#man's got the least chunky vomit in the world

[diseasedcube]

@angelbandages just for you <3 a fushi vomit compilation 😍

[rae-is-typing]

Sick Day

Notes: This was requested by a lovely anon, and it was inspired by my past few days. Enjoy :)

Original request from anon: Can you write an Avenger imagine, where the reader is the youngest of the cast and gets sick/has an accident on set?

Description: You get sick. That’s it. That’s the fic.

Characters: reader, original female and male characters (manager named Masha, assistant named Alis, an EMT named Esme, trainer named Nick), RDJ, Chris Evans, Anthony Mackie, Sebastian Stan, Scarlett Johanson, Elizabeth Olson, the Russos

Warnings: Swearing sickness, vomiting, mention of pepto bismol (that shit’s NASTY), swearing, homework

Word count: 2.9k

You don’t get sick.

You don’t have time to get sick, so you don’t. Between filming, training, and school, sickness is absolutely not an option Simple as that, right?

Well, your body didn’t get the memo.

Your body is racked with chills, but you’re sweating profusely. You chalk it up yo the intense scene you’re filming; your character and Robert’s character just got into a massive screaming match over your character’s secret identity being revealed. But in the middle of the second take, your words dissolve into coughs.

"No, Tony! It's not okay!" You shout, whipping around to face a very pissed looking RDJ. "I-" A cough disrupts your words. "I don't-" This time you break down into a fit of uncontrollable coughing, even going as far as doubling over.

"Cut!" Robert rushes over to you, placing a hand on your back. He makes you stand up fully. He speaks up when you finally stop coughing. “You alright, kid?" You nod your head, rubbing at your throat.

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm sorry, I have no idea where that came from." A smile tugs at his lips. "Don't apologize, Y/N. It happens."

Alis, an assistant, comes over with a bottle of cold water, placing it on your hands with a curt not. You thank her and open the water, taking a few slow sips as the Russos offer feedback on what you managed to get through.

"That was are best take until the coughing. Whatever you did before, do that again." You try not to beat yourself up over the coughing; it's show business, it happens.

Getting back into position, you two manage to finish the scene with minimal interruptions. During your yelling match, your head begins to pound. It's not the light pounding you get when you didn't get enough sleep or you're dehydrated, it's the kind where you're sure that your old band director is leading the entire drum line on your brain tissue, or something is punching your skull with little pistons.

The second "Cut!" rings out through the set. You deflate, rolling your shoulders and rubbing your head. You trudge over to a small bench near the set and plop down, stretching your now aching limbs in the process.

Being the (mother hen) good mentor and costar he is, Robert realizes something is wrong very quickly. You're usually very bubbly after scenes end, the adrenaline still coursing through you. He can only think of one time he saw you like this, and that was right after you took the SATs. He calls over Alis again, asking her to get some green hibiscus tea with honey and acetaminophen. Alis is back within five minutes. He walks over to you and sits by you.

"Here, take these." You frown at the to-go cup and the small container in his hands, but ]take them anyways.

"What is it?"

"Tea, and tylenol. They'll help with your headache and cough." He says, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, thanks, Robert."

"Course, gotta help my favorite kid." He says, pushing himself off of the bench. "Now, I don't know about you, but I am starving. What do you say we get a bite with the others?" He extends a hand for you to take

"Sure," You say without thinking. Any time with the cast is great, even if you're extra tired and achy. You let him pull you up. The cast orders sandwiches from a little shop in downtown Atlanta, very close to the set.

You're gathered in a larger, mostly empty save for a few couches and chairs part of the set where you often meet. Everyone is talking. They're either going over that days work and characterization, recent events in the news, and their weekend plans. Your sandwich is a little off. It smells fine, it's exactly what you ordered, but it tastes... off. Something in it is making your stomach churn and grumble. You place the sandwich back in the wrapping it came in, fold it up, and throw it away.

That's enough for tonight, You decide. "I have school stuff that I need to get done." You say.

"Aw, okay. See you tomorrow!"

"Fuck school,"

"Language!"

"Shut the hell up, man."

You smile as you walk to your trailer. You do have school, you always have school, and it sucks major ass. The suckiest thing you have to complete is a seven page, MLA format, argumentative research paper about birth control in the developing world. And, oh my god, you would rather be hung upside down by your toe hair than write that fucking paper.

But you write it anyway.

Why? Because it's due in two days and you haven't started it yet. So you buckle down, ignoring the headache you have and your churning stomach, and do the damn thing.

You get three pages in before you decide that being tired isn't worth this paper. Getting up at 5:30 in the morning each day to train for two hours is definitely not your favorite part of your job, but it is some of the only alone time you’re able to get, so you'll take it. You stand up from your desk and immediately regret moving. Dizziness overcomes you. You flop back onto your office chair and press a hand to your forehead.

Taking a few deep breaths, you get back under control and stand up much slower. This time, you're able to walk to your small bedroom area with an attached bathroom. You wash your face, being extra careful as to not make yourself pass out from dizziness. You do the same when brushing your teeth.

During the night, you get all of two and a half hours of sleep. You toss and turn all night, unable to ignore the churning in your stomach for long enough. And the fact that you're hot one second and then freezing the next. it is impossible for you to sleep for more than a half hour at a time. But you eventually do.

Assuming that's the end of it, you sleep deeply until cramping in your stomach forces you out of bed. you make yourself sit up. A wave a nausea comes over you like a tidal wave. You hobble to the bathroom and lean over the toilet just in time.

Bile and your half-eaten sandwich forces its way from your stomach, up your throat, and into the toilet. It's gross. It smells vile, its chunky and the strain makes tears come to your eyes. You dry heave and cough until you're sure everything is out. Feebly, you flush the toilet and leaned back against the wall across from it, deep breathing until you stop crying.

Unaware of the time, you stay there until you feel strong enough to get up and brush your teeth. You hobble back to your bed, and lay back down. This time, falling asleep again.

A knocking on your door pulls you out of your slumber.

"Y/N? You need to get up." The smooth voice of your manager, Masha, floats through your door.

You jolt awake, now remembering that you have to train. "Shit, what time is it?"

"Six AM. I'm opening the door," Masha says, while opening the door. You wince as the light seeps in, covering your eyes.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" She asks. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, yeah yeah yeah, I'm good. Shit Nick is waiting. I'll get ready, gimme like two seconds," You ramble, stumbling out of bed.

"Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, hold on." Masha says, putting both hands on your shoulders, steadying you. Huh, you didn't realize you were wavering.

"You're burning up, Y/N." She observes, pressing the back of her hand on your forehead. "I think you're sick. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing."

"Have you thrown up or anything? Headaches? Lie to me, and it won’t be pretty."

“I threw up,” You croak, flopping back on the bed.  

"Alright, I'm going to get Esme, stay here, lay down." Masha speaks quickly, pulling out her phone.

Esme is the lead EMT on set. She was an RN for years before transferring to emergency medical services. The stunt doubles and the actors take major precautions before stunting. However, some things can't be avoided, hence the EMTs.

Esme comes into your room in no time, followed closely by a worried Masha.

"Alright, Y/N. What's wrong?"

"I'm a little sick right now."

"Alright. Symptoms?"

"Chills, headaches, I uh threw up a few hours ago..." You hate admitting it. That means you won't be able to do much today. It's apart of your contract. If you get sick, you have to take at least two days off because you're a huge liability for Marvel. Being a minor kinda sucks.

She nods. "Alright hon, follow my directions." Esme checks you out thoroughly. After telling her about your weird sandwich, she nods knowingly.

"It looks like a fever, and that sandwich made you throw up. Get some pepto bismol and tylenol. Make sure to drink a lot of water and other clear liquids. Eat the BRAT diet, and you'll be good to go in a few days. I suggest making a doctor's appointment today, though. I can’t diagnose you."

"Alright, thanks Esme." Masha says as Esme leaves. She turns to you, sighing. "I'm sorry, N/N. I'll get what you need from a store, let the Russos know, and make the appointment. I think you should go back to sleep if you can."

"Thanks, Mash. You're the best."

She smiles gently before leaving. You turn on your side and pull the blanket over your head, eventually dozing off.

The veil of sleep is slowly lifted as you blink your eyes open. Thanks to some great blackout curtains you have, no light seeps into the trailer. This time, you don't feel nauseous. However, an inkling of dizziness is still there. You stay in your position for a few minutes until you reach for your phone. A ton of notifications appear on your lockscreen.

3 missed calls from Masha the Manager

Messages from Masha the Manager

Y/N, Nick is waiting. Where are you? Sent: 5:30

Get up now, Y/N. Sent: 5:30

Y/N. You're scaring me. You're never late. Sent: 5:43

Everything you need is on the counter. Read the note first though. Sent: 7:00

Message from evans

Hey Y/N. Heard you weren't feeling well. Lemme know if I can help, okay? Sent: 7:15 AM

Message from Romanian Bitch™

Masha told us you're sick. Feel better we need you! Sent: 7:19 AM

Message from Stanky Stark

Get better soon okay? Sent 7:19

Messages to No Boys Allowed!!!

ScarJo: get well soon babe. let us know if you need anything 7:20

Scarlet Bitch: aw, feel better N/N Sent: 7:21

It warms your heart knowing that they care so much about you. You send a simple thank you to each one of them and close your eyes again.It only takes a few seconds for you to remember all the homework you have to do. Your eyes snap open and you groan.

You do not want to do homework. But you have two whole days with no training and no work, so why wouldn't you? That thought is all you need to get out of bed. You don't bother changing. You migrate to the small living area, and go to the counter where Masha had set all the stuff. You found the note quickly, and read Masha's half print, half cursive writing.

Y/N,

Take two doses of pepto and two things of tylenol, but read the instructions!!! Eat some applesauce or toast, and call me if you get any worse.

-Masha

You unpack the canvas bag and quickly take your medicine. After that, you take all the food with you to the couch. You plant yourself on the soft sofa and dive into your work.

Being interrupted every few minutes with coughing is not the ideal space for productivity, especially because your throat is becoming increasingly raw. You put your phone in a drawer in your desk so you aren't distracted. Like most teens, you have a bad habit of prioritizing your phone.

A knock on the trailer door pulls you out of your focus. "Y/N, it's us!"

"Come in!" You say, still typing. You cringe at how sore you sound. Scarlett and Lizzie come in, still in costume.

"We can't stay for long," Scarlett starts, looking very apologetic. "We have a five minute break and we wanted to check on you."

You smile, setting your computer to the side. "Thanks guys. I appreciate it."

"How are you feeling?" Lizzie asks.

You shrug. "I'm okay, I guess."

"What were you doing?" Scarlett asks, spotting the half finished essay on your laptop. "You're supposed to be resting."

You sigh. "Yeah, but I should just get it done..."

The three of you talk about how shooting is going, and the production of the film in general. It's going smoothly. Nothing is going wrong. Soon, though, they have to leave. You're left to your own devices for another few hours.

Now that you’re revising the paper, your eyes ache, your left hand is cramping up, and you're positive you gave yourself carpal tunnel.

Another knock on the door reverberates through the trailer.

"Open up, kiddo!"

"It's unlocked." You snap back, not unkindly. Anthony and Sebastian walk in. You stop typing for a second to smile at them. "Hey,"  

"Hey, N/N." Sebastian smiles back. "We brought you soup."

Your face twists up. "Is it from the sandwich shop?"

"Nah, Masha told us that made you sick. This is from the high-end shop across the street," Anthony says, handing you a warm styrofoam bowl and a spoon. he also takes your laptop. "What are you writing an essay for? You’re sick! And a kid! Kids don’t do school when they’re sick.”

“What do you know about kids?” You smile, leaning forward to reach for your laptop.

"Nuh uh, no no no. You're going to relax while we're here, okay? And for your information, I have three children."

You cock an eyebrow. "Uh huuuuhhhh," you draw out.

He rolls his eyes, saves your essay, and turns on the television that you rarely use. "Alright, N/N. Netflix or Hulu?"

"My essay."

"Hey siri, does netflix or hulu have a show called 'My essay'?" You shove his shoulder lightly with a scowl. Sebastian is having a grand time laughing at you while eating his own soup.

"Alright, alright. We'll watch The Office, it's one of your favorites." Anthony chuckles.

You huff, leaning back on the couch and pulling off the cover to your soup. "Fine."

"Michael Scott is such a bad boss." Sebastian remarks.

"How dare you!" You gasp, your voice cracking severely.

"I can't take you seriously when you sound like a twelve year old boy." He retorts.

"You're being mean,"

"Mmm sorry sweetheart," He chuckles.

The three of you watch a couple episodes before they have to leave. You thank them for their time and the soup profusely. They wave you off, saying something along the lines of 'No problem, kiddo'.

After they leave, you snatch up your laptop and make the final revisions on your essay. There, finished in two days, and all it took was eating a bad sandwich. You should totally do that more often. (No you shouldn't. Never doing that again.)

You opt for more Michael Scott and some ginger ale mixed with Gatorade. You fall asleep on the couch huddled under a fleece blanket you retrieved from your room area two more episodes in, and wake up to gentle knocking and someone calling your name.

"Y/N? You there?"

"Yeah." You call, voice thick with sleep.

"Can we come in?"

"Sure?" You say, burrowing under the blanket. The door opens revealing Chris Evans and Robert, both looking tired after a long day of filming.

