xxx-cat-xxx

[xxx-cat-xxx]

𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐉𝐑 as 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊/𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 as 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒/𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐀

Avengers: Endgame (2019) Favorite moments in the MCU: Steve running to reunite and help Tony.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

*casually drops off a fic three years later* please accept this humble gift

This is basically the same as every Tony fic I’ve ever written, but of course totally different, because it’s Spock this time.

Summary:

Spock learned a long time ago that showing weakness is not an option. But that doesn’t stop the migraines from coming. Five times he tries to downplay his pain, and the one time he finally reaches out for help.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

*casually drops off a fic three years later* please accept this humble gift

This is basically the same as every Tony fic I’ve ever written, but of course totally different, because it’s Spock this time.

Summary:

Spock learned a long time ago that showing weakness is not an option. But that doesn’t stop the migraines from coming. Five times he tries to downplay his pain, and the one time he finally reaches out for help.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

*casually drops off a fic three years later* please accept this humble gift

This is basically the same as every Tony fic I’ve ever written, but of course totally different, because it’s Spock this time.

Summary:

Spock learned a long time ago that showing weakness is not an option. But that doesn’t stop the migraines from coming. Five times he tries to downplay his pain, and the one time he finally reaches out for help.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Daily drawing 15 june 2025

Iron Man, Mark VII

[xxx-cat-xxx]

as previously established, everyone was having The Worst Day in journey to babel, but bones surely did reap his favorite rewards

however much they're paying chapel, it's not enough

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Star Trek Strange New Worlds s01e09: “It is true that without proper mindfulness Vulcan emotion is dangerous.”

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Happy Birthday, Tony...

[xxx-cat-xxx]

WE ARE SOOOO BACK BABY!! 3.5K word mash fic with the banter written within 24 hours!

“How’s my favorite patient?” Hawkeye asks, beelining for the young man he’s grown so attached to in the past week or so since he arrived. While he normally manages to distance himself from his patients, this one has found his way into his heart. Drafted three days after his 18th birthday, Jack left behind two younger siblings in their alcoholic mother’s care. Of course, he hates that it takes disabling injuries to earn them a ticket back to US soil, his favorite part of the job is getting to tell people they’re going home for good. Too often, he never gets the chance. Those who are lucky enough to escape with their lives often end right back up on the battlefield to die another day. Jack even said he’s grateful for the missing arm. He’d rather lose a limb than suffer here. 

“Favorite? You flatter me. Unfortunately, I won’t be ready to say it back until our third date.” 

“That’s alright. Your eyes say it all.” 

“Stop flirting with the soldiers,” BJ scolds. “It makes me feel like the other woman.” 

“What we have is special. This is just a fling, I promise.” 

“Hate to break it to you, Dr. Hunnicut, but he’s traded you in for a newer, prettier model. I have him wrapped around my  finger.” 

BJ laughs. “I don’t doubt that.” 

“Seriously, though, how did everything go?”

“There aren’t any more empty beds than there were this morning, so I’ll count it as a win,” BJ replies. “You get enough rest?” 

“Almost never,” Hawkeye replies, “but I’ll be able to manage here for a few hours until Charles relieves me.” 

“Good enough for me. If you need me, get Charles.” 

As he leaves, Hawkeye takes Jack’s chart and begins to look through it, frowning. 

“Says here you’ve had some pain in your leg? Let me take a look.” He removes the blankets to reveal a perfectly normal leg, then presses on the calf. “That hurt?” When Jack shakes his head, he replaces the covers. “It’s not warm or swollen, but I’d like to keep an eye on it. If it gets worse, holler. I’ve got to make rounds. I’ll be back.” 

The afternoon passes more quickly than usual, playing cards with Jack with the occasional break to make rounds. Jack is in the middle of telling him all about his high school senior prank when he goes quiet and sits up straight in bed, the cards in his lap dropping to the floor. 

“Jack?” Hawkeye calls, forcing calm into his tone. “What’s wrong?” 

