#But there's a reason he's allowed to keep the (almost) a funeral outfit! :3

[psn-stalling]

I feel like the key to getting out is related to emotional things rather than anything material. Would you describe your outfit as you?

...Not really. I just put it on once and it's just stuck here.

I don't really know if there's a particular reason for it just staying with me. It just did.

[aces-to-apples]

Written for Day 5: Fluff of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Category: Multi Relationship: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker Additional Tags: Background Padmé Amidala/CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Implied/Referenced Future Rexsoka, GFY

For best results please look at this Rex and this Cody before reading.

“tribute”

Another one of the local little chompers marched towards the dais with all the solemnity and determination of a verd’ika plucking their first set of whites off the assembly line. Cody met Rex’s eye and they both very carefully avoided grinning at the sight. Not only could it be bad for their relationship with said locals, it wouldn’t do to let their Jedi think they were, in fact, having a good time up there.

When the kid came to a halt a ‘respectful’ distance away, Cody nodded for them to approach and bent his head to receive the kid’s blessing and subsequent gift. He watched Rex do the same.

The celebration had been going for hours, by that point, and they’d amassed a pile of shiny little wearable trinkets to give any sovereign of Naboo a run for their credits and enough blessings to make them holier than most deities. It’d been a relief, at the start of the night, to hear that—aside from the ceremonial outfits they’d been bullied into wearing—he and Rex were free to redistribute the gifts as they saw fit. Something about sharing luck, or good vibes, or what have you.

Said ceremonial outfits, on the other hand, they were obliged to keep and maintain with honor.

Obi-Wan had smoothed over any offense they’d given with their lacklustre reaction to the news but Rex’s general had been less than subtle in his delight at their new possessions. Tano, at least, had just told them they looked nice and kept her own mocking to a bare minimum.

And it wasn’t that they were grateful, Cody had reflected at the start of the celebration, when he and Rex had stepped out under the light of the moons to deafening cheers, but. It wasn’t quite their style, no matter how well the two of them pulled off the intricate, and admittedly beautiful, get-ups.

Rex, by dint of his Torrent paintjob, had been immediately deemed the locals’ Goddess of War come again and draped accordingly in layers of blue fabric. Some of it was dark and blaster-resistant and some of it pale and so sheer as to be almost nonexistent. Bands of silver, often studded with precious blue stones, were wrapped around his wrists, forearms, biceps, and throat, and a silver cap affixed with yet more jewels and a pale blue veil had been placed on his head with much reverence.

After a great deal of muttered debate, they determined that Cody must be their war deity’s twin, the Goddess of Beauty. Not an insult by any means…

The traditional garb he’d been presented with, by contrast, was deep red with a long flowing cape and headdress of heavy twisted fabric. It came with its own set of jewelry, as well, shining gold and polished red stones, bulky and eye-catching around his wrists and throat and slim and delicate around his forearms and biceps. Something about the placement was culturally significant, but hells if Cody was going to ask what.

They’d already lost the battle against: 1) staying for several days to rest and recuperate, 2) accepting the titles of living incarnations of their local deities and all the celebration that entailed, and 3) keeping both the get-ups and the gifts for themselves.

No way was Cody going to invite more conversation about their cultural practices. He could win against droids and bounty-hunters and half-baked Sith, but apparently, he couldn’t convince a bunch of over-awed, Mid Rim locals that he and Rex weren’t tools of War and Beauty.

Tools of the Republic, sure, but nothing divine.

The leader of the city they’d liberated had just smiled gently and reassured them that belief on their part was not necessary, only acceptance of their gratitude. Which came with lots of shiny metal, sparkly rocks, and a pair of gowns that they had to either accept or throw into a sacrificial fire and publicly reject.

Obi-Wan had stepped in at that point.

He’d assured everyone that they had no interest in disrespecting their culture and asked for a debrief about the ceremony.

Wear the outfits, sit on the thrones, and let people fawn over them at least a little bit, had basically been the long and short of it. But, hey, they were comfortably cushioned, well-fed, and kept hydrated throughout the whole thing, so it could have been worse. Sharp-toothed little ankle-biters shyly kissing their foreheads and handing them shiny bits and bobs before scampering off weren’t much of a hardship.

“How’re you fellas doing?” Skywalker asked, strolling up to the dais with a grin that had yet to falter all night. “Getting into the spirit of the thing? Really feeling the divinity flow through you?”

Plenty vode had wandered over to check on them over the course of the night, mostly to heckle, but the Jedi had visited just as frequently. And for similar reasons, too.

The way Rex’s general had been eyeing him all night, Cody was almost worried for Rex’s safety. He’d heard plenty of complaints from Obi-Wan about Skywalker’s willingness to eat damn near anything; who was to say that he hadn’t acquired a taste for Mandalorian-adjacent flesh and wouldn’t gobble poor Rex up in just a few bites.

He was pretty sure Commander Tano was having some kind of intermittent crisis over at their table as well.

It was his responsibility, as both Marshal Commander and ori’vod, to bring his concerns to his superior officer and then ruthlessly mock all three of them. After Skywalker eventually got tired of making Rex blush and wandered away whistling a jaunty tune to a very raunchy cantina song, that was.

