He strode into the room, his movement just as you remembered. His fists were tightly clenched. Your breath was taken as you remembered how safe and warm your hands had felt in those and how his hands had been gentle, but confident. He was wearing black track pants and a fitted white t-shirt. Somehow it didn’t look like a uniform on him. On his wrist you saw a black wrist band you hadn’t noticed before. There was something attatched to it, some sort of intricate design. You wondered what it was.
Then you finally looked at his face. His strong jaw and chiselled features were tense, but they were as you remembered. His lips were a straight, almost in line. And his eyes, the same brown as you had learnt so well in those few moments, deep and infinite. You wanted to look into them again, you wanted to explore more, but he wasn’t looking at you. You shut your eyes and exhaled, trying to remind yourself that you hardly knew Park Jimin.
He was standing at the front of the class, his hands now behind his back. Mrs. Shin was already sitting at the piano, a quiet smile on her face.
Yuna had been trying to get your attention and you glanced at her. ‘Thank God’ she mouthed then grinned. You gave her a weak smile back. Jimin was here, and so your abnormal curiosity might be satiated. But then, Jimin was here, and after all that had happened, after he’d walked out, could you even face him again?
He now cleared his throat, looking out at the class. “Good Afternoon, class.” He said. His voice was the same authoritative sound, though it seemed so business-like. The last time you’d heard him speak was when he had been talking to Taeyeon in the dining hall. Back then his voice had been angry, and tense. Now it was just blank.
Whilst you had been thinking, everyone else had stood up, and they were now chorusing. “Good Afternoon, Sir.”
“Sit for a minute.” He said. You exchanged another glance with Yuna as she sat down again, what was this going to be about? Jimin stepped forward, a serious look in his eyes. “As Jiwoo’s class I believe you have the right to know how she is.” He began in a heavy tone. You sat up straighter. He had more information about Jiwoo? His jaw was taut as he continued. “In falling she managed to break her collarbone. Normally it wouldn’t be so bad, but the bone has been displaced.” He swallowed. His expression was still calm and controlled, but you saw his tensed jaw. “She got out of surgery a few hours ago.” He rubbed his chin, as if deliberating something, then looked back to the class. “At present, they think it’ll take her four months to heal.”
You felt tears pricking your eyes. You felt sympathetic for what Jiwoo was going through. Ballet dancers were injured all the time, it wasn’t rare, even though at Amour there weren’t that many. But if you yourself wasn’t allowed to dance for four month, it would be terrible. Jiwoo loved ballet. You’d seen it on her face, and in the way she worked. And of course missing four months of classes would mean she would fall far behind the class.
Jimin exhaled and clapped his hands together. “Positions, please!” He frowned suddenly. You saw who he was looking at. “Who are you?” He asked, walking over.
Eungkwan, who you’d thought to be rather shy, now stood up straight, his chin raised. “Dahn Eungkwan.”
Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a second year. Why are you here?”
“I’m Miss (Surname)’s partner.” Eungkwan answered.
You waited for some kind of reaction from Jimin, some tiny show of something at your name, but he just looked Eungkwan up and down very slowly, studying him, then looked behind him, out the window and off into the distance. He seemed caught on a thought, just for a few seconds, then he snapped back to the class. “Hurry up!” He said, returning to the front of the class. “Promenades!”
You stood up. A horrible wave of pain crashed around your head. Your vision was shrouded again by black. You pressed a hand to your forehead. Oh God! Then it began to clear again, and the pain left with one final stab. You took one deep breath and then hurried over to Eungkwan. The piano had already started, and he quickly put his hands on your waist.
Nerves thrummed in your stomach, even though they had no reason to. It felt strange to have Eungkwan’s hands on you when Jimin was here. You knew why; everything that you lacked in your partnership with Eungkwan. The emotion, the connection, the passion. Like you’d had when you’d danced with Jimin. And now he was here, in the very same room, and it seemed as though the feeling you had had on that day was so close, but out of reach.
You swallowed, telling yourself to just forget it. “Promenades!” Jimin called. “And five six seven eight and step up two three.” You stepped up onto Pointe and your head swirled as Eungkwan began to turn you. “Miss Gwan, stand up straight!” Jimin circled Minjee and Jongsoo, adjusting their hands and pushing Minjee up taller. “One more promenade then down into courus for eight counts! Five six seven eight and down! Courus right!”
