#some feels

Peter doesn’t realise he’s awake until he hears a door open. He hums lazily and turns towards the sound, eyes staying closed under the force of lingering sleepiness. There’s a soft clunk of something being placed onto a table, then a cool hand rests gently against his cheek. He groans appreciatively, nuzzling greedily into the familiar touch. 

''May.''

''Hi, baby. How are you feeling?''

''Uh…'' Peter eases his eyes open, giving his fingers an experimental twitch. ''Okay?''

May’s face swims into focus, her smile one of fond amusement. ''You don’t sound so sure, tough guy.''

He’s aware of a strange weight throughout his body, a soft fuzziness that only comes from the use of painkillers.

''...Did I get hurt?''

''Oh, boy, did you.''

Peter tries to think, thoughts washing together sluggishly, focusing on the discomfort in his throat and the clogged feeling in his nose before grasping at a glimmer of a memory. ‘’There was a robbery?’’

‘’Uh huh…’’

‘’...They hit me?’’

To his muzzy confusion, May laughs. 

‘’Try knocking yourself out on a parked car before you even reached the scene.’’

Peter’s squawk of surprise morphs into a series of explosive sneezes that leave him shuddering on the bed. There’s a rubbery feeling in his limbs and a scratchy texture to his tongue and when he rubs his nose, mucus streaks unpleasantly across the back of his hand. 

May gives him a look and all becomes clear. 

''I’m sick, aren’t I?'' he rasps weakly. 

''I think you already knew that when you decided to leap out of your bedroom window with a raging fever to go stop a couple of bank robbers.''

Peter glances around, taking in the IV drip attached to his hand, the monitors by the bedside and when he shifts on the mattress, he feels the brush of bandages against the sheet. 

''Tony got an alert from your...'' May wrinkles her nose thoughtfully, ''suit robot lady...thing. He found you in a puddle of blood with a gigantic gash on your forehead, a busted knee and skin hot enough to fry eggs on.''

''Oh,'' Peter mutters as he slouches down into his pillows, ''that’s nice.''

''Yeah, I wouldn’t say it was one of your best moments.''

Peter lifts a hand to his forehead to feel for the wound, fingers barely brushing what feels like stitches. He prods at it gently until May takes hold of his wrist and lowers his arm back down. 

''How much trouble am I in?'' he asks. 

''Oh, plenty,'' May says brightly, giving his hand a squeeze. ''But that’ll keep.''

''Great,'' Peter sighs and closes his eyes, far too tired and sore to worry about that now. 

''Want something to make you feel better?''

Peter opens his eyes again to see a tall glass of something pink being held inches in front of his nose, complete with a swirly straw poking out from the top. 

''S’that pink lemonade?''

May merely smiles knowingly as she hands him the glass. 

''Thank you so much,'' Peter groans and sticks the straw into his mouth to take a long slurp. It's chilly and completely flat, just how he likes it, and coats his tongue with sweetness and washes soothingly against his throat, doing wonders against the itchy soreness. 

''I know my boy,'' May says fondly, running a hand carefully through his hair and pressing a kiss to his warm forehead, not too close to the stitches, and Peter suddenly doesn’t feel quite so terrible. 

*********

''Dude, I really think you should let me take you to the - ''

''No nurse!'' Peter gasps, his voice rebounding loudly from within the porcelain of the toilet he’s hunched over. 

''Peter, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna bring up one of your organs any second now. You’ve been in there for, like, at least twenty minutes. Probably more, actually.''

''M’fine. Just, ah, something I ate - oh man - '' Peter’s words jolt into a hiccup as another rush of hot nausea sweeps over him, making his shoulders hitch under the force of it. 

''Oh, sure,'' Ned continues to say loudly as Peter throws up again, ''I bet the mac and cheese we both ate for lunch today is responsible, not that stomach flu that’s been going round the school. You know, Martha Cleary threw up alllll over her desk in - oh right,'' he chuckles sheepishly when Peter violently retches, ''sorry, dude.''

Peter can barely make a coherent noise of acceptance, not that he’s sure Ned’s terrible apology deserves it, as he’s overcome again and again, eventually slumping down with his cheek pressed against the cold, grubby tiles that make up the floor, too exhausted and sick to care about how gross it is. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t recently promised both May and Tony that he felt fine, that the warmth to his skin wasn’t an oncoming fever, that he hadn’t been pushing himself too hard recently with school and patrols and so was more likely to find himself at the mercy of all the winter viruses flying around. 

''You can still get sick, kid,'' Tony had warned yesterday afternoon as he watched Peter slouch tiredly in his chair. ''Just because you’re enhanced doesn’t mean you’re immune. Cap learnt that the hard way. Did I ever tell you about The Great Chicken Enchilada Disaster as it’s now known? No? Probably just as well. I’m not sure I’ve even recovered yet and I was only a witness.''

''You’re not indestructible, you know,'' May reminded him as they slurped up a watery soup she had made to try and combat the germs she suspected were thriving within Peter. ''Your body knows what you need better than your head thinks it does. If you feel worse tomorrow, I think you should stay home.''

Despite their concerns, Peter had deemed his headache mild enough and his churning stomach hardly troublesome and made his way to school in the morning, ignoring the way Ned’s face had screwed up in disgusted wariness at his appearance and doing his best to make it through the day. 

Then he’d made the mistake of eating lunch and, well, he and the boy’s bathroom have been rather intimate acquaintances in the time that’s followed since his hasty retreat out of the canteen and behind the flimsy security of the cubicle door - a cubicle door which Ned has been loyally propped on the other side of for far too long. 