“So does that ‘angel’ of his know the two of you have started sharing blankets since your last stop-over on Coruscant or should I start planning your funeral now?” Cody said archly, watching his vod’ika visibly consider punching him. “I’ll be sure to wear this and lie about how smart and good-looking you are, like a proper vod.”

Rex pressed a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Angel knows,” he admitted, darting an unsubtle glance at his general’s shebs. “What I am afraid of, though, is that next time we stop over on Coruscant she’s gonna have a whole new wardrobe just like this one and it will just happen to be in my size.”

“Well, hey, get a full-coverage veil and you’re probably good to step out with them,” Cody said with false sympathy, gleefully imagining the uproar that would cause. “Just make sure they’re made out of that fabric that’s designed to ruin holos. Pakod.”

The ol’ boy made a sound like a malfunctioning mouse-droid.

“Is it too much to believe that I’d like to spend whatever leave I get wearing as few clothes as possible?” he wailed, quietly, with a desperation that made Cody think this was an argument he and the senator had gotten into before. With this revelation in mind, he snapped a few holos of his own while Rex was distracted and vowed to get them to the senator if Skywalker’s brain cell was too lonely to manage it. “Isn’t it enough that I have this already?”

“Oh, dear me,” a low voice said from behind Cody’s left ear, “I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have two attractive, attentive lovers who wish to shower you with tokens of their affection. Truly, Captain, your misery must be exquisite.”

Cody turned his head to press a sloppy kiss to Obi-Wan’s cheek in gratitude for the pitiful sound his words had drawn out of his favorite brother.

“General,” Rex whined pathetically, “they keep getting me plants. Alive ones, dead ones, prickly ones, poisonous ones. My quarters are being taken over by non-sentient invaders.”

Obi-Wan made a little noise of patently fake sympathy. “My old master’s quarters were like that as well,” he commiserated, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind Cody’s ear. The noise of the locals around them changed in pitch, but Cody’d had enough to drink over the course of the evening to not feel worried by the change. If he was lucky, Obi-Wan would be shoved into a pretty outfit like this next. “It drove me mad that he never formally answered, let alone turned down, any of the suits. Just let the poor, smitten beings keep sending him gifts. So uncivilized.”

“Speaking of uncivilized,” Cody said, wondering if he could get away with pulling Obi-Wan down onto his lap.

Rex rolled his eyes. “If I don’t get to canoodle in public with my Jedi then you don’t get to with yours,” he huffed, leaning over to push Obi-Wan a few inches away. “Leave room for the Force, sirs.”

“‘Leave room for the Force’?” Obi-Wan repeated, nonplussed, while Cody found himself hung up on, “Canoodle?”

No longer quite so flustered, Rex shrugged. “Skywalker talks like a scandalized opera singer, sometimes, and Ahsoka says that when she catches the lads giving each other a tune-up. How’s the kid doing, by the way?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said ruefully, “she’s seventeen and in the middle of a war and puberty. Thus far, I believe she’s coped by placing you all in the ‘dear friends and family whom deserve her utmost respect’ category of her mind, rather than allowing herself to see you as attractive young men. Tonight seems to be causing some kind of breakdown in that line of thinking.”

Cody turned to give Rex his full attention and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheers, vod’ika, keep it up and you might have a full set soon!”

In response, Rex covered his face with both hands and groaned again.

“Remind me to send the good captain some appropriate literature about age of consent laws, would you, dear?” Obi-Wan murmured into his ear. He most assuredly was not leaving room for the Force between them. “Until then, I believe you mentioned being uncivilized?”

Cody made a mental note to remind him as requested before standing up, bowing at the local assembly, and following Obi-Wan wherever he led.

[acrobaticcatfeline]

Logan and His Little Bumble Bee (Single Dads AU)!!!

Word Count: 2170

TW: Breakup mention, uhhh, Logan has a major distaste for his ex? Oh Logan is pan in this and his ex is a female. Minor character death mention, bad self care, I think that’s it? And most of that is in the second paragraph and doesn’t come up again, but let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: This was produced in spite of my brain not wanting to create. I have a week off I’m not letting it go to waste stupid writers block! Pardon me as I go do... more research and writing for the hogwarts au fic I’m writing. I hope y’all enjoy this!!!

Pairings: past Logan and a female unnamed character that I suppose I will have to make now, slight mentions of pining logicality, familial logince, familial moxiety

Summary: “Roman darling, we have to wash your prince outfit ok?” logan sanders is having a heck of a month you know? suddenly hes a parent and has a promotion and honestly its the most stressed hes been since he was in college but you know he gets moments like these sometimes where he can just hold his little bee and maybe things will be alright.

“Roman darling, we have to wash your prince outfit ok?”