You felt dizzy as you made the tiny courus. “Where are the arms?” Jimin demanded. Eungkwan hands went away from your waist, and for once you felt like you needed them. You tried to breathe in as you raised your arms to fifth.
“And arabesque step and up! Keep control!” Jimin ordered, exasperation in his voice. You glanced in the mirror. He was looking at the whole class, his hands on his hips. You looked at them as well. Even with your horrible state, you had to admit Eungkwan and you were looking pretty sharp. Others wobbled or let down their legs. Hyeun was gripping her partner’s shoulder. You felt like slouching over Eungkwan’s hand which lay on your belly, head felt so heavy. Toughen up, (Name)! Your yelled at yourself. You took a deep breath and lengthened your neck. You had to keep the composure. You were doing okay, you were fine.
“And now down, four two steps forward and into pirouette!” It seemed like pirouettes were the worst thing you could possibly do right now, but you launched into the fast spin, Eungkwan’s hands ringing around you. Nausea was tugging at you now, in your belly and your throat.
“And out into developpe!” You stopped the pirouette, and wobbled dangerously. Come on! You lifted your leg out in front of you, still bent. “And stretch out! Hold it! Keep holding!” Jimin gave an exasperated sigh. The piano stopped.
“What the hell.” He began, walking between the dancers to the front of the class. “Do you think you are all doing?” His lips were pursed, hands still on his hips.
After a few moments, Hyeun eventually stepped forward and said. “We didn’t really have to, you know, worry about it with Madame Zhang.”
Jimin folded his arms. “So you’re entirely reliant on your teacher, Miss Yah?”
Hyeun bit her cheek, looking guilty. “I guess.”
Even though he was only addressing her, everyone felt guilty, and he knew. Jimin sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. He looked out at the class. You’d noticed all along, but hadn’t thought personally of it. He never looked to where Eungkwan and you were standing.
“None of you will ever succeed in ballet if you have to have someone to make sure you’re keeping the standards.” He stepped forward, looking at the class. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t have your teacher, or if you’re tired, or if you’re frustrated.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “There are no excuses. You dance to your standards and when you reach them you set higher ones. You never lower them, you never get complacent and for fuck’s sake, you never get sloppy!” Your class was silent, his words sinking into each and every one of you.
You looked at Jimin, feeling something stir in you. He was so very right.
He held his gaze on the class a few moments longer before letting his folded arms drop to his sides. “Rows of three.” He said. “We’re doing combinations, and if any pair performs sloppily then they will do it again until they get it right.” He raised his chin and clapped his hands. “Hurry up!”
“Someone’s touchy.” Minjee muttered as everyone went to the back.
“You in particular, Miss Gwan-” Jimin murmured from the front of the studio, looking nonchalantly at his black wristband. “-Should be thinking about standards. I’m sure your partner is sick of having to push you round your pirouette.”
You glanced at Jongsoo. He was looking down awkwardly. Minjee huffed and went to the back rows.
Jimin gave himself a little smile before looking back at the class. “Alright, first combination. Ladies courus up for eight, arms second to fifth. Then arabesque. Gentlemen run up and catch the arabesque. Ladies curl the working leg around a little. Promenade and finish.” You pictured it in your head quickly. “First line up! Mrs Shin.” He nodded to her, and she began a slow tune. “Five, six, seven, eight. Slowly, Miss Yah! Feel the music! Mister Rhee keep your feet in, good and plie down to finish. Next group up!”
Nerves suddenly shot through you. Only three pairs. Then he would have to look at you. That doesn’t matter, he’s only your teacher, just a teacher.
“And next group!” The dizziness suddenly returned as you échappéd to pointe. You raised your arms, going from outstretched to above your head and back down. You couldn’t wobble, not now. Your head throbbed. You could see little lights dancing around the room.
“Miss Price keep your posture! Arabesque!” You held your breath and let your leg up. Eungkwan gracefully ran and caught you in the arabesque, then turned you around. You had to keep your head straight, though it felt like your insides were spinning.
Remembering the next move, you quickly curled your leg around Eungkwan, effectively circling his waist. You could feel the heat from his body.