Peter realises then that Ned is still talking, muffled gibberish that doesn’t make it past the pulsing ache that is winding its way through Peter’s body at a steady pace, making his ears throb and his throat burn. He considers falling asleep right here on the floor, content to let whatever will be be if it means he can stop hurling up what feels like the dinners he ate over a week ago, but a hand tugging insistently at his foot from underneath the door pulls him from his defeated reverie.

''Peter? You awake?''

''Mmphgg.''

''...Okaaay, well, I called May but she didn’t pick up, so, uh, I called Happy - ''

Peter’s desire to moan ''Nooo,'' is briskly overwhelmed by the need to throw up once again. He manages to kick his foot a little to show his displeasure at Ned’s decision as he vaults himself back into position. 

''Hey! Chill, man, it’s fine, he didn’t answer either.''

Sweet relief comes then and Peter sighs as he leans his forehead against the rim of the toilet. The last thing he needs right now is an overly fussy Happy trying to play nurse. The only thing that would be worse than that is - 

''So I called Mister Stark and he said he’d be here in fifteen minutes.''

''Oh, god,'' Peter cries weakly. 

''He also said to tell you that he’d pick up some enchiladas on the way, which I don’t really get but - ''

Ned’s words become gibberish once again as Peter’s head disappears back into the toilet with record speed. 

 *********

The nearby clanging of metal on the ground pulls Peter out of his dozy daze, bringing him back into the real world of grey skies and frigid air. A swift breeze whips around him, sharp and bitter, stinging his rapidly numbing features. 

Approaching footsteps startle him and he begins to shuffle back, but a fierce spike of agony from somewhere in his left leg stills him. Tilting his head back with a hitching groan, Peter blinks at the red and gold figure suddenly looming above him, framed prettily by falling swirls of white. 

''Hey,'' Peter manages as his vision swims, a darkness seeping in through the edges. 

''Nope.'' A strong arm wraps around him as he starts to slump fully backwards. ''No, no passing out, you hear me? Stay awake, kid.''

''Not gonna pass out,'' Peter grunts, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically as pain bounces up his leg once again. He feels metal fingers pull at the cuff of his jeans and hisses as they brush his ankle. ''Hurts.''

''I’ll bet it does,'' Tony’s voice comes out sounding slightly robotic from within the Iron Man suit. ''Have you seen your ankle? Looks like someone decided to use it for a piñata and then take it downtown for a dance or two.''

''Uh…''

''It’s black and blue, Pete,'' Tony elaborates, adjusting Peter’s weight to cradle him in both arms. ''If it’s not broken, I’ll be incredibly surprised.''

''Oh,'' Peter hums, unable to give much thought to that revelation as he shivers violently. ''Did, uh, did I at least catch the bad guys?''

Tony’s face appears as the mask of the suit retracts back and he looks down at Peter, an unimpressed light shining clearly in his eyes. 

''There were no bad guys, kid.''

That can’t be right. Peter frowns blearily up at Tony, teeth chattering together as the frosty wind blows around them again. ''What?''

''I’m guessing your little friend over there has something to do with your current predicament.''

Tony nods at something to their right and Peter’s head falls to the side obediently, gaze landing on a rather frazzled, pissed off looking cat glaring at them from beside an overturned dumpster. 

It all comes flooding back to Peter then. The sounds of forlorn meowing coming from an alley he was passing by; jumping up onto the icy lid of the dumpster to peek inside; losing his footing on the icy dumpster lid and smacking his ankle on the edge as he toppled off, bringing the dumpster (and the cat trapped within) crashing down along with him. 

''Good thing I built KAREN into your watch, huh? Otherwise I’d have the unfortunate honour of being acquainted with two living popsicles.''

Peter’s jaw is trembling far too much for him to do anything else but murmur his agreement. The cat’s glare seems to intensify as it gives a swish of it’s long, black tail, and then scampers away, leaving haphazard footprints in the layer of snow covering the ground. 

''C’mon, kid. Let’s get you back to the tower so Bruce can take a look at your ankle.''

Tony tugs the hood of Peter’s jacket over his head before standing, easily lifting Peter up with him. The surface of the suit is almost as cold as the ground but Peter burrows into it anyway, hunching himself up as small as possible without moving his leg. 

''Remind me to design you some thermal underwear,’’ Tony says as he takes to the sky, tucking Peter as best as he can against his chest to shield him against the flurry of snow now rushing past them. ''I don’t recommend wearing them on a hot date with your scary girlfriend, but it’ll keep you from freezing should you find yourself in such a predicament again. Which you will I’m sure,'' he adds wryly, ''but at least I'll stand a better chance of sleeping at night where your safety is concerned.''

''Stop,'' Peter moans, though he can’t deny that he’s grateful for the heat that comes from his blushing cheeks. 

''Oh, I’m sorry,'' Tony sasses, ''am I bothering you by talking about your actual underoos, Underoos?''

''Stop saying underoos,'' Peter grumbles, trying not to grin for fear that his chill-bitten lips might crack. 

''If you’re really good, I’ll even make them match the design of your suit.''

''I don’t want Spider-Man underwear, Mister Stark.''

''Come now, didn’t Aunt Hottie tell you it’s wrong to tell lies?''

The warmth in Tony’s voice is loud and clear even above the whistle of the wind and Peter closes his eyes to savour the way it seems to cover him like a blanket, warding off a little bit of the cold. 

''Thanks, Mister Stark.''