Judging by the screams, it was not ok, and Logan was at the point of sticking himself in the washing machine. He’s tired and the past month of his life has been hell. Last month his ex-girlfriend dropped Roman off at his house as a surprise. Yeah imagine how surprised you’d be to now be the sole guardian of a child you didn’t know existed because your ex was petty enough to keep it from you until she got bored of him 2 years later. So he became a father in a matter of minutes, he got a promotion at work, but that involved working more hours, leaving him with the problem of how the hell was he going to be taking care of a 2 year old when he had work usually 10 hours a day instead of what he used to do. Then he had a bomb dropped that his uncle died. That was… not easy news to take for certain. It was worse that his funeral was halfway across the country, meaning he couldn’t go, and he was stuck at work with a baby and was mourning the loss of his family member and at this point he wasn’t sure if he was able to take it anymore. He hadn’t had a full nights sleep in two weeks, he hasn’t eaten properly for just about that long as well, eating fast food on his way to work every day, usually having coffee for lunch and having something weird thrown together from what he has in his house which for the past week has been cheese ramen while his kid gets the perfect diet because yes, he’s currently a hot mess of the highest caliber, but he refused to let himself be bested by a toddler. He refused to let his ex be a better parent than him, which just so happened to make him love the kid out of spite. And that’s how he got here.

“roro, please? I’ll let you wear your bee onesie?”

And the screams stopped in their tracks. Thank god, Logan had already taken the largest dose of ibuprofen he allowed, and he could still feel the migraine approaching. The baby boy in question was sitting in the grass in Logan’s backyard, playing with some dolls and cars. He turned towards Logan and started crawling over to the tired man sitting in the grass. When he got to him, he sat again and reached up with grabby hands, signaling he wanted to be picked up. Logan obliged, swooping up the little kid and starting to stand up. Roman poked Logan’s cheek softly before planting a big kiss there. He smiled widely, very proud of himself, and Logan felt his cold unfeeling heart melt at the sight.

“oh gosh how could she have given you up. Even if you are a little terror sometimes,” he pinched Roman’s cheek softly with a smile as the little one giggled cutely. “you’re still so sweet and cute. Yes, you are Ro! So sweet and cute! Just like a little bee huh? Ready to be a little bee roro?”

The toddler giggled loudly and nodded before making a grab for Logan’s glasses. Logan quickly twirled him upside down for a moment before swooping him back up.

“no no no! no grabbing dads glasses Ro! I can’t see without those! No no, but we can play with yours okay? You want your glasses?”

Logan had made it into his old office, now a nursery for Ro, and grabbed his bee onesie and his fake glasses that Roman loved to play with. He sat Roman down and changed him rather quickly, luckily once Logan convinces him to listen, Ro is very obedient and behaves very well. He’s a good kid, Logan gets livid thinking about what possible reason she had for giving him up. He picks up Roman again, laughing slightly when Roman tries to wrap his tiny arms around his neck. He quickly grabs Roman’s prince outfit and drops it in the wash with the rest of his clothes, starting it finally.

“what do you wanna do little buzz boy? You wanna go to the park? I have time to go to the park. Hasn’t your sitter taken you before? Do you like the park Robee? Hmm?”

Roman giggles and nods. Logan feels a slight tinge of sadness at the simple response. Roman was 2 years old and babies were supposed to be able to say things that sounded like words by 18 months old. Roman never spoke, he giggled and nodded and shook his head, and understood what Logan said, but he never tried to speak back. The bitter part of him wanted to blame his ex, pretend it was her bad nurturing that led Roman to choosing not to speak, but he knew rationally that sometimes kids had speech impairment and wouldn’t start talking until maybe even 3, but it still worried Logan. Everything he read said it might be autism, but he had his doubts as he worked with autism regularly and had to be well versed with the DSM-5 for his career. He would often repeat words a lot, say the words for what Ro wanted, hoping that he would at least say something. He was going to go to pre k this year, but Logan didn’t feel ok with sending him off to school without any form of communication. That was a set up for something to go wrong, what if the other kids teased him? What if the teachers were bad to him! He would have no way of knowing! That terrified Logan, so he decided he would wait. He had enough money to hire a sitter for another few years while he helped Roman speak. He did fear that he would miss his first words, but he had to work, if he didn’t there was a lot of things he would do instead of… being in Florida psychoanalyzing people all day.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves his job, but it was stressful, and he was regularly reminded that just because he’s a qualified professional, doesn’t mean he isn’t more similar to his patients than he was comfortable with addressing.

Logan grabbed his baby bag, refilling whatever the sitter had used the day prior. He strapped Roman into the backpack sling he had, put it on so Roman sat on his chest, preferring being able to actually see his kid, and grabbed the bag and a few other things, being his phone, wallet, and keys. The park was a short walk away and his weekend adventures with Roman were usually the most exercise he got during the week, so he slowly made his way there, stopping occasionally to make a silly face at ro.

“you wanna go to the playground Ro? Or the field?”

Roman held up 2 fingers, and there it is again. Yeah Roman may not talk, but he definitely understands what he’s saying. He’s a really intelligent kid, and Logan may or may not be ridiculously proud of him. They found a rather quiet area in the field and Logan took off the sling and let Roman out of it, letting him wander around. Roman pressed on Logan’s leg softly to help him stand up. He then takes off running, and Logan stays seated, watching his little bumble bee play. Its not until he hears someone clear their throat next to him that he sees another man, a quite handsome man actually, with a baby that seems to have a question. He stands hurriedly.

