#so if it looks wonky can somebody please tell me so I can fix it?

[dcforts]

[bobby’s house]

Dean wakes up from his nap on Bobby’s couch.

There’s a wet stain on the cushion near where his mouth was but he cannot be arsed to be embarrassed about it. It was a good nap.

It seems like there’s only Bobby in the room anyway. He is at his desk, looking busy as he writes something down. Dean cannot see what it is from his point of view.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks, his voice hoarse, sitting up.

“Supply run.” Bobby says without looking up.

“Cas?”

“Who knows,” he says, then adds “Said he’ll be back.”

Dean sighs and gets up. It’s mid-afternoon, not yet sundown, judging from the light coming from outside. He stretches his arms over his head. “Man, I needed that,” he says. “How long was I out?”

“Half an hour.”

Dean makes a content sound and walks to the table to peek at what got Bobby so busy. Leaning against the side of the desk, he sees a giant tome that looks like some kind of register. “Whatcha writing?”

“Inventory” Bobby mumbles.

Dean makes a bored expression that Bobby doesn’t see because he still hasn’t looked up. “Why do you even bother with that?” he makes a gesture towards the room. “I mean, don’t you already know what you got?”

Bobby puts down his pen and looks up at him, finally, looking not at all pleased with the continued interruptions.

“It’s not for me.”

“Then for who?”

Bobby presses his lips together.

“Well, one day I’m gonna kick the bucket son, and somebody else is gonna get to deal with all this” he says, looking pointedly at Dean.

There’s a moment of silence and then something clicks in Dean’s mind.

“Who? Me?”

Bobby rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “Tell me, who else I got? Who else has been drooling all over my couch since he was six, broke at least five of my plates and put a bullet in my ceiling when he was twelve?” he says surly, casting his gaze down once again, as if the admission embarrasses him.

Dean feels constricted in his own skin all of the sudden, like his point of view is shifting but he can’t seem to focus on the new one.

He walks to the middle of the room and looks around.

“You are leaving all this to me?”

“It’s a bunch of crap, boy, don’t get too sappy about it” Bobby says gruffly, but he doesn’t look up.

Dean knows that Bobby cares about his bunch of crap, he knows it very well. It’s his whole life, years of research, blood, work and sacrifices. Of course, it makes sense that he would have to leave it to somebody at some point, but it’s still weird that it’s gonna be him the one to get it.

Dean looks around the cluttered room, trying to look at it as if for the first time. The books, the pictures in the frames, the furniture. Dean fixes his gaze on the walls. These walls, he thinks, he’s leaving me these walls. He looks out of the window, towards the garage, at the pile of rusted car parts, the tools – everything is covered in a thin veil of dirt and dust. His chest compresses. No one has ever left him anything.

Sure, his father left him the Impala but he never gave him any Mufasa kind of speech over it. And the jacket, John had just forgotten it in the backseat one day, Dean had shrugged it on without thinking during a cold night and he’d never asked for it back.

But this is different. This is a whole house. A scrap yard. It’s hard to imagine this place without Bobby. But to imagine it as his? Impossible.

“And what, you – you wrote a last will or something?”

“Or something” Bobby mumbles as he tries to focus on his work again.

Dean doesn’t stop talking though.

“But - what should I do with it?” he asks and Bobby sighs loudly again, like he’d thought the conversation was over and he really has no patience for more of Dean’s babbling. “I can’t live in Sioux Falls, Bobby. I’m a hunter.”

“And what am I, a baker?”

“Yeah but – I’m always moving around. I can’t have a house. What do you expect me to do? Do my nine-to-five and come back in time for dinner?”

“Do what you want.” Bobby shrugs. “But ye ain’t gonna get any younger, that’s for sure. At least you’ll have a place one day.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that.

He belongs on the road, he knows that much. He belongs on the highways, in the dark seedy places behind gas stations, under the light of a blinking motel sign. His foot belongs on a pedal not propped on a coffee table. He belongs with his Baby, with crumpled papers of greasy hamburgers on the passenger seat. He could never do bills and house repairs. That’s not him. What is Bobby thinking? He should give it to someone who actually gives a shit about keeping the garage, having a bunch of kids running around, playing nice with the neighbours. Dean can’t do that. Who does Bobby think he is?

