Dodo, l’enfant do
Who: Iron Man, Power Girl
What: H/C
Where: Tony Stark's Malibu residence, CA
It'd been hours and her burns were looking pinker, smoother. He watched her eyes flicking underneath pale and veined eyelids, REM sleep in full swing, her limbs tucked against her sides in modest comfort on the thick sheets of a bed, strands of hair a web behind her relaxed neck and head.
Upon landing, Tony had called Pepper and had her cook up a makeshift decontamination chamber within his lab to divest them both of any residual radiation, to help him unlash the unconscious woman from his back and take her to a a guest room, strip her of her outfit. It felt like hours before Jarvis had gotten him out of the suit. Hours more to heave himself to the elevator, to the room she was in, dressed in a pair of Pepper's cute pajamas. He hadn't bothered cleaning her wounds -- they'd be healed soon enough, even slowly -- but Pepper had brought him a cold cloth and bowl of water nonetheless, which was beside the guest bed Power Girl's limp body was resting on. The cloth was across her forehead, eating up residual heat, trailing cold drops of water down the line of her cheek, soaking into the pillows.
Tony pressed a knuckle into the bridge of his nose, elbows on his knees on a chair next to the bed. He hadn't -- didn't want to think. He'd tried a few things to distract himself; the latest prep for Stark-sponsored education plans, repulsor reconfig, even Wayne and Luthor and the next SI business meetings. But every thought ended in half-dead, half-there brains, blood-caked skin, and a dying girl in the arms of a sick woman.
"Dodo, l’enfant do, l’enfant dormira bien vite, dodo, l’enfant do, l’enfant dormira bientôt." Hm. He chuckled wearily. What was he doing? -- murmuring old, familiar lines, off-pitch but friendly. A lullaby, something to focus on, a distraction, probably. Coping shit. Something sad and pathetic like that.
Something for Elle -- no, not Elle anymore. But yeah, something for her, too.
"Une poule blanche, est là dans la grange..."
What: H/C
Where: Tony Stark's Malibu residence, CA
It'd been hours and her burns were looking pinker, smoother. He watched her eyes flicking underneath pale and veined eyelids, REM sleep in full swing, her limbs tucked against her sides in modest comfort on the thick sheets of a bed, strands of hair a web behind her relaxed neck and head.
Upon landing, Tony had called Pepper and had her cook up a makeshift decontamination chamber within his lab to divest them both of any residual radiation, to help him unlash the unconscious woman from his back and take her to a a guest room, strip her of her outfit. It felt like hours before Jarvis had gotten him out of the suit. Hours more to heave himself to the elevator, to the room she was in, dressed in a pair of Pepper's cute pajamas. He hadn't bothered cleaning her wounds -- they'd be healed soon enough, even slowly -- but Pepper had brought him a cold cloth and bowl of water nonetheless, which was beside the guest bed Power Girl's limp body was resting on. The cloth was across her forehead, eating up residual heat, trailing cold drops of water down the line of her cheek, soaking into the pillows.
Tony pressed a knuckle into the bridge of his nose, elbows on his knees on a chair next to the bed. He hadn't -- didn't want to think. He'd tried a few things to distract himself; the latest prep for Stark-sponsored education plans, repulsor reconfig, even Wayne and Luthor and the next SI business meetings. But every thought ended in half-dead, half-there brains, blood-caked skin, and a dying girl in the arms of a sick woman.
"Dodo, l’enfant do, l’enfant dormira bien vite, dodo, l’enfant do, l’enfant dormira bientôt." Hm. He chuckled wearily. What was he doing? -- murmuring old, familiar lines, off-pitch but friendly. A lullaby, something to focus on, a distraction, probably. Coping shit. Something sad and pathetic like that.
Something for Elle -- no, not Elle anymore. But yeah, something for her, too.
"Une poule blanche, est là dans la grange..."