“oh my, I'm sorry I zoned out a bit I'm running on 2 hours of sleep please forgive me, is there something I can help you with?”

“oh yeah! Oh, sorry to disturb you, you do seem exhausted. Um I was just wondering if you know whose little boy that is? My kiddo is being fussy and wants to play but I always want to check with the parents first, heheh!”

“huh? Oh, that one over there is mine, if your son wants to play, I'm sure my Roman would be happy to join him! How old’s your little one?”

The other mans smile widens and he sits down, letting his son go off to play with Roman. Logan sits down next to him.

“oh, my little Virgil? He’s almost 4! Also, hello, my name is Patton! How old’s Roman?”

“nice to make your acquaintance Patton, I'm Logan. My son is a little older than 2.”

“aww! Really, I thought he was at least 3! He’s pretty big for his age, he looks strong and healthy!”

Roman and Virgil come running over, and Roman is giggling heavily and runs straight into Logan’s arms eliciting a small ‘oof’ from Logan as he wrapped his arms around his child. Virgil also was giggling as he ran into Patton's grasp much faster, knocking them both over. He looked over concerned but lost the worry as he saw Patton laying down and laughing twice as hard as Virgil was, hair sprawled around his head and oh hey there's Logan’s gay showing oof. He turned away, hiding his face in a hug with Roman.

Of course, Roman had to be the curious tike he is right then, pulling out of the hug and patting Logan’s cheeks in confusion. He poked and prodded and pinched because he was Logan’s little scientist and that’s how you figure out things you’re confused by. Logan had a mind to be embarrassed but gosh his Roman is just so cute and curious and man he loves him.

“daddy daddy!!! He’s so funny, he doesn’t talk but he’s funny!!! He’s like me!!! can we play again later?”

Patton sits up, and Logan restrains himself from pulling the leaf out of his hair.

“aw we have to ask his dad first but maybe! Logan, could we set up a playdate later?”

Heck Logan stop being gay for a second, staring at him is creepy, answer him you doofus!

“uh, yeah sure! Ro seemed to enjoy himself, so why not. I only have weekends off, but he has a babysitter that would love to have another thing to do with the little bug. Um, here, let me give you my number and theirs.”

Logan quickly repositioned Roman so he could reach into his baby bag for a pen and paper. He quickly scrawled it out then handed it to Patton.

“oh, you’re left handed? Neat so am I! can I see that paper too? I should probably give you my number so Ro’s sitter knows it.”

Logan hands it over and a few minutes later Patton's phone starts going off.

“oh geez that’s my alarm, I gotta go, some family is visiting for the weekend, it was nice meeting you Logan! I look forward to seeing you and your itsy-bitsy bug boy again! Bye bye Roman! Virgil say bye!”

“BYE ROMAN BYE LOGAN!!!”

And they turn and leave, and Logan lets himself watch for a few short seconds before turning back to Roman. Roman’s face becomes a smile again and he hugs Logan tightly.

“what's up bug? You wanna keep playing or do you wanna go home and take a nap with dad?”

And Roman giggles and hides in his chest before-

“DAD!!! Play dad!!!”

And Logan can feel his jaw drop and he has to quickly fix his expression because Roman starts looking shy.

“Roman! You just! Oh my god you just said your first words!!! Roman I'm so proud of you my little love bug!!!”

And Roman smiles widely again and bounces up and down.

“bug!!! Bee bug!!!”

“yes Roman, yes bees are bugs oh I love you so much roro I'm so happy! You make dad so happy roro!”

“happy dad!!!”

“I, I need to tell your mom! She’ll be so proud of you Ro just like me!”

“noooo! No mom! Mom… mom bad!”

And Logan’s face drops. He swoops up Roman and hugs him tight. He doesn’t want Roman to think that, his mom, his mom still loved him, he’s sure of it… she was being responsible and having someone else take care of him… or at least that’s what Roman should think.

“no, no Roman she… Roman she loves you so much you know that. She’s not bad she’s just not ready to take care of you.”

“you too! You too but… I… here. You here. Mom bad. Mom gone.”

And if Logan started crying that was no one’s business but his own. Besides, this wasn’t the time, right now he had to deal with a ridiculously self-aware 2-year-old.

They would play in the grass for another hour, and Logan would blink the tears in his eyes away and prepare to have one heck of a conversation with his ex when they got home. Right now, though? Right now, he was reveling in the short amount of time he had with his son.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in my writing!!!

Thank you for reading I will see you later ladies lords and nonbinary royalty!!!

[crxwflower]

Superposition: Chapter 3

FANDOM: Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) | PAIRING: Peter Parker x Y/N

Content: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Reader-Insert, Childhood Friends, Childhood Crush, Superpowers, Angst, Spider-Man, Avengers, Fluff, Nerdy Reader, Shy Reader

** WARNINGS: Descriptions of injury/pain **

SUMMARY:

"I don't believe in fate, no psychic vision. But when things fall into place, superposition."

