#making soup and providing tissues and puke bowls

[c-large-pancake-with-holes]

Taking care of a house full of sick kids and a sick adult is absolutely better than going to school on a Wednesday

[pandastix123]

Like A Teenage Girl Would: An OC Character Study

I didn’t know how to debut my Gen Rex oc, Isa. But then I was listening to Taylor Swift and thinking about Isa pre-show and then this happened (over the course of a few weeks/days). I don’t know if this is anything anyone would really enjoy. But I really got into the last part. HOLY SHIT that could be it’s on mini fic.

Anyway, enjoy!

Isa enjoys imagining White Knight having conniptions when hearing that some of the sinks of those pristine white bathrooms are covered in splotches of colorful dye. Afterall, why else would he frown a little extra in her direction when the color in her hair changes? She enjoys when Rex gets annoyed at the medical dramas and "dumb teen shows" she watches. But she knows he doesn't mind them that much, since he usually tends to stay behind and plops himself down on the other end of the rec room's old, beat up puke colored couch and silently watches with her, only speaking up to complain about something the characters did. Isa enjoys seeing the cat stickers she bought still stuck to random walls and doors and equipment around the HQ. Seeing the faded neon cats always gets her thinking about when she got them; Rex had gotten the flu, so Doctor Holiday went out and personally get supplies. Tissues, pain relievers, ingredients for chicken soup because for all it's advanced tech, Providence can't make a proper bowl of soup. Holiday brought Isa along as extra hands. And as they stood in the check out line, among the gossip magazines and gum, was a rack of stickers. The ones that caught the young girl's attention were the bright neon cat ones. And to this day, Isa thinks Doc let her get them because she was too tired to try and justify a "no" to a fourteen year old. But no doubt the doctor regretted it just a little when she found the "you're paw-some" sticker stuck to her desk the next day. Isa enjoys having Providence grunts deliver right to her bedroom door, the things she orders online. They always complain that that's not what they're paid for. Meanwhile, Isa just shrugs when someone asks where the money for all of this comes from. She likes to watch the trainees. Trying to spot any cute boys. Holiday says they are all too old for her. Like that is gonna stop her. Isa enjoys the little book club sessions she and the Doctor have during the tests to make sure Isa's gloves are working right. Having to wear gloves all day sucks, but having skeleton arms sucks harder. She loves blasting music in her room, knowing that whoever walks past her door will hear it. She doesn't have any experience with romance, but she listens to a lot of love songs. Fortunately, Isa has a couple... of people to project the songs onto. Though she will never admit it, Isa is so grateful that her room is in the same hall as Doc Holiday's. She usually has nightmares. The most reoccurring topics are death, and... her life... before. Both are filled with darkness. She always wakes up with tears on her face and pillow. Those nights, it's good to have someone nearby. No decision gets made without going through her Council of Plushies. Most of them are from her parents' house in Texas, where the Rodriguez family moved after the Event. But one stands out the most to Isa. For her fourteenth birthday, Isa wanted a pet rabbit. Yeah, Knight would never okay the idea - but screw that guy, right? So for weeks, she had been begging Holiday and Six to let her get a rabbit. The answer was always "No." ("But Rex get's to keep Bobo?!") When the day finally came, all of Providence was in a chaotic rush. Apparently a hydra-like EVO was terrorizing the Mediterranean. Holiday was going to be super busy for hours. So any thought of even having a birthday was gone in an instant. Isa fled to the Petting Zoo to hide. Most inhabitants of the jokingly name space didn't mind her presence the way they often did other's. A fact Isa prided herself on.  But right now, she wasn't even thinking about that; she just needed a place to cry. The mutated denizens of the Petting Zoo moved forward to investigate why their favorite human was sad. One of the walking bats - Isa always thought it looked like a creature from one of her brother's books - got the closest, just standing in front of Isa. Nudging her leg to get her attention, it flopped an ear as if to ask what was wrong. Isa then spent the next few hours talking to creatures that she wasn't even sure could understand her. When she finally emerged from the Zoo, things had calmed down. "I am so sorry, Isa. I was supposed to send out for cupcakes and candles and..." Dr. Holiday apologized. "It's alright, Doc. The world was in trouble. No big; there's always next year." Isa managed, fresh tears pricking her eyes and a lump forming in her throat. The Doc started to say something else, but Isa was already gone. She wasn't even at the end of the hall when the tears started to fall. The next morning, she woke up with dried tears on her cheeks. She got ready in almost complete silence. Finally, as she stood in front of her dresser, putting on her gloves, she saw something behind her in the mirror. On her pink chair was a plain brown box. With a simple For: Isabella on the side in dried up black marker on the side. The tape on top looked hastily done. She grabbed her purple scissors and carefully sliced the top. Inside was a plush white rabbit with a violet ribbon tied around it's neck. At the bottom of the box was a simple white piece of paper written with the same dried marker in the same handwriting, "It's not a pet, but it's still a rabbit." The moment she saw Six that day, Isa gave him a hug and a simple thank you. And she could've sworn that Agent Six was smiling. She still teases him for being soft. Just like a teenage girl would.

