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notquitecanon · 4 years

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Take Care of Yourself // Criminal Minds/ Marvel Crossover pt. 6

TW: drug use (prescribed medication), borders on depression, self-blame, talks about Spencer’s addiction

A/Ns: I’d like to preface this with the fact i’ve never taken prescription narcotics so if I’m way off base, I apologize. Secondly, this is mostly just a filler bit to showcase how I felt different characters would try to comfort a friend and also set up for the next part.

I’m sorry it took so long to get this out, I wrote and rewrote it and I still don’t like it.

and sorry it is so long!

Other parts here

_____________

You closed your door behind you, not bothering to flip the lock but sighing as you dropped your go-bag off your shoulder. It had been three days since Emily died, and you had just gotten back from her funeral- the clock on your wall read a little past 4 pm. (Garcia was nice enough to let you stay in her Quantico apartment until after the service.) Dropping your keys on your entry table, you furrowed your eyebrows- all your mail was there and sorted, no doubt by Steve. A wave of guilt passed through you, you hadn’t even texted him since before that night. Not that you’d really spoken to anyone, most of the team was still processing- you were stilling mad at yourself.

The funeral had been a good service, elegant and honoring. Rossi, Hotch, Morgan, Spencer carried the casket, along with two of her older friends. Her mother flew in, tearfully thanking the team for trying so hard. Somehow that hurt even more than her blaming the team for her death. The entire team placed red roses on top of the polished coffin. The pastor said pretty words and prayed over the gathering. Then it was over, and the casket was lowered. Garcia, JJ, and Spencer hugged you as you left, while Hotch, Rossi, and Morgan chose simply to nod to you.

Natasha had been following the case’s progress, and called you- you didn’t pick up, instead of listening to her voicemail of condolences. She sounded worried, and you appreciated the sentiment. You passed by your desk to plug up your laptop, stopping to look at the picture by your lamp- a team picture, taken after a case that ended better.

The kid was saved, with no injuries, and the unsub had undeniable evidence against him. The whole team was still wearing their vests, smiling proudly at each other, even Hotch- the photo had been snapped by the local newspaper and Garcia had them printed and framed as Christmas gifts to the team. You and Emily were standing beside each other, Morgan had just clapped her on the back- you smiled remembering how he was teasing her about getting home for her hot date that weekend. Spencer was listing off some facts about the correlation between abductions and first dates, making a wild gesture with his hands while Rossi and Hotch shared a proud look behind him. That had been a good day.

You opened your computer, your lock screen held another memory: cooking lessons with Rossi. It was a candid shot caught by accident. You had handed Reid (who had no idea what he was doing) your phone to take a picture of the girls together. You thought he caught the nice picture of all of you smiling- instead, you got a picture of Garcia throwing plain pasta at your face while Prentiss, caught off guard, snorted laughter into her glass of wine, JJ was beside Garcia hands covering her mouth as she watched the events unfold. Spencer clicked the button too late, but it was your favorite picture. Even the guys in the background looked happy- except for Rossi. Hotch was standing by Rossi, who had just noticed what was happened you remembered him scolding “Italians don’t throw their pasta! Especially that close to my WHITE furniture!” Morgan was barely in the shot but was laughing as the pasta hit your hair.

Everywhere you looked there were memories of her. The blanket she got you for your birthday that you draped over the back of your couch, pictures of the trip to Atlantic City on one of her Gambling weekends, the soap she left in the shower she left the last time she crashed at your place, her favorite wine in your fridge… Sometimes you didn’t notice how much someone was apart of your life until they were gone.

You sniffed, the familiar sting coming back to your eyes, salty tears welling up as you gently dabbed at your face as not to irritate the bruises around your right eye. You finally were able to take the bandages off before the funeral, but they were still tender, purple and yellow dying your face like a bad tattoo and the skin was still split (fortunately, any other bruises or cuts could be hidden by your clothes… mostly).

Fingers knotting into that blanket, you took several deep breaths trying not to breakdown again. A few stray tears escaped, sliding down your cheek and darkening the baby blue material as you half-choked back a sob- the sound was sharp, high pitched, and sad. You watched as the mascara laden tears diffused into a black stain on the blanket, and that pushed you over the edge.

Your knees trembled as you sobbed, the ache of losing a friend was overwhelming but the anger you felt was a close match. But at the moment there was nothing to hit, kick, or shoot so both anger and sadness expressed themselves in pained cries and angry sobs. Normally, you were hard to sneak up on, but your guard was down so you didn’t even hear the doorknob jiggle.

“(Y/N)?”

You startled at the voice, but automatically realized it was Steve. Turning away, you carelessly wiped at the black smears under your eyes and winced when you applied even the tiniest pressure on the bruised and split skin.

“I should have knocked, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be…” He trailed off, blue eyes training in on the inky bruises peeking from your collar and then to the way you were favoring one leg, “(Y/N), what’s wrong? You’re hurt.”

You sniffed, chest shuddering as you tried to get your breathing under control. In your peripheral, you could see Steve take a step towards you, his hand twitched like he wanted to comfort you but didn’t know how. Steve had seem a grand total of four women cry: his mother when his father died, Bucky’s mom and sisters when he was drafted, and Peggy when he crashed the plane. Well, heard that last one. He wouldn’t consider himself an expert in comforting crying women.

“I’m fine, Steve.” You croaked, still not completely facing him. He sighed as if he could smell the bullshit in your words. Hoping it would satisfy him, you turned to look him in the eyes, attempting to reassure him, “Really, I’m ok.”

Sometimes, you wished you weren’t so good at reading boy language, right now you wish Steve would at least try to hide his expressions. Your keen eyes watched as his raked over the black eye, split skin, and discoloration along your jaw.

“You look like hell.” He stated softly, shocked expression evening out into quiet worry. You wished your unladylike snort sounded less bitter.

“There’s that famous vintage charm.” You sarcastically chuckled, trying to hold your head up as you smoothed out the blanket. Steve winced at the sharp wit, apologizing quietly before rephrasing.

“What happened?” He asked, but you just looked away- allowing the two of you to stand in a heavy silence (paired with your funeral black attire) telling him a good bit about what happened to your friend, “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do for you?”