You don't believe in destiny or fate. Everything happens for a reason, even if that reason cannot be explained. As a child, you knew Peter Parker. You were friends, and then you weren't. He was your childhood crush—a passing phase. Life just gets in between people before they can ever really get to know each other, and that's okay. But when tragedy strikes and you find yourself blessed (or cursed) with superpowers, you discover that perhaps life has a way of bringing people together, too.

Masterlist | AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Spider-Man never returned. He either died or disappeared during The Snap. Just like your sister, your father, and half of Earth’s entire population. Animals included. 

What remained of the government funded projects to erect memorials for the Lost, entire neighborhoods stood vacant as people flocked to cities for comfort, and cemeteries struggled to accommodate the influx of funerals for empty caskets. Crime spiked for a while until a bunch of volunteers banded together to supplement the struggling police force. The news broadcasts always talked about “rebuilding” and “moving on” and “becoming our own superheroes.” But they never addressed how people turned to looting when production stopped or how orphaned children wandered the streets days after The Snap. So many people died. Either from car crashes caused by the driver disappearing from behind the wheel or surgeons getting dusted in the middle of an operation. Women lost their babies. Suicide rates skyrocketed. In a world with superheroes, people get comfortable believing that the heroes will always save the day. No one ever stopped to consider what might happen if they failed.

A tiny glimmer of hope appeared when Tony Stark returned from space, only to shatter when he failed to bring the other superheroes with him before all but disappearing from the public eye. No one wanted to acknowledge that the Avengers lost, so rebuilding in the wake of disaster took a long, long time.

Police officers, first responders, doctors, teachers, community leaders—people essential to the functioning of a healthy society—disappeared in The Snap. But even in the wake of disaster, incredible people always step up to do the right thing. And so, slowly but surely, the world began to heal. Memories of lost loved ones lurked everywhere in the form of weathered “missing” posters and rows of empty houses, however, people stopped allowing those memories to hold them back. After The Snap came The Healing.

A car alarm goes off outside when you awaken, shafts of golden sunlight piercing through your blinds and disturbing you from your sleep. You don’t want to get out of bed. A sigh escapes your lips as you roll off your bed, trudging to the dresser to pick out your outfit for the day. The goal is to find the right tee-shirt and jacket combination to prevent anyone from noticing that you’ve been wearing the same pair of pants for about a week. You grab a canary yellow graphic tee and a jean jacket. Mission accomplished. 

You move to the vanity, running a brush through your hair and ignoring the pain as the bristles snag on tangles. You think a prayer for your poor, damaged hair and keep on brushing. No need to put on makeup today—you’ve been working to get rid of your most recent acne flare up and you’re not willing to risk making it worse. Hayley’s face smiles at you from a wooden picture frame, her arm slung around your dad’s waist as they pose in front of the Statue of Liberty. Your heart aches at the sight of it. Neither of them ever made it home. You watched Hayley disappear with your own eyes, but you are really not quite sure what happened to Dad that day. 

After your wounds mysteriously healed and the ensuing chaos Post-Snap distracted the remaining first responders, you somehow managed to wander all the way back home on foot. There, you sat on the porch steps for hours listening to wailing sirens and cries of anguish as the world crumbled around you. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon when your mother finally arrived without your father. Covered in a layer of blood, sweat, and grime, she almost looked like she had a worse day than you. She remained silent, no matter how many questions you asked her, instead engulfing you in the longest hug of your life. You both needed it.

Months later, your mom packed up everything in the house and moved you to a smaller apartment closer to Midtown High School. She never talked to you about Dad and you never talked to her about your powers. The two of you forged an unspoken agreement to never address the events of that day. 

All prepared for the day, you opened your door and slipped into the kitchen. Your mom is at the dining table which is set for four, even though it is only the two of you in the house. Only a couple years ago, this place might have been filled with the clatter of plates and chattering of happy voices as everyone got ready for school or for work. But now an oppressive silence lingers in the air as you slink around like a criminal, quietly preparing a bowl of cereal while Mom stares blankly at her newspaper. She has aged considerably in recent months. She started her own business to help find homes and jobs for displaced people after The Snap, dedicating her life to helping others. It’s kind of ironic, considering how absent she is at home. You can’t remember the last time she said “I love you” or even a simple “good morning.” Some people turned to alcohol or drugs, your mom turned to her work. On one hand, you admire how much she has done for the community. On the other, you wish she would just talk to you about how she feels. You aren’t sure how much longer you can stand this silence. 

“Bye, Mom,” you say as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. She glances up and makes a small noise, almost like whatever she wanted to say died in her mouth. “...I’m heading off to school…” Still, nothing. You sigh, and disappear out the front door.

…. 

School passes in a blur. Project presentation, pop quizzes, final exam assignments, decathlon practice. Like your mom, you have learned to fill up your day as much as possible. It helps distract you from the silence. Not only is your house quiet, but the world seems to be suspended in a permanent state of mourning. Kids joke around in the halls with hushed voices and when the conversation dies out, everyone looks around with vague expressions. The sadness is easier to escape when you give yourself barely any time to spend alone with your thoughts. The last thing you want is to be miserable all day, only for you to feel even worse when you finally have to return home. If you’re not careful, your thoughts begin to drift to the fact that soon you will be doing things your sister never got the chance to do. You plan on going to Washington D.C. with the decathlon next year, not to mention the fact that you already got your driver’s license. Before you know it, you will be touring colleges and gettings jobs—all things Hayley missed out on when she disappeared with the rest of the Lost. The closer you get to the end of the academic year, the more these thoughts plague you.