[mohini-musing]

Whiskey and other lullabies

Set in Chasing Ghosts, James vs. the hell cold - complete with overly helpful Steve and actually helpful Tasha

~

James is more than ready to sleep until next Tuesday, provided 6 days are long enough for the hell cold to go away. A night full of hacking utterly disgusting goo into the toilet while testing the limits of how many times it’s possible to need a tissue in any given five minute time span – too many for his fever addled brain to track – leaves him curled up at the top of the bed with his feet under the blanket while the rest of him sweats like it’s his job. He’s sticky and cold and boiling all at once. A shower would be good, but that would require being upright.

“I have tea,” Steve offers in a voice that’s far too cheerful for the situation.

Before he can object, James is being hauled upright (cue the return of the vertigo that had almost settled down to manageable) and a steaming mug of something herbal is at his lips. He chokes it down. Trying to tell overly helpful Saint Steven the Bringer of Teas that he’s just going to puke it up is a lost cause. The line about it being better to have something in him may well be true, but it doesn’t help when mint tea is stinging his sinuses on the way out.

There are pills, too, little red ones that James thinks are a decongestant, little white ones he hopes are acetaminophen, and bright orange ones that will ensure that the mess coming back up will be neon next round. And there will be a next round. Steve seems intent on making sure of that, what with all the damn tea. And crackers. James is ready to start pelting him with soda crackers, if only he thought he could aim.

“I can make some soup later, get some nutrients in you,” Steve is babbling and James can feel tea and mucus creeping up his throat at the very thought.

“I’m okay,” James chokes out, pressing his fist to his lips when the tight feeling at the back of his palate shoots upward to gag worthy.

“I got the good kind, from the deli,” Steve’s continuing and that’s it for James.

He lurches off the edge of the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, diving toward the toilet and cursing when he lands with more weight toward the prosthetic arm than the flesh one. His head bounces against the tank before his forehead connects with the seat. Not that it matters. A concussion isn’t going to make him any more nauseous than he is now.

The pills haven’t even begun to dissolve when they land in the toilet, sending up little splashes of gross as the tea spills from his lips and his back arches in a way that makes everything ache. When he’s finished he doesn’t bother trying to move, just flushes the evidence and pillows his head on the seat of the toilet. Might as well stay put. Steve will be along with more fucking tea soon anyway.

He wakes to a voice that is either savior or satan. He’s not terribly invested in determining which one, as long as Tasha makes Steve stop taking excessively attentive care of him.

“What hell, Rogers? There are five fucking mugs on the dresser! You said he was sick all night, how much goddamn tea did you push on him?”

Steve’s stammering something about fluids and congestion and trying to help.

“That is not help. Go away. Call Sam or something and crash with him. No one needs your Florence Nightingale routine here.”

James would feel bad for Steve getting Tasha’s reprimand at full volume like that but he’s just glad for a break from the damn tea. He’s never drinking herbal tea again. Ever.

There are drawers opening and closing, Tasha telling Steve to put what he needs for classes in a bag as well, and then Steve’s calling through the bathroom door that he’s going to stay with Sam a few days and that Tasha’s going to be there. James is tempted to tell him that he’s not a toddler and doesn’t actually need a babysitter, but he’s too grateful for Tasha making Steve stop to be snarky.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, the bathroom door creaks open.

“Alright, up you get,” Tasha orders. She steps past him and turns on the shower, then grips his upper arms and guides him to stand.

“Wash. Then bed.”

Orders are good. Orders can be followed without thought. The fever’s high enough that time and place are hazy, but Tasha’s voice means not desert so that’s all he cares about. There’s a hand on his chin, directing him to face her.

“Give me your hand,” she tells him. James would laugh at the sheer hilarity of such a literal request if he wasn’t biting back a yelp when she peels the protective gel cap from his stump. The skin there is always a little irritated, the scar tissue permanently pink and pitted. But there are streaks of bright red as well, swollen spots from too much heat and excess friction from him tossing and turning and clinging to the toilet all night.

Standing makes him dizzy, and Tasha tells him to sit on the now closed toilet while she puts the arm on the charging dock.  When she returns, she talks him through stripping out of sweat chilled pajamas and sitting on the floor of the tub. The water she sprays him with is just the right side of not quite hot, and her clipped commands to wash with a bar of soap pressed into his hand are more comforting than all the mother henning Steve showered him with overnight.

Helpless is terrifying. Tasha gets that. She comforts without coddling. Truth be told, she probably doesn’t know another way, but it’s their way, and it’s right. She hoses him off with the handheld shower head and closes the taps.

