Brock Rumlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
comesfrompain) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pineslog2017-03-30 01:09 pm
comesfrompain) wrote in pineslog2017-03-30 01:09 pm
Entry tags:
i need somebody to pull me out [ closed ]
Who: Brock Rumlow & Jefferson
Where: 5052
When: During the Plague.
What: Rumlow getting dadded and doted upon. He hates it.
Warnings: Description of illness symptoms.
[Amnesia aside, Rumlow doesn't remember the last time he'd been this sick. At first, it hadn't been so bad, pushing through to keep working because he wasn't gonna let something like a little nausea keep him down. But once he had to stop mid-set to make a quick retreat to the bathroom, Rumlow knew he was done. His guess is some kind of food poisoning, but for the life of him he can't think of what he might have eaten to cause it.
So he closes up and makes his way home, glad the gym ain't far from the house. He holes himself up in the bathroom for a hot minute, eventually coming out to go collapse in bed. Maybe once he's done shitting himself to death, he'll be better. When he wakes up the next day, there's no such luck. If anything, it's gotten worse and Rumlow barely manages to get downstairs to call one of the guys at the gym to tell them he's not making it in. Plastered against the kitchen wall by the phone as he tries to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him, Rumlow wonders if he's somehow been legitimately poisoned.
Has he been made? Did some anti-SHIELD organization infiltrate the town and ID him?
Peeling away, he feels heavy, like his limbs weigh more than they ought to. He makes it to the couch and leans against it for a second while he catches his breath. Christ, he thinks. It's like altitude sickness, except that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull. Eyes slipping closed, Rumlow allows himself to ooze over the back of the couch onto the cushions. He's just gonna stay here for a bit and recover his breath to make the trek back towards his bedroom.]
Where: 5052
When: During the Plague.
What: Rumlow getting dadded and doted upon. He hates it.
Warnings: Description of illness symptoms.
[Amnesia aside, Rumlow doesn't remember the last time he'd been this sick. At first, it hadn't been so bad, pushing through to keep working because he wasn't gonna let something like a little nausea keep him down. But once he had to stop mid-set to make a quick retreat to the bathroom, Rumlow knew he was done. His guess is some kind of food poisoning, but for the life of him he can't think of what he might have eaten to cause it.
So he closes up and makes his way home, glad the gym ain't far from the house. He holes himself up in the bathroom for a hot minute, eventually coming out to go collapse in bed. Maybe once he's done shitting himself to death, he'll be better. When he wakes up the next day, there's no such luck. If anything, it's gotten worse and Rumlow barely manages to get downstairs to call one of the guys at the gym to tell them he's not making it in. Plastered against the kitchen wall by the phone as he tries to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him, Rumlow wonders if he's somehow been legitimately poisoned.
Has he been made? Did some anti-SHIELD organization infiltrate the town and ID him?
Peeling away, he feels heavy, like his limbs weigh more than they ought to. He makes it to the couch and leans against it for a second while he catches his breath. Christ, he thinks. It's like altitude sickness, except that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull. Eyes slipping closed, Rumlow allows himself to ooze over the back of the couch onto the cushions. He's just gonna stay here for a bit and recover his breath to make the trek back towards his bedroom.]
no subject
no subject
He nods and reaches for a blanket to pull over himself. It doesn't really work because he's on top of them.]
Tea.
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Then, he pulls the blanket over Rumlow. ]
Tea it is. Now I can finally repay you for helping me.
[ He starts to head for the kitchen, then pauses at the doorway and glances back at Brock. ]
Is there anything you need? I could bring some, uh. [ He snaps his fingers, trying to remember. ] The pink stuff.
[ PEPTO. ]
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Won't help.
[Rumlow says, he'd been chugging the shit yesterday. His mouth still tastes like pink. He hates it.]
Just the tea and some water.
[In case his body hates the tea.]
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With both of the Rumlows sick, he should probably take a trip to the store to stock up on these things... But that'll have to come later.
Once the tea's prepared and cooled enough to drink, Jefferson returns to the bedroom, carrying a tray with him. Tea, water, a plate of saltines just in case his stomach settles. Jefferson glances over Brock, to see if he's still awake, then sets everything down on the bedside table. ]
There... Need help sitting up?
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He unfurls himself and tries to sit up, but that pain shoots through his limbs again and he grits his teeth at the sensation. It's not paralytic, at least, but God, it's kind of like when your leg falls asleep and you just don't want to move it.]
If you want.
[He wants, Rumlow reminds himself. Why would Jefferson offer if not? He knows he's just trying to stay tough, but Christ. This weakness makes him feel so useless.]
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But he shoves that thought far from his head. ]
You really don't have to play tough right now, you know. The ship has sailed on that.
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Just pissed off I'm even stuck like this in the first place.
[Rumlow explains, figuring he owes it to Jefferson for even taking care of him in the first place. He's normally not this much of a pain when he's sick (though that happens like once in a blue moon). He's just mad that there's nothing he can do but basically lay around like a lump and sleep.]