“My chest,” he manages, clutching it as he doubles forward. A clot, it has to be. Luckily, he’s always thrived under pressure. “It hurts.” Hawkeye curses himself for not seeing this coming. He should have administered blood thinners when the pain started, but all signs had pointed to the problem being nothing more than soreness and lingering contusions. He’s gasping now, his face red and veiny. 

“Somebody bring me heparin!” The nurse who rushes the syringe and bottle to him looks terrified, probably because it’s so rare to see true horror in his face. Urgency, sure, but panic?

He pulls back on the syringe, then plunges it into Jack’s arm. By this point, he’s limp. 

“Come on, kid,” he coaxes as he taps his cheek. “I know you can hear me. Look at me.” For a moment, he thinks it works because Jack does open his eyes, wide and horrified. Then, he doesn’t blink. When he loses Jack’s pulse, he starts CPR, but it doesn’t work. Not after one minute, not after ten. 

“Doctor,” a nurse calls, putting her hand gently on his shoulder, “you need to call it.” 

“No.” 

“He’s been without pulse for eight minutes. There’s nothing we can do about that.” 

“There must be something. Just let me think—”

“What’s going on in here?” Charles’ voice approaches from the doorway, but Hawkeye can’t take his eyes off Jack’s blue face. He presses his fingers to Jack’s carotid for a long moment before gently ushering Hawkeye’s hands away from his chest. “That’s enough.” It’s said so gently that he can’t even believe it’s Charles speaking, and there’s a finality to it that makes it real. Agonizingly real.

“He was fine,” he says. “I checked on him an hour ago. His leg was—I didn’t think it was a clot.” 

“Neither did Hunnicut. It sounds like it presented subtly. You couldn’t have known.” 

“I should have—”

“Pierce,” he curtails. “You know better. Call it.” 

“I can still—” 

“No, you can’t. The time is 1854.” Hearing the time sets him over the edge. Tears well up in his eyes and slip down his cheeks before he even has the wherewithal to turn away. 

“Time of death,” he says with devastated flatness, “is 1854.” Charles reaches for his shoulder and squeezes in a surprising display of compassion and empathy. 

“We’ve all been here. Blaming yourself won’t bring him back. It’s not justice for him. It’s just torture.” 

“I’ll be in the Swamp.” Charles doesn’t argue as he stands and walks away, only shuts the man’s eyes and reache for the next patient chart.

“What happened to you?” BJ asks lightly when he stumbles into the tent in a stupor, changing his tone when he collapses into his bed. “You okay?”

“Jack.” 

“What about him? He’s not—is he?” The silence speaks volumes. “Oh. Hawk, I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”

“Either a stroke or an embolism. That pain in his leg was a DVT and I didn’t do a thing about it.” 

“It’s not your fault. You have to know that.” 

“I spent so much time with him. Hell, we were playing cards when it happened. I didn’t notice, didn’t administer heparin until it was too late.” 

“Not everybody has symptoms. It would have been crazy to administer blood thinners for a sore leg.” Hawkeye says nothing, just lays down and drapes his arm over his eyes. “Hey, talk to me.”

“Just leave me alone.” With that, he rolls over to face away from BJ and shuts his eyes. 

Normally, he’d drink about this sort of thing, but given the stories Jack told about his alcoholic mother, it feels disrespectful. Besides, he deserves it. Deserves to feel the loss of having missed a deadly emergency in a kid who was one day away from going home. He spends the rest of the evening in bed, desperately hoping for sleep.

When he wakes the next morning, he immediately knows something is very wrong. His head is pounding in time with the throbbing pain in his joints, swirling together with nausea and vertigo for a product so vile that he can’t hold back a groan. 

“You, too?” BJ asks. 

“Me what?”

“I feel like death. I took that sound as solidarity.” He does feel like death, but the only thing worse than this had been the night he spent staring at his eyelids, stuck thinking and rethinking the same guilty thoughts on loop. If he admits to this, he’ll be confined to bedrest indefinitely, and he can’t risk that. He’ll go insane if he doesn’t distract himself. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Feels like the flu. Body aches, chills. I’m exhausted.” Hawkeye climbs out of bed, grabbing the thermometer from the medicine drawer by the bed and hands it over. They patiently wait while it measures, and when it does, Hawkeye frowns at the reading. “101.5. No good.” 