''Anytime, buddy.''

*********

The phone rings for what feels like an endless amount of time before MJ picks up with a casual ''Hey, loser.''

Peter feels the air leave his lungs far too quickly at the sound of her voice. He falls against the nearby wall, the rain-damp brickwork snagging at his back as he sinks down into a crouch, forehead pressing into his knees. 

''Peter?''

''I’m here,'' he whispers, clutching the phone tighter, pushing it as hard as he can against his ear, like doing so will somehow bring the two of them closer together. ''Sorry.''

‘’Where are you? Are you okay?''

There’s a dry stain of blood on the side of Peter’s right leg, visible through the gap between his thighs. He rolls his head back and forth, forehead rocking against his knees as he stares at it, focuses on the almost perfect symmetry of it, the way it stands out even against the red of his suit - 

''Peter!''

''I, uh, I don’t - '' Peter falters, humming as tears prick at his eyes. ''There was - a guy, he - I tried to - ''

''Come over.''

''Wh - huh?''

‘’Come over to mine.’’

‘’Now?’’

MJ snorts and it’s like music to Peter’s ears. ''See you soon.''

Peter doesn’t remember the journey across the city, doesn’t quite know how long it takes him to move from A to B through the chilly drizzle, but suddenly he’s approaching MJ’s apartment, her silhouette in the window calling out to him like a lighthouse calls to a ship lost at sea. 

MJ slides the window up just as he lands on the small ledge outside, moving away quickly to give him room to climb through. It’s far from his first time being in her room and he quickly settles himself on the edge of her bed, waiting silently as she closes the window and sits beside him. 

His breath catches in his chest as she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. 

''Do you want to talk about it?''

He does, he really does, but there’s something about the warmth of the room, the cosiness emanating from the soft lamplight, the stack of pillows lining the head of the bed and the artful placement of every knickknack and trinket that makes him pause in telling her every single detail of this horrible night. 

Peter looks up into MJ’s face, feeling the rigid tension seep out of his shoulders as her brown eyes gaze back at him, bright and understanding even without knowing the full story. There’s a heaviness sitting inside his chest, a sharp ache of turmoil that needs to be released, but right now all he wants to do is close his eyes, curl up under the covers and wait for the blood in his veins and the spiral of thoughts in his mind to settle down. 

''Can we just…'' he says, waving a hand vaguely at the bed, ''maybe just for a little while…''

''Sure,'' MJ replies, giving him a smile, the kind that softens every edge of her. 

MJ stands and starts to tug back the bed covers, while Peter hastily removes his suit. He lets it crumple into a pile at his feet and kicks it off, desperate to have it as far away from himself as possible for the time being. 

''Nice underwear.''

Peter remembers then that he’s wearing the thermal underwear that Tony created for him a few weeks back, and in true Tony Stark fashion, he made good on his offer of matching the design to the pattern of the Spider-Man suit. 

Peter laughs, quiet but genuine. ''Uh...you like them?''

''No,'' she scoffs, opening a drawer and yanking out a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. She throws them at him and Peter smiles, noticing the faint blush prettily staining her cheeks. He quickly tugs on the clothes and they crawl into the bed, months of being together allowing them to assume their positions with ease: on their sides facing one another with Peter’s face tucked into the delicate curve of MJ’s neck, his arms looped loosely around her waist.  

A few stray curls tickle Peter’s nose but he makes no move to brush them away. He breathes deep, savouring the scent of MJ’s coconut shampoo and her skin, warm and alive against his own. 

''You did everything you could.''

''How do you know that?'' he whispers, tightening his hold on her as her fingers slip soothingly into his hair. 

''Because it’s you, dork. That's how I know,'' she reassures and kisses him on the forehead. 

It doesn’t fully banish the hurt, doesn’t wage a war and win against the feeling of conflicted guilt in his heart, but for now it’s more than enough for Peter to close his eyes, safe in the knowledge that right now, he’s exactly where he needs to be. 

********* 

The yawn is wide, jaw cracking and long, leaving a wetness in Peter’s eyes that he has to brush away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

''Hey,'' Tony barks from the opposite end of the couch they’re sprawled on, ''that’s a violation of the hoodie rule.''

Correction - with the sleeve of Tony’s hoodie. 

''You’ve spilt motor oil, marinara sauce AND paint on this before,'' Peter grumbles, pointing to the faded blob of cornflower blue on the right sleeve, ''and you’re moaning at me for rubbing my eyes on it?''

''You know,'' Tony gives him a lazy but wicked grin, ''it has been a while since I washed that thing…''

''Smells like orange blossom,'' Peter counters as he takes a deep sniff from the collar, the traces of metal and grease tickling his nose, ''so not that long.''

Tony jabs him with the toes of his left foot and they engage in a sluggish kicking war for a few minutes, barely sparing each other a glance in favour of watching the sea life documentary playing quietly on the television. It’s oddly soothing and Peter suspects that Tony chose it as part of the whole 'Help Peter Relax' scheme that almost everybody seems to be a part of lately. Even Ned appears to be on it, his over exaggerated claims about feeling 'as fresh as a daisy' after going to bed earlier doing nothing to ease Peter’s suspicions. 

It’s not that Peter doesn’t want to relax or spend hours flopped on the couch or sleeping the chilly winter afternoons away. There’s just been so much happening lately. Homework, studying for tests, more homework, patrols, more studying and what feels like an endless slew of crime, not to mention all the gifts he needs to buy and wrap in time for Christmas. 