“Mister Dahn.” You glanced up at Eungkwan’s name. Jimin was frowning at you and Eungkwan, his eyes avoiding your face. It was the first attention he’d shown your all lesson. You were more excited than you should have been. He studied your position. You glanced in the mirror behind him, and saw yourself, arms reaching out, leg bend in a curl around another dancer. And you saw Eungkwan, his hands on your waist, standing with perfect posture, his eyes straight ahead, completely blank.
You refocused on Jimin. He took a breath through his nose and looked away from you, the muscle in his jaw twitching ever so slightly. “And plie.” He said to the windows, his face still tense as Eungkwan and you plied and then rose up again. You tried to work out his expression, but the sparkling lights had returned, glimmering around everywhere. The stabbing in your head seemed to go in time, as did the horrible swirling in your stomach. You shuffled to the side of the studio and back to the line.
“He missed the promenade.” Eungkwan muttered, already in line.
You nodded, but you didn’t really care. Your headache pulsed insistently hard at you, probably worsened by your confusion about Jimin.
You performed several more combinations, with many stops and starts for other pairs as Jimin went over details. But every time Eungkwan and you performed, he watched passively. There wasn’t much to correct. Eungkwan was, of course, flawless. And you were managing to keep composure. But your headache was getting worse.
“Right.” Jimin said eventually. Lights sparkled around him. You gripped the barre as you swayed.
“Now we’ll move on to four pairs at a time. Four ladies one side, four gentlemen the other. Tour jetes across, crossing over so you swap sides. Second time come halfway across to meet your partner. Sidestep into a line. Développé right, two steps and grand battement, then développé left, same thing. Leap right, leap left. Pirouettes, then finish passé out to développé.” He grinned at the class. “Now we will see who’s been listening.” He clapped his hands. “First group up!”
As soon as you could, you turned your back and fully leant on the bar. You had the horrible sick feeling that you used to get when you spun around too much on the tire swing at school. But you had mastered the dizziness from pirouettes ages ago. You tried taking deep breaths in, out, in, out.
“(Name).” Eungkwan said. You turned around. You were going to be fine. You quickly recounted the steps in your head. Run, meet, développé left, battement, other way same thing, leaps, pirouette, développé. You did not feel like doing the combination but nonetheless hurried to the right side of the studio, lining up with Minjee, and Seohyun.
“Five six seven eight and running.” Hey, didn’t you know this tune? It was Alexandra something…oh crap! You flitted across the stage, way too many counts behind the others.
“And turn, yes and meet them! Good, gentlemen kneel.” Eungkwan kneeled, offering you his hand. You took it, your head now feeling extremely light. “And to the line.” Eungkwan and you skipped into line beside Minjee and Jongsoo. “And développé right, and step step.”
Oh God, what were you doing? Your legs were crossing awkwardly, almost throwing you off balance. You did a weak battement and then went back to Eungkwan for the next move.
“Good and now same thing on the left.” You did the two steps better this time, and let your leg stretch out and fly up.
“Hey!” Minjee shouted. Mrs Shin stopped playing.
What? You looked around. Eungkwan was far away on your left, and you were right next to Minjee. You’d gone the wrong way.
“Sorry.” You said to her. Even though you didn’t like her, you could have kicked her in the head if you’d been just a tiny bit closer. Suddenly pain shoved violently through your head. You squeezed your eyes shut and massaged against your forehead. Couldn’t it just go away?
You opened your eyes, the pain dying down to the normal throb again. You stifled a gasp. Jimin was right in front of you, looking at down at you with concern. Once more, he was frowning. “What’s wrong?” He asked you.
“I’m fine. You said quickly.
"Your head?” He glanced at your hand still up against the forehead.
You swallowed and repeated. “I’m fine.”
Jimin raised a dark, sceptical eyebrow. Another wave of dizziness rolled through you. You swayed momentarily, the sickness returning to your stomach. “Dizzy?” Jimin asked.
You felt utterly powerless, but you still told him an 'I’m okay’.
“No, you’re not.” He said back.
You raised your chin, though you could hardly make yourself look taller than him. “I think I know when I’m okay and when I’m not, Sir.” Calling him 'sir’ seemed strange…foreign.
Jimin sighed wearily. “Untie your shoe.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Untie your shoe, Miss (Surname).”
“Why?” You asked. They were perfectly fine.
“Why not?” He countered. You confusedly sat down, wondering what on earth he was doing. Picking out the knot in the ribbons your shoe fell loose.