"Did we wake you up?" Chris asks.

"Yeah, it's fine though," You yawn, sitting up slowly.

"Oh, sorry 'bout that kiddo,"

You shrug. "What's up?"

Robert gives you a dad smile. "We just wanted to come see how you're doing. Feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I guess. Don't feel pukey anymore."

"That's good. Anthony said you were doing homework all day?" Chris asks, tone not too far from accusatory.

"I had an essay to do." You defend.

Robert clicks his tongue. "You're supposed to be resting, Y/N, not doing homework."

You pout. "I still had to get it done..."

"Alright, no school stuff tomorrow, okay?" Robert orders. "Rest only."

"Rest only." You repeat.

"Alright, now go to bed. You look exhausted."

"Okay. Thanks for checking on me," You stand up slowly, paying close attention to how you feel. You give each of them a hug before going to your room.

You check your phone, again giving in to those bad habits.

Message from Masha the Manager

Doc appointment at 1 pm tomorrow. He's gonna make a house call.

Sent 7:28 PM

You shoot back a quick 'K' before turning it off and laying down for the night.

[magnoliasinbloom]

Crash Course Love

Claire and Jamie are together for one purpose only: trying to get over their previous relationships. It’s just a plan, isn’t it?

Infinite thanks to @lcbeauchampoftarth​ and @anna-swims​ for being awesome betas. There is no posting schedule, because life™. I hope you enjoy this ride.

AO3

1: Drink [Claire]

I slammed my tiny shot glass down hard on the bar top. It earned me a dirty look from what’s-his-face, the bartender.

“Hey… hey! Yeah, another one over here, please.” My words weren’t quite slurred yet, but I was getting there fast. Bloody fuck.

I swiveled on the barstool, just enough to get a real good look at the people who were milling around the crowded Glasgow bar. Which bar was I at again… Prince Edward? Prince Charles? Some royal name.

I was past being discreet. I craned my neck and checked out every booth and table just to make sure they were really gone. The bartender nudged my arm with my new drink and I felt for it blindly, never taking my eyes off the tiny dance floor.

“Cheers, Robert.”

“It’s Rupert,” he grunted.

“Whatever.” I pulled the tequila hard and fast, barely grimacing as it burned its way down.

“Och. Tha’ looks painful. I might have to try that.”

The voice came from my left, a slightly slurred Scottish burr. I turned slowly, wiping my mouth rather sloppily with the back of my hand. I squinted in the dim light.

His hair was the first thing I noticed. It was an attractive mess, and I couldn’t tell if it was the shitty lighting or his natural color, but it was so red it looked fake.

I realized I’d been staring at the top of this lad’s head like an idiot, before finally meeting his gaze. Deep blue eyes—a rare form of sapphire—looked back at me, also squinting through the haze of cigarette smoke and dim lighting.

Bloody fuck, he was a hot mess. I felt a twinge of equal parts guilt and self-righteous anger. I thought maybe it was a bit too soon for me to notice other attractive men, but the anger spoke up even louder. Why shouldn’t I engage in interesting conversations with random, gorgeous men? The anger in me won.

Wait, he’d said something. What was it? He wanted to do a shot?

“Um, it’s Cuervo. I think I might go blind if I keep drinking this, but that’s okay. Then I won’t have to see that arsehole walking around with that stroppy cow.”

Oops, overshare. At least I hadn’t hurled tequila and pub mix all over him. Yet.

Attractive blue-eyed lad raised his eyebrows. He was just as shit-faced as I was, maybe even a bit more. “Arsehole? Who would that be?”

Oh, might as well. “My ex. Turns out those late-night work meetings that went on for months were late-night sex marathons with Sandy. The arm-candy.”

“Sandy? The stroppy cow, I assume?” He smirked and tossed back the remainder of his own drink. “Which would make you…?”

“Claire. Spurned but pissed ex-girlfriend.” I held out my hand.

He took it in his and squeezed it gently. “Jamie, spurned and sad ex-boyfriend.” The tequila must have kicked in; my hand and arm felt all tingly and a warmth sparked in my belly.

“So. Any particular sorrows you’re drowning in cheap liquor?” I faced the bar again, looking at him out of the corner of my eye.

“Och, aye. But I daresay they’re halfway gone now.” Jamie shook his empty glass and the ice clinked. “My third.”

I snorted. “Fourth.” I held up my own shot glass in Ronald’s—or was it Reuben’s?—direction. “My good man, two please.” I glanced at Jamie, smiling wickedly. “You need to catch up.”

“Aye, but I really dinna want to risk going blind.” He called out to Rodolfo (Riley?), “Make it Patron, please.”

“Patron, huh? Is she worth it?” I caught his gaze.

Jamie’s eyes hardened, but I could tell it wasn’t towards me. “No. But I am.”

“Fair enough.” The glasses were placed in front of us and I raised mine to his. I stood, wobbling a bit and he did the same. “A toast—to Jamie and Claire. May their exes catch amoebic dysentery and shit till they die.”

“Amen.” He held his own shot aloft and touched the rim to mine. We looked at each other for a moment before we downed the golden liquid.

“Argh!” Jamie shook his head, making a face and coughing once. “Nice.”

“What were you drinking?” I nodded towards the chunky tumbler filling fast with melted ice.

“Whisky. I probably shouldna be mixing Laphroaig and Patron, but fuck it. I dinna care.”

Now both our eyes were kind of swimming and I stumbled into him as I tried to hike myself back onto the barstool.

“Easy there,” he chuckled. I straightened up, pushing away slightly. I gripped the bar top. The world was tilting crazily now. Bloody hell.

“I think that last shot was a mistake.” Now my words were blending together in strange ways.

“Aye, for me too.” His Scots accent had broadened more over the past minute.

I laid my head on the bar, not caring if my hair got dirty. I groaned, and I felt Jamie pat my back gently. “Um, thanks.” I managed to raise my head off the surface after a few minutes.

“Anytime.” He hoisted himself onto the stool next to mine. We endured silence for a bit until he grabbed a nearby salt shaker, tapping it rhythmically on the bar top. I waited.

The music suddenly changed; slow, mellow notes filled the air. I was about to make a snarky comment about the DJ’s song choice when I noticed Jamie’s hand next to me, palm up.

“Dance?” he asked softly.

“Only if you promise not to twirl me,” I found myself answering.

We made our way onto the makeshift dance area in the corner. He pulled me close, his hand at my back and the other clutched mine tightly against his chest. My left hand went on his shoulder as he led me expertly around the floor. My head threatened to drop, nestling perfectly into the center of his chest. God, he was tall.  The alcohol was finally achieving its purpose, numbing me.

We swayed back and forth; I was still trying not to vomit as we danced. I found that the scent coming off Jamie’s skin was helping—something fresh like citrus, tinged with his own male musk.

“I proposed to her.” His warm breath tickled the shell of my ear.

I gripped his shoulder hard. He proposed? Jamie’s story sounded more fucked up than mine. He took my touch as a sign to continue.

“It was our 2-year anniversary. Fancy restaurant, candles, romantic shite—ye ken? Movie style.”

“What’s your ex called?” I slurred, surprised I could focus on a question.

“Annalise.” Jamie’s voice had a sneering quality as he pronounced her name with a French accent. “We’d met when I studied a semester abroad in Paris, but she actually lived here. After I’d pulled the ring from my pocket, and knelt in front of the entire restaurant—she said she didna want to hurt me, but that we should remain friends.”

“Friends. Classic. Only if being friends means you get to punch them in the mouth after a speech like that,” I laughed bitterly and he joined me.

“That was exactly a year ago—tonight. I just found out she’s dating some arsehole—something something Saint Germain. Hence, whisky.”

The song ended and Jamie looped my arm through his, and we collapsed at a table; barstools were a little complicated in our current state. I took a deep breath and reciprocated my own sob story.

“I walked in on Frank and Sandy a few months ago. In our bed. Bloody hell, we’d known each other since we were teenagers. We were living together. Was ‘I think we should see other people’ so hard to say?” I flagged a waitress, holding up two fingers.

“Och, lass, another one?” Jamie looked concerned. I was no lightweight, but I was really feeling the previous shots.

Fuck it.

“Yeah. I need it.” I sucked on a lime and upended the shot glass. I barely acknowledged the burn this time.

“That bad, eh?”

“It is.” I winced, remembering how I still hadn’t managed to take down the pictures of us. That was just bloody unhealthy.

“Oh. It’s really no’ my place, since, well… I’m completely pissed too, but… do ye drink this much every weekend, just to forget? I mean, I worry about yer liver and all.”

“No. It’s just I ran into the Frank and Sandy here tonight, who’s sporting a rock the size of a peach pit on her finger.” I swallowed hard. “And very, very pregnant.” Much too pregnant for their affair to have begun only a few months ago. She looked ready to pop.

“Och.” Jamie looked chagrined. “Aye.” He downed his own shot and gestured for more. He raised his glass in a toast like I had.

“To ye. Because at this point, I think yer story sounds worse than mine. And ye’re still standing.” We slammed a few more shots, until finally, sweet oblivion.

No more pain, no more misplaced guilt, no more what-ifs. A moment’s peace.

It could be found at the bottom of a glass.

- - -

Sunlight streamed through the pale, gauzy curtains. It felt like a fucking drill through my eyes.

“Oh God,” I mumbled, rolling over and trying to ignore the pounding like a sledgehammer between my temples.

I hit something soft and warm beside me.

My eyes flew open, light hitting me painfully. As they adjusted, I caught sight of a tousled red head peeking over the top of the covers.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

How did this happen?

[dakotacrisis]

For Better or Worse (2)

Was going to keep this solely on AO3 but I know not everyone follows me there and Transferred is running behind due to some scheduling problems so here we are.

(Part 1 here)

Adrien and Marinette have a loooong talk.

---

“And then you, Nino and Manon came back and that was the end of the conversation.” Marinette was on the phone informing Alya of what happened earlier that day at the wax museum. Her humiliating moment of confessing to a Wax-Adrien only for it to turn out to be the real Adrien and the subsequent agonizing talk that ensued in the long elevator ride.

“Oh girl, I am so sorry,” Alya sounded like the experience had wounded her, “I cannot even begin to fathom what that was like.”

“It wasn’t pretty. I wanted to evaporate into thin air the moment I realized Adrien wasn’t a statue.” Just thinking about that moment gave Marinette a bad case of embarrassment PTSD.

“At least it turned out okay.” Alya tried to assure her, “He didn’t reject you and you said that you two were going to talk about it, right? There’s still hope.”

“I’m hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. Just because he didn’t reject me right then doesn’t mean he won’t decide he doesn’t see me that way later. If anything I could just be delaying the inevitable.” Marinette laid back on her bed. The picture of Adrien surrounded by hearts staring down at her.

“That’s not the super confident Marinette I know and love. You gotta have more faith in yourself. The boy basically said that you were the most wonderful girl in the entire world. He said he felt something for you! I think you should be a lot happier right now.”

“I am happy. Truly!” Marinette’s face warmed as she recalled Adrien’s speech about how great she was. “But I have enough sense to not go putting all my eggs in one basket. I’m gonna go into this with a level head and leave it with the same kind of grace. I really like Adrien and I don’t want our friendship to suffer if this doesn’t end up with us together.”

“Since when did you get so mature?”

“Since I had to drop my fantasy and face reality.” Marinette sighed, “Now all I have to get through is the conversation with Adrien.”

“When is that happening?” Alya asked.

“Sorry to say but I’m not telling you that, Alya.” Marinette smirked into the phone.

“Why not?” Alya whined.

“Because this really only concerns me and Adrien. So I don’t need you or anyone else snooping around eavesdropping and trying to ‘help’ the situation.” As innocently as Alya may have meant it Marinette knew that she could get just as carried away in a plan as Marinette tended to.

“It’s called moral support!”

“It’s called this is gonna be a tough, awkward, and probably really emotional conversation between two friends that are deciding whether they should date or not and I don’t want everyone poking their noses into it.” Marinette corrected her.

“You’re right.” Alya sighed, “It’s not right away is it?”

“No. Today was exhausting and we’re both busy with schedules and deadlines tomorrow so it’ll be a good time to rest and think about it on our own.”

“If you want I can get Nino to hype you up to Adrien. Really let him know what all he’s getting if he decides to date you.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Marinette sat up straight in her bed, “I think you and Nino helped plenty today!”

“It kinda worked out in the end…” Alya mumbled.

“Alya, please, for the sake of my already stressed mind and heart, don’t mention that I told you this to anyone. Especially to Adrien. Can you do that for me? Can you not get involved?”

“If that’s what you want, girl. I promise not to meddle in your love life. If you two do start dating though I recede my promise.”

“Alya!”

“Joking. You need to chill. I don’t want to get your hopes up but I’m telling you that Adrien is gonna adore you. He’ll see that you two are made for each other and then you’ll live happily ever after.”

“Thanks, Alya,” Marinette relaxed again. “It’s getting late. I’ll talk to you more tomorrow.”

“Night, Marinette. Talk to you tomorrow!” She hung up.

Marinette stared at the ceiling of her bedroom as the events of the day settled on her. Adrien wanted to explore his feelings for her. He wants to see if there is something truly their between them. It seemed too good to be true!