You shook your head, finding the passing clouds outside your window, always amazing how even the worst days can be sunny.

“Have you eaten?” He asked quietly, again you shook your head. Meeting his eyes again, you watched as he nodded, affirming his plan in his mind before speaking it aloud, “Ok, you take a shower and put on something comfortable, I’ll pick something up from that takeout place you like. We’ll eat and then you can get some rest.”

The set of his jaw told you that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and you were too tired to argue so you just nodded. He almost seemed relieved when you agreed, happy you were letting him help.

“I’ll be back in a while.”

____________

When he got back, you were toweling off your hair on the couch staring aimlessly at the wall. The pajama shorts and tank top gave him a full scope of your injuries: hand-shaped bruises on your arms, split knuckles, the brace on one of your knees, and bruises in a range of colors all over your legs. If you were looking at him, you would have noticed his tell-tale sign of worry/anger: the combination of a set jaw, furrowed brows, and the squaring of his shoulders. As he set down the brown paper bag of takeout, he took notice of the unopened pharmacy bag labeled with your name and hydrocodone.

“You might not be hungry, but you should eat something. The nice old lady at the counter noticed your usual order and sent some sort of family recipe soup. Told me to tell you to feel better… I think… she wasn’t speaking a lot of English.” The soldier rambled, breathing a sigh of relief when you cracked the smallest smile as you got up and shuffled towards your kitchen table.

Steve retrieved plates and silverware from your cabinets and set them down in front of you before taking the seat across from you. It was almost awkward the way he watched you scoop food onto your plate as if you were going to wither away if he took his eyes off you.

Finally, with you unenthusiastically picking at the stirfry he loaded up his own plate and the two of you ate in silence. Until he nudged the white pharmacy sack towards you. Fork stabbing a piece of broccoli, you raised your eyes to him.

“You should take your medicine. You’ll feel better.” Steve stated. You shook your head.

“I’m not big on narcotics.” You shrugged, “Don’t like how they make me feel.”

“Are you saying they can make you feel worse than you obviously do right now?” He asked sarcastically, and you actually laughed- even if it was a bit of a bitter, dry chuckle.

“Fair point, Rogers.” You conceded, ripping into the packaging and then into the pill bottle-. Setting the powdery white pill next to your drink, you continued, “I’ll take this when I’m done eating, don’t wanna fall sleep in my lo mein.”

Steve smiled, happy that you were at least talking now, and that you were kind of joking. “You want to talk about how you got this beat up?”

You tensed, and began to shake your head- but you caught how he deflated and felt a pang of guilt, “I, uh, got grazed by a sniper first.”

You began tapping the bandage you had rewrapped on your bicep before continuing, “The rest of these were from when we infiltrated Doyle’s warehouse. I told Derek to go ahead and find Emily while I handled Doyle’s henchman. Turns out, I may have bitten off more than I could handle.”

“More than you could.. what do you mean?” His eyebrows furrowed in a somehow scolding confusion. Ducking your head in guilt, you muttered.

“I took on 8 IRA members by myself so Derek could go find…” You cut yourself off, not saying her name. Instead, you watched Steve’s eyes widen as he opened his mouth to scold you before stopping himself.

Instead of the long lecture he had on the tip of his tongue, he settled for a quiet, “That was extremely reckless, don’t do that again."

"Yes sir,” you nodded, taking one last bite of the Chinese food before washing it down with your drink. Gathering the trash, you began to get up to throw things away but Steve beat you to it. Instead, he tossed you a bottle of water and pointed at the white pill still sitting across from you. With a sigh you nodded, placing the bitter pill on your tongue before taking a large swig of water.

Knowing it wouldn’t take long before the drugs kicked in, you swallowed another gulp of water before shuffling to the couch. As you predicted, time seemed to slow down once they kicked in. In about thirty minutes, that little white pill had numbed the sharp pains and throbbing aches throughout your body, replacing them with drowsiness and a pleasant feeling in the back of your head.

You were nodding in and out of sleep when you were woken up to Steve pulling that same baby blue blanket over you, muttering out a quiet and slurred, “ThanksssssTeve.”

“You can go back to sleep now.” He assured you, but was apparently still worried, even your hazy mind could see that as he perched himself on the armchair facing you. You giggled breathily, lidded eyes swaying away from him and settling on yet another picture on the team that sat on your coffee table. Unlike the others, this was a posed shot. The whole team was dressed nicely, standing in front of the restaurant where they had just celebrated Spencer’s 26th birthday. Everyone was smiling, even Hotch.

Steve followed your line of sight, moving closer so he could see the photograph, “That’s a nice picture, when was this taken?"

Pulling out of your memories, you answered slowly, "Couple of years ago, celebrating Spence’s 26th birthday. That’s the whole team, happy.”

The blonde glanced at you smiling softly, and prodded you to continue, hoping talking about happy memories might lull you into a deeper sleep. Sliding to the floor, his back pressed against the base of the couch by your feet, he pressed gently, “Tell me about them?"

You hummed in agreement, one finger fighting through the blanket to point to the farthest right, "That’s Derek Morgan, he’s from Chicago. He’s like an older brother to me. He has a good heart, he’s brave and determined. He’s also hilarious and a total player, and likes to tease Spencer.”

Though your words were slurred, Steve still listened, nodding along as you point to the next person, “Beside him is Garcia, sorry Penelope. She’s our computer analyst so she rarely sees field action. Garcia is honestly the sweetest person alive, she likes to flirt with Derek but he’s more of a game for them than anything serious. She has this crazy fashion sense that works for her…"

You trailed off with a smile before pointing to the next person, "That’s Rossi, he partially invented profiling. ‘was in the FBI in the 80’s but quit to become a writer, but came back. He’s basically the dad of the group. Very sarcastic, very Italian. Has been married 3 times.”

Steve quietly chuckled as your train of thought devolved, going from relevant information to random facts as your mind became hazier.

“Next is,” you paused for a yawn, “oh. me. You know me. Then there’s Spencer- sorry, Dr. Reid. He’s the youngest, but also had 4 P.hd’s at 23. He might have gotten another one, who knows at this point. He’s a super-genius, can read something like 20,000 words per minute, which is completely excessive. But he’s also just super awkward and sweet- he writes letters to his mom every day.”