….

At the end of the day, you send a quick text before going to stand out on the curb in front of the school. A brisk wind tugs at your sleeves, stray hairs freeing themselves from your ponytail and tickling your nose or getting into your mouth when you’re not careful. Only a couple minutes pass before a nondescript black SUV pulls up in front of you, the passenger side door swinging open on its own. The driver doesn’t look at you when you hop in, setting your backpack on the seat beside you. 

Buildings race past as you drive and drive, you drive until the buildings disappear and turn into quiet countryside. In the distance, the Avengers compound comes into view. You murmur a “thanks” to the driver when they drop you off at the entrance, driving off the moment you shut the door. A couple years ago, you began to realize that you didn’t hallucinate surviving electrical shock or your bones healing themselves. You were quick to write off how your skin became impervious to common injuries like paper cuts, but it was harder to ignore when you had dreams about being a cat-person-alien-thing and you woke up with feline eyes and two inch long claws. With your mother emotionally absent, you decided against confiding in her, and instead wrote a long-winded email to the Avengers explaining what happened to you and begging for help. It took a while to get a response, but eventually Blackwidow reached out to you and asked if you would be willing to take a few tests at the headquarters. 

Since then, you learned that, somehow, getting electrocuted changed your body on the molecular level. Evolution occurs naturally over many generations, but Agent Romanov explained that you are able to evolve in a matter of seconds. However, you also learned that it comes at the cost of using your body’s own resources. You did not suddenly become magical. You cannot pop new arms out of nowhere. But you can grow extra arms as long as you can stand the intense, unimaginable pain the comes from sprouting two new appendages in seconds. It also makes you incredibly hungry. Imagine the amount of food a bunch of pubescent boys consume and then multiply it by ten—that’s how much you need to eat after sprouting gills or stopping bullets with your invulnerable skin. 

Without the threat of alien invasions, the Avengers compound is almost completely desolate. Aside from the essential staff, you only ever see Agent Romanov on your weekly visits. The faces of the Scarlet Witch, Vision, Doctor Strange, and Spider-Man stare down at you as you move silently through the hall. Your attention lingers on the familiar red mask, tracing over the intricate details in the design. It’s crazy to you that he rescued you from death only hours before he met his own end. Agent Romanov says he never returned from space. He must have been so scared… You shake off your thoughts, not wanting to waste precious energy mourning a hero you never knew. The last thing you want is to keep Agent Romanov waiting.

….

“Sorry I’m late, Agent Romanov,” your shoes squeak on the pristine concrete floor as you walk into the training room. 

The red haired woman looks up from a dossier and offers you a warm smile. She looks exhausted today. Granted, you can’t remember a time since you’ve known her that she didn’t have sad, red-rimmed eyes. Hell, she hasn’t even bothered to re-dye her hair after the natural red started growing back. 

“Y/N,” she sighs. “I’ve asked you a million times to call me Natasha.”

“I know, I know,” you reply, “—it just feels too informal. I mean...you’re Blackwidow. I can’t believe that we’re on a first name basis.”

She laughs at that, pretty and melodious. It’s your constant goal to give her a reason to smile. Natasha has helped you out so much by allowing you to come here and train; she deserves to smile and be happy. 

“So,” you say, stripping off your outer layers and slipping into the training suit Nat made for you. “What is on the schedule for today? Hand-to-hand combat? Survival training? When do I get my lightsaber?” Natasha chuckles again, smacking you playfully on the shoulder. You learned quickly that she’s fond of Star Wars references. She says that it reminds her of Spider-Man and, hey, you kind of like the idea that both you and your former superhero crush have good taste in cinema. 

“No lightsabers. Not sure if I can trust you with those,” she winks at you playfully. 

“Come on! Just once? Scout’s honor.” 

“Nope, not a chance,” Nat retorts. “Let’s practice some aerial combat. I’ll man the drones, you destroy them however you please.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” you say with a mocking salute.

Your suit has a cutout on the back for occasions like this. One of the first things Natasha said when she found out you could go full-on “angel mode” was that it’s a highly valuable skill that you should practice. Because your body adapts so quickly to harsh environments and physical harm, you don’t have to think in order to become invulnerable or to breathe in low oxygen environments. But wings? That takes patience, willpower, and a lot of carbs. 

When you saw pictures of angels growing up, you never really thought about how they would require an entirely different bone structure. The sensation feels like growing pains—a dull ache which steadily blossoms into acute, burning agony. It begins with a new set of shoulder blades and rotating joints fusing to your spine, muscles and tissue weaving across the fresh bone as hair follicles adapt into feathers. That part hurts a normal amount—like when you grow six inches in a summer—but it’s when the rest of your bones begin to hollow so you’re light enough to fly, ribs shifting to accommodate a larger pair of lungs, that you truly start to acknowledge just how much pain you’re in. Millions of years of evolution takes place in a single minute, and soon a stunning set of iridescent hummingbird wings frame your body. It takes everything in you not to collapse, reaching for the nutrient-rich snack bar Nat offers you and devouring it like a starving animal.