As rational as Marinette tried to be she couldn’t help but let her mind wander to the best possible scenario. A final fantasy to lull her to sleep. Adrien and her having a nice, long talk. Adrien telling her that he wants to be with her. Adrien asking her on a proper date. The two becoming boyfriend and girlfriend. Adrien and her having a real first kiss! The two of them becoming so comfortable around each other that being together seems more natural than anything in the world.

Marinette held the dream close for one last night. In the morning she would be sensible once more but tonight she wanted to dream.

The next day really helped to calm Marinette’s nerves about talking to Adrien again. Mainly because she was doing fifty billion other things so her mind didn’t linger all that long on him. Occasionally she’d find her mind drifting before snapping back to the project at hand.

She got a text from Adrien that night asking her when she wanted to talk. It took a lot of hashing out but they agreed on Tuesday afternoon after school. It was a short day and Adrien was able to clear his afternoon so there wouldn’t be any time crunch. Marinette suggested they take a walk down the Path of Swans. It was the off-season so there shouldn’t be a lot of people. A nice, calm, place to walk and talk. Maybe sit down on a bench and watch the river while they munched on some cookies.

The day came and Marinette couldn’t help but be a little nervous. This really was her own personal judgement day of sorts. Adrien and her were gonna have a conversation and it was either gonna end with them together or not. A lot was on the line but she couldn’t let that scare her.

After school let out Marinette went home to drop off her bookbag and grab the bag of cookies she had made for today. Alya hadn’t said anything during class but Marinette could tell she knew that today was the day. She looked herself over in the mirror once more and took a deep breath.

“Are you ready, Marinette?” Tikki asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Marinette opened her purse for Tikki to sit in. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it but good luck, Marinette. Everything will work out, you’ll see.” Tikki rubbed her head against her chosen’s cheek before zipping into the purse.

Marinette made it to the Path of Swans right on time. Adrien was already there waiting at the top of the steps for her. It was a chilly autumn day so he was bundled in a chunky knit sweater and the scarf she made him for his birthday. Why did he have to be wearing the scarf? Wasn’t this already emotionally compromising without that reminder of how much love and care she exerted into him wrapped around his neck?

“Hey,” he gave a small wave, “Glad you made it.”

“I brought cookies.” she held up the bag of fresh chocolate chip cookies she had baked.

“Cool.” they lapsed into silence.

“Do you wanna--” “We should--” They said at the same time.

“You go.” Marinette said.

“Walk? I mean, do you wanna walk? With me? Should we start walking?” Adrien pursed his lips, “Now I’m the one with word vomit.”

“Welcome to my world.” Marinette chuckled.

Adrien smiled at her and motioned for her to take the lead, “After you.”

They descended the steps and started the walk down the path. The autumn cold snap and foggy weather made it a quiet day along the path which was good. No nosy joggers or lost tourists to distract them. The fallen leaves scattered the walkway in shades of orange, yellow and brown.

“You look nice, today,” Adrien said, “New cardigan?”

“Yeah,” she tugged at the fuzzy ivory sleeves, “I finished it yesterday.”

“Fleece?”

“Yep.”

They lapsed into silence once more.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know what to say. I had this whole speech prepared but it seems so ridiculous now.” Adrien scuffed his shoe through the damp leaves, “I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

“I don’t want to break your heart or get your hopes up but I also need you to know that I do like you. I had a lot of time to think about what we talked about at the museum and it would be ludicrous to stand here and say that I don’t feel anything for you.”

“I feel a but coming.” Marinette braced herself.

“But you have to understand that this other girl, I’ve been in love with her for so long. She’s amazing and even if she doesn't feel the same way there is a part of me that doesn't want to let her go."

"I understand. I've been going through the same thing with you and Luka."

"So how did you choose?"

"Simple. I haven't."

"But I thought--"

"This is why we're out here, Adrien. It isn't just you deciding if you want me but I am also figuring out if I want you too." It was a point that Marinette realized she needed to make sure they addressed. Adrien wasn’t the one with all the power here. While Marinette did want to be with him her decision wasn’t set in stone.

"That doesn't make this more complicated or anything." Adrien muttered.

"Dealings with the heart are never easy. Trust me." Marinette was glad that she didn’t need to mention a third black clad partner that was head over heels for her hero supersona. Bundling Chat Noir and Luka into one entity as the other man in her life wasn’t fair but it’s not like she could tell Adrien her secret.

After a few more silent steps Marinette took the plunge.

“This other girl, do I know her?” She asked hesitantly.

“You could say that. Everyone knows her at this point I suppose.” Adrien was blushing. That or the cold was nipping at his cheeks and ears.

“Am I competing with a celebrity crush?” Marinette teased lightly.

“Sorta. I mean, she is famous and I do know her personally but...it’s complicated. I just…” he trailed off, “I feel like there is a chance for us. That one day she’ll say yes and we’ll ride off into the sunset. But I also know that she’s in love with someone else and I fear that if I keep making advances then maybe one day she’ll snap and not even want to be friends anymore.”

“Oof,” Did she really just say oof to Adrien’s heart troubles? Idiot.

“Big oof,” Adrien chuckled half-heartedly. His face fell back into seriousness and he shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “And now with you I feel like I’m being unfaithful to my first crush. But then I remember that she’s in love with someone else so me having a crush on someone else shouldn’t matter. Then that comes back around on me because it makes me feel like I’m treating you as a fall back or second best when that’s not the case. I really like you and appreciate you as a friend and I don’t want you to feel as if I’m settling for you because I can’t have my first pick. You’re wonderful in your own way and I--I just--”

“You wish that you had never developed feelings for one of us so you didn’t have to play a relationship invalidating game of who is better.” Marinette could tell exactly what he was trying to get at.

“You put it in words,” Adrien sighed. “I don’t regret having feelings for either of you and wouldn’t trade the experiences for anything in the world but at the end of the day a decision needs to be made.”

“I mean not if you’re open to a poly relationship.” Marinette shrugged, “But I don’t think throwing that monkey wrench into an already complicated teenage relationship is the best thing.”

“Agreed,” Adrien nodded.

They continued on taking a small breather to eat some of the cookies Marinette brought and gaze at the misty world around them.

“We should do stuff like this more often.” Marinette said. “Not as a date thing but in general. I like talking with you and getting an afternoon to breathe in the fresh air with no deadlines is something I didn’t realize I was missing.”

“It is really calming.” Adrien took in a deep breath of autumn air. “No matter how this afternoon ends, we should do this again. You, me, a long walk and a bag of cookies.”

“I’d like that.” Marinette smiled.

They started to walk under the biggest growth of the trees, their branches bent like a forest archway. Little drops of dew water dropping from their branches and splattering on the walkway and the young pair’s heads.

“Well,” Adrien said, “You know all about my messed up heart troubles. What about yours? Why are you hesitating between me and Luka?”

“I know it was unrealistic to think but a part of me was hoping we didn’t have to keep talking about this.” Marinette groaned inwardly.

“I think the biggest difference between you and Luka is that with Luka there is no pressure. There’s no guessing game about his feelings for me. I know that he likes me. He’s told me so. He confessed and never pushed me for a response.” Marinette stated. “With him everything is easier. I don’t get so nervous or tongue tied around him. He likes everything about me just the way I am. Even knowing how I feel about you he doesn’t make a big deal of it. Heck, he’s encouraged me to go after you before. He’s so good about my crush on you. Never acting bitter about it or trying to convince me to move on. He lets me sort out my own feelings in my own time.”

“Wow.” Adrien processed the information, “Makes me wonder why it is even a competition. Sounds like anyone would choose Luka. I’d choose Luka.”

“Like I said back at the museum,” Marinette rolled her eyes with a laugh, “Luka is great but he’s not you. The way I like him and the way I like you are two completely different things. It’s the same kind of problem you have. I don’t want anyone to get hurt with my choices.”

They stopped at a bench and sat down so they could overlook the river.

“I have an idea.” Adrien said, “It’s not perfect but I think it may help us figure things out.”

“I am all ears.”

“What if we did a trial run?”

“Huh?”

“You know,” Adrien started fidgeting with his ring, “What if we acted like a couple for a bit. Got a feel for how we mesh together and if one or both of us feels like it isn’t right then we can stop. No commitment.”

“Oh,” Marinette clutched her cookie bag tighter, “That um...that is…”

“If you’re not for it then disregard everything I just said. It was a dumb idea anyway.”

“Stop that.” Marinette calmed him, “It’s not dumb. In any other circumstance I think it would help but I don’t want to waste time on a halfway relationship.”

She looked him dead in the eyes. “I want this, Adrien. I want to have a real relationship with you and only you. But I’m not the only one that needs to want this.”

“I do want to give this a try. I want to see where it goes.” He impressed, “If we explore this and it turns out that we decide it isn’t for us then what do we do? I don’t want either of us to walk away from this with a broken heart or even worse an angry one. Isn’t there anyway to test the waters before we jump in all at once?”

“I understand where you’re coming from. The fact of the matter is that I don’t want to wait around for three months hoping for this to turn into something and you ultimately deciding that it isn’t for you. We can take things slow if you want, there’s no rush to be connected at the hip. But at a certain point of waiting it’s not you deciding whether you’re ready or not but you stringing me along. I care about you a lot, you mean so much to me, but I know I deserve better than that. So...I need an answer. A real answer. You don’t have to make a decision right now but if I’m not what you want then I’d rather you tell me sooner rather than later. That way I can move on and we can both be content in our lives.”

She blinked rapidly to banish the stupid tears threatening to spill out. “I know I sound like I’m being demanding but I’ve made my choice. I want you to know that it is okay to say no. I don’t want you to say yes because you think it is easier or out of some sense of guilt. I might be a bit sad but I could never be upset at you for doing whatever it is that makes you happiest. All I am looking for right now is your honesty. Whatever you choose I will still be here for you as your friend.”

“Marinette…” Adrien gripped the lip of the bench seat. So many thoughts and feelings battling for space. He looked back at her. There was no pretense. No wall. This was her heart stripped away of all its inhibitions. So vulnerable and trusting and brave. Just like her.

“I--I want to go on dates.” he stammered, “I want good morning texts and goodnight phone calls. I want to hold hands and get ice cream. I want to cuddle on a couch and watch movies. I want someone who I can be myself around. I want to be a listening ear and shoulder to cry on. I want someone to serenade with piano but will also laugh at my bad jokes. I want a relationship with someone who is not just my girlfriend but my friend as well. And...and I want that person to be you, Marinette.”

She stared at him. Not quite shocked but neither happy either. “You mean that?”

“Yes. I mean it.” he smiled as the truth of it truly resonated with him, “I want you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

She leaned closer hugging him tightly. Her face buried in his shoulder. He could faintly hear the sound of whimpering coming from her.

“Are you crying?” he started to panic.

“I am so tired.” she laughed through her tears, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Adrien Agreste.”

“Marinette, I’m still pretty bad at social cues so I’m not sure if this is good or bad right now.”

“Good.” Marinette wiped her eyes, “Very good. I just...I was so nervous about all of this. I know what I wanted to happen but there was still the anticipation that you would reject me and now that it’s over I’m getting a little emotional.”

“I understand that,” Adrien breathed out in relief, “I had to grab the bench to keep from shaking.”

“We’re regular disasters.” she pulled another cookie out of the bag and shoved it into her mouth, “Care to eat your feelings with me?”

“Yes, please,” he took a cookie and crammed it into his mouth. They sat there for a minute silently finishing off the rest of the cookies and letting their nerves melt away.

They got up to throw away the now empty bag and decided to make the full lap around the path. They certainly had the time since they had cleared their schedules for this talk.

“Can I--may I--” Adrien cleared his throat, “Can I hold your hand?”

“Sure,” Marinette was going to die. He was so shy!

He laced their fingers together and swung their arms gently as they walked.

“We don’t need to tell everyone about this, right?” Marinette asked. “I’m not like embarrassed or anything, I promise. I figured that since we are going to need a little transition time to get used to this that it would be best if we didn’t let all our friends know right away.”

“I like that idea.” Adrien said, “Plus, it’ll give us some time to ourselves without any outside interference.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Until we are more rooted and comfortable with this dynamic no one else can meddle in it.”

“Not even Nino and Alya?”

“I love them but I already had to forbid Alya from spying on our talk today. When we’re ready they’ll be the first to know.”

“And our parents?”

“Maybe the second to know. My tendency to go overboard I got from my dad. If he found out that we were dating then he’d jump right into the big questions that we’re trying to avoid.”

“I have no doubt my father would approve of you but he also gets really protective when there is a new big change in my life.” Adrien admitted, “He’ll probably be easier going if we have some time built up behind it.”

They finished their walk and Adrien gave Marinette a ride home. With a quick goodbye kiss on the cheek Marinette bolted into the house and grabbed the nearest pillow to muffle her giddy squeals of joy.

---

(1) (3)

---

(tagged)

@ladylb

[aion-rsa]

30 Rock’s Best Running Jokes

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When 30 Rock drew its final breath in 2013, yards of column inches were devoted – deservedly so – to praising the work of creator Tina Fey. Article upon article applauded the characters, cast, performances and seven seasons of energetic, inventive, satirical comedy.