Steve watched as you stopped looking at the picture, “Let’s see, then there’s JJ, who’s your classic mom friend. She had to quit the FBI, but now she’s working at the pentagon. She’s so nice, but also a badass. And she has the cutest kid, Henry. Spencer and Penelope are his godparents.”

“Then, there’s Hotch who’s pretty much our boss. Sometimes I think he’s definitely not human- the man can turn off his emotions. He’s actually part of the reason I’m at SHIELD. But he’s a good man, he always makes the right calls and keeps us in line. He’s a good leader and he’s got a son named Jack- the one I babysit every now and then?”

Steve watched as you slipped your eyes closed, “And then there was Emily. Crazy smart, an amazing profiler, total badass, hilarious. Honestly, one of the best friends you could ask for. She always had my back, and this cat named Sergio- I wonder what’s going to happen to him.”

You went quiet for a while, causing Steve to think you’d finally fallen asleep, but instead, you were just staring at the ceiling, “I went to her funeral today, Steve. The mission failed, we didn’t save her.”

“(Y/N), yo-” He started softly, not wanting you to get worked up, but you cut him off.

“We got there too late, and I let Doyle get away. I had the shot and I didn’t take it.” You admitted in a shameful whisper, eyes trained on the ceiling as a singular tear escaped the corner of your eye. “Prentiss died, and I let her killer get away."

Steve knew this pain, the loss and anger at yourself for not doing the impossible. It was a terrible pain; he’d felt it when Bucky died. Your hand had gone limp, and in an attempt to comfort you, he laced his fingers through yours, thumb brushing your split knuckles. If you noticed this, you didn’t say anything.

"He smiled at me, Steve.” Your already quiet voice broke, “Smiled like he knew he was going to get away with it. And he did.”

Knowing there wasn’t any stopping this spiral, he quietly shushed you. Hoping you’d go back to sleep, there was no point in trying to give real comfort or advice to you in this state. But you quieted, eyes closing and breathing evening out. A minute of silence went by, the only noise was you instinctively curling into a more comfortable position.

“I should have taken the shot, Steve.” Was the last thing you murmured as you succumbed to sleep. Steve frowned deeply, wishing there was something he could do to help. He’d always been a fixer, a helper- even before being Captain America. You’d been an excellent friend, going beyond “orders” to help him, and now he could only sit there as you were hurting. You sniffed again, eyes leaving the ceiling and falling to his, “I should have taken the damn shot.”

Fifteen minutes later, you had slipped into a deeper sleep. It had taken a while, but your ramblings turned to indiscernible mutterings and finally quiet snores. Steve stayed on the floor, staring at the picture until he was sure you would wake up. Then, he scooped you up in his arms almost effortlessly and carried to your bedroom- one of the very few times he’d actually been back there. Finally, he settled down on your couch, googled hydrocodone, saw the wrong side of WebMD, and decided it’d be best for him to sleep on your couch. He didn’t know how else to help, but he’d try his best.

_______________

The next day, you’d woken up at 11 AM to find Steve still patiently waiting for you to wake up. And despite your still aching body, you valiantly argued that he had better things to do, and promptly kicked him out to make him go on his run. He hesitantly left after making you promise to take care of yourself, and you didn’t miss any of his worried stares as he walked out.

At around 1 PM, you responded to a knock on your door as you changed the bandages on your bicep. You swung open the door, fully expecting it to be Steve back to worry about you.

“You look like shit.”

Was not what you were expecting to hear, and you definitely weren’t expecting to see Natasha standing in your doorway with Clint (badly disguised in a pair of sunglasses) behind her.

“Thanks, Barton.” You drawled sarcastically as he shouldered past the redhead and yourself to infiltrate your kitchen. You watched as he went before turning back to Natasha for an explanation.

“He’s right you look terrible.” She nodded, “If you don’t let me in, Clint’s going to eat all your food.”

Wordlessly, you motioned her in just in time to find Clint with cold lo mein dangling out of his mouth. Natasha gave him a pointed look to which he responded with a defensive (and noodle muffled), “What?”

The spy sighed, turning back to you, “We heard what happened to your friend, and wanted to make sure you were…”

Natasha trailed off, knowing “okay” was the wrong word. You also knew the “we” definitely meant that she forced Clint to come, but you still appreciated the notion. You gave her a tight-lipped sympathetic smile. Motioning over your rather extensive physical injuries, you tried to joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere of your apartment.

“Well, if it hadn’t of been for your training, this could have a lot worse.” You smiled, leaning against the back of the couch as her emerald green eyes analyzed everything down to the brand of knee brace you were wearing. She crossed your living room and undid your bandages.

“These are too loose, you’ll get an infection.” She offhandedly remarked, easily undoing the gauze and rewrapping them tighter like an expert. You quietly thanked her as she tied them off. “I guess weekly sparring is postponed for a while.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to wait 3 to 5 weeks to kick my ass.”

She laughed at this, “I’ll just have to settle with kicking his ass.”

As she said that, Clint looked up from his your Chow Fun with furrowed eyebrows. You genuinely laughed as the archer tried to defend himself. From there, it was mostly easy conversation between you and Nat with occasional chiming from Clint. The company was nice, and you didn’t even mind as the conversation turned to more serious topics. You had suspected it would, so you just willingly recounted the tale, yet again.

“And then he just smiled at me. And when the train passed he was gone. I should have taken the shot.” You finished lamely, blocking any emotion from your voice. After extensive debriefings, the funeral, and Steve, it was becoming easier to tell the story. Clint had finally stopped eating,

“He won’t get far. He has the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and SHIELD on his tale.” The archer tried to comfort you. The sentiment was nice, but you knew it was more of an empty promise. Doyle had evaded the government for years, and likely would for years to come.

