#agenthamburger

Settling his tea cup down onto the table with a polite pinky, Bruce nearly curled himself into a ball on the small, wooden chair of the cafe. Food ordered and drinks obtained, Bruce nodded to the seat across from him. He and Sharon weren’t initially...close (and who can really claim that they’re ‘close’ with Bruce Banner, the man who makes disappearing from social situations look like drinking water), but with Bucky’s addition to the Avengers, they’d spent more and more time together and found that they meshed.

“I’m now the guy who stands in line at the grocery store at the self-check out machines and gets frustrated because I’m incapable of scanning a pack of pre-made popcorn,” It was always easier to connect with women - something something neurological stimuli from having an abusive man in his past - and it seemed that Sharon was no different, her grumpy, sarcastic smile putting him at ease. “People ask me if I’m ironically wearing a Hawaiian button-up, and I have no clue what to say to them.”

The hustle and bustle around them seemed to add to their conversation rather than distract, creating a bubble of normalcy for two people who rarely got to feel normal, “Have you had those sushi-burrito things they have now? Modern day genius, I tell you,” He grumbled, taking a sip of the still too-hot tea. Something about the burn delighted him rather than pushing him away.

It was sudden. A loud bang as a mover dropped an armful of boxes on the sidewalk. Several people jumped, one woman screamed, a toddler started to cry. New Yorkers were always just a little on edge, no matter how hardened they liked to pretend they were. An alien invasion or two would do that to you. Rachel had hardly looked up at the sound, hardly registered it at all until the woman next to her spoke and she realized she should have. She should have jumped or gotten frightened, should have at least been surprised by it. Perhaps it was thank to the teachings of Azarath that she wasn’t. Fear was an emotion all its own, after all, one of the many she’d been trained not to feel.

“I don’t scare easily,” she replied with a shrug, glancing over to where the mover was gathering the boxes. Broken glass spilled from one, another had spewed packing peanuts onto the sidewalk. Already, everyone was moving around him like a stream parting around a rock. It was as if none of them had been yelling moments before, as if they’d already forgotten. Maybe they had. “No harm, right? Just a mover.”

“Maybe you should lay low for a few days.” In the comfort of Miguel’s apartment, Lyla didn’t bother to hide. She was out in full holo form, hand on her hip as she studied Miguel with an expression that, in his opinion, was more than a little judgmental. “Things aren’t exactly safe right now, Miguel.”

“And that’s different from 2099... how?” He raised a brow, tilting his head to the side. If asked, Lyla would insist that rolling her eyes didn’t fall within her programming parameters, but Miguel swore he saw the gesture all the same. She opened her mouth to reply --- probably to say something sarcastic, because A.I.s did tend to take after their owners --- but was interrupted by a knock at the door. Miguel held up a finger and the holo sighed before powering down.

Walking over to the door, Miguel swung it open and froze at who he saw on the other side. “Agent Carter,” he greeted. “You gonna arrest me after all for the whole ‘identity theft’ issue? Because no offense, but I think you’ve probably got bigger things to worry about right now. Right?”

A lot could change in five years, even if you remained stagnant. Sam had learned that when he came back, after that big battle was said and done and Stark was in the ground. It took a long time for that adrenaline to die down, a long time for the dust to settle, a long time for Sam to let himself breathe long enough to take a look around and take stock of what was different. 

The most jarring, of course, were the people who weren’t around.

There was a part of Sam who’d seen those missing people and wanted to feel optimistic about where they might be. When Steve approached him after the battle, he’d grinned wide and cocky and exhausted and greeted him with, what, did Sharon have someplace better to be? He remembered the way Steve’s face fell, remembered how his whole world changed from one heartbeat to the next.

There was a moment, he’d told Riley once, that existed between a tragedy’s occurrence and its realization. It was the moment after the gun fired, just before his father fell. It was the split second between his mother’s scream of pain and the sound of her body hitting the concrete. It was the heartbeat after Riley started his descent and the one before he landed in the sand.

It was the moment after he made his joke, before Steve spoke. He wished, sometimes, that he could live in that moment. He wished he could curl up in that ticking clock just before the world fell apart. 

