels edging him steadily out of his lane.  “Shit,” Steve whispers at the same moment that James gives up on his stuttering and murmurs, “Fuck.”

Steve laughs quietly.  “Aren’t we a pair?”  He throws another glance in James’s direction and turns on his blinker.  “Come on, give me a good possibility.”

“I… ok…”  James heaves a sigh.  “Um…”

“Buck?”  Steve squeezes in between the jeep and a pickup truck that seems set on bottoming out the speed limit.  Steve could probably roll faster if he put the car in neutral.  The one benefit of the slow tempo is that he doesn’t need to steer, though, so he reaches over to gently pat James’s shoulder.  It’s the stump arm, so he’s careful not to exert too much pressure or move too quickly, but James seems to need the grounding touch.

“I…”

“Ok,” Steve assures him.  “It’s ok if you can’t think of one.  You wanna tell me… what we should pick up for dinner later?”

He hears James drag in another breath, then let it out with what sounds like a mighty tremor.  Steve breathes slowly himself and keeps his ears peeled.  

“I...can’t.”

“Huh?”  It’s not want Steve expects to hear, though he can’t think of a good reason why not.  “You don’t have to, Buck.  You never have to.”

“I… Just… I…”

“Take your time.”  Steve’s beginning to worry now, his heart hammering just a bit more quickly than usual.  He turns his head and takes a good long look, his eyes bouncing from James’s pale cheeks to his cockeyed sunglasses to his slack, white lips.  “Buck?  You feeling alright?”

“I…”  The answer is plainly no, but James still seems unable to pronounce the short word.

“Ok, let me figure this out…”  Now that he’s well and truly merged, there’s nothing to do but inch the car along until they get to the next exit.  Steve ponders pulling over and calling someone, maybe 911, but that’s probably overreacting.  James won’t take well to paramedics poking and prodding at him.  He’s still too coherent for this to be a real emergency.  “Here,” Steve finally says, reaching across James’s chest for his right hand.  “Hold on to me, ok?”

James obliges, though slowly.  His grip starts out strong, then begins to slacken the longer he holds it.  The rain that had previously been sending down drops every thirty seconds or so breaks into a steady downpour.  James practically hisses in distaste.

“I know, just hold on, ok?  I’m going to exit as soon as I can.”

James makes a breathy noise, then swallows wetly.  “I… ok.”

“Ok,” Steve echoes, glad James is at least minimally coherent.  “Ok.  Let’s play a game,” he says with an air of confident cheeriness he doesn’t feel.  “What do you see?”

“Um…”  James pauses for a long moment.  Trees, Steve expects to hear him say.  Or cars.  But instead, James slowly says, “Orange?”  The word trails up at the end, as if he’s not sure what he sees, or maybe how to put it into a verbal form with letters and syllables and sounds.

“Orange?” Steve repeats, his brown knitting in concern.  

“I…  I think?”  James gulps again.  “Um…”

“Alright.”  Steve squeezes his hand.  “You feel sick and you can’t see.  Am I right?”

James slowly nods.  

“Give me those.”  Steve points to James’s sunglasses, then winds up gently pulling them off the other man’s face when he’s too slow.  “Now look at me.”

It’s as Steve suspected.  His pupils are blown and not responsive to the change in light.  The rain makes the afternoon dark and dingy, but there should be enough contrast from the shade of the dark glasses to make at least a little difference.

“And you’re seizing.  Hold on just a little further, Buck,” Steve tells him.  He can see an exit ahead of them now, one thankfully devoid of traffic cones and flaggers.

“Hm.”  James blinks hard and tucks his chin as if suppressing a gag.

“Yeah, just a minute…”  Steve carefully extricates his hand from James’s clammy grip and turns the steering wheel.  There’s a McDonalds just off the road.  Steve barely pauses at a stop sign and pulls into the parking lot.  

“Alright.”  Steve flings open his door and dashes around the car just as James pitches forward against his seatbelt and begins to vomit into the footwell.  He swears under his breath, then yanks the passenger door open and helps James aim for the pavement.  “Ok,” he whispers, squatting in front of him.  “You’re ok.”

“I--” James sputters.

“It’s alright.  You don’t have to talk.”

“No, I--”  James retches again, then drops his forehead onto Steve’s shoulder.  “Ow.”

“Head hurts?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Ok.  Just breathe for me.”  Steve wraps him in a loose embrace and pats him on the back.

James inhales, then pushes the air back out.  He hiccups, then retracts his neck before he throws up again.

“Just breathe,” Steve encourages again.  He tucks a lock of hair behind James’s ear, careful not to jostle the aid perched there.  “Just get your breath back.”

“Ok…”  James spits and wipes his mouth on his stump shoulder.  “I’m… I…”

“Shh,” Steve says.  “We’re not done with our game.  I have a few more questions for you.”

“Hm.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Uh…”  James clears his throat and his whole body shakes.  “Car?”

“Ok, good.”  Steve presses his cheek to James’s temple.  “Know what day it is?”

“I don’t…” James starts.  “Tues… I mean… Wednes… Wednesday?”