“Now tie it up again.” He said, gesturing to your shoe. Your head throbbed as you grabbed the ribbons.
You looked up at Jimin as you tied. “What is the point of this?”
Jimin was looking at your shoe, his eyebrows raised. He nodded to it. “To prove that.”
You glanced down. The ribbons weren’t the neat 'x’ and circle that you’d been easily doing. Instead, they were a loose, useless tangle, just like this morning. You sighed exhausted. You couldn’t tell right from left, you couldn’t remember the steps for your solo, you couldn’t keep in time with the music, you couldn’t even tie up your own pointe shoes! What the hell was wrong with you?
“Mrs Shin, would you please look after the class for a few minutes?” Jimin asked her. Mrs. Shin pushed up her glasses and smiled a yes.
Jimin looked back down to you. He offered you his hand and you tentatively took it.
Electricity suddenly shot up your hands, and Jimin and you locked eyes. There was nothing teacher-student about it. At that point, it was as if Jimin and you were together, as one. Becoming entirely equal within a single look, equal, and connected. But that was impossible. It seemed you both shared the thought, and the both of you snapped out of it.
He pulled you up and then let go as quickly as he could. He turned and was quickly at the door. For just a second, you thought he was storming out again like last time. You felt a horrible pain blossoming in your chest, but then he turned again, holding the door open for you. Hurrying past him, into the cool corridor, you yanked off your loose shoes and held them, confused and slightly, bedazzled.
Jimin leaned back into the studio for a second. “I want to see that combination perfected by the time I get back, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” You heard your classmates chorus.
He shut the door and began walking. You had to take long steps to keep up with him as he led you to the stairs.
“Where are we going?” You asked, feeling like a child.
“To Doctor Hill’s office.” He replied shortly.
“I’ll get better.” You said. The last thing you needed right now was for this Doctor Hill to deem you unfit for classes for even just a day. You could not miss another tech class, not when your solo piece was in shreds. “I don’t need to go.”
“You do.” Jimin said sharply as you reached the stairs.
“I can’t.” You said, stopping.
He turned around, looking incredulous. “Why not? You have a concussion, you have to see a doctor.”
You bit your lip, looking down at your feet. “You don’t know if I have a concussion.”
Jimin nodded, conceding. Then looked up at you. “Which is why we’re going to the doctor, to find out.”
You sighed, exasperated, and continued down the stairs silently.
The third door on the right of the stairs held the plaque:
Dr Martin Hill, Physiotherapist
Jimin knocked. “Come in.” Came a man’s voice.
Jimin opened the door and you went in. It looked like any other doctor’s surgery. A high bed with just a pale blue sheet, a couple of armchairs, several cupboards and many posters on the mint green walls.
Ballet: the Art of Arthritis.
Eating Disorders for your Échappés.
Pointe Shoes: The Danger in Pink.
The Truth about Tutus.
Ballet befriends Bulimia.
Tondues and Tendinitis.
What on Earth? Since when did posters like these end up in a ballet school?
Doctor Hill sat at a corner desk, a laptop in front of him. He turned in his chair. “Ah, Park Jimin.” he said, standing up. He wore studious horn-rimmed glasses and his neat brown beard was flecked with grey, as was his balding hair. His face was podgy and round, but not unpleasant. He was very short, though. Only a little taller than you. “Another torn muscle?” He inquired.
Jimin grimaced and shook his head. A torn muscle? That had to have put him back a few months. “Miss (Surname) has a concussion.” He said.
Doctor Hill turned to you. “Hello Miss…(Surname) is it?” You gave a half-hearted smile. He looked at you over the top of his glasses, inky black eyes scrutinizing you. “Tell me, Miss (Surname) did you do your warm ups today?”
“Yes sir.” You nodded. You’d managed to do those, at least.
He shook his head distastefully. “Warm ups are extremely dangerous.” He said. “And to do them without teacher supervision as you do in this academy is truly ridiculous.” You blushed and looked down at your hands. He waited a moment longer. “Have a seat.” You slipped gratefully into a chair. Jimin sat next to you, but made sure your shoulders didn’t touch. “So.” He began, sitting back in his own chair and crossing his legs. “How did you get this concussion?”
“I probably don’t even have one.” You told him. “Just a headache.”
He pressed his lips together in disdain. “How long have you had a headache for?”