Both Clint and Natasha’s phone buzzed after a bit of silence, and you knew it as the universal sound of “we gotta go”. They both quickly stood, walking towards the door. Clint was already in the hallway, instinctively doing a sweep for any enemies. Natasha turned back to you, “I’ll spare you the ass-kicking but don’t think you’re getting out of dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You smiled, holding the door open for her as she left. Suddenly, a flash of uncertainty ran across her face- which you didn’t miss. It was quite uncharacteristic for her, but you soon understood when she rushed forward to hug you- something she had never done before. Over her shoulder, even Clint looked surprised. After the initial shock, you relaxed into the embrace and hugged her back.

But as soon as it came, it was gone and the too master assassins were down the hall and gone. As they left, you did feel lighter. The pain of losing a friend and guilt over not bringing Doyle was still fresh after four days, but the searing anger and sadness were morphing into more of a dull ache in your heart.

Now reading 4 pm, you were sure Steve would return soon to check on you and looking back into your empty apartment- you decided you could use some “fresh” city air. So after slipping into real pants and a warmer shirt, you threw your jacket on and grabbed your headphones. Then you were off.

You weren’t sure where you were headed or when you’d get back, so you just let your wandering mind translate to your feet. The sun was beginning to go down when you found yourself in a suedo-familiar part of town. Looking up to a familiar building, your eyes found the prior apartment of Emily Prentiss. That familiar feeling flared back up in your stomach, but you suppressed it- allowing yourself a moment before continuing your walk.

With the sun’s retreat, it became progressively colder but you didn’t let it bother you as you continued. Allowing yourself to zone out, you, once again, let yourself wander aimlessly amongst other pedestrians walking home from work. You’re phone buzzed, bringing back to the present. Trying to stay out of the way, you found a bench to sit on so you could fish your phone out and look at the multiple texts, all from Steve.

Steve: Went by your house.

Steve: You weren’t there

Steve: Everything ok?

You quickly texted him back to appease his worries, knowing he was probably assuming the worst. Truly you regretted telling him about all the serial killers, stalkers, and rapists you had put away- that and introducing him to dateline tv. Like any other 90-year-old, he was now overly paranoid. Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you looked back up, people-watching as you enjoyed the chilly breeze.

Almost instinctively, you squinted down an alleyway- where two tall and lanky figures were shuffling between themselves. Your mind went through a hundred different possibilities- drug deal, prostitution, mugging, murder, assault… Lips setting in a fine line, you watched the interaction. Their silhouettes gave more information than one would think, and even though you weren’t on duty- you couldn’t just watch if someone was getting hurt.

Finally, you determined that whatever was happening wasn’t hostile enough for you to intervene as they parted ways- until the second figure stepped back into the busy street. Your heart froze, bathed in the yellowish-orange street lights and setting city sun was a rather haggard looking Spencer Reid, shoving a suspiciously unsuspicious crumpled up sack into his jacket pocket.

Frowning, you ran through every situation you could to make this not seem bad. With a snap decision, you were after him- zipping across the street and speed walking to catch up with him. Weaving through the other pedestrians, you finally caught up with him.

“Spence!” You called softly, gently tugging the elbow of his coat to slow him down. He visibly tensed, halting in his tracks, and eyes widening as he turned around to see you worriedly looking up at him.

“(Y-Y/N) w-what are you… where are… wh-why are….” He stammered, and you could see the wheels and excuses churning in his head.

“I just needed some air.” You explained, eyes on the poked out edges of the sack in his pocket. He quickly shoved it out of sight, causing you to purse your lips.

“What did yo-… did you-… how long did…” He awkwardly stuttered. Sighing, you took his hand out of his pocket.

“If you’re asking what/ if I saw. I’m hoping I didn’t see what I think I saw.” You softly scolded, trained eyes looking for anything to tell if you were too late. His eyes were alert, albeit red and puffy- which paired with his red and runny nose. His hair was messy and greasy, and his clothes were wrinkled- as if slept it. Unable to hold your gaze, he looked away guiltily. You pressed your lips into a fine line, hoping you weren’t too late.

“Spence…” You trailed off softly, hoping he didn’t mistake your sorrow for judgment, “Please tell me you didn’t…”

He was quick to answer you this time, voice quiet- ashamed, “N-not, not yet.”

There was a flash of relief, and almost instinctively, you threw yourself on the young genius. Normally, Spencer wasn’t much for physical affection, but for once, he practically melted into the embrace. He buried his face in your hair and balled his fists into the fabric on the back of your jacket. Pedestrian traffic hustled around the two of you, but you ignored them in favor of focussing on Spencer’s shuddering breath as he tried not to cry. You were soothingly patting his back, wishing JJ was here- she always knew how to comfort him, and right now you were just trying not to make things worse.

“Let’s go somewhere.” You quietly suggested.

_____

After five minutes of walking, the two of you shuffled up to Spencer’s door. You were watching him jiggle the key in the lock as you thought of how to help. The walk back had been mostly silent after you’d disposed of the Dilaudid he’d obtained. Once inside, he shrugged off his coat and hung in on the rack, which you did the same. And since his apartment was -as per usual- weirdly warm (Spencer had always run colder than most) you went ahead and shed your sweatshirt as well. You didn’t miss the change in the air, feeling Spencer’s concerned look just as you had felt Derek’s, Steve’s, and Natasha’s.

“They look worse than they feel.” You shrugged, hoping to avoid the conversation altogether. Spencer didn’t look convinced.

“As a very smart friend of mine once said, ‘You wanna lie more convincingly, or go ahead and tell me the truth’?” He asked, one eyebrow quirked. You sighed, recognizing your own words.

“I hate it when I’m right.” You muttered before truly answering him, “My ribs and my knee still hurt the worst, and the cuts are healing but still sting every now and then. I’m managing.”

Appeased with your honesty, he moved to the kitchen spouting off facts about knee and leg injuries as he went. Over his voice, you could hear him making coffee at nearly 7:30pm. He returned with a fresh cup of coffee in a mug printed with a physics joke on it and handed it to you, “I did a lot of research after I got shot in the leg.”

“I remember.” You smiled, thinking back to when Hotch basically had you babysit him to make sure he was following a doctor’s (medical doctor, you had to clarify) orders until he was cleared again. Then, there was a pause of comfortable silence while the two of you sipped your drinks. You knew you had to break the silence and bring it up.

Setting the mug down on a coaster that sat atop a stack of well-worn hardbacks, you took a deep breath, “Why tonight, Spence?”