“You good?” she asks, arching a brow.

“I’m fine.” not really, but you’re used to the pain by now. Not to be edgy, or whatever, but you would rather feel this pain than to feel nothing at all. You have always looked up to superheroes, and you kind of like the idea of becoming one yourself. It’s better than being sad all the time. One day, when you learn to master your abilities, you will be saving people just like Spider-Man saved you all those years ago.

You train with Natasha for several hours, pushing the limits of your abilities until you can scarcely move. Agent Romanov might look sweet and harmless, but there is a reason why she’s called the Blackwidow. Most people would go easier on a sixteen year old girl, but Nat is adamant that you need to get used to fighting until you have nothing left, digging deeper, and then fighting some more. After the aerial training, you moved onto target practice, obstacle courses, and one-on-one with Natasha, herself. 

Every bullet you fail to dodge, every time your body is forced to adapt to some extreme environment, every punch you land—it all drains you physically and emotionally. Just because you aren’t bleeding doesn’t mean you don’t feel every single blow. Your body still gets sore, and if you don’t eat enough after training, you might as well be unable to move at all. Thankfully, there is always a hearty supply of food ready for you when you finish these workouts. 

After you showered and changed back into plainclothes, you meet Nat in the dining hall so you can refuel before heading home. You never get used to walking in here. It is the size of a school cafeteria, maybe larger, and it is completely empty aside from the two of you. Only serves to remind you just how desolate the Avengers compound has become. Nat offers you a giant plate of pasta—seriously, it’s gargantuan—when you take a seat on the bench across from her. You grimace as you force your sore muscles to comply, mouth watering at the sight of the food. 

“You did great today, Y/N,” the woman says after you’ve helped yourself to several mouthfuls. She knows that you can’t really function until you get some food in you. “I’m impressed by how much you’ve grown since I first started training you.”

“Thank yo—”

“No, let me finish.” 

You quiet instantly, swallowing any words of thanks with your latest mouthful of pasta. Why does she look so serious? The anticipation nearly kills you.

“It’s been...tough,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “really, really tough the last couple of years. I—we failed to defeat Thanos, and it got a lot of people killed. The Snap...it changed everything. I’ve been struggling without my team here to help me, but meeting you has given me something to look forward to. You give me hope that maybe something good can come out of a terrible situation.”

You’re absolutely speechless. Leave it to Natasha to drop a bomb like that when you’re gorging yourself on noodles like some sort of rabid toddler. Tears sparkle in the corners of your eyes as gaze at your companion, completely in awe of the praise she just bestowed upon you. When was the last time someone said something so kind to you? It’s been years, definitely. You must look like an overgrown child staring at Nat with big, cry-baby eyes and pasta sauce all over your face. It’s not exactly your most flattering moment, but you don’t really care.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit, smiling sheepishly at the older woman. “I’m really honored, and you know that I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for—”

“Y/N, seriously, there’s no need to thank me. I helped you when you needed it the most, and now you’re helping me, too.” Natasha stands up. She picks up a small, slate-colored box that you didn’t notice earlier and walks around to your side of the table, placing the package in front of you. “A gift. For you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You stare at her a moment longer, some part of you unable to comprehend the idea that your mentor not only expressed her appreciation for you, but also is offering you a gift. A stern expression flickers across Nat’s features, and you rush to open up the package before she gets annoyed with your inability to function like a normal human being. The box is nondescript and smooth beneath your quivering fingers. Breath you didn’t realize you were holding escapes your lips when you finally see what is inside. It’s a bracelet with a thin, silver band. And it’s not just any old bracelet. You remember seeing prototypes of this scattered around Tony Stark’s old lab. 

“Try it on,” Natasha says. This time, you don’t hesitate.

The metal is cool against your skin as you slip it on. The face of the bracelet is about the size of a quarter; you press it, and the metal morphs into a high tech suit as nanotechnology spreads across your skin. “No way!” you gasp, marveling at how light and flexible the armor is. It is the same silver hue as the original band, with varying monochrome shades depending on the thickness or flexibility of the area. Your torso is a dark, iron hue with plates of sterling protecting your most vital areas. A pale silver forms the topmost layer—a sleek and agile imitation of traditional european armor. You sort of look like a weird fusion between a medieval knight and a stormtrooper.

“I know you don’t necessarily need armor, but this should help absorb the shock of impact and conceal your identity. Plus, it can shift to accommodate wings or claws or whatever weird thing you decide to grow.” Amusement sparkles in her eyes as she watches you inspect your gift.

Natasha can’t see it due to the helm obscuring your face, but you’re grinning from ear to ear. You rush forward, enveloping her in a tender embrace. You could cry right now, but you’re trying to keep it together.

“Thank you so much,” you gush, voice threatening to crack. “This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me.” Your voice rings with honest truth. On most days, your own mother forgets that you even exist. And when she does acknowledge your presence, she acts more like a robot than a mom. In a way, Natasha has become a mom to you. Not that you will ever tell her as much, but the red-haired assassin cares for you when no one else does. 

