#d:sharon

When it came to making friends, Valkyrie had never done anything the traditional way. Even before she’d become the last of the Valkyrior, she hadn’t exactly been social, had always preferred to stick to herself. Other people were useful to warm her bed and fill the silence, but they could rarely be trusted. Occasionally, someone came along to challenge that, and Valkyrie found herself with something resembling a friend. Sharon was one of those and, though she might not admit it, Valkyrie was glad to have her.

They lounged in the gym now, water bottles in hand and towels soaked in sweat draped across their shoulders. “You know, you’re one of my favorite sparring partners,” Valkyrie said conversationally, squirting some of her water into her mouth. “You manage to make me work up a sweat. Not many can say that.” 

Working with the Avengers on a more full-time basis had been interesting to say the least. Their roster was large and seemed to rotate fairly often -- Quicksilver’s sudden turn came to mind as a recent example -- but years of ruling in Wakanda had taught T’Challa tricks and trades when it came to remembering people. A good king, his uncle told him once, knew the names of all his subjects. A good teammate, he decided, must do similarly. 

Some people, though, he did not have to struggle to remember. They were the sort who left an impression, the kind who were easily memorized. Sharon Carter had always been among them. T’Challa had been drawn to her easily, her humor reminding him of his sister back home. Working on missions with her was always far more seamless than some of their other teammates, and he found he enjoyed it. Against the newly invisible demons, she was something of a godsend. He looked over to see how she was faring in this battle, unsurprised to see her handling her own. “How many do you think there are?” He called, swiping his claws at what appeared to be open air and smiling when they caught in flesh. “It might be nice to have some sort of count.”

Sharon Carter was different here. When Tommy saw her on the news, he was shaken by how she managed to look simultaneously different and the same. Her hair was blond instead of red, but her face was just as it had been back on Earth 1610. Her voice was the same voice that had yelled at him during training, the same voice that told him to get the fuck out of here, Shepherd when she and the rest of his SHIELD team had been slaughtered in the same event that landed Tommy in 616.

Not that that bothered him, obviously. Tommy didn’t do feelings, didn’t do loss or mourning. If he gaped a little when he ran into Sharon in public, it was only because the blonde hair looked fucking weird on her. Seriously, the red was way more natural. If it were someone else, he might think the blonde was kinda hot, but it was weird to think the alternate-universe version of your deceased former SHIELD handler was hot, even for Tommy.

Realizing he was staring, he smoothed his face into an easy grin, raising a brow. Luckily, in his Speed uniform, the staring was a little less obvious. “I know you. You’re the lady who’s always kicking ass on the news. Agent 13, right? I’m Speed. I didn’t pick the name, but it fits.”

Jess had spent months in Skrull captivity, had been trapped in that stupid cell for nearly half a year now. In that time, she hadn’t been treated well. She’d been allowed very little to eat or drink, given only the bare minimum needed to survive. She’d endured torture as her captors attempted to extract information from her, been able to sleep very little in spite of her exhaustion. There was the fact that she’d been severely injured in the process of capture, as well; because her body had been denied nutrients and rest, the wound had been slow to heal. New wounds she’d collected through the Skrulls’ interrogations were similar, making her physical state a mess.

The doctor, upon examining her, had initially wanted her hospitalized. The idea made Jess sick, and she’d refused to even consider it. He’d ordered bedrest instead, instructing her not to leave her apartment for any reason for at least a week.

So, naturally, the first thing she did when she got home was change into her workout gear and head out for a run.

Sitting still, unfortunately, wasn’t an option. Jess couldn’t bring herself to stay confined in her apartment, couldn’t lay in the same bed Veranke had inhabited for the last few months, couldn’t sit on the couch where the Skrull had chatted with Jess’s friends and taken every ounce of agency Jess had fought so hard for like it was nothing. She needed to get out, needed to move, and no doctor’s orders were going to prevent it.

She wasn’t running anywhere in particular. She’d meant to simply take a jog, to enjoy the fresh air for the first time in months. Somehow, though, she wound up in front of Maria’s building, staring up at the bricks. She’d been told what happened only in vague terms, with no details. Maria Hill was murdered, they’d said, as if that sentence made sense at all. We still don’t know who did it. 

The answer was obvious, of course. Jess knew they all knew it, even if they weren’t saying it. Maria Hill was a distrustful woman, and there were few people she’d let into her home without a fight. Jessica Drew was one of them.