“Have you taken yours?”

“Don’t need to. I’m fine.” BJ has known him long enough to know that’s not true. 

“You don’t look it. Humor me.” 

“Do you want coffee?” he dodges. “I’m going to bring you some oatmeal from the mess and I can bring you a cup unless you think it’ll upset your stomach.” 

“Hawkeye, come on. You don’t need to be doing that. You look terrible. Just go back to bed.” 

“I’ll bring you a cup and you can drink it if you want to. I’ll be right back.”

With that, he scurries off toward the mess, ignoring the sense of dizziness that almost sweeps him off his feet when he stands. He grabs BJ’s food and coffee, but before he can turn tail and run, Margaret stops him. 

“Where are you going with that?” she asks. “And where’s your better half?” 

“Sick in bed,” he replies. “I’m bringing this to him so fever reducers don’t upset his stomach. “ Margaret casts him a scrutinizing look. 

“You’re not getting anything for yourself?” 

“I’ll get it when I’m hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

“But I am,” she admits. “I heard what happened yesterday. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s a fact of the job.” He doesn’t sound as breezy as he’s aiming for, not that Margaret wouldn’t have seen through it no matter what. She’s perceptive. So perceptive, in fact, that she can sense that he doesn’t want to talk about Jack. 

“Alright. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself, too. The last thing we need is to be down two doctors.” 

“We’ve done it before. I think Frank cancelled one of us out.” She can’t argue with that. 

By the time he makes it back to the Swamp, BJ has almost fallen asleep again. 

“Not so fast,” he scolds. “Don’t fall asleep before you take these.” BJ takes the two proffered pills and chases them with coffee. “And eat this.” 

“Not hungry.” 

“You will be when your stomach springs a leak from those pills.” Reluctantly, he takes a few pathetic bites before shoving the bowl away. “Alright, alright. That’s fine for now. I’ll be back to check on you. If you need something, just ring a bell.” 

“You’re leaving? What are you even planning on doing looking like that?” 

“That depends, am I pulling it off?” 

“I’ll admit you’re glowing, but I think that’s sweat.”

“I just didn’t sleep well. I had a lot on my mind.” 

BJ knows that’s true, so he sighs. “Well, don’t overdo it. Running yourself into the ground isn’t going to do anybody any favors. Rest if you start feeling bad, promise?” He doesn’t reply verbally, so it’s not technically lying.

He spends the day with idle tasks that keep his focus on his hands rather than his thoughts. Though it’s usually the nurses who sanitize the equipment, he chases them out so he can not simply help, but do the entire thing alone. He helps put away the shipment of supplies that comes in the heat of the day, then launders the scrubs. By the time he runs out of things to do, he’s exhausted. He’s already had a few near fainting incidents, but he’s managed to stay upright. Just when he thinks he’s going to have no choice but to go back to bed and try to sleep, the alarms sound. It’s the only time any part of him has been relieved to hear them.

With BJ down for the count, it takes longer than it should. Not just that, but it’s quiet. Nearly silent, in fact. Funny how a little banter can completely change the dynamic in a room, but without their chatting, the tone is dark, dismal, and tense. 

Physically, he’s no better off. Everything hurts and he thinks he’s probably starting to spike a fever, if the shivering is anything to go by. Though he does his best to control it, Margaret sees everything. 

“You’re shaking,” she points out. “Do you need a break? Water?”

“Don’t have time for a break, and no, thank you.” 

“You can take 5 minutes if it means you’re not going to lacerate an organ with trembling hands,” Potter says. “If she’s telling you you need a break, you need a break.”

He just flat out ignores them. Eventually, they stop pushing. 

The next few days pass in a blur. The very next day, Margaret wakes up sick, and the day after that, Charles and Potter. Before he knows it, he’s running the OR by himself despite being barely conscious much of the time. But no matter how tired he is, he still can’t get any restful sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t do anything but think about the horrible horrible thing that happened and blame himself. The exhaustion isn’t helping with the bug he’s still trying to fight off. He should be feeling better today. BJ is. He knows that he’s been pushing himself lately, but surely, he should be on the mend. 