“Don’t sweat it, boy. You can live here or you can rent it out or you can sell it for all I care. Ain’t gonna be around to see it, remember?”

He says that but Dean hears something else in his voice. Bobby cares about it, no matter how many times he calls it a shithole. He cares about the mismatched mugs in the cabinets and the wobbly chairs and the loud pipes of the downstairs bathroom.

He can’t imagine this place without Bobby but not even with some stranger in it. Somebody who would cover the wards with cheap ass wallpaper and think that the previous owner was a freak, who would turn the panic room in a wine cellar or whatever. Somebody who wouldn’t know shit about what this place has seen and who’s lived in it.

Dean sits on the couch slightly bothered by the conversation and the thought that Bobby one day will be gone and he is still lost in himself when a swoosh informs them that Cas is back. He appears in the room, looking rumpled and windswept like always. It’s a familiar and endearing sight and Dean fights the urge to stand up and walk over to him for no reason.

Cas’ boots are muddy and they leave a trace on the carpet and Bobby, from his place behind the desk, scolds him. Dean looks at Cas’ stony face as he listens to Bobby calling him boy and going off about his carpet and imagines giving a crap about that one day; imagines himself giving crap to Cas about that one day, and having Cas looking at him like that.

Something like:

Hearing the swoosh from the kitchen and before even seeing him, warning him that he’d better take his shoes off if he values his life. And Cas walking into the kitchen in his socks and Dean telling him about his work at the garage, this stubborn Buick and that wonky cabinet he’s trying to repair and Cas telling him about Heaven and hovering around him as he gets under the hood of a car or gets something from the fridge.

He imagines the living room at night, lightened only by the desk lamps, laughing with Sam at a movie playing on the shitty tv that he doesn’t have the heart to get rid of because it reminds him of watching soap operas with Bobby. He imagines putting on his favourite albums on his record player – cause of course he’d have a record player and a shit ton of vinyls all over the place – and sitting on the couch next to Cas to tell him all about the best drummers of the 70s and getting a dog and having Sam over all the time in a room that it’s his own and saying things like “Yeah, I know, we need to get that heater fixed before winter” and –

Whoa, whoa – hang on, what kind of messed up fantasy is that? Playing house? What is he, like, a 50’s housewife?

It couldn’t ever be like that. Dean’s not –

And there’s the hunting. He wouldn’t give that up.

He would sit at Bobby’s desk with a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear talking to another young hunter, saying the same things Bobby always says to him over the phone – things like “Be careful, kid” and “Don’t get yourself killed.”

Yeah, that’s better. That’s more like him.

He imagines himself pulling in in front of the house in the middle of the night after a hunt, turning the keys in the lock and coming in an empty house, walking around without turning on the lights, knowing exactly where things are in the dark because it would be his home, with his stuff, and he would know where they are, and what they are, cause he would have put them there. He tries to imagine what it would be like to come through the door and feel relieved to be home.

And maybe someone could come in after a few moments, locking the front door, checking the wards, dropping the duffle bag with the weapons in the hall.

Could be Sam.

Moaning about his neck hurting from sleeping at a weird angle during the journey, one of his long arms stretching out in the dark to grab a beer that Dean would be handing him. Saying things like “Tomorrow wake me up only when you make breakfast” and “I’m dropping my clothes in the washing machine.”

Or it could be Cas.

Partially illuminated by the street lights outside, walking over to where Dean would be, leaning against the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. No other sound. No rush, no one to answer to. Nothing to run away from. Nowhere to run to. No one watching or interrupting.

Dean would lick his lips and watch him with no shame and Cas would press him against the doorframe, knowing that he is welcome to do so. Knowing that Dean has been waiting for that moment for the whole journey back. Dean would be pliant and his movements languorous and he would feel the solid weight of Cas’ body against his and he would like that.

He would tug at the lapels of his trench coat and wrap his arms around his neck and Cas would kiss him and –

Bobby drops something in the kitchen and it falls on the floor with a loud crash and a lot of swearing.

Dean snaps out of his daydream with an sharp intake of breath.

He is sitting on the couch and it’s daytime and Cas is standing on the other side of the room, leaning against the little table.