More than anything else though, 30 Rock was always about the gags. It was fruitcake-dense with jokes, regularly fitting in more quotable laughs before its opening credits than many shows manage in a full half-hour. As it returns for a one-off reunion special, join us in celebrating the many, many running gags of its seven-season history, from the fake movies, to the terrible yet incredibly catchy songs, Frank’s hats, and those godawful TGS sketches…

The fake movies 

The presence of Tracy Jordan (a bonafide Martin Lawrence meets the Wayans Brothers-style movie star) in the TGS cast opened up the world of film parody to 30 Rock.

Admittedly Jenna Maloney also enjoyed a movie career of sorts, but while she was being offered the part of “any blonde actress” in torture porn flicks by the producers who watched and rented Saw, Tracy was turning down the lead in Garfield 3: Feline Groovy to pursue his serious acting career. The latter climaxed with the release of spot-on Precious parody Hard To Watch (Based on the novel Stone Cold Bummer by Manipulate), for which Tracy received the O in his EGOT plan. Sheer class.

Over the years though, who couldn’t not smile at Tracy’s blaxpoitation-filled back catalogue, from the timeless romance of A Blaffair to Rememblack, to Sherlock Homie, Who Dat Ninja?, The Chunks 2: A Very Chunky Christmas, and last but by no means least, Honky Grandma Be Trippin’. The man is a chameleon (in that he’s always a lizard).

Two of Jenna’s TGS projects however, bring back the fondest memories of 30 Rock’s stinging movie satire: small-town legal drama The Rural Juror (based on a Kevin Grisham novel), and her GE-produced life rights-avoiding Janis Joplin biopic, Sing Them Blues White Girl: The Jackie Jormp Jomp Story.

The TGS sketches 

The quality of TGS’ output was never under question in 30 Rock; the sketch show was unremittingly bad (when the absence of their star meant a ‘Best of TGS’ series had to be run in lieu of live shows, Legal objected to their use of the word ‘Best’, and when a review dubbed it the worst comedy ever made, Liz was thrilled they’d defined it as a comedy). Liz Lemon’s opus was a fluorescent collection of fart gags, dodgy caricatures, Jenna’s songs, and misjudged celebrity impressions.

Beginning life as, in Kenneth’s words, “a real fun ladies comedy show for ladies”, TGS was Saturday Night Live’s idiot brother, the unsophisticated thorn in NBC’s side, under constant threat of controversy and cancellation. Forced to synergise backward overflow, advertise parent company products and promote GE interests, 30 Rock’s show-within-a-show satirised both the TV industry and tired trends in comedy (the always hilarious combination of a fat woman who’s sexually confident! Old ladies are crazy! Farts!).

Lemon may have seduced pilot Carol (Matt Damon) with her Fart Doctor skits, but TGS failed to win many hearts. With sketches like Pam the Overly Confident Morbidly Obese Woman, Ching-Chong Man Who Loves to Play Ping-Pong, Fat Hillary Clinton, Bear vs. Killer Robots, Me Want Food, and Gaybraham Lincoln, why it wasn’t more successful is a mystery.

Astronaut Mike Dexter 

Lemon may have ended up with James Marsden’s Criss Chros, but fictional boyfriend Astronaut Mike Dexter will always hold a special place in her heart. Handsomer than Dr Drew, less British than Wesley Snipes, less living-in-Cleveland than Floyd, and a million times better than Dennis Duffy, Astronaut Mike Dexter had it all… except of course, a corporeal self. 

The fake songs 

Over the years, Jenna Maroney’s singing career has vomited up some truly dreadful creations, and topping the list has to be Muffin Top (a big hit in the king-making music markets of Israel and Belgium). Seguing from its pop insanity chorus “My muffin top is all that, wholegrain, low-fat” into a Madonna-style spoken-word rap “I’m an independent lady, so please don’t try to play me. I run a tidy bakery. The boys all want my cake for free”, the song is a battery assault on the senses.

But is it worse than Jenna’s summer dance jam, Balls, which earned her the princely sum of $50 in royalties? Or her computer generated, generic benefit song in aid of an unspecific natural disaster, which urged viewers to donate to “help the people the thing that happened, happened to”? How about the Jackie Jormp Jomp performance she gave of Chunk Of My Lung, written by Jack five minutes before the show, containing the classic line “You know you’ve bought it if life makes you sweet food”? Or Fart So Loud, the un-Weird Al-able song she and Tracy wrote after he parodied the theme to Avery Jessup TV movie Kidnapped? Such riches…

It’s not only Jenna who’s provided 30 Rock’s musical intervals of course. Season three finale Kidney Now! welcomed an eclectic collection of stars including Sheryl Crow, Mary J Blige, Elvis Costello, Moby, two of the Beastie Boys, Wyclef Jean, and Cyndi Lauper to perform a We Are The World-style anthem at the Milton Green benefit gig. Angie Jordan famously released a fifteen-second single My Single Is Dropping, to ride on the wave of her reality-show fame, Frank and Pete’s Sound Mound came up with unforgettable rock anthem Weekend Woman, and in the very same episode, even Tina Fey got in on the action by providing excellent Joni Mitchell parody, Paints and Brushes.

The legacy award though, as in the 30 Rock fake song that will continue to bring joy to the hearts of fans decades from now, has to go to one song, and one song only: Tracy Jordan’s Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.

Frank’s hat slogans 

Off-set, stand-up Judah Friedlander favours his ‘World Champion’ trucker hat, the one he claims to have been awarded as the winner of the World Championships of pretty much all sports, martial arts, and that time he karate kicked Chuck Norris’ beard off his face and forced him to legally change his name to Charles.

On-set as Frank Rossitano though, Friedlander wears a series of self-designed trucker hats, each bearing a different gnomic slogan. Often incongruous, sometimes suggestive, and always odd, Frank’s hat slogans are part of the bricks and mortar of 30 Rock. In terms of favourites, we’re quite fond of ‘Alabama Legsweep’, or the laconic enigma of ‘And’, though ‘Shark Cop’, ‘Half Centaur’ and ‘Space Gravy’ also caught our eye over the seasons.

Jenna’s Mickey Rourke sex stories 

Like Dot Com’s intellectualism, this running gag may have been introduced late into proceedings, but Jenna’s torrid sexual history with putty-faced beefcake Mickey Rourke gave J-Mo some of her best lines. Jenna’s allusions to Rourke’s sexually deviant and murderous attempts on her life paint a fascinating picture for 30 Rock fans. Here are some of the finest:

“Your new vibe is a double-edged sword, much like the kind Mickey Rourke tried to kill me with”, “Nice try Hazel, but you made the same mistake Mickey Rourke made on that catamaran. You didn’t kill me when you had the chance.”, “I’m going to have to reinvent you. Break you down completely and build you up from scratch. Just like Mickey Rourke did to me sexually.” “Next time you’ll tell me Mickey Rourke catapulted you into the Hollywood sign.” “You know what they say, if you can’t stand the heat, get off Mickey Rourke’s sex grill.” Wise words.

Kenneth the immortal page 

To this day Kenneth Ellen Parcell remains something of an enigma to 30 Rock viewers. In later seasons, Jack McBrayer’s character went from being a simple country rube from Stone Mountain, Georgia to  the flesh vessel for a mysterious immortal with no reflection, no age, and links to a world beyond our own.

Plenty of reference has been made to Kenneth’s ageless and supernatural state over the years, including the suggestion that not only is he unable to die, but he’s also an angel, sent to oversee the transition of souls from one world to the next.

The fake TV shows 

It’s either a credit to the 30 Rock team or a condemnation of our times that Jack Donaghy’s hit reality viewer vote show, MILF Island, no longer feels like a parody. In generations to come, time will no doubt erode the boundaries between fact and fiction, and we 30 Rock fans will be telling our kids about the time we watched Deborah beat her competitors and claim MILF victory in the same breath as educating them about those people who ate kangaroo anuses for public approval.

MILF Island stands head and shoulders above the rest of 30 Rock’s fake TV shows (including TGS itself, lest we not forget), but that doesn’t mean that Gold Case, Los Amantes Clandestinos, Black Frasier, Homonym, or the inimitable Bitch Hunter deserve any less respect. Our fallen brothers, we salute you.

We could go on indefinitely listing the recurring jokes that made 30 Rock great, from Liz’s sandwich lust and desire to go to there, to Jack’s gloriously thatched head of hair and Republican conspiracies. As the show prepares to return, which of the above will live again?

30 Rock: A One-Time Special lands on NBC on Thursday July 16th at 8pm in the US.

The post 30 Rock’s Best Running Jokes appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[emeto-omo]

Title - Wanted: Sick, but Alive Characters - Jesse McCree, Genji Shimada, Gabriel Reyes Timeline - Blackwatch Era Summary - Jesse thinks it’s hunger, but it’s most definitely something more flu-y.  Author’s Note - Left it ambiguous as to romantic ties here, so the reader could fill in the blanks for their preference. Warning: Graphic depictions of vomiting ahead.  ----- When Jesse McCree pulled himself out of his bunk this morning, he had thought the mild weakness in his limps was just his body’s anxiety in thinking it was going to have to go for food for a while. Though it’d been a good bit since he’d last had to skip a meal, there were times in which he could feel his body shift into starvation mode, and even six hours between a meal felt like he’d gone four days.  

Slight nausea ebbed at the outskirts of his senses while he went to assuage his body’s worries, telling himself that all he needed was a good heaping plate of biscuits, gravy, sausage, and bacon and he’d be right as rain.  

Genji smiled to see his friend, having already saved him a place at their usual table near the windows. “Grabbed you the last couple cartons of chocolate milk,” he smirked, pushing them toward McCree. 

The cowboy smiled back, and pulled an extra plate of plain biscuits off his tray to push toward Genji with a few individually wrapped containers of green grape jam. “Got ya yer usual, too,” he said. 

“Tired?” Genji asked, starting to spread the sweet spread on his biscuits.  

“I think…and a mite starved. I’ll perk up once I finish this,” McCree assured him, though his stomach gave a little rumble in protest, forcing a small hot dog flavored belch out of him that he stifled behind a fist.  

Genji trusted him to know his body well enough, and sighed happily as he bit into his breakfast. McCree was thankful for the silence for once, digging in—albeit slowly—to his own food. It wasn’t going down as easily as he had wanted it to, and he tried cutting the grease with gulps of chocolate milk in between, somewhat stubbornly finishing both cartons of milk and his plate.  

Something about struggling for food for a period in your life made you reluctant to ever waste food.  

He was regretting it a tad bit as he belched again, holding his stomach that was pooched out over his belt buckle now, rumbling loud enough that even Genji heard it across the table. “You can’t possibly still be hungry.” 

“I don’t feel…urp…hungry…thas for sure…” McCree grumbled softly, belching again. He laid his head against his hand, it feeling a little heavy as it swam slightly with the movement. “Thinkin’…that was a mistake.” 

“Want to see Moira?” Genji asked, concern lacing his tone, but McCree just very slowly shook his head. 

“Nah…think I’ma go back to my room…” he said. 

His face paled ashen grey behind his facial scruff as he stood, his stomach lurching unhappily from the movement. He had to press the back of a shaking hand against his lips, feeling a surge of thickness up his throat, stopping just shy of the back of mouth.  

“Shit,” Genji cursed, moving to wrap an arm around him. Warmth was seeping through the cowboy’s clothes, and the ninja could feel hints of it through the bits of him unhindered by cybernetics. “Trash can?” 

McCree swallowed thickly and nearly gagged for it, looking desperately at the door. Genji got the message and started helping him out of the mess hall. His stomach whined, an assault of gurgling bubbles chasing it like the pops after a bottle rocket, their assault exploding in the man’s belly, and he clutched desperately at it.  

Fever and anxiety sweat was starting to bead on his forehead as he fought the need to be sick, wanting to at least make it somewhere private. His mind tortured him with the memory of the overly thick, lumpy, grey breakfast that he’d consumed, the grease that still clung to his beard, and he wretched with little warning there in the wall, a thin dribble of pre-vomit spittle drooling from his lips.

“In here…” Genji whispered, trying to usher his friend who was still very much bent helplessly at the waist over toward the empty briefing room just a few steps away.  

McCree was trembling, Genji could hear the thick sloshing in Jesse’s gut with every slight movement, joining the chorus of whining gurgles and growls that alternated between a roller coaster, to nauseating butterflies, mixing with agonizing pain. Sickening salty-sweet saliva mixed with bitter bile began to pool endlessly at the back of his throat, and as soon as he tried to swallow it, he realized his mistake.  

There was no warning as his body rejected it violently, forcing thick, chunky pale vomit through his nose and mouth, projecting it across the long table in the room. Genji released him with a curse, frantically searching for a bucket, as McCree could do little more than catch himself on the back of a chair. His stomach clenched with such force that it felt as if he was being turned inside out, a loud wet belch bringing with it more viscous puke, an oily sheen across it, the chocolate milk undigested but not mixing well with the almost curdled looking gravy. 

Genji had to open the windows, unable to actually vomit on his own anymore, the smell was making him sick all the same. Another heavy, wet splatter sounded all too loudly as McCree’s found himself unable to do little more than to just let more of the putrid sick expel from him. Unable to find a trash can, Genji just came to wrap an arm around the cowboy, holding him steady. “You will be alright.” He said gently.  