Immediately, he tensed, the doctor frowning as he anxiously drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. His mouth opened and closed a few times as if he couldn’t get his words right before finally, he confessed, “I know we all miss Prentiss, but I just… I ju-. I just miss her so badly, (Y/N). I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Your expression faded into understanding sympathy as he collected himself before continuing, “And I know Emily wouldn’t want this, and I know I could lose my job, and I know I’m nearly 4 years clean. Believe me, I know these things, I’ve run through so many possibilities and reasons why I shouldn’t… But, it just hurts, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I just want to stop hurting, even for a little while.”

As he finished, his hazel eyes lifted to you- almost as if begging for a solution to his pain. You wished you had one for him. “It’s going to take some time, Spence. And you’re right, it hurts. But you’re not alone. Have you tried talking about it with anyone- Morgan or JJ?”

You paused, “JJ helped you a lot when you first got clean, right?”

“I tried, but I got desperate. JJ’s not answering her phone, and I’ve got to her house for the past three days. Hotch finally told me that she got called away on Pentagon business, something urgent. I didn’t want to bother Will, and didn’t want Henry to see me like this.” He explained. Something about that didn’t sit right with you, but you brushed it off and let him finish, “And no one’s heard from Derek since the funeral.”

You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts, “Well, the important things are: 1.) You’re still clean, we got rid of the supply, 2.) You’re right, Emily wouldn’t want this, and 3.) You’ve got me, and no matter the assignment, hour, whatever, if you need me, you call me. I’ll answer.”

You finished your promise with an assuring smile, watching as Spencer returned it with a characteristically awkward smile back as he nodded. Deciding it would be best not to dwell on the sad stuff, you force a brilliant smile, “Now! when was the last time you ate? I’m thinking… Indian Takeout?”

Though he already knew your strategy, he went along, chuckling, “You hate the Indian place here.”

You scoffed, mocking offense (though he was right) as you went the binder by the fridge where he stored his takeout menus, “Since when?”

Spencer snatched the binder away, protective of his meticulous organizational method (first by cuisine type, then by alphabetical order, with a color-coding system for price range, and a special sticker for delivery options), as he teased “Since you are it before going out with Garcia and JJ. And learned that Indian doesn’t pair well with ½ priced Margaritas.”

“…Right… well, I can eat rice.” You shrugged, pretending to be indifferent, but really you were just happy he was smiling again. “And for the record, at that point, nothing would have paired well with ½ priced Margs.”

_____

The next morning, you woke up on Spencer’s couch. The TV was off, which was confusing since you fell asleep to Spencer correcting the physics of Star Wars. Slowly waking up, you winced at how stiff and sore you felt, rubbing absentmindedly at your ribs. Couch + no medicine = no bueno. With a little focus, you could hear Spencer shuffling about in his bedroom. You tried for your phone, wondering how long you had slept for. Dead. So with no concept of time, you slowly sat up and allowed your sleepy mind to acclimate.

“Oh, morning.” Spencer chirped as he moved past the living room to access the kitchen for what was probably his second cup of coffee. Then he breezed back by you to collect his iconic leather messenger bag, “I would have let you have the bed, but I fell asleep in the chair.”

You waved him off before he could apologize. Trying to clear the sleep out of your voice, you quietly croaked the question, “What time is it?”

Spencer checked his watch, “7:23 AM, Hotch wants the team there ASAP, time-sensitive case, probably. “

He answered as you stepped into your shoes and weaseled into your sweatshirt. You yawned as he finished packing his messenger bag and then stood. Pulling on your coat, you announced, “Well, I suppose I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need me.”

You were about to close the door behind you when his voice caught your attention, “I’m glad you were there. The chances of us being in the same place at the same time and noticing each other are astronomically, exponentially low. But I’m glad you were there.”

You cut him off before he could thank you again, with a smile you nodded, “I am too, Spence. Be careful on your case.”

__________

Still troubled from the previous evening, you spent the walk home mostly thinking of ways to check in on Spencer- but also annoyed by how far you walked the previous night. You must have walked for three hours that night, rambling in odd patterns, because it took a full hour to walk back to your apartment. (It would have been much shorter if you hadn’t of left your public transport card at home).

Finally, at 8:30 AM, you stumbled into your apartment. After putting your dead phone on the charger, you popped some extra-strength ibuprofen and took a hot shower-which worked wonders on the sore parts of your body. Finally, as you got dressed, you fielded the dozens of texts and emails that you missed.

“Guess I’m popular this morning.” You muttered, running a towel over your hair as you read and responded to Steve’s worried messages. Then you answered Penelope’s questions about if you heard from Spencer, Derek, or JJ and if you were ok. Finally, you flipped through your emails and with a deep sigh opened one from Phil Coulson.

The subject line read, “Work to do.”

You skimmed all the attached documents, most of which were extremely redacted. From what you gathered there was a satellite crash in the deserts of New Mexico and for some reason, SHIELD was tasked with handling it. Fury had decided to send you with Coulson and Agent Barton for an undetermined length of time in the desert. Great. And you were leaving later that very afternoon. Even better.

After a quick google about the weather in New Mexico in early April, you threw together yet another go-bag. You hadn’t even unpacked the one from Boston, it sat like a hollow corpse by your closet- picked through for things you needed but left full of bloodied clothes and now irrelevant files. You stared at the bag for a moment before snapping out of the daze of painful memories and moving on to grab a fresh bag out of the hall closet. Making quick work of it, you packed both professional and comfortable clothes.

At 10 AM, you dropped the packed duffel bag by the door. As you turned away from the door you began running numbers on your schedule- it was 10 AM you had to be SHIELD headquarters at 3pm… Your thoughts were interrupted by a strong telltale knock on the door. With a sigh, you turned back around and opened the door.

Unsurprisingly, Steve stood in the doorway- wide-eyed at how fast the door had opened. Smiling, you ushered him in, closing the door behind him before moving past him and into the kitchen. You hadn’t eaten anything but white rice in the last 24 hours, and you were quite hungry.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home. Is your friend alright?” He started, following you into the apartment. You knew the underlying question wasn’t actually about Spencer, but you ignored his worry.