He’s got his arms crossed and he is staring at him like he does, openly, curious, his gaze intense.

Shit.

Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak, he swallows and hopes that Cas hasn’t been snooping around in his head or at least that he’ll be decent enough not to say anything.

Aren’t his fantasies entitled to a little privacy?

“What?” he snaps when he can’t take it anymore.

Cas squints briefly but says nothing. He pushes himself up and leaves the room.

Dean feels embarrassed nonetheless.

What a load of bullshit.

Bobby is delusional – Dean can’t own a house. Can’t have to worry about fixing heaters, he’s too busy beheading werewolves. He doesn’t have time for that. He wasn’t born for that. Picket fences and someone – not a guy, certainly not Cas – to come home with. He’s not Sam. Homes are overrated anyway. A burden. He’s got everything he needs in his Baby.

And anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’re all gonna be dead after their showdown with the Devil. And if they’re not, it could be the next ghoul or ghost or vampire that takes them out.

It’s not like he’s ever gonna get time for anything like that.

[helpinghanikan]

A little Help

Avengers (And Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Not everything can be done by one person; from saving a life to fixing a problem, we all need a hand sometimes. 

AN: Gonna be honest, the Thor one sucks but I didn’t want to leave him out. I’m sorry. 

Steve Rogers:

           Somebody was finally smart enough to shoot Captain America in the legs. Bullet cutting through skin but not strong enough to break through his bones. Instead two shots lodging themselves in the thick of his calf and behind his knee. Enough to take him out for the moment, but in a few days he’d be walking again.

           This wasn’t in a few days, though. This was the same moment, when your man screamed and there was no but you and an empty parking garage to hear.

           It’s actually pretty funny to think about how you institutionally moved. Taking up the dropped shield that was used as nothing more then a prop that day, holding it in front of you and telling your man to get back.

           It was just supposed to be a few poses to finish up those education videos Steve promised to do. By the time both of you got away it was late at night and both your stomachs were rumbling.

           “I can see their boots, that’s it.” Steve says behind you.

           You’ve taken shelter between two cars. Steve flat on his back, trying to look under the car. You, holding the shield up while crouching on untrained legs. The vault door to Steve that could probably be taken out by anyone with above average training.

           “There’s only one? Is he coming?” You whisper, legs starting to quiver from the strain.

           “Yes,” Steve is whispering now. It’s hard to hear everything that he is saying. “Stay down, it’ll be okay.”

           Steve was only a half decent liar. Had you been looking at him he would have smiled. Try and confirm that everything is going to be okay, even with blood going through his fingers, he’d try and lie. And you would lie right back. Smile at him, nod and then do what you are going to do anyway.

           It wasn’t until the dickhead was close enough that you heard her shoes on the concrete. In that woman’s point of view, she probably only heard Steve’s breathing. Imaging how you were going to scream after she put metal through the Captain’s eye.

           You only saw the woman’s face without blood for a brief second. Long enough for the shield to bash forward and up, slamming against her nose. Breaking the thing and practically snapping it back into her head. Another hit, this one aimed, and she falls backwards. Clutching her face and screaming profanity.

           Steve was on the phone with help, finally getting to act the part of a civilian doing their best. While you got to be the hero, kicking Dickhead’s gun away and starting a small wrestle to keep her down. She wasn’t a hired or professional assassin by any means, just an extremist who didn’t seem to really know what she was killing for.

           Nothing you couldn’t sit on and keep from hurting anyone.

                                               --------------

Tony Stark:

         When you experiment on yourself you either become a brave idiot or the reason for a new safety manual. Somehow Tony has proven himself to be both. At least he has learned to have some sort of babysitter when he does these things.

           “You have life insurance right?” You ask over the intercom.

           “No one would accept me as a client,” Tony speaks through the experimental armor.

           His voice coming off as deeper, more static-y. Supposedly this was a going to be a special type of armor. Thick and tough enough that it would be used in the event of either going into the center of the earth, or into the sun. Consider all events that absolutely no one expects keep happening in this world, the idea wasn’t nearly as crazy as you’d think.

           He stands in the gray armor. Legs shoulder width apart, standing on a platform where five cannons of raw heat are waiting to be fired. All this was behind the thick booth you hid away in. Ready to turn the dial, colors ranging from yellow to red, and then green.