He knows everybody worries, none more so than May and Tony, but sometimes it can almost feel suffocating, a backwards kind of pressure that just pushes him to try harder, to do more than he already is. 

Lately though, Peter can’t deny that their suggestions and totally unsubtle hints do sound rather tempting. May with her sudden addiction to lavender scented candles, Tony with his hypnotic TV shows and reduced lab hours (Peter suspects Pepper’s hand in this somewhere) and MJ with her random facts about the benefits of meditation and gruesome stories about what happens to those who don’t sleep enough - it all reeks of a secret unity with one common goal in mind, and right now, Peter is well past the point of trying to fight against them. 

He watches an octopus spin across the screen, a whirl of colour amongst the deep blue, and then gets up, standing on his toes and arching his back into a deep stretch. 

''Think I’m gonna go to bed.''

Peter feels Tony’s look of surprise before he turns and sees it for himself, giving the man a tired smile as he drops back down onto his feet. There’s relief in Tony’s face, though he does well to try and hide it. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiles back, oozing all the warmth and care that Peter knows him for. 

''Want me to tuck you in?''

''I’m sure I can manage,'' Peter laughs, shaking his head. ''Don’t stay up too late.''

Tony gives the mug of tea on the table, one that had been handed to him by a sweetly smiling Pepper, a distasteful glare. ''No chance of that, kid, believe me.''

Peter thinks nothing of bending down to give Tony a hug, just as Tony apparently thinks nothing of returning the gesture, wrapping his arms tightly around Peter with one hand predictably settling into his hair and brushing through it gently. It’s not a particularly comfortable position but Peter doesn’t rush to break it, takes his time in burying his nose against Tony’s shoulder and closing his eyes to savour the feel of it all before eventually pulling away, smiling when Tony gives one of his cheeks a fond pat as he goes. 

''Sleep tight, kiddo.''

As Vyvyan walks out of his room, he sees cardigans, shoes and hats flying out of Rick’s own bedroom. He’s not excited for what’s coming, so instead of peeking inside to check on Rick, he walks right past the flying biros and badges to go downstairs in hopes of hearing Rick’s rambling about his outfit half an hour from now. He sits on the couch next to Mike and flips through the pages of another one of Rick’s comics. Meanwhile Neil meditates on the kitchen floor and Mike stares at the dot on the telly.

A moment later and, “Oh no.” Vyvyan puts the comic down as he hears heavy footsteps coming downstairs 3 minutes before anticipated. “Michael, get ready for some bickering in 3, 2, 1…”

“Vyvyan, Vyvyan!” Rick yells as he makes it into the drawing room. “Please tell me you didn’t take my ‘Cramps’ badge!”

“WHAT? Why would I have it? You... girly!” Vyvyan tries to reply angrily, but he doesn’t feel the need to yell such things at Rick anymore. In fact, they have been acting friendlier around each other for the past 5 months, but don’t quite wish to exhibit such behaviour in front of the other housemates. All of a sudden, they’re having a shouting match and Rick gets bloody confused because he thought they were finally making progress at talking intelligibly with one another. Meanwhile, Vyvyan is more interested in remembering where he left that damn badge. He knew that Rick was looking through the chaos of his room because of the party...but the Cramps badge was an extra, ridiculous mess he didn’t intend to deal with today.

“Whu-Well, I can’t ruddy find it! And it will complete my outfit for the party so I NEED it!” Rick tried being assertive.

“Rick...we’ve been holding on time for you...a badge won’t give us any of it back. Can we just leave now before Neil humms some more?” Mike tiredlesly says to Rick while taking out a pair of shades from his vest. “I can’t keep the birds waiting forever either.”

“But...can I at least get feedback? Does my outfit look fine as is?” Rick throws some puppy eyes and looks hopeful (mostly at Vyvyan). He’s wearing a suede grey shirt with a bolo tie, and a pair of black trousers with a red plaid pattern. He also has some red hair ties to match, and was wearing his famous red suede winklepickers...though honestly, does the lad ever take them off? A few badges adorn the pocket and collar of his shirt, with a spot left open for the Cramps’s badge he had aimlessly looked for.

“You should have worn your blue dress instead, so people at the party know you’re a POOF!” Vyvyan replies smugly, and looks at Mike for approval, who just sort of rolls his eyes at the exchange. Vyvyan then looks back at Rick who looks CLEARLY offended; so he just sticks his tongue out at him and Rick just breaks a little more. This will certainly be a longer night than anticipated.

On the car drive, Vyvyan doesn’t even acknowledge Rick. He’s too busy laughing with Mike on the front seat of the yellow Anglia. The only time Rick speaks is to complain about the rowdyness of Vyvyan’s heavy metal mix, and about Neil’s ‘annoying hippie smell’ (“Heavy, man!”). Vyvyan might be laughing, raising the volume on the stereo to “shush Rick’s whining”; but in reality he’s hoping the loudness and the laughter will drown his thoughts of Rick in that blue dress.