McCree wasn’t sure. The world seemed to swim around him, and his stomach was in agonizing pain with every attempt to purge, the waves becoming less and less productive, though louder on his end from the force of it. He gasped for air between waves, his heart feeling like it was racing a thousand miles a minute. 

Neither of them had heard the figure enter the doorway, shaking his head at them as he let them finish up, arms crossed. It wasn’t until McCree’s heaving seemed to have fully stopped that he spoke. 

“This isn’t a sickbay,” Gabriel’s voice sounded. 

McCree muttered a hoarse apology, barely able to keep his legs beneath him, trembling visibly like a leaf.  

“We couldn’t get further than this.” Genji defended.  

Gabe took a few steps in, before gathering the pukey cowboy into his arms in one easy movement. “Get someone to clean this up, I’ll take him to Moira.” 

McCree’s head just lulled weakly against Reyes’ shoulder, his stomach still gurgling painfully. He whimpered softly, and Gabe sighed. “Alright, alright, no need to lay it on thick, McCree. I’ve got you.” Not like he could be mad at the man anyway. Never for long. No one really could.  

Least of all Genji, who obediently made it out of the room to flag someone down to clean the room, and beat them to the med bay all the same. 

~Fin~

[poppedeye-blog1]

Getting Poison’d

Flash back to May 27, 1988.  Bright neon pinks, blues, and greens decorated the hottest fashions.  The hole in the ozone layer was not only closely observed but was enlarging due to the craze of Picasso-like hair sculpturing – the birth of the Hair Bears.  Disco died a well deserved death as rock n’ roll took back control of the air waves. And the “Grand Slam Glam Kings of Noise,” Poison, were opening for the ex-Van Halen singer, David Lee Roth, live at the Oakland arena.  7:00pm, one hour before show time, Bay Area rockers gathered in the parking lot to prepare themselves for the concert.  Unknown to some people, the parking lot scene before a rock n’ roll concert can be quite the entertaining show itself.

    A sea of cars had washed into the parking lot of the arena while more and more waves continued to flood in.  Although stationary, life thrived from within and around the parked VW vans, Pontiac Trans Ams, a Datsun 210 with a homemade paint job: green, yellow and orange surged together to lay the background for words written in black – Slayer!, Brett eats ASSSS, Work sucks.  Amongst all the cars, a tall, chunky, greasy faced, shoulder length blond, self tattooed – LUV/HĀT – guy ducked down in the back seat of a heavily dented 72’ Plymouth Duster.  As Mr. LUV/HĀT screamed, “WOOOH!” he opened the door and handed his girlfriend a tightly rolled up dollar bill and said “Where did you get this shit, Jill?”

    Jill, a thin, pale, flat chested, over home permed red headed creature who passed herself off as a woman, took the rolled bill and said, “From those guys over there with the hearse.”  She climbed into the car to find out for herself if she did indeed score some good shit.  Meanwhile, Mr. LUV/HĀT cracked open a Budweiser and headed over towards the hearse.

    There have been all kinds of vehicles at concerts, but this was a hearse.  An old mid-70’s Cadillac, midnight black, outlined in guiding light chrome trim, skull and crossbones hung on the antenna, back door opened to reveal four people drinking beer while lying down flat on their backs hearse.  This hearse was a monument to death that attracted partying rockers from row after row of the cars around.  A circle of about twenty people formed at the back of the hearse so that the music being blasted could be heard.  “Mama We’re All Crazy Now” filled people’s heads as cheap beer filled their stomachs. Cigarettes burned bright in the windy night as joints kept having to be re-lit over and over again.  With shaking hands and a jerky swagger, Mr. LUV/HĀT walked over to the edge of the circle and slowly mingled and drank and toked and smoked and sang and laughed until his presence caused the circle to grow a little to incorporate him.

    Mr. LUV/HĀT continuously wiped his nose as he attempted to find the man who had sold Jill the good shit.  “I just want to thank him, man.  Shit, I mean, that’s good, man.  The stuff.  Yeah, I just want to say, ‘thanks,’ ya know, and maybe get some more,” said Mr. LUV/HĀT to just about everyone who was within earshot.  Finally, a man about six feet tall, long black hair worn in a ponytail, Harley Davidson tattoo on his left forearm, deep blue eyes, tan complexion, muscles bulging and nose collapsed approached Mr. LUV/HĀT and said, “Dude!  I don’t know who the fuck you are but you had better keep your mouth shut.”

    “Chill man.  I just want to find the guy who sold my girlfriend that shit.  She said it was someone over here.  Look, man, I just want to get some more, man,” explained Mr. LUV/HĀT.

    “You with that chick over there,” asked Mr. Harley Davidson while pointing to what looked like a skeleton dressed in a leather mini-skirt and a Motley Crue t-shirt walking towards the circle.

    “Yeah, that’s Jill.”

    “Cool, I’m Vince, man, sorry, but ya know.”

    “Man, shit yeah, I know, man,” explained Mr. LUV/HĀT.

    From there, the two walked around to the driver’s side of the hearse to conduct business.  Meanwhile, the four people who were lying in the back of the hearse raised themselves up so that this short, toothpick-limbed, brace-faced, drunk as hell off only two beers, 14 year old kid could experience the joys of sexual adulthood with a twenty-two year old walrus of a woman.  The walrus’ breasts may have been as large as the twin towers of the old World Trade Center, but this was offset by the reality that the rest of her could flatten Manhattan.  The circle of friends turned around to watch the back door of the hearse close. As they continued to drink more beer, smoke more pot, and pass around a bottle of Jack Daniels, the circle of rockers screamed out to the freak show couple in the hearse, “Go Tommy!” “Hope ya can find the hole!” “Hey Cathy, can ya even feel it, man?”

    The rocking of the hearse had startled Vince, who had spilled a line off his checker board and onto the floor mat.  “FUCK!” he screamed as he exited the driver’s seat and walked back to the circle.  Realizing that the session was over, Mr. LUV/HĀT snorted what he could off the mat, got out of the passenger side, lit a cigarette, and walked over to Jill.

    “Who’s in there?  Who’s in my fucking car, fucking?” demanded Vince.

    A few people started to giggle, then a few more, and the someone snickered, which caused everyone to burst into loud roaring laughter. Well, everyone but Vince and Mr. LUV/HĀT. Finally, a guy who was completely dressed in the glam rock fashion – red leather pants, black ruffled shirt, white and pink leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up, red feather boa, and enough make-up to push Revlon up two points on the NYSE – said to Vince, “It’s Tommy.  Tommy and Cathy.”

    Vince’s stone cold face cracked a smile.  Then, like everyone else, Vince joined in the laughter.  Mr. LUV/HĀT, who did not know who either Tommy or Cathy were, laughed anyway. Finally, Vince wiped his eyes, grabbed a beer from an almost empty case by his feet, cracked it, took a pull, and said, “Well, I guess my little brother’s got to start getting laid some time.”  He paused just long enough to take another swig of beer and think a moment before saying, “But with Cathy?  Oh boy.  Tommy’s got to get some standards, man.”

    “Shit, Vince, that boy’s got the beer goggles, man.  I mean, shit, after a few more beers, I would have jumped on Cathy,” announced the red boa’d leather rebel.

    As the crowd laughed heartily at that comment, Mr. LUV/HĀT stood watching the hearse of love bounce up and down while a muffled “I want to rock n’ roll all night…” escaped the now closed back door.  Mr. LUV/HĀT rubbed his nose, his red cracked eyes, and then Jill’s butt. Continually attempting to make eye contact, Mr. LUV/HĀT’s rump ridding hand slid down Jill’s tight leather mini, hit thigh, and began to take the flesh path back up her leg towards anticipated pleasure.  Jill’s dainty hand of bone tore her boyfriend’s paw away from her as she struggled to say, “Stop, I don’t feel so good.”  Without anymore warning, her already pale face turned almost transparent.  Jill doubled over and, using Mr. LUV/HĀT for support, vomited a river of Jack Daniels, beer, blood, and bile. After a few minutes, wet heaves became dry, and then ceased all together.  Mr. LUV/HĀT took his beloved skeleton lady in his shaking arms and inquired, “Jill, you’re feelin’ good enough, right?  I mean,, you’re still going in?  Man, ya know, you ain’t wanting to, like, go home or nothing right?”     With Jill just staring at him, Mr. LUV/HĀT continued:  “I mean, we can just sit down and watch.  Man, we don’t have to go to the floor.  Man, Jill, what do you say?”

    With bleak blank teary eyes, Jill said, “I’m alright.  Let’s just go in.”

    The entire group concurred with Jill’s suggestion.  Especially Vince, who was now sure that the white Dodge van parked about 30 feet down that way, right there between that yellow El Camino and the primered 57’ Chevy, was definitely D.E.A. issue.  Vince knew those narcs were following him.  And he did not care if the red boa’d leather rebel swore that two fine chicks had come out of that van only fifteen minutes ago, because Vince knew that was just what the D.E.A. wanted them to think.

    The show was about to start.  As the group around the hearse walked off, they continued to laugh, scream, smoke, drink, and enjoy the cool night air that Oakland had to offer.  Mr. LUV/HĀT practically carried Jill.  Red boa’d leather rebel kept tripping over his untamable wild feather boa.  Vince periodically whipped his head around, when everyone least expected and yelled, “Ya see?  Ya see them hiding?  They’re following us, I know it, man.”  The entire group from the circle behind the hearse moved towards the gates of the arena like pilgrims on the road to Mecca.  They were two people short, however.  Tommy and Cathy had remained behind in the bay of the hearse to continue their sexual exploration.  And, as it turned out, when Tommy lost his virginity, he became a man, a daddy, and a husband all in just a few swift strokes.

    I’d go on to tell you about the concert itself, but it wasn’t very memorable. Sometimes the real show is outside, in the parking lot, well before any band ever takes the stage.

[valdomarx]

like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die

Tony is still furious at Steve over the events of Civil War. But when Steve gets kidnapped using Stark technology, Tony feels responsible and figures out a plan to save him - by getting kidnapped himself.

Tony had designed the restraint tech in a hurry, after he’d been told he had 24 hours to bring in Cap and his team. The design was a rush job, lacking override controls, not his finest work. When they’d fought, the ankle restraints had lasted all of about five seconds before they were smashed apart by Cap’s shield, and Tony hadn’t thought about them since.

He hadn’t thought about Rogers since then, either.

So he told himself.

Rogers had made his choice. He’d chosen himself and his nostalgia for the past over his team and a present which needed him. Over Tony.

And that was fine. It wasn’t as if Rogers owed him anything (for the house, the funding, the moral support, the fami… the team). And it wasn’t as if there was any way he could have got through the man’s goddamn stubbornness. Tony had tried arguing, he’d tried cajoling, he’d tried threatening and begging and compromising.

And he’d ended up alone, abandoned in a freezing bunker in Siberia, his chest caved in and pain blooming throughout his body as the light from the arc reactor faded. He’d been ready to die. Would have welcomed it, even. But no. His punishment was to keep living, with yet another scar ripped across his heart by someone he thought he could trust.

He didn’t care if Rogers was on the run or in hiding, and wasn’t inclined to use what little precious influence he had left to protect him any further. Rogers had made his bed, now he could lie in it.

Rhodey limped in, hiding the physical pain well enough that other people wouldn’t have noticed it. Tony noticed, though. Rhodey had been doing better - getting stronger every day - and somehow (god, how?) he had retained his level, realistic outlook on life. Tony would have been jealous of Rhodey’s resilience, if it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of gratitude he felt for having him there.

Now, though, Rhodey looked grave, and not because of the pain.

“Tones, there’s something you need to see,”

Rhodey handed over his tablet, which was playing a grainy video. Tony glanced down and sucked in a harsh breath.

Ste- Rogers was there, his face almost unrecognizable beneath a thick beard which was matted with blood. Trickles of red ran down his face from a slash above his eyebrow, and the eye socket beneath was bruised an ugly shade of purple. But it wasn’t the sight of the injuries which made Tony’s breath stop in his throat. It was his eyes: flat, blank, and vacant. There was something wrong, something very wrong, and blood rushed through Tony’s veins as the tendrils of panic began to creep into his mind.

Tony felt Rhodey’s hand on his shoulder, and he groped blindly to grasp his fingers as nausea welled inside him.

“That is an unfortunate situation for our Captain,” he heard himself saying, “But I don’t see how it’s my problem.” Jesus. When had he become so cold?

(When his friend had left to freeze to death in a bunker, a bitter inner voice helpfully reminded him.)

“Tony…” Rhodey’s tone was pained, and it made Tony look again. Then he spotted what was causing Rhodey such unease - there, around the Captain’s ankles, were a familiar set of chunky restraints. His restraints. His design. His work. Someone must have retrieved the broken restraints from Siberia and reverse engineered them.

Tony swallowed down the urge to vomit as he took in the visual of Rogers, immobilized and helpless, surely being tortured, experimented on, or worse, thanks to his technology. Stark Tech, killing and maiming once again.

“Where did you find this?” he asked Rhodey, very quietly.

“The dark web,” Rhodey informed him. “Some torture porn site. Most of the videos there turn out to be faked, but this one…” he trailed off, squeezing Tony’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s too much specific detail to be a fake,” he said, surprised by how level he sounded. “Send this to my personal tablet, will you, Rhodey?”