“Crisis averted. Sorry for going MIA, I fell asleep on his couch and my phone died.” You explained over your shoulder as you rummaged through your fridge. You frowned at the empty Chinese containers left in there, muttering a quiet, “Dammnit, Clint.”

Emerging with sandwich fixings, you presented them to him with a quirked eyebrow. He simply shook his head, so you went about making yourself a rather pathetic look meal.

“Did Fury tell you?” Steve broke the silence with a rather ominous question. You didn’t look up but furrowed your brow.

“Fury doesn’t tell me much, so probably not. Did Fury tell me what?” You questioned back, returning a few items to the fridge.

“I’ve been cleared to take physical evaluations and receive modulated training sequences from SHIELDl.” He explained, blue eyes watching your crouched figure. You were glad the refrigerator door was blocking your face- You hadn’t told the Director anything of the sort. Could be why he was sending you out to the desert, to distract you. Impatient Asshole. After your inner thoughts evened out, you wiped the surprise off your face and smiled at the soldier.

“No, he didn’t. But that’s good, you don’t have to sit around here bored all the time. I haven’t been the best tour guide lately.” You shrugged. The soldier hummed in response.

“As much as I appreciate your help, it will be nice to have something to do.” He admitted, always careful not to offend. You nodded back to him, taking a rather unladylike bite of your meager brunch. “I saw your bag by the door, you going somewhere?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m being assigned to New Mexico- super boring, middle of the desert. Something about a satellite crash.” You told him, shrugging. You were expressly stoked for the assignment, figuring it was mostly a distraction to keep you from 1.) Yelling at Director Fury for not listening, and 2.) Going after Doyle yourself, which you had already considered.

Steve nodded for a moment, before his face knitted into confusion, “Why do they need a profiler at a satellite crash?”

Your own eyebrows furrowed, you hadn’t thought about that. There were a dozen different assignments that they could task you with. Why this, what were you missing?

“You know, Rogers, that’s a good question.”

_______________

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#marvel x criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mcu x reader

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itsallavengers · 5 years

Note

gee i don't want to bother you you can 100% ignore me but it's been a shitty week panic attacks are stronger than ever and some of my friends keep making fun of my anxiety (i downplay the whole thing so it's not really their fault) could you please give me some light hearted stevetony with italian!tony? ily so much youre a blessing for this world keep being yourself

Steve was going to be honest here: he didn’t like the sun.

Bucky and Natasha would kill him for slandering the current Mediterranean summer weather like that, but it was true. He was an Irishman. His skin was pale and unused to anything above mild temperatures. Not to mention the fact that it was just damn uncomfortable to sit and sweat with no way to cool down all day. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come on this holiday with his two friends at all, actually. He didn’t like the sun, he didn’t really have the money for it, and he was currently acting as the third wheel to what could have just been Bucky & Natasha’s romantic getaway. But Bucky had asked, and said that Steve needed to take a bit of time off, so here he was.

Sweating.

It wasn’t so bad, though. While Nat was off looking around in a little local museum and Bucky was trying to sleep off the hangover from last night, Steve was sitting in a quiet cafe, reading his book and sipping on a latte. He was in the shade to prevent burning, and it was early enough in the morning that the heat wasn’t unbearable. It was actually quite nice.

There was also an incredibly beautiful young man sitting on a table a few feet to his right, nibbling a sandwich and working in a scruffy-looking notebook while he shot Steve occasional furtive glances. That was very nice too.

He looked to be in his early twenties, and clearly native to the town. They hadn’t picked a touristy spot, which was good for the culture, but bad when it came to the language barrier. And the man didn’t sport any of the typical touristy items; instead lounging around in a breezy white cotton shirt with a few buttons undone, tucked into a pair of form-fitting navy slacks and then ending with some expensive-looking loafers. Atop the dark mess of curls were some aviators, and he wore a black ring on his forefinger that contrasted wonderfully against the olive of his skin. The way he held onto his pen made his fingers flex, and occasionally he would run it over his bottom lip in thought, suck it in, frown for a second before he wrote something else down.

Yes, Steve may have been staring for a long time now. But in his defence, the man was stunning. Steve could admit he was more than a little enthralled.

He checked his watch briefly, wondering at what point this was going to get weird and he would have to either approach the other man or leave. He could order another coffee, he supposed-- but too much caffeine gave him a headache. Maybe the man was a regular here. Steve might get to see him tomorrow, maybe smile at him or something.

“hai intenzione di stare lì a fissarmi tutto il giorno o vuoi venire qui?”

Steve blinked, watching the man as he pulled the pen from his mouth and then leaned his head backward, apparently speaking to no one in particular. But then his neck rolled, and he looked Steve right in the eye, his mouth curling into a gorgeously cheeky smile. “I take it you do not speak Italian then?”

Oh. Oh, he was talking to Steve. Fuck. Okay. He spluttered a little and then sat up, resisting the urge to push his hair back or smooth out his shirt. He was calm, he was suave. “I...no,” he stumbled, shaking his head, “was that... sorry, were you talking to me?”

The man nodded, slipping sideways on his chair and then leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his hands were clasped in front of him. He was slim, but muscular. Steve could see the way his shirt smoothed over strong arms as he hunched. And now he was face on, Steve could truly get a feel for what the man looked like. Sharp jaw. Hair that fell artistically over his perfectly-proportioned face. The most beautiful hazel eyes Steve had ever goddamn seen.

“I said, are you going to sit there and stare all day or are you planning on coming over?”

Steve realised he was being spoken to only a second after he’d stopped watching the way the man’s mouth formed the words, his accent thick, but his English perfect. Steve should probably respond to that, shouldn’t he. “Well, if it’s all the same with you,” he began, before cracking a smile and then standing up. In a few strides, he was at the man’s table, slipping into the seat opposite. He was in the sun here, but he figured that he could make the sacrifice, just this once.

There was a second of silence, and then the man turned to face him again. His eyes were alight, shining in the sunlight and mingled with intrigue. “Was that an Irish accent I heard just then?” He asked, and God, even his voice was beautiful. Steve had never thought voices could be beautiful until today.