At the party, the boys greet Sue, owner of the house, organiser of the party; as Vyvyan yells “HI SUE!” and runs straight inside. Sue welcomes the rest of the boys inside, and Rick mopes about, Neil seems a tad afraid, and Mike is OH SO READY to salute some birds. Vyvyan wastes no time in looking for some alcohol. There were many things in his mind, and he sort of felt like letting loose and shoving those thoughts about Rick to the back of his mind; what best way to forget than numbing the brain out? Sure, he’d been establishing a closer relationship with Rick recently...but Vyvyan would hate to admit that. Today he just wants to have some mindless fun and perhaps not have to decipher how or why he even allowed himself to open up to Rick. The story goes, that on a random day, Rick thought he was home alone; Vyvyan had passed out inside the closet by the banister the night before. He was awakened by the loud voice of Rick singing along to a rather familiar tune: Human Fly by The Cramps. It might not be a showcase of voice virtuosity, but it certainly made justice to Rick’s taste level in music. Vyvyan went up to Rick’s bedroom and almost gave him a heart attack; but ever since this encounter, they made a connection with one another and Rick keeps throwing indirect messages of friendship towards Vyvyan. It’s stupid; it’s hopeless...and he just wants to not think about it at the party, so he goes on to find the bloody table with the booze.

Once Vyvyan finds the “drinks & snacks” table, he realises someone had the AUDACITY to bring some Babycham...but Vyvyan doesn’t ponder about it, and instead drowns a bottle almost in one full chug. At this point in life, one would need paint thinner to get Vyvyan drunk, but Babycham had a special place in his heart...and he felt tipsy while drinking the third bottle. He proceeded to walk around the house with bottle in hand, and lost no more time to finally showcase some social skills. He started interacting with some guests; lads, lasses, androgynous babes, and people who didn’t care for labels...it didn’t matter, he just wanted someone to talk to about pets, explosions, and music.

Rick was aimlessly walking around the rooms as well, his thoughts slightly dimmed by the loudness of the music, but at least this time it wasn’t excluisvely heavy metal blasting from the speakers. Rick would lie to you if he said he didn’t enjoy SOME heavy metal tunes... At some point in his life, Rick had considered the idea to open up to other genres in order to 1.learn about other alternative cultures, 2.be liked by a wider range of people, and 3. Honestly...connect with Vyvan. Rick again would be lying to you if he said he didn’t see Vyvyan as an interesting person. For a while now he had observed how Vyv’s carefree nature brought him a lot of joy in life. Rick was always worried and running around everywhere trying to get multiple things done at the same time...but it didn’t necessarily bring him happiness; only stress. He sort of looked up to Vyv and his nonchalant behaviour. He wanted to feel that, and learn from it; but the more he observed Vyvyan...the more enchanted he became about this specimen with piercings and bright orange hair. He didn’t just notice how Vyv relaxed...he also noticed the colour of his eyes, the way his lips moved when he yelled at him to “QUIT STARING”, and how he played with the ring he sometimes wore on his fingers. He was feeling a certain way about Vyvyan, and it made him a little anxious because it’s VYVYAN for crying out loud! But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure he was staying safe at the party...right?

When Rick finally finds Vyvyan, he’s talking to some birds...and then to some lads...proceeding to throw them some glances, and say flirtatious things at another lass walking by. Rick can’t help but feel jealous: He doesn’t want to, it sort of just happens. Then a certain fury rises at the pit of his stomach when Vyvyan sits between two cheeky girls on the sofa; grabbing one of their cups of lager. All Rick can do is picture the sofa swallowing all 3 of them up...and maybe spit Vyvyan back out? Rick didn’t want to lose his new friend so soon. But then the girls get up and walk away...seemingly repulsed by Vyvyan’s...something.

“Vyvyan!” Rick whisper yells across the room. “VYVYAN!”

Vyvyan looks up, slightly heartbroken. “What?!”

“Come…” he makes wave-hand gestures “Come here.”

“No! You get over here.” Vyvyan slams his index finger on the pillow to his right.

And Rick is taken aback...mostly shocked at the fact that Vyvyan isn’t yelling at him to bugger off.

“What do you want, girlie?” Vyvyan asks, his face a little too close to Ricks, breath reeking of alcohol and...bloody sparkling perry? Who brought Babycham?! But anyways...Vyvyan might be beyond tipsy, and that uspets Rick greatly.

“Oh, gosh Vyvyan.” He waves his hand in front of his own face. “Well now I bloody want to get you a glass of water and some...pretzels.” He says the last part with a hint of surprised doubt. Why did he bloody think of pretzels?

“Whatever for?!” Vyvyan said, a little annoyed.

“Well you’re DRUNK and I think-”

“I’M NOT DRUNK!” That was half true. Vyvyan’s tolerance was quite high after all these years combining bleach in his drinks...but more than anything, Vyv was getting a little frail. Not sure if this was the alcohol talking but...was Rick worried about his current state? “Besides...I think I’d rather have some chips…” he starts softly, but Rick gets up at the speed of light, looking everywhere for some chips and water; leaving Vyvyan behind with his thoughts...more confused than ever.

Rick considers his common decency and looks for Sue to ask her personally for a glass of water. When he finds Sue and she sweetly gives him the water, he also asks if chips were a party food available to the public, to which Sue giggles a little.

When Rick returns, Vyvyan is still sitting at the couch, but now talking to some guy with a pink...dumb haircut. So Rick tenses a little, and manages to yell; “Vyvyan, can you please stop flirting with people?” with a bowl of chips in hand, and a glass in the other.

Vyvyan sits up and shoves the guy with the pink hair off the sofa. “What’s it to ya’, poof?!”

“Vyvyan, please...I just want-”

“You started this!” Vyvyan points threateningly.

“Right.” He tries to calm down. “It’s not that I care, actually!” He says with his usual smug smile. “I just want you to stay safe.”

“Safe? From what?!” he starts to get up from the sofa.. “You suddenly care about me, you girly?”

“That’s not true! I do not!” That one guy starts to leave when...