           “You ready, Babe?” Tony asks.

           “I’m not the one about to become an oven, just say the word.” You reply, hand on the dial.

           “Let’s start slow, get an even roast going.”

           The dial starts to slowly leave the green range. Watching his helmet tilt up, ready to take the flames that starts slowly, then burst out faster then water as it increases.

           It’s hard to see the armor while staring through the glass. What you were watching wasn’t even glass. It was a screen showing the feed from cameras outside the box. Positioned just enough so it seemed to be glass. It was safer this way, basically being in another room from the lava Tony calls flames.

           “How are you doing?” You have to practically yell.

           “Getting a little toasty, still looking good, though!” He yells back.

           That optimism only lasted for a few seconds before your ‘glass’ started to get wonky.

           “Still looking good?” You ask.

           There was no response, but there was static.

           “Tony?”

           More static.

           The dial was immediately dialed back to green. Even pushing harder as though that would cool it down faster. Unfortunately, there was no override code to get out of the box, you could leave but you could not enter the heat chamber, not until it cools enough.

           That didn’t stop you from pulling on the door. Like when your mom isn’t fast enough unlocking the car and your passive aggressively demanding to be let in. Only in this case you were yelling at the computer when it would respond with “please be patient while the chambers cools.”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please-,”

           “Shut the FUCK up!” you scream at the automated voice.

           Eventually the voice finally stopped, a little chirping beep and your were right into the chamber. Although cooled to acceptable degrees you were still slapped with the heat after only going in a few steps. “Hang on, hang on,” You’re yelling at nothing. Jerking your free hand away from the metal that was already messing with you just by being close. “Tony, hang on.”

           The helmet was the easiest part of the armor to remove. Your hands are singed by trying to grab it. Having to pull it quickly and tossing it just as fast across the chamber.

           How many could say that they know how a baked potato feels? Well, you can add Tony to that list. His entire face was flushed, a nice pink color. Between gasps and pants he looked up at you, nodding his head to your silent questions.

           He gave one thumbs down. The universal sign that the armor would need more work.

                                              --------------

Thor:

           If Thor didn’t have glasses before he should think about getting checked out soon. Staring so close to the phone his nose was practically touching it. Your eyebrows matched his, knitted together in both confusion and annoyance.

           Looking to Bruce was no help.

           “Yeah, that’s your turn.” He says, going back to his magazine.

           There was no way you were going to be able to look over his shoulder. Instead standing next to him and trying to catch a glance.

            “What are you trying to do?” you asked after several seconds of seeing nothing.

           “Trying to return to the game Bruce showed me.” Thor turns the phone towards you. “I accidentally went out and cannot return.”

           You’re staring at the home screen of his phone. Taking it in for a few seconds and then exclaiming. “This is not English; did you do this on purpose?”

           Thor shakes his head. “It was an accident when I was trying to return to the game. I can still read it, I do not know how to change it back, though.”

           “You have to go through, like, four screens. How did you do this on accident?”

           In the end it seemed you had a bigger problem with the phone then Thor did.

                                                --------------

Bucky Barnes:

         You sit with your legs spread on the living room floor. A black arm with gold lining resting between them, held up by one thigh so it’s hand is in the air.

           A mix of cleaning supplies sat on the coffee table next you. From glasses cleaner to car wax, you even dug around under the sink. This thing wasn’t like a pair of shoes that came with instructions on how to clean it. The only thing either you or Bucky knew for sure was “don’t put it in the washing machine,”. And even that was still up for discussion.

           “Thank you, for this.” Bucky says, a cool bottle gently nudging against your shoulder.

           He holds two ciders in his one hand. A small juggle when you take yours, but he had a handle on it. He wouldn’t be driving a car anytime soon, he still had the arm on most of the time, but he was getting the hang of it. This just meant any cleaning was up to other people. You being the only one who doesn’t want the story behind every little smudge on the thing.

           “I’m going to add this to my bill,” You say, poking at the very little gap between the plates dirt tends to find its way into. That it sometimes comes back as red you don’t think about it too much. “Minus a drink.”