“Up. Let’s get your ass to bed.”

There’s a towel and small hands rubbing his shoulders and back dry before handing the towel to him for the rest. She’s found boxers and a soft t-shirt for him, so he dresses before following her into the bedroom. The bed is remade and there’s no remaining evidence of the overnight hydration quest. Tasha rubs salve into the irritated skin of his stump before tucking him under a sheet. The blanket is folded at the foot of the bed. There’s a mixing bowl on the bedside table, which she points out.

“You want up, you yell for me. Otherwise, use the damn bowl. Then yell for me.”

Bedside manner isn’t her strength, but she’s efficient. There’s a sealed tumbler of ice water and an airline bottle of bourbon. He raises an eyebrow at that.

“Whiskey makes everything better,” she tells him. “Drink it. Sleep. Feel better.”

He nods, then looks pointedly at his stump. Technically, he can open bottles one handed, but he’s too tired to make that kind of effort. She laughs, twists off the little metal top, and hands it back to him. A quick, burning swallow later, there’s Jim Beam warming his throat.

He drops his head back onto the pillow and there’s a hand brushing through his hair. His head hurts, his throat feels seared raw, and he’s still queasy. None of it matters much. Tasha’s there, growling at him to be still and rest, offering bourbon and orders and all the things he actually wants.

[builder051]

Ain’t that a kick in the head

Thanks to @taylortut for this prompt.  I was initially going to say thanks but no thanks, but within about 5 minutes of receiving, this literally started writing itself in my head.  Like, the jokes and everything just started popping into existence, and I knew I was going to regret not scribbling it down.  I hope it jives with your vibe; I put in a lot of humor and left out the puke.  (It goes off prompt at the end, but all the better to be funny and fluffy with...)

If you’re a new reader, this is kind of off-brand for me (I prefer angst and emeto, though I write a broad mix), but it was definitely a fun thing to write.

_____

“Alright,” Happy calls into the backseat.  “Everyone who’s getting out, get out.  This is a no parking zone.  I have to move.”

“Ok, ok,” Pepper says, opening the car door and rounding the back to her luggage from the trunk.  “May?  I got your suitcase.”

“I’m coming,” May says, leaning over Tony to give Peter a kiss on the cheek.  “You sure you’ll be ok?” she asks.  “You feel a little warm.”

“Go on, May, you’re gonna miss your flight,” Peter says, pushing his aunt away.

“Ok, ok.”  May laughs.  “I’m sure you’ll be glad to be free of me for a week.”

“Naw, I didn’t say that,” Peter protests.

“And you.”  May turns to Tony and gives him a kiss on the cheek too.  “Thank you for this.  It’s been so long since I’ve had a vacation.”

“And you’re gonna have to wait another couple years if you don’t hop on out and catch your plane,” Tony says, giving her a gentle push toward the door.

“Yes, alright.”  May slips out onto the sidewalk, but leans in for a final word.  “Text me, ok?  And don’t overwork yourself,” she says to Peter.  “Tony, don’t let him stress out trying to impress you.”

“May!”  Peter makes a slashing motion across his throat.

“But don’t let him slack on his homework either.”  May winks.

“Come on,” Pepper says, grabbing May’s arm.  “We really do need to go.”

“Ok.  I’ll see you in a week.”  May beams.  “Love you!”

“Yeah, love you, May,” Peter says.  “Have a good time.”

May closes the car door, but turns to wave twice more on her way into the airport.

“Wow,” Tony says with a sigh as Happy pulls the car away from the curb.  “You weren’t kidding when you said it would be hard to get her to go.”

“Yeah,” Peter laughs.  “She’s not overprotective, but…I don’t even know what to call it.  She’s like, so interested in everything that goes on with me.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Tony muses.  “Speaking of which… FRIDAY, you wanna get a reading on Pete’s temperature?”

“What?  No, I’m fine,” Peter says, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Of course, sir,” the AI’s voice replies, ignoring Peter’s protest.  “Mr. Parker’s body temperature is currently 100.3 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“You have FRIDAY wired in the car?” Peter asks incredulously.  “Is she, like, everywhere?”

“Everywhere I need her to be,” Tony replies.  “But that’s beside the point.  You’re sick,” he gives Peter a stern look.

“No, I feel fine, I swear,” Peter says quickly.  “It’s just, uh, my metabolism.  I usually run hot.”

“Ok, then, how about a nice session in the boxing ring when we get to the compound, then I’ll order pizza for us.”

“Oh.”  Peter tries to keep his voice even. “Um.  Ok.”

“You hesitated,” Tony calls him out.  “You’re sick.”

“I am not.”

“And you’re whiny.  I stand by my assessment.”  Tony crosses his arms and leans into the car window, away from Peter.

“But—”

“And don’t breathe on me.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, making his best apologetic face.