“Well then...I guess I’ll just go back to my flirting, huh?” Vyv grabs the pink haired dude by the collar of his shirt before he escapes.

“B-But Vyv! If...if you’re busy looking at people, then who am I supposed to talk to?” Rick responds a bit teary eyed...and he places the bowl and glass on the coffee table to bring his sleeves to his eyes. That’s when Vyvyan notices the ketchup all over the bowl of chips (almost more sauce than actual chips)...and a realisation sort of hits Vyvyan. He lets go of the dude; who leaves flying out of that grip. Vyvyan begins to think that MAYBE, just maybe...he’s treating Rick like garbage. Rick was nice enough to bring him water and a bowl of ketchup...Rick ACTUALLY remembered how Vyv likes his bowl of chips...he bothered bringing all this to him overdose on Babycham or something...because Rick ACTUALLY cares. And in response he’s trying to erase the memories of Rick, the feelings of confusion and avoiding the reality of the matter. Why is Vyvyan being so foolish? He should actually enjoy and take advantage of the newly found pleasant side of talking to Rick. But his thoughts are interrupted by an altered Rick, running away. Vyvyan takes a second, but then clumsily stomps after Rick. Why does Rick always have to be so dramatic?!

When he catches up to him outside, he grabs Rick by the shoulders to stop him from running any further.

“Damn, Rick...stop being a bloody poof already! Can we just talk?” he gasps for air. “I thought you DIDN’T want to talk.” His eyes are still red around the edges. 

“No...I do. Now I do.” He puts his hands inside the pockets of his trousers...and stands quiet for a bit; face a little surprised. “I’ve been thinking...lately you and I have been talking a lot...and I honestly have a swell time talking to you, even if I don’t always show it. I think I can finally call you ‘a friend of mine’.”

“S-so?” Rick said as stubborn as always.

“Well...I’ve come to the realisation that none of my friends bring me ketchup...so perhaps I’m taking you for granted and I really shouldn’t.”

“Well then why the ruddy heck are you running around avoiding me and staring at people?”

“Geez, Rick...guess I’m just dumb enough to attempt erasing this connection between us with booze and bums…” he looks at Rick, who has a softer look on his face now.

“I- I don’t know what to say Vyv...your response is conflicting me a little and” he derives his gaze away from Vyv’s eyes. “You’re talking to all these people, clearly you have other interests in mind-”

“Hey...hey…” Vyv takes out his right hand from his pocket and grabs at Rick’s chin to guide his eyes back at him. “I chose you. I’ll always choose you, no matter who comes in the way. There’s no one else. Alright? I’m fully convinced now.”

Rick stands flabbergasted...eyes wide and almost in tears again.

“Oh, Rick please...don’t make this more awkward than I already have, here-” he takes out his left hand from the other pocket and shows Rick a ‘The Cramps’ badge, with the logo in bold, yellow font on a black background. “Found your badge.”

“Bastard! Wha...I knew you had it!” he quickly takes it, voice cracking.

“HEY! I was borrowing it, poof! Now...can we please go back to the sofa so I can enjoy my ketchup and chips before someone else does?” Vyvyan almost begged.

“Fine! But only if you also drink the water to sober up a bit.” Rick says demandingly, holding the badge close to his chest with both hands.

Knowing, even after thousands of years, the universe can still surprise you – and that it is those surprises that make life bearable. Make life interesting.

Even after having spent much time on Midgard in recent years, there are still many things about mortals that Thor doesn’t understand. Their obsession with time travel – with traveling into the past, jumping head-first into the future – is one of them.

Jane had tried to explain it to him. The fascination of exploring lost civilizations, of getting a chance to undo your own mistakes and make better choices, the concept of knowing what is to come and how it may affect the present… Thor had liked listening to her, to the genuine enthusiasm and boundless curiosity, see her eyes sparkle with fascination. But he hadn’t really understood.

From what Thor has seen, it doesn’t matter if you have two hours or fifteen thousand years of time at your hands – at the end of the day, time is intangible and unstoppable and even with an endless supply, you’ll always feel it racing through your fingers, running out too quickly to accomplish all your goals.

That – the endless, boring court meetings, the uneventful evenings filled with laughter and mead and jokes that never change, the sudden, startling realization that after having traveled the universe for centuries you are suddenly running out of time – that is life.

Time is linear and cyclic, is constant and ever-changing, is always and never enough and Thor has little interest in hypothetical scenarios, in jumping back and forth between is and was and will be. He has no need for any more than the time he’s been given.

And if he dreams of better times – his mother’s warm embrace, the safest place in the entire universe, his brother’s jokes, back when they were still amusing instead of hurtful – long passed or never been sometimes, with the clarity of a freshly-born memory, that is just what dreams offer us. A dual edge of peace and misses opportunities.

There are no theories and time twists and paradoxes because Thor has no need for them. At his heart, he’s a simple man with simple wishes. Some of which he works for, some of which are already beyond his reach.

And time – like life, like Thor – goes on.

Space

Long before Bruce grows up, he learns to be small. To make himself fit into places people don’t give a second glance, squeeze into tiny spaces that shouldn’t fit until he makes it work.

He puts things into his pockets and finds them days later. Small, odd things, like missing keys and chewing gum and coins. They’re never full, his pockets, but Bruce doesn’t think pockets are supposed to be full. And anyways, he has bigger things to worry about.

Like that time he opened his closet and found endless legions of monsters with scary, glowing eyes staring back at him. Like that time he pulled a window open and could feel the air getting sucked out of the room, a black nothingness before him that sucked everything in. Like that time Bruce stumbled through the door, aching and desperately, and he doesn’t know how he made it to the hospital. Somehow he was just there.