           There’s a domestic bliss to this entire scene. Looking off to the side where Bucky sits in one of the living room chairs. His hair is finally short, his face shaven and his head tilted against his shoulder. There was something playing on the TV, but he wasn’t really watching it. Instead keeping his eyes quarter open to watch you.

                                              --------------  

Natasha Romanoff:

         It was a weird request but not weird enough to refuse. Rereading the text from the “unknown” number Nat insisted on being named in your phone.

           Do me a favor; get on the elevator, go down a floor.

           After a few seconds, not even long enough to get your shoes on, she sends another.

           Pretty please?

           You were on the second highest floor of your building. Walking out of it in the middle of the night, when you felt the need to tiptoe around your apartment.

           The walls were thankfully thick, but the doors were not. Through the wood you could hear TVs, talking, a few moans and one particular pair softly yelling. There had yet to be anything more then an argument from them, nothing that warranted intervention. When you walk past that door again you were likely to hear moans more then arguments.

           I got you. You sent back, hitting the elevator button and waiting.

           Natasha was a serious woman who cared about her friends and loved ones. She’s been on many, too many, missions and knows how to get in and out without being seen. The best way to get in and out without being noticed was to simply act like you belong. Although she is a very serious spy, she does like to have fun with her skills.

           You had to remind yourself of this when the top hatch of the elevator is popped open. First a pair of overpriced boots, then a beige jacket covered in black dirt and sludge, finally red hair and a smile without lipstick.

           You didn’t have to say or ask anything. Your face was enough for her to get the confusion.

           “I got stuck,” She says.

           “You got dirty. You know I can buzz you in, right?” You say, reaching past her, hitting your floor’s button. “Or I could open a window.”

           “Where’s the fun in that?” She asks, kissing your cheek and leaving a smudge.

                                              --------------

T’challa:

         In so many ways T’challa is on the same level as Steve Rogers. He couldn’t hold back a helicopter, but he could lap the world as good as him. Less experienced in military strategies, but his abilities aren’t any indications of that. And while you can hear Rogers walk down the hallway, it’s amazing the amount of times T’challa has made people jump out of their skin but just appearing next to them.

           But alcohol was where T’challa had to throw the towel. Something he had yet to do.

           “Does this even do anything to you?” You ask holding up the empty bottle.

           Rogers just shrug with a smile. Drinking down his glass, taking all that’s left of whatever they had been drinking. “I was hoping it would’ve worn off from the forties, guess not.”

           In one of the rare moments T’challa was in the states you typically wouldn’t be able to see him until the next morning. Getting a message from Rogers about a change of plans was a pleasant surprise. Seeing your man face first into a table was less so.

           “Can we borrow a room?” You ask, checking T’challa’s pulse.

           “There’s a guest room down the hall,” Steve says.

           T’challa was thick mess of muscle and dead weight. Too heavy to carry, just wrapping around your arms around his front, pulling him out of the chair. Struggling to keep him up enough for his feet to do their damn job.

           He’s hasn’t made any noise the entire struggle. When he finally looks at you he smiles, “hi,” he says. Face pressing into your shoulder, legs threatening to give up.

           With one arm over your shoulder and the other over Rogers T’challa leaned hard on your side. In his drunken haze he probably thought he was giving you a regular, charming, kiss on the cheek. Rather then the actual slobbering he was giving your neck.

           “Did I win?” He asks.

           You have to give the man credit. Being able to know what language to speak in even when he was off his ass drunk.

           “Yes, Dear, you wiped the floor with him.” You say, ignoring the smile Steve still had.

           An alcohol smelled breath blew into your ear. “Yay,” he says, pushing harder against you. If it weren’t for Steve both T’challa and you would have slumped into the wall.

           “I got it from here,” You say over T’challa’s shoulder after reaching the bedroom door.

           It was probably a bad idea to let Rogers off the hook so quickly. As soon as the door opened you stepped backwards to keep with the momentum. Taking a few more steps until you could safely toss him onto the bed. He landing with a groan, reaching back for a pillow or something equally soft to replace your absents.

           “I’m coming for James Barnes next,” He slurs against the pillow.

           “I’ll be sure to warn him.” You say, pulling both his shoes off. Tucking them under the bed.

           He didn’t hear you, already muttering in his sleep.