But he couldn’t. That hand moved from one second to the next. His father fell. His mother’s body hit the ground. Riley landed in the sand and didn’t get back up.

And Steve opened his mouth, and Sharon was dead.

It was a hard hit. It always was. Sam had lost so many people, and there was no getting used to it. Every loss felt like the first one, sharp and brittle.  

Maybe that was why he’d been standing in front of her door a good ten minutes now, trying to bring himself to knock.

Not many people got second chances like this. Not many people found themselves plopped down in the middle of an alternate universe where their dead friends were alive and thriving and happy. (Some of their dead friends, at least --- Pararescueman Riley Clark was still shot down by enemy forces in Afghanistan, body never recovered. Sam had checked.) Second chances were rare and precious things, and Sam was trying to get his to convince him to wrap his knuckles against the door, to call out, to do anything to make his presence known, but it was hard. 

He was pacing when the floorboards made his decision for him, creaking under his feet. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough. The door swung open, and Sam whirled towards it... but there was no one standing at eye level. He lowered his eyes until he found a little girl staring up at him, eyes narrowed. “Uh,” he said, blinking. There were footsteps behind her, and this time, the person approaching was tall enough for him to look in the eye without kneeling. 

The person in question was also achingly familiar. 

“Sharon,” he said, a quiet breath. “God. I’m --- Hey.” 

The bar was more so empty than usual which was anticipated. It was a less busy time and people were seeming to avoid being out anyways unless they wanted to cause trouble. He didn’t like to drink too heavily when he did drink. It reminded him too much of his old man and nights spent taking care of his mom while Willis was out doing whatever the fuck he wanted while getting wasted. (He was almost afraid of getting wasted and the Pit turning him into the worst parts of himself: those parts all being ones he recognized in obtaining from his father.) 

There was a familiar face at the bar that had Jason taking pause before pushing forward to slide into the seat beside her. “Can I get you another drink, boss? Or is some bar food more your jam right now?” He asked, leaning his elbow on the table. “I personally could go for a basket of fries. But regardless, long time, no drink. I’m sure you’ve missed my sparkling personality and wit. Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it.” There was a teasing smirk on his face as he sat back in his chair. 

Crashing on Matt’s couch wasn’t an unfamiliar situation. America had done it a thousand times before, and she was used to all the... uniqueness that came with that. Women pounding on the door and yelling obscenities wasn’t a common occurrence, but this also wasn’t the first time it had happened. America had been content to ignore it when it was just knocking, but when the yelling came into play she groaned from her position on the couch and tossed the pillow she’d pulled over her head to the floor before standing up.

Marching over to the door, she swung it open and leveled the woman with a glare. If she hadn’t been just been unceremoniously awoken from a well-deserved nap, she might have thought that this chick was way too good looking to be hung up on Matt Murdock, but she was a little too irritated to consider how many hot exes Matt managed to land. “He’s not here,” she said dryly, “but I can pass along the whole ‘fuck you’ situation if you stop yelling. I’m sure he’ll say something Catholic in response.”

Danny was still getting used to work at Rand. He had no clue how to navigate the business world, and while Ward was as helpful as he could be, he didn’t have the patience to be a great teacher. Most days, Danny felt like he was barely hanging on, just waiting for someone to realize just how out of his depth he was and toss him out a window or something. He was pretty sure it wasn’t far fetched, considering how the board members looked at him the last time he’d stepped into the boardroom. 

Sighing as he stepped off the elevator, he offered his assistant a nod before walking into his office and preparing to spend a few hours sitting at his desk and pretending he had some clue what any of the files Ward had dropped off that morning meant... only to stop short when he saw the space behind his desk occupied. The woman was familiar, but only in the vague way that tugged at old memories, the kind of thing that meant he’d probably known her before the plane crash. She definitely wasn’t old enough to have worked here then. “Uh, I’m sorry,” he said, shutting the door behind him. If whatever this was came to blows, it would probably be better if Megan didn’t see it. She was a good assistant, but he’d have a hard time explaining a glowing fist to her. “Did we have an appointment? Megan didn’t mention anything on my schedule.”