“Brought you something,” he greets as he enters Margaret’s tent with medicine and orange juice in hand. Have you even taken your temperature yet? Potter asked you to do that yesterday morning.” 

“Yes,” he lies, “and I’m fine. Just tired.” 

“I’m sure. You’ve been running around like a dog trying to hold down the OR and take care of us. You’ve proved yourself, if that’s what this is. And I believe you’ve punished yourself, too.” 

“It’ll only be a few more days before everyone is on their feet again. I can hold out until then.” 

“We’ll see about that.” Even arguing with her doesn’t sound fun today, so he stumbles out of the tent and back toward the OR to get started on sanitizing the scalpels. 

When he thinks he’s alone readying for the next batch of wounded, he coughs, long and low in his lungs. That’s been getting worse, too. If everyone else weren’t sick in bed, he’d have been found out immediately, but he’s managed to hold it together in front of them—but not now. 

“Jesus, Hawk,” BJ winces as he approaches his side, apparently alive and kicking enough to be moving around. “That sounds awful.”

“Swallowed wrong.” 

“You know I went to medical school, right? Or that at least I graduated high school?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing. A cough like that, you need a chest x-ray. I’ll get you set up.” 

“No,” he says firmly. 

“Hawk, you’re being impossible, and it’s starting to piss me off.” 

“Then leave me alone.” He knows BJ is never going to follow those orders.

“Look, I know how you feel. I’ve lost patients I’m close with, too, and it’s tragic. But you’re circling the drain, here. You can’t take much more of this.” 

“If I’d given him something when he’d first said it hurt—”

“What, should have given dangerous blood thinners to a man with dozens of stitches and open wounds just because he’s a little sore?” he demands. “I know you feel responsible, but you’re being stupid. Just let me check you out.” 

“I don’t need that.” 

“The hell you don’t. What’s your plan here? Are you just gonna drive yourself into an early grave?” 

“It’s just a cold. It’ll be better in a few days.”

“It’s been getting nothing but worse.”

“I can decide when it’s bad enough for an x-ray.” BJ throws his hands up in frustration. They’re talking in circles. Just what he needs. Maybe, if he can get BJ mad enough at him, he’ll leave him alone. 

“I can’t do this anymore. Go talk to Padre. Maybe he can help you with that guilty conscience so you’ll stop being an idiot and just lie down.” 

At this point he’s willing to try anything. He finds Mulcahy setting up for that evening’s sermon.

“Oh, Hawkeye,” he greets. “Are you alright? You don’t look well.” 

“I kind of have something I want to talk about.” Mulcahy nods and motions for him to sit. 

“I have a feeling I know what this is about.” 

“Jack?”

“Yes, I heard of his passing. I’m so sorry. He was a good man.” 

“He was a kid.”

“Yes. He was.” Prolonged silence falls between them while Mulcahy gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. “I understand that you two were very close.”

“I got too attached,” he admits. “I know I shouldn’t do that. This isn’t the kind of place you should be making friends.”

“Why not?” he asks genuinely. “I think that he benefitted from your kindness and companionship. Even if it ended in pain, I don’t think for a second that it wasn’t a good thing you two met.” 

He tears up not because he disagrees, but because it’s true. There are a million little “if only”s in every heartbreak, all so sharp they cut to the bone. If only he’d seen the DVT. If only he’d given blood thinners. If only he hadn’t let himself let his guard down around someone who had been walking and talking for days and was on the mend. Compassion is such a rare thing around here that it’s rationed like precious supplies. Detached and aloof is the only way to get through this without getting your heart shattered, but he’s glad that the kid’s final days were not spent with someone detached and aloof. 

Relief crashes over him so hard that it leaves him dizzy. When the spinning doesn’t stop after a few moments, however, the other problem is brought to the forefront of his mind. The fever. With the adrenaline gone, he’s shaky, though from emotions or chills is anyone’s guess. His hand flits to his temple as the little dizziness gives way to lightheadedness. 