                                                --------------

Pietro Maximoff:

           Volunteers were gathered from every corner of S.H.I.E.L.D, those qualified or could even pretend to be qualified were grabbed and told to get on the ship. This was how you got pulled along with doctors and those who can lift over fifty pounds.

           ‘Do you know how to sew stitches?’

           ‘No…’

           ‘Do you know what gauze is?’

           ‘Yeah, I think so.’

           ‘Great, come on.’

           Although briefed on the ride in it was incredibly confusion after walking off. Essentially your job was to do what the people who knew what they were doing told you. You seemed to be the only one who made it more then a few steps before being grabbed. Left alone long enough to hear the somewhat-Russian-sounding language from the survivors and see the next ‘Life-boat’ returns with more survivors.  

           There are so many injured and panicked that you didn’t notice one being carried in. The agent carrying him had only to yell twice to get two doctors on him. One taking his shoulders the other his feet, setting him gently on the nearest bed.

           “Gauze and swabs, go.” One of the two doctors points at you while giving the order.

           Not being told how much was needed, you just grabbed an arm full of each from the shelves. Standing off the to the side, pretending to be a shelf to have it’s things taken from. A few arms even reached over your shoulder to grab what you were holding.

           The patient was a young man; his shirt cut open with surgical scissors, head tilted so far back it was almost off the table. His chest was hard to look at, with more craters then the moon, just a glance and your face was beginning to lose color. Luckily a shelf didn’t have to move, just stand still and stare. The moon moved with steady breathing. White turning red just by touching it’s surface that did next to nothing to change the color.

           The moon’s surface surged forward with a gasp. Silver hair fluffing with a hacking voice towards the ceiling of the ship.

           Neither of the doctors try to touch him. Whether it’s from their blood covered hands getting into his face, or that he could wreck what little sterile environment was made. Both pressing down on the wounds.

           “Now that he’s awake keep him that way.” The same doctor snapped. “Hey!”

           A little color has come back from being yelled at. Snapping your head towards her. Not saying that you understood but nodding when she jerks her head towards the patient.

           Another shelf took over your duties. Practically tossing the things onto it in passing, standing at the head of the table to look down at your patient.

           Just as the glance had told you, his hair was silver. Although you were right above him, he looked everywhere but you. Half-lidded eyes rolling back and forth across the room, his mouth moving but nothing coming out.

           “Hey, hi,” You whisper down to his.

           Your hands cup his head, now staring right up at you. The same wide-eyed look a cat has after being caught. He blinks just as slowly, only when you smile down at him.

           “Hey, you gotta stay awake. You gotta stay awake for me, okay?” You say.

           He now has a smile that matches yours. Staring up at you and beginning to talk softly, practically muttering with a dopey smile on his face. Even if you got closer and listened carefully you wouldn’t have been able to understand him. Resorting back to his mother language. You didn’t need to glance up to know that the happy drugs were just added.

           His arms are starting to move with his cheery talk. Just little wiggling that are stopped by the doctors. The man keeps trying to raise his head, trying to see what was keeping his hands down. Your hand gently pressing against his forehead, pushing it back down onto the bed. Now staring back up at you he speaks directly in his mother language.

           “Yeah, just stay awake. This will be fine,” You look down to the doctors. Now pulling stitching what could be done. “Everything is fine.”

                                                --------------

Peter Parker:

           If it weren’t for May you would have stayed longer. The plan was to pray to your respected deity that May had to stay late work, long enough that you “accidentally” fall asleep on the couch. And since it’s so late May invites you to spend the night, with your parents permission, forbidding you from Peter for the rest of the night. She’d then go into her room and you and Peter can continue.

           Instead May came home on time. Unintentionally ruing the moment when she opens the door. Intentionally making it worse by not bringing it up but just smiling at you and looking away when you look back. You lost the psychological war fare by proclaiming how late it was getting and that it was time to go.  

           Usually you left Peter’s before sundown or spend your little saving for a car or taxi. It was only a handful of times that Peter walked you home. The excuse you always gave was “then who’s going to walk you home after?”.

           Nine out of ten times walking in numbers is enough to be safe. There is always an exception that makes the rule, though. This is especially true when your bodyguard is a high school teenager in a science graphic tee.