He nodded. “It was. Born and raised there ‘til my mam moved us over to America. We don’t fare quite as well in this sun as you though. Hence the shade I was in.”

“Oh. We can move?” The man waved his hand backward, but Steve was quick to shake his head, simply smiling in reassurance.

“It’s fine. I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Ah. I’m Tony.” He smiled and leaned his head into his hands, looking across the table at Steve with that fiery smile of his. His fingers traced idly over his notepad as he eyed Steve, and the writings he’d done were absolutely foreign- not even because they were written in a different language, but because they were all just complex-looking equations and diagrams and things Steve couldn’t even name. He didn’t dwell on them though. There were much more interesting things to be looking at just then.

Leaning back in his chair and throwing an arm casually across the backrest-- and no, not to flex his muscles like Bucky tried to say whenever he did that-- he let his eyes walk slowly up and down Tony’s body, before stopping for a second at his mouth. The pen was back again. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he swallowed it down hastily. That was most definitely not appropriate for the first conversation.

But Tony looked like he knew exactly what Steve was thinking anyway, because the smile widened and he took the pen back out from between his teeth again, spinning it in those agile fingers of his. “So tell me- what is an Irishman who doesn’t like the sun doing in Italy right now?” He asked, one eyebrow rising curiously.

Steve explained the situation easily, talking of Bucky and Nat, the vacation they’d all planned, Steve’s need for a little break. In turn, Tony explained how he’d ended up here, him having come from America too, but much longer ago, back when he was a child and his parents had divorced. He talked emphatically and used his hands when he spoke, and Steve found himself hanging on to every word, Tony managing to make everyday events seem like film-plots. Their conversation came easily, like one would with a long-time friend, and soon Steve realised that a whole hour had passed since he and Tony had begun talking. He blinked in surprise at his watch and then felt the back of his neck. “God, I’m gonna burn,” he muttered to himself, popping his collar up.

Tony pulled a face, clearly unimpressed by the weakness of his pale skin, but then it turned into a smile as he jumped from his seat and grabbed for Steve’s hand, tugging him upward. “I know how to cool you down,” he said enthusiastically, and Steve found himself being pulled into standing and guided out of the cafe. “How much time do you have?”

Well, Natasha wanted him to join her in the museum about ten minutes ago, so-- “no plans for the day,” he said easily, letting Tony guide them through the winding streets, their bodies brushing and their hands linked together while they navigated the people and market-stalls. Tony greeted locals as he passed them by, the Italian words rolling off his tongue easily. Steve hung on to every word he said, not knowing what he meant, but willing to listen to Tony talking like that for the rest of the goddamn day if he wanted to. It was like music.

Eventually, Steve realised Tony was leading them to the coastline, and he frowned. “I haven’t bought any swim-trunks with me,” he said warily, but Tony just laughed, turning around and walking backwards while he looked up at Steve.

“Just wear your boxers, they’ll dry off quickly once you get out!”

“I... I don’t--” but Tony was already leading them down a rickety set of wooden steps, winding down the cliff edge. It was a secluded place, and when they reached the bottom, Steve looked around in awe at the beautiful cove he’d been brought to. There was a small outcrop which slid off straight into the sea, and a few feet onward, a dusting of sand covered by the shade of a tree.

Tony beamed at him. “I come here to do work sometimes. Come, come. The water is lovely.” Without a moment of hesitation, he toed off his loafers and then skidded over the outcrop, where he then started to untuck his shirt from his pants. Steve could only watch, somewhat shocked at the man’s lack of embarrassment, as Tony quickly stripped down into his underwear, finally ending with chucking his sunglasses on top of the messy pile of his clothes. His eyes shone with knowing amusement as he looked over his shoulder at Steve. “My eyes are up here,” he commented, and in mortification, Steve hurriedly dragged his gaze away from Tony’s ass.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t--” but Tony had already turned back around, stepping off the outcrop and then splashing into the water, being submerged immediately. He came up a second later with a gasp, slicking his curls out of his face with one hand while the other clamped around the outcrop. He swam closer to Steve, who was still stood at the sidelines, a little bamboozled by the recent events.

“You joining me?” Tony asked, his arms folding on the rocks as he cocked his head at Steve. “I might need-- ah, come se dice.... a water-guard?”

“Lifeguard,” Steve said with a small grin, remembering the conversation he’d had earlier about his part-time job as a pool lifeguard when he’d been a kid in order to afford his first ever car. “And you seem to be doing okay right now.”

Tony hummed, and then very dramatically began to flail around, head dipping under the water. “Oh no!” He declared, “my legs have suddenly stopped working! If only I had someone trained to handle a situation like this to come in and save me!” He sunk below the water again, and Steve rolled his eyes and just tried not to laugh as his hands went to his shirt.

If Tony didn’t seem to think this was strange, then neither did Steve.

Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he slid in a little more calmly than Tony had done, bracing himself against the rocks and looking at the other man. Water clung to his skin, making crystal trails, pooling at the dip in his collar-bones. His hair was slicked back, but a piece had fallen into his eyes, and he tucked it behind his ear as he tread the water a few feet away.

He was right though. It really was lovely and cool.

Steve smiled, sinking under the surface for a moment in order to wet his hair. He could just about touch the surface, but Tony was considerably smaller than him, so he would have to stick to treading the water. Steve came back up with a gasp and then found himself laughing. “This is not how I imagined my day to go,” he admitted, watching Tony’s face soften.

Then, slowly, he swam forward, cutting through the water and then settling a hand on Steve’s shoulder softly. It slipped across the damp skin, and Tony watched his own fingers as they trailed across Steve’s pale shoulders. “Me neither,” Tony admitted softly, glancing up at Steve through his thick lashes, “but I’m not going to complain. I met a very hot man and got him out of his clothes in under two hours.”

That made Steve laugh. Never in a million years would he have done this back in America. Not like he even could, really. The Hudson hardly counted as a romantic spot for a swim with the person you’d only met once. But everyone said Europeans were very free-spirited. And from what Steve could see, and, uh, feel, that certainly seemed the case. Tony swam a little closer, his other hand finding Steve’s neck, winding around the side of it delicately and pulling himself in until they were chest to chest. Steve curled his own hand around the other man’s waist, taking a small breath. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been quite as affected by someone as he was with Tony. Not in his whole life.