“Already done,” Rhodes said, still clinging on to Tony like he was concerned that Tony would fall down without him there. Perhaps he was right.

He watched the video over and over and over again. This was necessary, it was important - it was the only way he’d find out what was happening to Rogers and where he was being held. Rhodey was investigating the site which had uploaded the footage, but was pessimistic that his search would turn up anything useful.

So Tony watched the video, and every time it looped round again he scoured it for more details. For anything which could help identify a location.

The video started again.

Rogers, sat on a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. Tony’s Stark Tech restraints round his ankles and his wrists. Darkness surrounded him, but dim outlines of walls suggested a small room. Lack of light suggested that it might be underground.

A voice from off-camera, taunting and jeering at him. No demands made or ransom requested, just a causal verbal humiliation. A faint trace of an accent. Irish? Scottish, maybe?

Rogers’ face was slack and expressionless. Drugged perhaps, though it would have to be something strong to sedate a supersoldier. Rogers didn’t wriggle, didn’t strain against his restraints, didn’t even seem to be aware that there was a camera pointed at him. It was as if he had checked out entirely, as if had no more fight left in him.

Tony grabbed a bottle of cheap vodka which he had hidden from Rhodey under his desk and took a long pull.

Rogers’ eyes looked straight through the camera, vacant and terrifying.

The next day, Natasha stopped by his office. That in itself was not unusual - although she wasn’t living in the compound, she still came by frequently. Tony had tried to bury his lingering feelings of resentment over her side-switching regarding the Accords, and to take her frequent presence as the olive branch that it was. But he continued to keep her at a distance.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by her, shall we say, moral flexibility. He’d seen it before. She was a spy, it was in her DNA to present every person she met with the version of herself that she wanted them to see. But Tony couldn’t shake the idea that she had been playing him - that she had never had any intention of signing the Accords, that her getting close to him was purely a strategy to suck information from him, before returning to Rogers, to whom her loyalties had always been stronger.

He knew that he was teetering on the verge of paranoia, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look her in the eye.

“Romanoff,” he greeted her curtly.

“Tony,” she said, using his first name as if that was something that they still did. “I need your help.”

At least she was upfront about her motives. No more manipulation or persuasion. Perhaps she sensed how close to the edge he was, and decided to go with forthrightness. He could appreciate that.

“And what can I do for the world’s foremost superspy?” he asked, almost fond, almost playful. Almost.

“It’s about Steve,” she said, and Tony’s stomach rolled when he heard the name. “He’s in trouble.”

Natasha filled in the details that Tony had been missing. Rogers had been out on a recon mission, investigating rumors of a possible decommissioned Hydra base. Rogers’ team had thought that an abandoned base might have offered them valuable intel at best, or at worst, could have contained dangerous materials which would pose a danger to the public.

(Now they care about public danger? Tony had thought bitterly. It hadn’t seem like a big concern when they ripped apart an airport in Germany or blew up a building in Lagos.)

Rogers had taken off to question a suspected ex-Hydra scientist about the base, assuring his team he could handle it alone. Just a quick bit of questioning. But then he had missed his first check-in. And his second.

By then Natasha had realized that something was wrong. She had asked T’Challa for help, and they’d flown to Rogers’ last known position. There was no sight of him, and no obvious evidence of a kidnapping. He was gone.

It had taken two days before they had received the video, sent anonymously over encrypted channels, and a further two days before they had contacted Tony.

Four days. Four days of confinement, of torture, of god knows what else. And they told Tony now.

Tony couldn’t say if he was more affronted that they had the gall to ask for his help, or furious that it had taken them until now to do so.

Tony spent more hours than he cared to count pouring over every frame of the video, searching for information that might give a clue to Rogers’ location. He memorized every detail: every wince, every shouted insult, every cold, dripping inch of the walls.

Rogers was definitely being drugged, that much was clear. Tony thought back to the restraints he’d designed, and the drug delivery system that he’d put in them. The deployment mechanism had never worked properly, and Tony hadn’t had time to fix it before the battle in Leipzig. But the “mood regulation system”, as he’d euphemistically termed it, was built into the restraints. Someone had found the time to make the system work, apparently.

Tony wondered how the captors had even known enough about Rogers’ physiology to design a drug that could incapacitate him. The details of the super soldier serum had always been top secret. Then he remembered the SHIELD data dump: the gigs of files which had been uploaded to the open internet when Rogers and Romanoff had taken down SHIELD and Hydra in one fell swoop.

This was a problem. Tony had designed the restraints to take Rogers down, hard. They were intended to be a temporary immobilization technique, used for a few minutes at a time to incapacitate someone whose metabolism burned through most drugs within minutes. He had honestly not for a moment considered what would happen if the restraints were used on Rogers for an extended period of time, but he knew it was nothing good.

This was on him. Whatever Rogers’ past sins might have been, he was now helpless and endangered because of Tony’s lazy rush job when designing those restraints. Tony’s fingers drummed against the hole in his chest where the arc reactor had been, tapping out a staccato of anxiety.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” A voice pulled him out of his guilt spiral. Peter was loitering on the threshold of Tony’s workshop, bouncing on the balls of his feet but not intruding into the space until invited.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said with a smile. It felt like it was the first time he’d smiled and meant it in a long while. “What’s up?”

“Here’s the thing,” Peter started, bounding over to Tony, “I heard that you were looking for Cap.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Peter held up a hand and barreled onwards. “Don’t try to deny it, Rhodey told me about the video. Whatever is going on between you and your old teammates, I know that you care about them all. Now shush and let me help you for once.”

Tony smiled again. For an awkward and inexperienced kid, Peter sure had his number.

“I saw this other video a while back, and I think it could be connected to this case. I thought it was just some terrorist wannabes looking for clicks at first, but maybe…. Here, look.” Peter pulled up a video on his phone and showed it to Tony.

“We are the New AIM!” a figure in a yellow hazmat suit announced hysterically to the camera. “We are an organization of the finest scientific minds on the planet, and you will learn to respect us and fear us.”

The figure blabbed on about world domination and the new order arising; the usual delusional self-important villain shtick. But the final moments of the video caught Tony’s eye: the few seconds in which the camera pulled back to show the same dark walls and dim lighting as the video of Steve. “We will achieve great things,” the figure said pompously, as the video faded out to black. “We will bring the world’s strongest men to our cause, and then you will all see our truth.”

This was it. It had to be. It was AIM that had Rogers captive, and god only knew what they planned to do with him.

That night, Tony dreamed again of an empty road, a car careening into a tree. His footsteps felt heavy as he paced around the car to see his father, bloodied and defiant. Tony saw his fist slamming into Howard’s face, feeling bones and cartilage snapping under the blows. Howard’s eyes fluttered into blankness as he fell unconscious, and Tony felt nothing at all.

Tony’s feet lead him around to the other side of the car, feet hitting the ground in firm, efficient strides. He saw his mother, terrified and sobbing, and he reached out and wrapped his hand around her neck. The silver of his arm glinted in the lamplight as he squeezed…

And then the dream changed. It was Rogers beneath him, Rogers’ throat into which his fingers were digging. He could feel the power of his metal arm as its fingers tightened against soft flesh, causing ugly bruises to appear on Rogers’ pale skin. Tony tried to stop, tried to pull away, but his body was beyond his control. He tried to scream, but couldn’t open his mouth.

Rogers looked up at him, clinging to the last of his life as he was choked. Summoning his remaining strength, he coughed out, “Finish it.”

Tony awoke in panic, sitting bolt upright in bed. He ran to the bathroom and threw up, then curled into a ball on the tiled floor, shivering in the cold.

He went back to obsessively analyzing the video, but over the next days the dream keep surfacing in his mind. The feeling of his body beyond his control, of having his strings pulled by an invisible and malevolent force, haunted him.

His anger at Barnes had burned fast and bright, and he’d studiously avoided reading any of the files on Barnes which his teammates had compiled. He wasn’t ready to face them then. Over the months since Siberia, however, the anger had faded, to be replaced with pity. When Tony finally braced himself and cracked the files, a picture emerged of a man mentally violated, his sense of self stripped away, forced against his will to commit acts which were abhorrent to him.

Tony remembered the feeling of Wanda’s magic slithering through his mind, warping his view of himself and his world, pushing him towards the creation of Ultron. The lingering horror of having his mind manipulated stayed with him. When he thought about the same thing being done to Barnes, over and over again, he couldn’t hold on to his grudge. There were experiences Tony had been through which he would quite literally not wish on his worst enemy.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the dream though. Looking down at his hand, he remembered how it had appeared covered in shiny silver metal, the way it flexed not like armor but like his body itself was artificial. Tony pictured shiny metal all the way down to his bones, inhuman and cold.

And then an idea came to him, as his best ideas often did: with a quiet flash of inspiration.

He knew what he needed to do. He knew how to save Rogers.

The workshop at the compound was adequate and functional, but it lacked the warm familiarity of his workshop back in the tower. There, he had felt driven by the joy of creation and the wonder of discovery, here, his motivation was pure desperate need. If he was going to help Rogers, then he didn’t have the luxury of time for prototyping and adjustments - he needed the tech to work, right now.

The hours blurred into days as he tinkered, frustrated by the slowness of his progress. The video was never far from his mind, Rogers’ vacant eyes playing constantly behind his eyes. After god knows how many hours without sleep, he was reaching breaking point.

“May I enter, Mr Stark?” A polite voice floated through the room.

Tony sat up, wiping a hand down his face. “Vis? Is that you? Yes, you can come in.”

Vision floated serenely through a wall into the shop. He was evidently still having some issues with the concept of doors.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Vision said calmly. “May I be of assistance to you in some way?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Uhh. This work is kind of complicated, and I don’t think engineering is really your field of specialty. But if I need someone to look at the electronics up close, I’ll let you know.”

Vision angled his head to one side. “That is not what I meant. I meant, can I help you personally? Would you like me to prepare you some food? Or to run you a bath?”

The thought of Vision’s earnest attempts at cooking made Tony smile despite himself. “Thanks, but no. I do appreciate the offer though.”

Vision inclined his head again.

“Where’s this coming from, Vis? You’re not bored, are you?”

“When I was made,” Vision said thoughtfully, “There were… fragments. Pieces of code from the system you knew as Jarvis. These fragments remain a part of my base code - a part of me. I was... concerned for your wellbeing.”

Tony’s throat felt tight. “Oh.”

“If you need me,” Vision said with a small smile, “You only have to ask. Good night, sir.”

Tony blinked back tears that were forming at the corners of his eyes as Vision floated out through the wall of the workshop.

Finally, finally, the new tech was ready. Tony considered telling Natasha about his plan, but decided on balance that she would probably just try to stop him. He hid a file with instructions for Rhodey in case he didn’t make it back within a week, and slipped out of the compound without drawing any attention.

It felt strange, to be heading out on a mission without his armor. Before, it had felt like the ultimate protection - a little too tempting at times, actually, as if he could shield himself from his the onslaught of an ugly world inside the suit. But since Siberia, since seeing the red and blue metal of a shield come smashing down into his chest, the armor no longer felt like any kind of security.

Even the Iron Man failed him eventually, Tony thought sourly. But take it all away, pull apart his friends and his home and his security, rip through his armor, and there was still something left. There was still Tony Stark, and there was still someone that needed saving.

As he made his way to the garage at the edge of the compound, Tony plucked at the hem of the sharply tailored suit he wore - a different kind of armor for a different kind of mission.

Getting himself kidnapped by AIM had been simple enough. He had been avoiding public appearances, not ready to deal with the angry, desperate, judgmental nature of crowds. So all he had to do was accept an invitation to give a keynote speech at some tech conference, and his name and location were splashed across Twitter and the tech press within minutes. He’d “accidentally” left his bodyguards behind in the hotel, and a team of eight armed thugs had grabbed him off the street on the short walk from his hotel to the conference. They’d thrown him into a van, knocked him out, and taken him to god knows where.

He came too and found himself tied to a chair, in a dark room that had the smell of damp. Probably underground. Possibly the same location in which the video had been made. A good start.

The hand which slapped him squarely across the face hard enough to snap his head back woke him fully. He opened his eyes, not wincing at the stinging pain across his cheek, to see a figure in what looked like a yellow hazmat suit.

“You’re awake,” the figure commented, sounding smug. “How privileged we are to have the great Tony Stark among us.”

Figures in the background sniggered, but all Tony could make out of them through the darkness were blobs of yellow.

“The BARF technology. You will show us how to weaponize it. You will help us to convert the minds of our enemies. If you do this to our satisfaction, we will allow you to live.”

Tony almost yawned. Kidnapped and forced to build weapons? Again? Couldn’t villains come up with something more original? (Like, say, manipulating two teammates into nearly beating each other to death, his mind added helpfully. Honestly, fuck Zemo, and fuck his vindictive machinations, but at least there was ambition to his plan. His current captors seemed distinctly pedestrian by comparison.)

It quickly became clear that the leader of the group, taller than the others and with a trace of a Scottish accent, had an axe to grind with Tony and a vindictive streak which he was enjoying exploring. He didn’t seem particularly interesting in instilling fear and compliance in Tony (just as well, because that would have been a fool’s game). He seemed to simply take pleasure in inflicting physical pain.