“Since breakfast, maybe?” You tried to work out if you’d felt anything last night. You did want to get your headache away.
“Have you experienced any dizziness or nausea?”
You bit your lip. “Yes.”
He nodded slowly, writing something down on a clipboard he’d produced out of nowhere. “Have you had any trauma to the head recently?”
“No.” You told him.
“No falls, fights or so?”
You shook your head. “Nope.” The word 'fall’ sparked a memory though. Jiwoo, she’d fallen. You remembered it now, her swaying, and then crashing, crashing into…
You looked up at Doctor Hill hesitantly. “I can’t quite remember what happened, but I think I blacked out yesterday, after Jiwoo’s fall. She fell into my partner, and he lost his hold on me and I fell, but he caught me, and then.” You frowned, what had happened next?
“Wait, you were in that accident?” Jimin asked incredulously.
You nodded. Before Jimin could say anything else, Doctor Hill butted in. “Temporary memory loss is a sign of concussion. If you fell, then it’s quite likely you hit your head on the ground.”
“How serious is this?” Asked Jimin.
Doctor Hill shrugged. “As Miss (Surname) hasn’t had any further black-outs, I would say it was grade two at the most. The memory loss is a little worrying, but there is little we can do to get that back. No vomiting?” He asked looking at you.
“No.” You said.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a torch. “Just lean forward for me.” You complied, and he shined the little torch into your left eye, then your right. Satisfied, he clicked it off and put it back in the drawer. “The strong effects of a concussion don’t last too long. Rest until Saturday at least and you should be fine.”
“You mean no ballet?” You asked sharply, though of course that was what he meant.
“None.” He said, then pointed to one of his posters. “Stay away from ballet, your life gains a year every day.”
“I can’t stay off that long.” You told him, giving a mental eye roll at the damned poster. This was exactly what you had feared. This could not happen, not before the review.
“You will, Miss (Surname) Doctor’s orders.” He gave a twisted smile. “Now I’ll go and get you a prescription of Tylenol.” He stood up and went through a door by the desk, labelled 'Staff Only.’ As soon as the door shut, Jimin turned to you.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone?” He demanded. “I had no idea there was anyone other than Jiwoo and Kwangsik involved!”
You huffed. “I think a girl screaming on the floor with a broken shoulder is slightly more important.”
Jimin stared at you with disbelief. “A concussion could be just as serious.”
“But it isn’t.” You pointed out. “I’m fine. And I’m not the one in hospital.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “This is just like with Kihyun. I couldn’t believe you didn’t tell him anything.”
“I didn’t know what it was meant to feel like! I’d never done Pas de Deux before!”
“God, everyone know it’s a responsibility to say if something’s not right!”
“What?” You snapped. “After last week I just assumed that walking out the door was how that worked.”
That stopped him short, and he glared contemptuously at the floor. Finally he looked at you. “I walked out because I realized that I had taken you way out of your depth.”
“What, you thought I wasn’t coping?”
“You could hardly cope with the simple lift Madame Zhang wanted. I saw the fear in your face. I did an over head, without any warning, with a first year. And worse, a first year who has no background in Pas de Deux or the trust or the emotion that comes with it.”
“What the hell?” You exclaimed. “So you just assumed that I was – ”
“Interesting conversations you ballet dancers have.” Doctor Hill had returned from the other room, a pill bottle in his hand. With his other hand, he pointed to another poster. Would you sacrifice mental stability for flexibility?
Worn raw with anger, you stood and stuck your hand out for the pills impatiently. “Take one every two hours, no less. Take two if it gets very bad. And remember, no ballet until Saturday. I’ll explain to your teachers.”
“Thank you, Sir.” You said mechanically, then spun on your heel and launched out of the door, eager to get away from him. Out in the entrance hall, people were heading through to dinner. Taking a deep breath to try and compose yourself, you fought against the tide of students coming down the stairs.
You had your pointe shoes in hand, and your iPod lay upstairs in your trunk. You rolled shoulders and lifted your chin.
By Sunday night, you would prove to Park Jimin that you were not an inexperienced, clueless first year.
Bucky smut where reader's skirt blows up infront of the other fellas and bucky gets jealous when they talk about her ass? idk xD
The ordeal was positively mortifying as, midway through the night, you decided to slip your panties off to tease Bucky into going home early. But his resolve was strong. A gust of wind from the passing traffic blew up your skirt as you and Bucky strode on ahead of Steve and Sam.