“So,” Nat says, changing the subject. “Any ideas on what you want your alias to be?” Oh, right. That. You have a couple ideas, but you were unable to settle on one when you sat down at your desk to brainstorm the night before.

“Semblance or Replica. I couldn’t decide,” you reply.

“I like Semblance. Replica makes you sound tacky.”

Natasha’s matter-of-fact reply makes you laugh. It’s just like her to shoot down an idea immediately without needing to think about it. 

“Semblance, it is.” You can’t keep yourself from smiling. This is it. It’s finally real. No more looking up to heroes, because now, now you get to be your own hero.

“Come on, let’s finish dinner.”

No argument from you. You’re still starving—as awesome as the suit is, your thoughts keep drifting back to the steaming bowl of spaghetti on the table. 

You fill up on several more servings of pasta, chatting and joking with Natasha. The cafeteria doesn’t feel so empty when the both of you are laughing at another one of your bad jokes. You don’t really want to go home, but it’s getting late. As absent as Mom is, you don’t want to push your luck. Eventually she will notice that you’re gone. 

After a quick exchange of goodbyes, you opt to fly yourself home. You have tried out several different kinds of wings in the past, but your favorites are that of a hummingbird. Learning how to emulate their aerodynamic adaptations was a bit of a learning curve, but now that you know what you’re doing, you are capable of flying just as fast with a considerable amount of agility. If anyone spots you soaring through the skyscrapers, you would never be able to tell. Dark buildings rush past you as you weave through the city, marveling at the myriad of dazzling lights. It’s way past your curfew, but you want to make a pit stop at the Chrysler building. The rooftop is one of your favorite places to sit and watch the city below. But right now, you are eager to try out your new suit away from the watchful eyes of Natasha. 

You press the hidden button on the bracelet. Waves of silver nanotechnology ripple across your skin in a matter of seconds. You are no scientific genius, so you can’t say exactly how this sort of thing works, but you **have** poked around in the lab Tony Stark used to work in when he was an Avenger. From what you gathered, this technology is a lesser version of his suit, Mark 50, which had the ability to interpret the thoughts of the wearer and construct different tech at a whim. You wonder if this one has an AI built in. That would be cool. The longer you think about it, the more you want to know. Well, there is only one way to find out.

“Um,” you say apprehensively. “Can anyone hear me?” 

“Hello, Y/N,” says a feminine voice. “How may I help you?” You have no idea where the voice originates from. Are there even speakers in this thing? You try not to dwell on it—there is no use in questioning a product of Stark Industries. The only thing that matters is that it works.

“I’m not sure. What can you do?”

“I can do lots of things. All you have to do is ask.”

This is it. The big moment. You have a high-tech suit with a super awesome AI, so you’re first order of business should be monumental. Something worthy of the occasion. You wrack your brain for ideas, but all the anticipation and excitement overwhelms your brain, and you mind blanks. It’s like when someone asks about your favorite movie and you immediately forget the names of all the movies that have ever existed, but worse.

“Can you tell me the fastest way to get home?” Lame. 

“If you intend on flying home, standard GPS data does not apply to you,” The AI replies in a helpful tone. “It will be approximately 35 minutes by taxi at this time of night, however.”

“Oh, right. Thank you...Wait, sorry, do you have a name, or something?”

“I do not.”

Huh, that’s weird. Most systems have some sort of nickname for their artificial intelligences. There’s Siri, Alexa, and Google. Alright, no, the last one is less of a name and more of a vocal identifier. Or the people who created the technology were lazy and uninspired. 

“Can I give you a name?” you ask after a moment of thought.

“If you would like to.”

“How about Glados?” will she get the reference? Just the mere thought of it brings an amused smirk to your lips.

“Glados sounds nice.”

Your expression falters, disappointed that Glados didn’t catch on. Oh well. You think you’re funny—with or without validation.

 “Alright then,” you say after a short moment of silence. “Let’s go home.”

You leap off the roof, free-falling with your wings folded against your back. The ground rushes towards you, faster and faster, until you unfurl your wings and skim the tops of the cars. In other places, people might question a mysterious individual plummeting from great heights, but this is New York. These people have endured alien invasions and apocalypse situations. For all they care, you’re just another weirdo cosplayer. And that’s just fine. You’re not quite ready to become a superhero like Cap or Iron Man. But, damn, you really do love to fly.

….

When you arrive home, the apartment is just as silent as when you left it. Bones snap and muscles tear as you return to your natural form. You pause, waiting for your mom to barge in and demand to know where you’ve been. She never does, though. Just like every other time. Quietly, you tiptoe towards the kitchen. Empty. You try her room next. Also empty; the bed still made. Figures. She’s still at work and didn’t even bother to call. Perhaps she just assumed that you’re used to her pulling all-nighters at the office. 

Pfft, whatever. You’re too tired to be mad at her. 

After grabbing a quick snack from the fridge, you return to your room and turn in for the night, hoping that maybe your mom might surprise you with breakfast in the morning. If only.