Tony could have given the man some pointers on his information extraction technique, but he was more interested in punching Tony in the face. Tony blinked dazedly another another blow made his head spin. He could feel blood trickling down his chin from where his lip was split open, and his right eye kept drooping closed as the skin around it swole.

There was something right about this, Tony reflected as the leader yanked his head forwards in order to line up another punch. This was no more than he deserved.

It was only when his captor raised his leg and kicked Tony hard in the chest that he felt the beginning of panic spiking in him. Though his chest appeared unscathed on casual inspection, there was only a thin layer of artificial skin covering the ruined mass of scars and implants where the reactor had been. If it was hit too hard, or in the wrong place, it could easily fail, his heart would stop, he would die here.

Tony curled up as much as he could while tied to the chair and tried to move his arms to protect his chest. His left arm was going numb again, tingles likes pins and needles running out from his chest, escalating into sharp spikes of pain which faded into terrifying absence of sensation. This, he knew, was not a good sign about the health of his heart.

“Hah,” the leader indicated Tony contemptuously to the others. “This one is about ready to crack already. Didn’t I say it would be easy?”

The leader grabbed Tony’s hair and forced his face upwards, towards him. “We knew it would be simple to get you into our power. Helmut Zemo might have been a grandiose fool with a death wish, but he was right about one thing: Iron Man and Captain America. You’re each other’s greatest weakness.” He smiled down at Tony as if he were impressed with his own insight. “When we captured him and leaked that video, we hoped that your guilt would be overwhelming and you would make a stupid mistake. And here you are.”

Tony wondered if he was really that predictable, then conceded that his room full of Captain America memorabilia might have given him away. He let his face go slack and his eyes unfocused, head lolling to the side to suggest impending unconsciousness, hoping that this tedious D-list villain would wrap up his monologuing soon.

“Captain America will make a fine addition to our group. Once you have converted the BARF technology, we will use it to show him our ways, and he will become our soldier, not yours. He will follow our lead, and help us usher in our vision. This is inevitable.”

Tony tried not to roll his eyes, because seriously, what kind of idiot thought that technology for revisiting trauma and processing distressing emotions could be used as a brainwashing device, but decided there was little to be gained by explaining the finer points of cognitive neurocalibration to his captors. After all, if they knew what they were asking of him was utterly impossible, they’d kill him without hesitation.

“If you’re imaging that your dear Captain America will rescue you, then you can give up on that fantasy. We have found the restraints that you designed to be quite the effective sedative on him, when used repeatedly. He’s as docile as a lamb now.” The leader smiled again, white teeth visible through the dark mask of the boiler suit.

“But you will see that for yourself soon enough,” he said to Tony grandiosely. He turned to two of the lackeys at the back of the room. “Take him away,” he ordered, “And put him in the cell with the Captain. They can reminisce about better times before we end them.”

Better times? thought Tony wearily. He wasn’t sure he remembered having many of those with Rogers.

The guards dragged Tony to a small cell with a tiny window providing the only source of light, and thick steel bars across the door.

Rogers was kneeling on the floor, filthy and bedraggled but whole, and alive. Tony let out a harsh breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“Tony, you’re here,” Rogers said woozily, his face breaking into a broad smile for a moment. But when Tony was shoved into the cell and Rogers caught sight of him, his expression changed. “What… oh Tony, did they capture you too? What did they do to you?” he asked as he reached out to touch Tony, then seemed to think better of it and pulled his hand back.

Tony could feel the swelling of his cheek and the blood dripping from his lip, and conceded that he probably did look a bit of a mess right now. “It looks worse than it is,” he assured Rogers. Now was not the time for worrying about the state of his face.

“But…” Rogers’ speech was slow and confused, he was obviously still recovering from the sedative drugs that their captors were administering to him. “They hurt you,” he said, sounding genuinely pained.

Not as much as you did, Tony thought before quickly shoving the thought aside. Bitterness would not be helpful now.

“I’ll live,” he said, not letting any emotion show in his voice. “But we need to get you out of here. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got a plan.”

“You came to rescue me?” Rogers’ face lit up for a second. “But why would you do that? You hate me.” His face closed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

Tony had been prepared for Rogers to be injured, or incapacitated. What he hadn’t expected was for him to be so damn emotionally open. It was as if the drugs had stripped away his defensiveness and his self control along with his motivation for action - like everything he felt was splayed across his face for the world to see. Tony found it uncomfortably, horrifyingly intimate.

“Uhh. We can talk about that later,” Tony said, adding or preferably never to himself. “Right now I need some information from you. Our captors, they keep you somewhere else during the day, right? And bring you to this cell in the evening?”

Rogers seemed uncertain, but he nodded.

“What time do they take you out in the morning?” Tony prompted.

Rogers’ brow crinkled in concentration. “Long after dawn,” he said eventually. “They don’t have to turn the lights on. The sun is up for a few hours before they arrive.”

Okay, Rogers still had some of his mental capacity intact. Good. They were going to need it.

Some careful questioning established that Rogers was taken each day to another room in the compound, where he was held using the Stark Tech restraints. He must have been exposed to hours and hours worth of the sedative that Tony had designed, the one he had meant to only be used for a few minutes at most.

Rogers had been confused, at first, as to how Tony knew so much about the technology which was keeping him captive, though he had mumbled something about the restraints looking familiar. When Tony had explained that he knew how the technology worked because he had designed it, Rogers’ look of honest shock and sadness was a punch to the gut which had hurt more deeply than anything their captors had done to him.

Tony shoved his guilt and his regret deep down inside and focused on the plan.

“I’ve designed an inhibitor,” Tony informed Rogers, trying to stick to discussion of the facts and far away from discussion of feelings. “It should boost your immunity to the drugs, and make them affect you less.”

“Oh good,” Rogers said, sounding bafflingly cheerful and looking at Tony with complete trust. Now Steve trusted him? Not before, when if he’d only damn well talked to Tony and explained about Bucky, they could have worked something out? Not at any time in the last two years, when he could have told Tony the truth about his parents? But now. Now they were stuck in an ugly, cold, damp cell together and they hadn’t seen each other for months. Now Steve trusted him.

Tony grit his teeth and swallowed down a sick feeling. “I can inject you now,” Tony said, keeping his voice carefully even. “But it’ll take a few hours for the inhibitor to affect you. By tomorrow morning you should be feeling better.”

“Okay, Tony,” Rogers said, his face showing nothing other than open trust. “But how are you going to get the drugs here?”

When he’d been taken, the first thing Tony’s captors had done was to strip him of his jacket and his shoes, and empty his pockets. Fortunately, this was one problem which Tony had foreseen, and for which he had prepared. Being a futurist had to be good for some situations, right?

“Not a problem,” Tony told him confidently. “But, uhh, you might want to look away.”

Tony turned his left wrist to face himself, and tried not to wince as he used the jagged nail of his right thumb to slice open the delicate skin of his forearm. He felt a little queasy as he used his teeth to rip apart the skin to get at the tiny vial of inhibitor which he had stored subcutaneously, but this was far from the worst that his body had been through.

Eventually, with fingers slippery with blood, he grasped the needle-shaped vial under his skin and pulled it out with a triumphant smile. Steve stared at him, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” he said as he lined up the sharp tip of the vial with a vein in Rogers’ neck. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Creating an inhibitor for the sedative drugs and designing a way of smuggling it into captivity had, unfortunately, been the easy part of Tony’s plan. Getting Cap back on his feet and somewhat in his right mind was a necessity for the more complicated part of the plan: actually getting them out.

Tony hadn’t been able to test the inhibitor, obviously, so he was unsure how effective it would be. This would be easier to execute if Cap was back to his usual tactical-minded self. It might be a bit easier on Tony, too, if he didn’t have to deal with seeing every emotion that Steve was feeling written all over his face. He quietly hoped for the inhibitor to kick in, hard, and soon.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice was wavering and unsure, not a hint of his usual commanding tone.

Tony sighed. “Yeah, Cap?”

“It’s cold.”

That it was. The cell was barren and freezing, the stone of the floor beneath them seeming to suck the warmth right out of his body where he was curled up on the ground. “Yeah, Cap. It’s cold,” he agreed.

There was the sound of shuffling from behind him, and Tony felt a solid mass of warmth pressed against his back while Steve slung an arm across his chest. Tony’s heart raced, panic and misery and longing all rolling into one desperate thrum as Steve wrapped himself around him.

As if sensing his discomfort, Steve rubbed gentle circles across Tony’s chest, his hand over the dead skin where the arc reactor had been. Tony steadied himself, tried to breathe, to remember that he was here to help Steve. And it was undeniably warmer with the two of them curled up together.

“I’m glad you’re here, Tony,” Steve said quietly. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Tony felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and told himself to pull his shit together. This was just a rescue mission, it was what he would do for any team mate, or hell, for any person who needed it. There was no need for him to make it weird.

He grasped for a response, but Steve was already dozing off, the captivity and the drugs clearly wearing on him. To his surprise, Tony felt a kind of calm descend on him as he lay on the cold ground and listened to Steve’s steady breathing.

“Tony, wake up,” a voice hissed.

Tony sat up, blinking slowly. Steve was crouched over him, posture solid, eyes sharp.

“We don’t have much time before I’m taken out of the cell for the day. I need to know the details of your plan.”

Cap was back into grim, professional mode, his face schooled into a look of intense concentration. The inhibitor must have kicked in, dulling the effect of the drugs. Tony would never have imagined he’d be so happy to see that expressionless mask back in place.

“I counted at least ten guards on the way in,” Tony told him. “Plus the leader. If they manage to put the base on lockdown before we overpower them, we’re in trouble.We need to take them down one by one, quickly and quietly.”

Steve gave a tight, determined nod.

“How many guards come to fetch you each morning?”

“Three.”

Three armed guards against the two of them, unarmed. Not ideal, but workable.

“Right,” he said, looking Steve in the eye to make sure he was still with him. “When they arrive to take you out, we’re going to incapacitate all three before any of them has the chance to push a panic button.”

“I’m nearly back to my usual strength, but I can’t take three guys at once. How are you proposing that you take down an armed man?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tony said quickly. He could hear approaching footsteps outside their cell. “Just follow my lead.”

The guards threw open the door and entered the cell, faces grim. “You,” one of them snapped at Steve. “Hands behind your back.”

Steve flopped to his knees and clasped his wrists behind him docilely. His eyes were vacant and his jaw was slack, doing a convincing impression of someone under heavy sedation. Tony was reminded just how good this man was at hiding the truth.

Two guards went over to restrain Steve, while the third pointed his gun at Tony and leered. “Don’t worry, rich boy, we’ll be back to take you out for some fun later.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Tony said. He planted his feet, took a breath, and raised his hand, palm facing out like how he would aim a repulsor in the suit.

The guard laughed at him. “Is that supposed to be threatening?” He waved to his two friends. “Look at this, boys. We’ve got ourselves a fighter. Pity you haven’t got your fancy toys to protect you here.”

The other guards looked at Tony, joined in the jeering. But Tony’s eyes were fixed on Steve’s, and when he gave a tiny nod, they sprang into simultaneous action.

Steve lashed out with his right hand, and Tony heard the sickening snapping of bone as he hit one guy in the leg. As that one guard was collapsing, Steve kept his weight low and rolled into the other, toppling him over and knocking the radio which he had grabbed out of his hand.

The guy who was facing Tony pulled his weapon up, and aimed…

Tony concentrated, felt a switch flip in his mind, and tried not to scream as pain burst through his right hand. He felt a vicious crunching as the bones in his hand shifted and twisted, then a sick rending as the muscles were ripped and pushed apart. Thousands of red hot needles danced across his skin as liquid metal poured out of his hand.

And then, in a second, the pain cleared and a shiny red repulsor glove appeared, fully formed, encasing his hand. While the guard in front of him was still gawping in astonishment, Tony aimed a single repulsor blast at him and knocked him off his feet.

Steve made short work of the other two, and they quickly grabbed up their radios and weapons and locked the three of them in the cell.

Steve’s eyes stared at Tony’s hand, encased in its gauntlet. “Tony,” he asked, “What did you do to yourself?”

“This is Extremis Mark II. I realized, see, that I made a mistake with the Mark I, trying to use nanotechnology to rewrite DNA. It was too invasive, too prone to trouble. The Mark II doesn’t interface with my body, it just lives there. The armor is stored in a highly compressed format in my bones.” Tony smiled slightly to himself and flexed his fingers. “Now the suit and I really are one. Or at least will will be once I finish manufacturing the complete armor. For now I’ve just got the one glove.” He waved his hand helpfully.

“It’s stored in your bones? But then… deploying that… It looked like that hurt,” Steve said, face blank once again.

“Uhh, yeah. It did. But I didn’t have time for niceties like testing or making it user-friendly. There were time constraints in the design.”

“Time constraints?” Steve suddenly exploded. “What the hell does that mean? What could be more important than testing experimental technology before putting it inside your body?”

“Rescuing you, you fucking idiot,” Tony yelled back. “I designed the Mark II this week. It was the only way I could get a weapon here to you.”

“Oh,” Steve said quietly.

“Come on,” Tony said with a long-suffering sigh, “Let’s get out of here.”

On their way out, Tony took particular pleasure in repulsor beaming the leader of the group, knocking him face first into the concrete wall of the corridor they were barreling down.