           Grip on your hair and flash of metal more annoyed then terrified. You’d never say it out loud, but Peter was to blame for the situation. Taking you by the hand, guiding the both of you through an alley he claims to take all the time. It had seemed to be empty, only passing by a smoker at the entry way you didn’t look twice at.

           Dickhead mugger was loudly whispering to Peter. Trying to be quiet but also making sure you knew he was serious. All it really did was fill your ear with spit.

           You were really only half aware that Peter was looking at you during the hostage taking. Just as aware that his hand reached out although too far away to do anything physically. No offense to Peter but you had to help yourself.

           Although not heroic it’s always smart to scream when you’re under attack. Screaming to fit the situation you reached back to his face, finding the side of his head. Thumbs pressing deep and hard into his eye socket. Even as Dickhead screamed you kept pressing, pressing until something gave and you were let go.

           It was your turn to grab Peter’s hand after that. Running straight out from the alley, dragging your boy along with you. Making it past the subway until Peter urged you to slow down.

           You weren’t nearly as panicked as you should have been. Peter making the deep breath gesture in the hopes you take the hint. Instead you make the mistake of looking down to your hands. A bloody red thumb making you really freak out.

                                                --------------

Stephen Strange:

           Something was wrong before you ever entered the sanctum. It wasn’t the odd silence as the sanctum was never really silent. There was always some sort of whispering coming right out of the walls or a rattle from the artifacts although there was no wind.

           Walking through the building you pass by Wong at a next by a bookshelf. His head slowly rocks while reading, listening to his headphones. He makes a slight glance upwards as you pass, just to acknowledge you while you wave. Not bothering to stop and have a one-sided conversation until you touch something, and he makes you leave.

           If Stephen hadn’t called out to you when you first enter he was probably busy. Leaving you to walk through the sanctum, leaving your jacket on a chair and bag tossed on a chair passing by.

           It was a little past noon when you cross his bedroom’s doorway. Being greeted by the bare back of your man. At one point he was wearing his oddly average looking flannel robe, by now gravity had dragged it down from it’s place on his shoulders. Cloth gathering at the small of his back and wrists. If it weren’t for the ragged breathing and sweat he could have been a statue.

           “Working out for once?” You ask, bag and jacket tossed on the bed.

           No response.

           “Stephen? You there?” Usually he’d snap out of the meditation when you entered the room. Other times he’d take a few seconds into minutes to finish up and then return.

           Kneeling in front of him his breathing is still going crazy. His wrists are buried in the robe sleeves, so instead you reach towards his neck. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know how to find someone’s pulse.

           Before finding the bumping vein he catches your wrist. An iron made of ice grip that was probably making your bones crack under the skin. His eyes were open but there was nothing in them. No pupil or color just discolored white that still stared right into you.

           Although the first hand still holds like he’s trying to break your bones, the other is gentle. Resting above your wrist and sliding up your sleeve. Thumb gently touching the skin,

           “Stephen, stop.” You said.

           His gentle thumb dug into your skin. His nail cutting into your skin.

           “Stephen, no. Stephen.” His grip is too strong to pull away.

           In understandable self-defense your free hand pulls back. Slamming upward against his nose with the base of your hand. His head jerked backed with the break of his nose, but he gave no noise of being in pain. Head coming back to look at you with blood starting to dribble out of his nose and down his lip. Twist of your other hand and you’re free, scrambling back.

           “WONG! WONG HELP!” You yell getting to your feet as Stephen goes back into the lotus position.

           It takes a little more yelling before slamming feet come up the stairs. Wong stopping at the door way, giving you two seconds to explain before he would starting asking questions.

           “Something wrong, he’s not waking up and his eyes are fucked.” You rapid fire explain, pulling your sleeve up. Finding that Stephen did break the skin with his nail. “What’s happening?”

           Just like a regular medical emergency it’s best to get out of the way so those qualified can work. Taking a step back as Wong almost jumps over the gap between Stephen and bed, quickly sitting in front of him and closing his own eyes.

           It’s hard to watch an event when it’s happening on an entirely other plane of existence. Sitting on the end of the bed, looking between them as though you could catch a speck of what was going on. The only hint you got that anything was actually happening was how Wong was gathering sweat on his brow, mirroring the damaged wizard in front of him.