“Howkeye?” he calls. “Are you feeling okay?” His nod is unconvincing. “You’ve gone very pale.” 

“Feelin’ a little funny,” he says dazedly. “I might head back to the Swamp. Thank you, Father. Really.” He can feel the blood drain from is head and face as soon as he stands. 

“Wait, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should have someone take a look at you, first.”

“It’s nothing I can’t sleep off.” The promise is hollow and only looks worse when another coughing fit grips his chest and refuses to let go. 

“Please sit down so I can find someone to help. You can barely even stand.” 

He doesn’t even notice he’s swaying until his hands dart out as if to catch him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Just feel a little…” he trails off for so long that he forgets the beginning of it. 

“I don’t know what that means. I need to be able to help you.”

“Lightheaded,” he provides. “Probably just dehydrated from the heat.” His ears are ringing. 

“I’ll bring you some water. Sit right here.” 

“I can get it,” he insists, refusing the hands that are trying to maneuver him into lying down until he’s finally too weak to do even that. He’s hot, then cold, and then, there’s nothing but encroaching darkness and Father Mulcahy frantically calling his name. 

When he wakes, he has only three seconds of bliss before he’s made aware of several things at once: 1. BJ is shaking his shoulder. 2. He’s lying on the ground with no idea how he got there. And 3. There is glass in his mouth. It takes him a moment to gather the evidence and an even longer one to think about what it might mean.  Just as he’s starting to tape the pieces back together, Charles removes the glass—a thermometer, so it seems—from between his lips and says, “103.6,” aloud with distinct disapproval. “He needs to be cooled down as quickly as possible.” 

“What…” he starts, the tail of the sentence left to vanish. 

“He’s awake,” BJ breathes. “Talk to us, Hawk. How long have you been this sick?” 

“I… I don’t know.” His words slur together around the edges and if he hadn’t been working nearly 24 hours a day for the lat three days, they might have assumed he’s drunk. “I told you three days ago I knew you were coming down with something, and you pushed yourself hard enough to traumatize Padre by passing out cold in front of him. “ 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize to me,” BJ says irritably. “And don’t get up to go look for him, either. He said he’s going to come visit in a few hours when he’s finished with what he’s doing.” 

That at least gives him time to think about what he wants to say. He lets Charles start a new IV drip and takes the fever reducers shoved into his hand. 

“What did you think was going to happen here? That adrenaline would give you freakish strength like those mothers who lift cars off their children?” 

“Ideally.” BJ isn’t laughing. “I don’t know. I didn’t have an end game. I just couldn’t sit around stewing in my thoughts.”

“You’d have done well to keep them some company.  They’re undoubtedly lonely,” Charles says. 

“Alright, alright. Let’s let him get some rest. You’ll need it to take notes when Potter gives you his lecture.” 

He dozes on and off for the next few hours until Father Mulcahy arrives as promised, damp from the rain and breathless. 

“You’re awake,” he greets so genuinely happily that it makes him feel even guiltier. “How are you feeling now?” 

“Better,” he admits. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have let it get so out of hand.” 

“Hawkeye, you don’t need to apologize for that. I just wish you’d come to me sooner. We could have talked this through.”

“I know.” He looks up to meet his eyes, which are noticeably tired. “And thanks.” 

“My door is always open.”

“Are’t they all?” 

He smiles. “Glad to see you’re feeling a little better. I’ll come by again tomorrow. If you need me in the meantime, you know where I am.” For practically the first time all week, his eyes slip shut. 

[xxx-cat-xxx]

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Tony Stark.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Thinking about the designated driver being injured/ill but pushing through to make it to their destination and once they finally get there, swinging the door open and just falling out onto the ground in a heap

[xxx-cat-xxx]

[xxx-cat-xxx]

@whumpgifathon | Day 15: "Locked Inside"

Star Trek: Into Darkness, James T. Kirk

[xxx-cat-xxx]

IRON MAN (2008) dir. Jon Favreau

[xxx-cat-xxx]

The Avengers 2012

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Stxrdust’s favourite characters: Black Widow edition

I have red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.