Things don’t necessarily change, but Bruce grows up.

He stops believing in monsters in his closet and under his bed. Stops believing he can reach the milky way through his window. Stops squeezing himself into too small places that people keep telling him he doesn’t fit in.

(Sometimes Bruce carries books in his backpack that he’s been searching for months. He’s a forgetful person, apparently.)

In retrospect, things were always gonna go wrong in that damn lab.

But even with all his degrees and theoretical knowledge, Bruce couldn’t have foreseen the Hulk. And even after living with him for years, he is no closer to understanding it. The phenomenon. The way the Hulk works. The rules, all the god damn rules of physics he breaks every god damn time.

As Bruce shifts back and forth with the Hulk, sometimes on purpose, often accidentally, perhaps one of the strangest sensations will always be the way he grows. The way he twists his mass, changes his body and twists the space around him to make it work.

(There’s a crazed, genocidal demigod somewhere in Bruce’s future that looks at him in horrified terror – and for a brief moment, Bruce wonders what this monster sees when it looks at him to fear him so.

And it is many years after that, when Bruce doesn’t just change but consumes the space around him, leaves nothing behind, that he asks himself for the first time whether Loki feared him enough.)

Mind

Steve sees the world with a certain clarity, long before the serum fixes his color-blindness and gets his body up to speed with what his head has already figured out a long time ago. He looks over the busy streets of New York and thinks pattern, follows grumbled debates in smokey diners with terrible coffee and learns politics, watches two old men play chess on a corner twice a week and understands strategy. 

The thing is, Steve knows he’s smart. And nobody’s ever called him stupid – but that doesn’t matter when he doesn’t have the physical strength to back his ideas up.

When war comes, deciding to sign up is the easiest thing Steve has ever done. Getting in, well. That’s what brings him to a government-sanctioned human experiment – and Steve is smart enough to know that ‘government-sanctioned’ isn’t much of an assurance in dark times like these.

(Doctor Erskine takes a shine to him. Steve isn’t sure why, if it’s the potential the man sees in him, for what his serum might be able to do or something else. But they end up chatting a few times during the days before the experiment starts and surprisingly Steve finds he has quite a few things to say about the composition of the serum.

And if Doctor Erskine makes a few last-minute changes that never make it into his notes – what with him getting killed in the direct aftermath of the successful implementation – well.

Nobody thinks to ask Steve whether he understands the chemical details. And after witnessing firsthand how far HYDRA’s arm reaches, Steve wouldn’t have told them anyways.)

War is uglier and crueler than anything Steve had imagined. But there is light to be found – in the people around him, the men following him, the friends he makes among those just as terrified and determined as he is.

“You bring out the best in me,” Peggy tells him once, as they outline their new plan of attack, a challenging smirk on her red-painted lips that dares him to do even better.

A few weeks later, Howard refers to Steve as his muse and inspiration – a comment that the Howling Commandos tease him endlessly for.

It’s Bucky – of course it’s Bucky – who finds him after dinner that day, crushing a rare cigarette between his fingers as he stares blindly ahead. “You do, you know?” he says, and nothing else.

Doesn’t mention the shots he’s taken in the last fight – the ones Steve could’ve sworn were impossible, except that impossible is a word that’s lost much of its initial meaning these days.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Steve asks. Try as he might, he can’t make his voice as light as he wants to.

If he’d turn his head, he knows he’d see the same question on Bucky’s face, the same doubt. What do we really know about this serum? What do we really know about what it does? Isn’t it just too good to be true?

But Steve doesn’t turn. Because they’re in the middle of a war they can’t lose and need all the help they can get. They’ll deal with everything else later.

(Bucky falls and Steve follows and later turns out to be much, much later than either of them could have hoped to imagine.)

Power

Natasha never shares more than the barebones of the skeleton that is her time in the hands of the Red Room with anyone. Entire years are summed up in simple words and descriptions that will never accurately express the horror underneath. Small girls with unsmiling faces and sharp elbows, tied to their beds with handcuffs and fear, turned into cold, merciless killers.

Black Widows, Natasha says, calm, clinical, detached.

That is all SHIELD needs to know about a program too easily replicated.

Natasha never talks about the moves they taught her, again and again, an endless routine until she can do them in her sleep. Never talks about how she was always the last one to fall asleep. How she moved faster and faster until she noticed the other girls couldn’t keep up. How sometimes, in the rare, quiet moments she has, Natasha closes her eyes and swear she can hear electricity humming in her veins.

But the Red Room has taught her all about hidden trump cards (all about the limits of humanity and how far some are willing to push beyond them) and Natasha has no wish to test SHIELD’s respect for ethnic guidelines.

She waits for that one mission where she’ll be too fast, too strong, will mess up. Because Black Widows are made of marble, but they aren’t perfect – false confidence gets you killed faster than any other mistake.

It doesn’t come.

(It takes Natasha years to realize that her first slip has nothing to do with her ability to drop-kick the Hulk into a crate.) 

The truth is, Natasha doesn’t mess up. She’s a child raised as a killer, a girl trained for murder and hunting. At SHIELD, she’s almost at home. Not quite comfortable, but as close as she ever gets. Functional. And that’s the operative word isn’t it?

(The first thing Phil Coulson notices about Natasha Romanoff is her calm aura. There is nothing manic or desperate about her, not even when they have her surrounded, sniper rifles aimed at her forehead, the ultimate nowhere left to go painted on the wall for all to see.