“Alright.  See, you’re with me.”  Steve grins and kisses him on the hairline.  

“Still… don’t feel good.”  James bites back a dry heave.

“Let it out.  It’s ok.”

He’s quietly sick again, though it’s just bile now.  Mucous hangs from James’s nose and lips.  Steve opens the glove box to find him a tissue.

“I…” James croaks.  “Home.  P-please?”

“Yeah, of course.”  Steve reaches in his pocket for his phone.  “Let me just cancel your appointment.  Then we’ll go so you can have your migraine in peace.”  It’s the sad truth to seizures like this.  First absence.  Then illness.  Then pain.

“Sorry.  R-really, I’m...”  The words may be in the wrong order, but the sentiment is sincere.  

“Don’t worry about it, Buck.”  Steve gives him another soft peck, then scrolls through the massive list of doctors in his contacts.  “Let me take care of this.  Then I’ll get you home.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #stucky #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #captain america #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #seizure #Avengers #hurt comfort #mcu #marvel #alternate universe #WHOA BESSIE

[shatteredskies042]

With Hunt VI

Before heading down to the tailor, Michael relaxed for a few minutes and took a shower. His first since they began this adventure, it felt cleansing, washing what had happened in Rome and invisible dirt off of his skin. Reenergized, Michael dressed in the slacks and white button up shirt the staff had provided to them. He looked over the note the blonde had left him, instructions for the tailor it seemed: Italian suit, two buttons, tapered trousers, tactical lining? He’d have to ask about that. Picking up the note and the coins, he started for the door.

Outside, he passed a few people checking into a room, both sides exchanging glances and sweeps for weapons. Michael was not carrying at the moment, but he could defend himself if need be without one. Reaching the elevator, Michael nodded politely to the operator, asking him to direct him to the tailor. After receiving directions, the elevator operator asked a question Michael had grown accustomed to:

“Are you and Miss Allyson partners?”

“We work together fairly frequently,” Michael stated during the ride down.

“If I may, sir, a word of warning,” the operator inquired. With a nod from the soldier, he told him to: “be careful around her. There are many who would like to bring harm to her.”

“I am fully aware of that,” the soldier promised.

“And you do know, sir, that they will come for you to hurt her as well?”

“Let them come,” Michael replied easily.

“You are very confident, sir,” he stated. “Many mortal men would not, with all that is arrayed against you.”

Michael remained silent as he looked at the shiny doors as they opened. He strode out, and down the hallway to where the tailor operated his business. The tailoring process was played out as the tailor made his measurements, and it seemed everyone in the hotel knew of his association with Ally. All providing some warning about the blonde, but nothing he had not heard of before or experienced himself.

The tailoring went fine, Michael’s measurements taken with a minimum of fuss as the two spoke. They began to discuss the tactical lining that seemed to be proprietary to the hotel’s organization.

“Practically guaranteed to stop small caliber weapons fire. Sustained fire may cause issues,” the Italian tailor stated, holding a sample of the lining. “But, as with getting shot-”

“It hurts like hell,” Michael finished.

“Speaking from experience,” the tailor noted, “would you like the finished product delivered to your room?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, thank you,” Michael told the tailor, shaking his hand before leaving the man to his work. As he strode back towards the elevator with a smile on his lips, the sound of Allyson’s voice filled his head.

Michael, get the car, right now! She sounded panicked, and more came shortly thereafter: I spotted Portia, she’s in a small convoy headed west, through the city.

Michael sprinted into action, retracing their earlier steps back into the garage and finding the yellow Porsche. Popping the trunk, he grabbed his rifle and carried it into the front, sticking it between his legs, barrel down against the floor as he turned the key and fired the motor. Ally, I need street names, he told her, racing out of the garage and onto the streets of Zurich.

Michael ducked in and out of traffic, heading west and crossing a bridge spanning the Limmat river. He saw an entry ram to what appeared to be a highway ahead, but slowed to try to hear from Ally first. Ally?

Sorry, can’t make out anything, but there’s a blue sign, white seventeen on it, she told him. Headed northwest, following the road. I’ll tell you if they turn off, but I don’t think they will, even through their link, she sounded exhausted.

Michael looked around quickly, and saw that the ramp would merge onto the highway she was talking about. It was a bit of a risk, pulling ahead of them. But she stated there wasn’t much risk of them turning off, and if they did, Michael had the speed to catch up. How are you following them? He asked curiously.

I may have carjacked somebody. And the cops are after us too, so there’s that.

Michael sighed and shook his head as he accelerated and entered the highway. So much for being low profile, he commented, driving the speed limit and waiting for the chase to catch up to him. Make of their vehicles?

Black Suburbans, three of them. I think our targets are in the middle one, she told him. So, what’s our plan?

You need to shake the heat, Michael told her first, watching his mirrors for signs of the approaching vehicles.

I’m not going to let them get away, Michael, she told him.

Do you trust me?

Yes, I do, but this is personal.

I know, just back off and let me handle this while you lose the heat, the soldier told her. Taking them out right now and getting away with it would be difficult, and we can’t risk it. I’m going to follow them, and see if I can find out where they’re going.