           In the end you lasted maybe two minutes imaging whatever battle or conversation was going on. Grabbing the bucket that was really nothing more than decorative and getting into the bathroom. It felt like forever before the thing was completely filled from the sink. Only made worse by the lack of noise, practically ruining the panic that was almost strangling anyone involved in this entire event.

           In the entire event the only yelling or anything close coming to a battle cry came from you in tossing the bucket’s contents. The entire room was soaked in your attempt to just hit Stephen. Drenching the back of Wong, destroying the bed sheets and any paper that was left out in the area.

           Both Wong and Stephen gasp and cough as through they had been drowning. Stephen, after holding his throat for a second, pulled his robe about himself. Looking to Wong and then up to you.

           He doesn’t say thank you, he only nods. Later on, both you and Wong would interrogate him, he’d try and explain it, but you’d really never understand. Just standing there, ready with your bucket.

                                              --------------

Matt Murdock:

         It isn’t uncommon for those born and raised in a city to never learn how to swim. When you don’t live next to a large body of water or are willing to drag yourself to the closest pool, there was really no point.

           Matt was not one of those people. Being submerged completely in water was not the best situation to be in but he could swim enough to live. But that was Dare-Devil who could swim, not Matt Murdock. When freezing water rushed into his mouth and his glasses were gone into the water he really wished there weren’t as many witnesses, or that it was night time, at least.

           Hearing the crack of wood while walking around the docks wasn’t out of the ordinary. Hearing it so prominently under your girlfriend’s foot was. In the few seconds that sound gave him he grabbed you around the center, a small twirl and setting you on the other side. His stability giving out under his foot wasn’t unexpected. But the water was no less cold, and the fall was no less terrifying.

           It’s harder for him to hear through the water. Reaching towards the surface, pulling himself up just enough to not die. The water in his mouth keeping him safe from pulling the cliché line: “help me! I can’t swim!”

           In the end it didn’t matter that Matt had kept you from falling in. Right away knowing that the next weight hitting the water was his angel.

           “Matt, Matt you need to calm down. Please stop flailing.” You say, grabbing around his center to keep him from bashing into you.

           Swimming with clothes on is hard enough, even worse while pulling a man in equally heavy clothes. Dragging him through the water, guiding his hands to the ladder. He could pull himself up after that, pushing back to sit and wait for you to fret over him.

           Seconds after Matt has disappeared anyone official on the dock was gone. Nothing like the words “fall” and “lawyer” to get people moving.  

                                                --------------

Carol Danvers:

           On one of the few “date nights” you sit side by side at the bar. Carol sitting with a hand on your knee, the other holding her glass. She uses it to gesture while talking about some story or another, telling you about how she learned the newest way of swearing from some alien language.

           The words seem to be unpronounceable to you, even Carol seemed to have a little difficulty. The more cranberry vodkas she drank, the less she was able to pronounce the words that consisted of a guttural sound and a whistle.

           By the third a real problem arose. Knocking back the last of the liquid, now consisting of melted ice, little bit of flavored vodka and the lime, her hand goes to her throat when the glass is empty. It was hard to think that such a powerful being could be brought to panic by a lime wedge.

           She tried to hide it at first, coughing into the corner of her elbow. When the coughing stopped she grabbed her throat, standing tall and knocking the stool to the floor. You didn’t bother asking if she was okay. Her grip on your forearm was all you needed to know something was really going wrong. Your own stool joining hers, slamming to ground as you went behind her.

           Choking wasn’t anything new to this bar. A sign showing the steps to the Heimlich maneuver was strategically placed among the other trash the owner called decoration.

           Wrapping your arms around her center from behind wasn’t anything new, either. One hand over the other, pulling back under her ribs with force, doing this again and again. Blonde hair, smelling like industrial shampoo, fluffs back into your face. Any small attempt at opening your mouth to try and soothe Carol was stopped by a mouthful of hair.

           Heimlich maneuver doesn’t always work. Leaning back from her back, one still around her center. The other pulling back and slapping open handed between her shoulder blades. In a crude explanation, it was like burping an adult.

           The lime doesn’t shoot out like in the movies. Just comes out with a few hearty coughs into Carol’s hand. She grabs the bar when you let her go, leaning forward against the edge. Still coughing while everyone was still just watching.