It was… he hesitated to say fun, exactly, but it was at least satisfying to be fighting side by side with Cap again as they cleared the base. The two of them fell into the easy patterns of familiarity at which they had always excelled on the battlefield, but never managed to achieve in their down time.

Steve rolled into the main command room, dropping one guy with an uppercut and pivoting to throw a second guy directly into Tony’s line of fire as he entered behind him. Tony fired off a shot and wheeled to take out a third guy as he leapt over a console.

Suddenly, a whoosh of metal spun through the air by the head. Steve had picked up the nearest implement - a tea tray, rather improbably - and sent it arcing through the air, knocking down a fourth man behind Tony who he had missed and who had been lining up a shot on him. Tony gave Steve a quick nod of thanks and threw himself onwards.

By the time had taken down what turned out to be a total of 12 guards and kicked down the door to exit the base, they were both sweaty, bloodied, and grinning wildly.

Wandering out of the underground base and towards the lights and noise of a large city, they saw a few road signs and Tony realized with a start that they were in Madripoor.

Madripoor, the island nation off the coast of Singapore which was famed for its lack of extradition treaties and its lax approach to law enforcement. Of course, Tony thought, where better to set up your base of evil operations?

Fortunately, or perhaps sadly, Tony had done some business here in the shadier parts of his past and still had accounts in the city which he could access. People living in this legal gray zone of a city weren’t big fans of him these days, but Stark money was good everywhere.

The first thing he did was get a credit card, the second was to message Rhodey letting him know they were both safe, the third was to book a nearby hotel. Nothing fancy, just a place to camp for a moment and achieve goal number four: take a much-needed shower.

On arrival at the lobby of the hotel, the attractive woman staffing the front desk apologetically informed him that they only had one twin room left, and would that suffice? He waved off her apologies, happy to have somewhere to decamp and not planning to stay long. Steve had been unusual silent since the escaped the base, and he was swaying slightly. The man clearly needed to sit quietly for a bit.

When they got to their room, he felt a ridiculous prickle of concern as he left Steve sitting on the bed and gazing at the wall while he went to take a shower. Steve would be fine, he didn’t have to keep him in his sights at every moment. Tony was getting too clingy, too needy, too controlling, like he always did when he was uncertain.

He shook his head and stood under the shower, letting the water wash away the worst of the grime covering his body. He had avoided inspecting any of his injuries too closely over the last few days, but now he couldn’t ignore the thumping in his head and the oozing cuts on his face, the tender, aching soreness down his whole right arm and concentrated in his hand, and a sharp pain in his chest which he suspected was several broken ribs.

He watched the water circle the drain, tinged brown with dirt and pink with blood. It was fine. His body would heal.

Tony left the bathroom to let Steve have his turn in the shower. But Steve had fallen asleep, passed out on the top of the bed while still fully clothed. His face was drawn into a frown and he was shaking.

Tony took one look at him and abandoned plans to leave Madripoor that evening. Steve was clearly still struggling physically and mentally with the effects of his captivity. Tony could sympathize with that. They would stay here tonight, and the journey back to home with all its pressures and demands could wait until tomorrow.

“You know what, I’d say we’ve earned an evening off. Let’s stay here for the night,” Tony called over to Steve’s sleeping form. “I’ll call down to reception and see if I can get another room.”

“Wait,” Steve said suddenly, apparently not that asleep after all. He rolled over and looked at Tony. “You could stay here. There’s two beds and plenty of space.”

Tony raised an eyebrow and was about to say something flippant about thrifty 40s habits until he noticed the tight knots of misery in Steve’s eyes. He looked lost, a ghost of the vacant glassy stare that Tony had seen while Steve was sedated flitting across his face. “Please,” he said, quietly.

Tony acquiesced, of course.

Steve stepped out of the shower looking like a new man, face freshly shaved and his bruises already fading. But his movements were still a little disjointed, lacking their usual fluidity. The drugs had not quite flushed out of his system yet.

“We ought to find a doctor to check you over,” Tony said carefully.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“But you’ve been through a trauma-”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child, Stark,” Steve snapped.

“I’m just trying to help,” Tony said, defensively.

“I don’t need you to fix me, okay?” Steve’s voice was harsh and he stepped forward into Tony’s personal space, his fists bunched up in anger. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

Suddenly all Tony could think about was those fits pounding into his face, the dull, heavy thud of shield impacting armor, and the screeching of rending metal as the reactor powering his suit blinked out. He remember looking up at Steve’s blank face, and knowing that he was about to die.

Steve reached out for him, but Tony recoiled and the room spun wildly for a moment. He heaved in shallow, tortured breaths, trying to push away the panic and the urge to run, run, run.

When he composed himself enough to look at Steve, he saw that his face was ashen. Steve ripped his hand away and stepped backwards, giving Tony space.

“Jesus, Tony,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Tony couldn’t keep the harsh tone out of his voice. “For standing near me? This is my problem, not yours. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry for making you feel unsafe around me.”

Tony didn’t know how to respond to that  - to the truth stated so plainly. His eyes flicked around the room, identifying exists, an old habit of nervousness that he’d never managed to break.

“And I’m sorry for Siberia too,” Steve said softly. “I thought I knew what the right thing to do was. But lately, I realized… anything that set us this at odds couldn’t have been the right way to go. Is it too late for us to work out some kind of compromise?”

Tony had imagined Steve coming to him with these words so many times, daydreaming about how they might patch things up, how they might move on together. Now it was laid in front of him, it seemed unreal.

“I…,” Tony took a deep breath. Whatever his personal issues with the man were, Steve was here, and he was trying. Tony could meet him halfway. “I’m sorry too, Steve. I’m sorry I attacked Barnes. I wish you’d explained his situation to me. I could have helped.”

Steve looked pained at the mention of Barnes’ name, guilt and worry written all over his face.

“I could still help,” Tony offered, looking at the floor. Despite whatever acrimony existed between him and Steve, he couldn’t blame Barnes for having had his mind manipulated. Tony had been there, had suffered that loss of dignity and of self. He had the opportunity to help another person who was suffering, and sometimes he had to be the bigger person.

“I’ve been working on a therapy technology that could help Barnes,” he continued. “That’s actually why the new AIM kidnapped me. They wanted me to use the technology to brainwash you. That’s not how it works, but it might help Barnes process what he’s been through. I could arrange treatment for him.”

“You’d do that for me?” Steve asked, looking suddenly hopeful.

“No,” Tony said coldly, enjoying the vindictiveness. “But I’d do it for him.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and looked so pathetically grateful that Tony felt a rush of guilt. Why did it always have to be this way between them? Why always with the recriminations and the judgments and the snarky comebacks? He wondered if they had missed their chance to be more than that, to be teammates, or even friends. Whether they could ever achieve stability after all they’d been through.

“You’re a good man, Tony,” Steve said, without a hint of irony or sarcasm. “Howard would have been proud.”

And Tony could see his good intentions, could tell that Steve was trying to heal the rift between them, to reach across the divide they’d created with shared memories. This was further than he’d ever imagined that they would get. But man oh man, did he pick the wrong thing to say.

Of all the old wounds to pick at, the subject of Howard was still an ugly scab across Tony’s psyche, the baggage of guilt and resentment and hostility still weighing heavily upon him. Steve, just like Howard, another man that Tony would never live up to, never be as strong as or as forthright as, Tony was trapped forever beneath the mammoth weight of expectations piled on him by those who should have protected him.

“It’s late,” Tony said, voice absolutely flat. He couldn’t stand to look at Steve’s face for another moment. “We should get some sleep.”

Tony stared at the ceiling, examining the ugly stucco, eyes drawn to the way each peak and trough was illuminated by the soft glow of neon signs from outside the window. He couldn’t work out why he felt so restless, so jumpy. The mission had been a success. He and Cap were both safe. Tomorrow they could go their separate ways and get back to their lives.

It hit him that perhaps this was the problem - he didn’t want to go back to the cold silence and the half an ocean between them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Steve, but he knew that it wasn’t a return to how things had been before.

He didn’t want to be resentful any more, he realized. He was done being heartbroken. It was time to move on, and he knew that closure was a gift you give to yourself.

He heard shuffling from the other bed, then soft footsteps approaching. “Tony?” Steve asked softly. “You awake?”

Tony considered feigning sleep, rebuffing Steve, leaving this tangled mass of emotions to be dealt with at another time. But that felt like admitting defeat.

He rolled over. Steve looked worn, lacking his usual confident movements, his posture slumping. He nibbled nervously at a nail, and for a moment Tony imagined him as the little skinny kid he’d seen in photos from before the serum, the one who grew up in poverty and deprivation, the one who had just wanted to do his part to protect the innocent. “Can I join you?” Steve asked, not quite looking him in the eye.

As if Tony could ever refuse him. Steve had always been his weakness, his adoration splayed across his heart so clearly that even the villains could see it. “Okay,” he said, pushing aside the bed covers, leaving him shivering in the cool night air. “Get in.”

Steve climbed in, wrapping himself around Tony in a way which was already becoming disconcertingly familiar. Almost like home, Tony thought for a second before chiding himself for his sentimentality. Steve rolled to face him, the sharp lines of his face softened in the ambient glow of the room.

“Can I…” Steve’s voice trailed off, uncharacteristically uncertain. Or perhaps it was merely an elaborate ruse to play on Tony’s emotions - who could tell? Tony always had been a lousy judge of character. “Can I come home?”

Tony blinked. “I can’t stop you from entering the US. You’d be as safe or unsafe there as you would be back in Wakanda.”

“No, I mean… I miss our team. I want to come home.”

Our team? Our team? The Avengers are yours, maybe more so than mine, Tony thought but didn’t say.

But then he looked at Steve, really looked at him. Saw the worry lines around his eyes, etched deep with pain, the way his lips were pinched like he was bracing himself for rejection. If it was an act, it was a damn convincing one.

“Yeah, Cap,” Tony said warily. “You can come home.”

Steve held on to Tony tight, fingers clinging on to him as if he might disappear at any moment. Together, they drifted off into sleep.

In the week after their return to New York, Tony had been trying to set an at least somewhat reasonable sleep schedule, to eat, to keep moving. What he wanted to do - what he always wanted to do, but especially now - was to bury himself under a thick layer of schematics or booze or bed covers and not have to look anyone in the eye for a few days.

But he had responsibilities: a team that required him, people who were depending on him, and Steve who needed… something from him that he wasn’t quite ready to give yet. Forgiveness. Understanding. Validation. So, he got up each day, and negotiated.

Getting Steve into the Avengers compound had been a first step. The guarantee of his immunity from prosecution was something Tony was able to offer once Steve had agreed to signing a modified version of the Accords. That guarantee had cost Tony more political capital that he would ever have admitted, and after he had promised himself that he was done spending himself for Steve.

Tony reached for the bitterness that had become like a well-worn coat to him when he thought of Steve, a motivation to stay vigilant and to protect himself. But in the last days Tony had searched for anger and vindictiveness towards Steve, and found only pity. They had barely seen each other since their escape, Steve as busy as he was: finding a US facility which could help Barnes, making arrangements for the rest of his team to come home, running messages to them through Natasha.

Tony felt like he had run out of hate, that the fiery intensity of his fury at Steve’s betrayal and lies had been burned away, leaving only the glowing embers of sadness and regret. Now he just felt empty.

He rolled over and stared at the clock beside his bed, blinking out the time in vivid red. Sleep seemed like a lost cause. It was late - too late for anyone else to be awake, and too late for him to be reasonably working. But the idea of lying in a pit of his regrets was too tedious for Tony to face any more.

He was tired, so tired. Tired of the responsibility and the pressure, tired of his own impossibly high standards for himself, tired of trying to form the world into a safe place which it clearly would never be. But mostly, he was tired of fighting people who were once his friends.

He wondered if Steve was awake. He didn’t sleep much, seemed to always be in the gym late at night. Maybe he was still awake, and they could distract themselves with talk. About sports, or how Peter’s training was progressing, or god, anything.

Tony hadn’t quite realized that he had made a decision until he had rolled out of bed and was heading for the door.

He opened his bedroom door and stopped short. Steve was pacing up and down in the corridor outside, looking jittery. How long had he been out there? He turned to face Tony, and even with the regenerative powers of the serum, there were bags under his eyes and a downward turn to his mouth. He looked pale and exhausted.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Tony asked.

Steve nodded but said nothing.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Tony sighed, opened the door and waved for him to come in. Tony had wanted to speak with Steve, thought he could assess the situation between them, to run the numbers on the chances of repairing their relationship. But more than any of that, right now, he wanted to sleep. And it seemed like Steve did too.

Tony got into bed and threw back the covers to make space for Steve, who slid in next to him. Feeling Steve’s arms wrap around him and smelling his familiar scent of soap and leather, Tony felt himself relax. There would be time for hashing out the messy practicalities of their lives in the morning.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve mumbled into his hair. He’d said that before. Perhaps he even meant it.

Tony felt a lump in his throat, tried to process his conflicting emotions, failed. “I’m glad we’re here,” he replied, his voice hoarse and rough.

This is for the “captivity” square on my stony bingo card. The plot was inspired by this gorgeous fanart by kaciart. Maybe I will write some more of this in the future? Poor Steve and Tony have been through so much, I hope they can fix things between them eventually.