“I’m kidding,” Tony says.  “But FRIDAY, put in an order for chicken soup, and make sure Dumm-E’s on hand with Lysol wipes.  I amserious about not catching this thing.”

“Come on,” Peter mutters again.

“That’s just the way it goes, kid,” Tony says with a shrug.

It’s early evening when they arrive at the facility upstate, and Peter has to admit the bowl of steaming soup and box of Kleenex waiting at his place at the dining room table are extremely inviting.

“Go.  Sit down,” Tony encourages him.  He stops at the bar to fix himself a drink, but watches Peter tuck in.  “It’s that kind of sick, right?  Like sinuses and stuff?  Not your stomach?”

“I’m not sick,” Peter says, though he quickly grabs a tissue to catch his dripping nose.

“Right.  We’re still playing that game.”

“I’m not.”  Peter’s aware of how petulant he sounds.  “This is really good, by the way,” he says, slurping down a mouthful of soup.

“Good,” Tony says.  “It’s what I always order when I’m…not sick.”  He chuckles.  “There’s plenty more if you’re still feeling, you know, absolutely fantastic tomorrow.”

“I…”  Peter’s about to contradict him again, but he thinks better of it.  “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony tells Peter he’s not allowed in the lab until he’s no longer breeding germs, so they start a movie after dinner.  Ordinarily Peter would never pass up an opportunity to provide commentary on Raiders of the Lost Ark, but he’s sleepy as soon as the opening credits begin to roll.  He rests his throbbing head on the arm of the sofa, and before he knows it, Tony’s shaking his shoulder and bundling him off to bed.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbles, scrubbing at a drool spot on the upholstery.

“Save it, kid,” Tony says, looking pretty tired himself.  “See you in the morning.”

Peter crashes out again once his head hits the pillow.  The slumber doesn’t last long, though.  It’s still dark when he jolts awake, sweltering and drenched in sweat.  He lays still for a moment, trying to get a handle on what’s happening.

If he was having a nightmare, he can’t remember it now.  He’s not nauseous.  His body still aches, but all things considered, he feels alright.  Better, in fact.

Peter peels himself out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash his face.  The cool water is refreshing.  He’s pretty sure his fever’s broken.  When he’s suitably cleaned up, Peter considers going back to bed.  His stomach rumbles, though.  Fighting off the bug has drained him of energy.  He’s starving.

Peter tiptoes down the stairs, hoping Tony was telling the truth when he said there was soup leftover.  He’s about to open the door to the kitchen, but something catches his eye.  There are shadows moving in the dining room.

“Hello?” Peter calls tentatively.

“Huh?  What?”  Tony’s head whips around, and he winces and rubs the wrinkle between his eyes.  “Oh.  It’s you.”

“Mr. Stark?  What’s going on?” Peter asks, squinting in the dim light.  “Everything ok?”

Tony sits at the table, a bowl of soup in front of him.  He clears his throat and points at Peter with his spoon.  “You know, I really wish you would’ve listened to me,” he says.  “And kept your germs to yourself.”

“I did,” Peter says, “Or, well, I tried.”

“Didn’t try hard enough.”  Tony sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“Oh no.  Are you sick now?”  Peter pulls out the chair beside Tony’s and flops down.  “I’m really sorry.”

Tony stirs his soup and shrugs.  “I was kind of stressing about you spiking a fever, and insomnia’s just a fact of life, but now I can’t breathe through my nose.”  He snags a Kleenex from the box that’s still on the table.  

“Have you, uh, checked your temperature?” Peter asks, his thoughts flip-flopping between concern and guilt.

“No, I’m a grown-up.  We don’t do that.”

“Hey, FRIDAY,” Peter says.  “Can you do a temperature reading on Mr. Stark?”

“Of course, Mr. Parker,” the AI replies.

“Hey, hold up,” Tony gripes, but FRIDAY is already reporting the data.

“Mr. Stark’s body temperature is 101 degrees.”

“Whoa, that’s higher than mine was,” Peter says, getting to his feet.  “Do you want some, like, Tylenol or something?  Or a blanket?  Or I could call May and ask—”

“Kid?” Tony asks thickly.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to calm down.”

Peter takes a breath.  “Yeah.  Yeah, ok.”

“I have a cold,” Tony declares.  “I’m not dying.”

“Right.”  Peter nods.  Maybe he was overreacting a little.  But still… he feels bad.

“We’re gonna take care of each other, ok?”  Tony holds out his hand.

Peter reaches out to shake it, but Tony pulls back at the last second.  “Actually, let’s not keep passing germs,” he says.

“Good idea,” Peter laughs.  The he asks, “Is there more soup?”

“You still feel bad?”

“No, I actually feel a lot better,” Peter says.  “I’m just hungry.”

Tony chuckles.  “That’s good.  And there’s more in the fridge.”