The second thing is the lack of nightmares. The third is her odd, emotional connection with Clint Barton.

Coulson knows more about the Black Widow program than most people. But what truly disturbs him is not Natasha’s eerily efficient kills, it’s the way she’s handled her unconventional upbringing. It’s the lack of trauma and psychological problems. It’s her settled state of mind, her steadiness. There’s a layer of steel underneath her bright red hair and calculating eyes that even a lifetime with the Red Room hasn’t touched. An unbreakable core that doesn’t yield, not to anything.

Handle with caution, Coulson notes in his first assessment. Do not push.

Natasha comes close only two times in her life. The first time is after Budapest, after Clint lost most of his hearing and is looking at her for anything, anything at all to believe in, and Natasha can’t carry that responsibility, doesn’t want anyone to ever look at her like that again and she almost–

The second time, the Winter Soldier re-enters her life like a forgotten childhood horror remembering its form. Her eyes fly over paper after paper, observe data, anything and everything she can get her hands on before she dumps it all – almost all – on the Internet.

(She never tells anyone about the words they yelled at her until she was deaf to their original meaning. Never tells anyone about the endless repetitions, the carefully calculated conditioning. About watching it sink like poison into the minds of those around her. About getting better and better at pretending, so they would finally leave her alone.

Natasha never tells anyone but when she’s twenty-six and an old handler uses those words on her, she guts him without pause and never looks back.)

Soul

Clint doesn’t put a name on it for the longest time. It’s just instincts, really, honed by years of pulling one after the other over unsuspecting people as a carnie, followed by a surprisingly successful, if not particularly long-lived career as a mercenary. He says ‘no’ to more jobs than he takes. Sometimes because the pay isn’t right or the risk isn’t worth it. But mostly because Clint can read people.

To this day, it’s still the best way of putting it that he can think of.

There’s just something there, in the back of his mind that tells Clint when a customer is about to double-cross him. Like an itch in his mind that he can’t quite scratch.

He looks at people sometimes, on the streets, just passing by, and he picks out the ones he wouldn’t mind hitting with an arrow or two.

It’s that same itch that makes Clint listen Phil Coulson when the man first approaches him. And he doesn’t need to read the contracts or listen to the empty promises SHIELD makes him. All Clint needs is to take a long, hard look at Director Fury before he makes it choice.

(All Clint needs is to take one long, hard look at any target SHIELD points him at before he makes his choice. Clint’s tendency to disobey orders is only overshadowed by his success rate.

It’s what helps him convince Coulson to give Natasha a shot. It’s what helps him knowing she wants that shot.)

Clint reads people. Better than Natasha, maybe. Not that there’s any way to reliably measure such a skill. But it’s just damn good instincts. That’s all there is to it.

(Only years later, after his future, his family has crumbled to dust, after a fight that’s cost him everything, does Clint put his gift to use. He looks and looks and looks, closer than he’s ever dared to before.

And it’s there, surrounded by dead bodies and blood and rain, the hysterical laughter of a dying man ringing in his ears, that Clint smiles the only smile his lips still remember.

It’s easy to become judge, jury and executioner when you see everyone for who they really are. When they can’t hide their sins, can’t evade your gaze, their deepest secrets bared for you to see.)

Reality

Tony talks a lot about his plans for a first robot. It’s the topic of his master thesis, so it’s not like he has much of a choice and his supervisor is awesome. But all too soon everyone and their grandma’s cat seem to have an opinion on the feasibility of his project. Tony’s getting tired of having people tell him what he can and can’t do.

He doesn’t need daily reminders of the limits of their current technology. He doesn’t need the mocking quips and eye-rolls of people who don’t have the guts to say ‘just another Stark with his head in the clouds’ to his face.

DUM-E turns out not even half of what Tony hoped he would be – but still more than anyone else expected.

(He’s Tony’s pride and joy, but that’s another topic altogether.)

Tony doesn’t say a word about JARVIS. Not until it’s over and done with. At first because it’s just a spur-of-the-moment idea. Then because he and Obadiah have different ideas about Stark Industries, and are arguing enough as it is.

There’s no one around to tell Tony that AIs aren’t actually possible outside of science fiction. No one around to tell him that a computer program can’t replicate emotions, can’t actually understand sarcasm.

JARVIS surpasses any program the world has seen – not that the world knows as much. Tony is careful to keep his true capacities on the down low.

There’s no need to share this feat with the world. Tony knows what he’s created, and that’s more than enough.

(Tony builds himself an arc reactor in a cave, dried blood and sand on his lips. It’s months later, when he finally runs the numbers. Figures out that the materials he’s used shouldn’t have worked, shouldn’t have been stable, should have overloaded the human organism instead of integrating seamlessly.

He stops the calculations then. Clearly, there’s some variable he’s missing because the math is wrong.

And so what if he has the self-built equivalent of a star in his chest? So what if mankind isn’t supposed to build stars just because they need one?)

*

“Make a wish, Mister Stark!” Peter Parker will insist years later with a brilliant smile as he pushes a self-made, oddly shaped cake in front of Tony.

And.

Tony looks up. Meets the eyes of these familiar strangers, his team, his family, the people he’s been drawn to from the moment they met. The first people he’d instantly clicked with, like something finally slid into place and settled down, and all the ones they’d collected since then. Since they first started out as a rag-tag group of six desperately cobbling a last-minute plan together to save the world.

Closes his eyes. Blows out the candles.

Makes a wish.