You hoped they hadn’t noticed, until Sam’s voice boomed through the darkness, catching up with you and Bucky. “Your girl’s got a great ass, man!”
Steve joined in too, mortifyingly uttering the phrase, “I’d tap that,” which earned him Sam’s enthusiastic approval.
Bucky glared back at the pair, becoming increasingly riled up.
You leaned into him and laughed. “Maybe if you’d have come home with me earlier, your best friends wouldn’t be coveting my ass right now.”
“I think you just earned yourself a spanking for when we get home.”
The Vice-Commander stood by Genma’s desk in polished armor, abstract Owl mask clipped to his hip and narrow brows drawn together as he frowned down at a clipboard in one hand. Kuroda Ushio was a hard-muscled man in his middle years, a little shorter than Genma but built more like Raidou. The hilt of the ninjato protruding over his shoulder was shiny and dark with use. Ryouma had seen him around HQ a few times in passing—the first time pointed out by Katsuko as someone to avoid if possible, which had of course necessitated the story of Ryouma’s first encounter with the Vice-Commander and Kakashi at the ANBU trials. In most of those distant sightings Kuroda had looked preoccupied, perhaps annoyed, as he strode at Sagara-sama’s heels or shuffled stacks of papers from one meeting to another.
Now, standing in Team Six’s office, studying what had to be Team Six’s paperwork, he looked as coldly unreadable as his painted mask. Even the flick of dark eyes up and back again, as Ryouma entered the room, gave nothing away.
From Nezu’s headcanon just now:
Shorter than average, stocky, solid build, dark hair, squinty eyes, permanent scowl like he’s smelled something unpleasant.
And according to our secret Ninja Records, he’s in his late 30s.
Clutching a thick folder of papers, Malcolm Tucker strode through the halls of Number 10 with purpose and anger only just barely held in check. It was bad enough that he had to spend the majority of his day dealing with yet another cock up by the useless twats that resided at the offices of DoSAC. Now he had to go all the way to the furthest offices at the mass of sprawling offices here at Number 10 to locate the pencil pushing dildo-sucking team of statistical titwankers to have them do their job correctly so that he can update the Transport Minister’s policy statement for the morning.
Everyone he passed while on the way through the halls was quick to press back against the walls to stay out of his way. Malcolm gave them no thought whatsoever.
He arrived at his destination - a door marked ‘Stats Analysis’. Malcolm thought to himself, ‘More like Stats anal cysts.’ He pushed through the door, causing it to slam loudly against the wall with the force. ‘Right, get your dicks out of the pencil sharpeners you useless ice cube dildos. I want to know who the fuck was responsible for wanking of the numbers in this report that I can NOT use in the Transport Minister’s press release.’
Malcolm’s gaze penetrated each and every one of the stats team as they all sat frozen at their desks. After looking at each one in turn, he then turned his gaze to the one person that had a history of screwing up reports. ‘David? Did you fuck up these numbers?’
‘Me?’ David’s face went pale as his hand began to shake slightly. ‘I … I .. I…’
‘Have you fucking got a stutter suddenly?’ Malcolm towered over him at his desk.
‘The national rail numbers?’ David asked after swallowing hard.
‘No, I’m looking for the fucking vibrator sales records for the country.’ Malcolm punched the desk loudly. ‘YES! The FUCKING RAIL NUMBERS!’
‘I…. uh…. I…’ David stammered again.
‘Can you please use words for me to hear?’
‘Jamie came down this morning and demanded them. I … told him I needed a few more hours but he just grabbed them and left.’ Sweat visible formed on David’s forehead.
‘Jamie?’ Malcolm stood up straight slowly. ‘Jamie didn’t let you finish the numbers work?’ He rubbed his forehead a moment before he smiled wryly. ‘Great. Just fucking great. If he ever comes down here again and pulls this kind of shit again, you tell him to come straight to me.’
You came to a white room, bright lights shining over you, and machines beeping rhythmically around you. Blinking against the fluorescent lighting, you took a deep breath that came out sounding like a soft moan as you tried to sit up. From across the room, Bruce Banner strode over to you.
“Hey, don’t force yourself to do too much,” he told you, pushing you back on the bed with a gentle hand to your shoulder.