Michael they need to be stopped, Allyson replied.

And they will be. Not with Swiss police hot on your tail, he told her.

Fine, I’ll pull off the highway and lose em.

Thank you, Michael told her.

Behind him, he saw black Suburbans accelerating ahead them. He saw Allyson turn off the highway, with the police following her. Michael glanced over at the convoy, and kept driving like normal. He felt eyes on his car, and breathed evenly. He had the SCAR between his legs, but with the smoked windows of the car it would be extremely difficult for someone to just look through.

Michael cut his throttle and let the group slide past him, before pulling in behind them. He did everything he could to appear and drive normally, following what is seemed to be a path towards the airport. Ally, how are you doing? He asked her.

You might want to brace, she recommended.

As soon as she said that, pain wracked his body. It was subtle, but still there. What did you do? He asked.

Kinda crashed the car into a ditch, she told him, dove out at the last second.

Are you okay?

I’m fine, she promised. I’m running to you. And I’ve shaken the cops. They’re looking for a blonde, not a white wolf.  

Michael shook his head and laughed, I think they’re going to the airport, he told her, as the group pulled off the highway to exit to the Zurich airport. Michael watched them turn off, and let them pass, taking the next exit.

I’m still a few minutes away, where are they going? Ally wanted to know, as she ran at full tilt towards him.

Headed to the fixed base operator’s terminal, he remarked, private gate.

Makes sense for them to have a private jet, anything on the tarmac? Ally asked.

Michael looked around slowly as he came to a stop. Looks like a Gulfstream idling.

You know how I just threw the cops off me? She said, regretting what she was going to ask him to do.

You want me to take them out before they can leave, he put together. What if I just grabbed registration off their aircraft?

Michael, I want them dead. Not tracked.

And I can’t start a gunfight on the tarmac of one of the world’s most secure international airports, he told her. While yes, he could, it would bloody and difficult to pull it off, and getting away was the issue here. This was the best he could do without causing an international incident. He looked over to the flightline, and saw the three Suburbans stop before the open ramp of the closest private jet. Michael quickly memorized the tail number and registry, then drove towards Ally to meet her. When she arrived, he leaned over and popped her door open, before she climbed in still in her wolf form, curling up on the leather seat, but spilling over parts of it.  

I can get the hotel to track their flight, Ally told him, but irritation was obvious in even her mental voice. And probably get us one to follow, but they have a head start, and I don’t like it.

“I’m sorry, Ally, but we don’t need to make this a suicide mission,” he told her. “Jumping out there would have drawn more than just her security,” Michael stated.

The white wolf riding shotgun huffed, then seemed to go to sleep. The drive back to their hotel was quiet, and uneventful. Ally napped the whole way, until they hit the incline of the parking garage. She perked up, and shifted back into her human form to stretch in the enclosed space. “Take your rifle and your gear, we’ll go and hit them as soon as we find out where they’re going,” she told him curtly.

He understood her irritation, and as he alighted the car, told her again that he was sorry about how things had played out.

In response, the blonde leaned on the roof of the vehicle and looked at him, “Michael, I understand why you did what you did, I forgive you. But I’m not happy about it,” she admitted, in a gentler voice. “Let’s just get this done so I can close this door to my past,” she said quietly before heading inside.

Michael dug his apparel and his gear out of the trunk, slinging the vest partially over his shoulder with his darker clothing, while holding his rifle and belt in his free hand. As he headed for the hotel, Ally came back to him: “What’s the airplane’s ID?” Michael repeated it back to her, then the blonde nodded. “Go ahead and just put that stuff on,” she told him, “I’ve already arranged transport.”

Sighing, Michael set the gear back down next to the yellow sports car and quickly looked around to confirm he was alone. Then, he quickly changed from civilian clothes into the darker and reinforced tactical clothing he wore. As he was about to pull his shirt on, Ally’s voice rang out across the parking garage again, causing him to turn to face her.

“Oh,” she whispered softly, seeing him shirtless. “I, uh, need the departure time,” she told him, her eyes raking over his fit and scarred form.

Michael held her gaze for a moment, before slipping the custom made shirt on and pulling it taut. He gave her the time the aircraft had departed, and questioned her again when she still had a dumbfounded look on her face.

“Right, eleven oh seven,” she repeated, shaking her head and turning away to stride back into the hotel. What Michael couldn’t see was the smirk on her lips, and the faint sparkle in her eyes.

Michael shook his head, continuing to put on his gear in the same meticulous manner as he had been taught. As he finished, Ally reappeared, already dressed in her dark operating apparel. “Come on, transport is waiting in the basement,” she told him.

Michael casually strode over to her, and followed at her side as two heavily armed individuals clad in black walked through the ornate hotel lobby. They entered the elevator, descended, and climbed into a black SUV of their own for the ride out to the airport they had just visited. “We’ve got a plane waiting on us, they’ll have an hour and a half head start, but provided we don’t hit any bad winds, we’ll be fine,” Ally told him.

“Where are they going?” Michael asked.

“Svalbard.”