“I want to kiss you,” Tony said, his words lilted with the accent, his skin glittering in the sunlight, and it was so damn strange for Steve to think of the fact that Tony had almost grown up in New York as the heir to a huge business like he’d spoken of earlier, all slick and hard-lined and American. This just seemed like it was where Tony belonged, far more than that life ever would be.

Steve smiled, their noses touching. His hand rose from the water, the sound tinkling melodically, and he gently took Tony’s chin in his hand, tilting it up a little more. “I want to kiss you too,” he admitted, “I want to do a lot of things, actually.”

“Hmm?” Tony’s voice was low, warm, suggestive. “You said you have no plans. I don’t either.” He dipped forward, giving Steve the barest brush of lips before pulling away a fraction again.”You can do whatever you want, tesoro.”

Wow. Those words went straight down south, and Steve swallowed, before dipping down and closing the gap between them hastily. The water swirled around them, Tony draping himself onto Steve as they embraced, and vaguely he realised that this wasn’t a private cove and anyone could walk by if they wanted, but it was still difficult to keep his actions even remotely clean when he had a pretty much naked and willing and wet Tony in his arms, sucking on his bottom lip while his hands worked over Steve’s arms. He tasted like coffee and smelled like apples, and his mouth was a devil, licking into him, nipping and sucking and making little noises when Steve touched him in the right places. It was slow, easy, relaxed. The sun shone through the clear blue sky, lighting up Tony’s face as he leaned back against the rock and shut his eyes happily. Steve wanted to work him over. Wanted to find out what his favourite colour was and how he looked spread out on a bed. Just seeing him like this was driving Steve a little mad. God only knew what would happen when they got home.

He was going to have to do a lot of apologising to Bucky and Nat tonight, because he didn’t think they were going to be seeing anything of him for the rest of the day.

Or the vacation.

ao3 / donate to my kofi

#itsallavengers writes #im sorry uve had a rough week i love u and i hope! this helped a lil #thotty italian tony helps everyone man #stevetony #Anonymous

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kahlanmars · 5 years

Text

Best friends

Yes I decided to write again! I though it was too much for me, because I'm not english and Italian is my mother tongue, but then today I was tired of studying and I said "well, why not"! I'm not tagging anyone, and I kinda don't know if it's a one shot or no, I like the best friends-but I wanna kiss you thing.

Tony Stark’s flirty behaviour was notorious. There was no woman who could say he wasn’t charming, in and out the Avengers team. He wasn’t rude or inappropriate, just smooth with every girl in the room. Natasha, the redhead assassin who glared at everyone who talked to her, coudn’t be nothing but flattered at his talking. His assistant was married to his chauffeur but she always bubbled when he talked to her.

You were no exception. You were in your twentys and he was on his forties, but you coudn’t help but smile and blush every time he entered in a room. He knew that, and he loved to play with you. It involved a lot of touching but he kinda considered you as his best friend.

You were considered the little girl of the Avengers, you were known as innocent, Steve liked being protective with you and you didn’t mind, it was a way to feel loved, Bruce was your teacher, he adored to teach you anything you wanted about scienze, Natasha was your “mom”, the older friend you could always talk to, Wanda was kind of a friend, she was nineteen, the only one who was younger than you.

Tony was different. He didn’t treat you like the others, you weren’t “the adorable one” for him in a childish way. He though you were an adult: you were twentyfour, for heaven’s sakes, you were not a child. He dated girls your age. He was an absolute hurricane when he was your age. You liked his approach, and when you were feeling down he was always cheering you up.

“Hey gorgeous” He entered in the room and it felt like the light was attracted to him. Although he wasn’t young, he was handsome. His eyes were unique, like a cherubin and devilish at the same time, his lips were so kissable, his arms and chest muscolar in a strong way, he seemed like a man who could make you scream all night and the morning after.

Although you were going to bed you suddenly completely woke up.

“Gorgeous?” Oh, you were so focused on him you forgot where you were. Relax, y/n. Don’t jump his bones, DON’T look pathetic.

“Ehi Tones”. You replied casually. Tony sat next to you, he began to run his fingers through your hair. You knew you were his favorite.

"What a nice pajama you have." Tony smirked and touched your naked legs. You were in a pair of shorts and a sushi t-shirt, ready to sleep.

"Don't mock me"

“But you are so sexy with that! How you doin’ pet?” He mumbled while he hugged you. You felt Steve’s eyes burning on you two. He didn’t like your cuddles.

“Better now” You smiled.

“Really? Am I that important?” He grinned. He was aware of how much affection you had for him. You were just friends, friends who cuddled. It wasn’t weird at all.

“The most important” You confirmed, making him happy.

“More than Steve?”

“Oh yes. He has a nice butt tho.” He pouted and you laughted.

“Liar”

“No, no lies. I’m a good girl.”

“Oh I bet you can be good”

He made you sit on his lap. He was always flirty, you shouldn’t read anything in that behaviour.

You weren’t going to face the fact that you had a crush on him. He was older. No, he was old. You were young. He was going through a bad break up with the girlfriend-of-the-month, who probably had the same age as you. Bad idea. But good perfume. You could sense it in his hair, he was intoxicating.

“Do you have to go on a mission?” You asked, your eyes closed. He began to kiss your neck. An usual friend thing, of course.

“No, not now. Just regular little missions on daily basis.”

“The Great IronMan out to catch thieves?”

“I feel useless if I don’t to anything” He complained. You were a little too busy gigglin’ for the neck kisses to pay attention to his words.

“You could feel useful rubbin’ my back”

“You spoiled girl”

“Your spoiled girl”

You knew exacly what to say to make him wrapped on your finger. But then again, he wasn’t serious. He was never serious.

“You shouldn’t feell useless Tony. You created all this. The Avengers are your creation. Fury’s too, of course but… you are the heart” You looked him in his eyes. He deserved this. Someone who treated him good. You could do this.

“You are too good to me, babygirl.” Tony kissed your cheek. “To me and for me.” You hugged him tight.

“Were you going to sleep y/n?”

You nodded and whined “Yes, little girl so tired.”

“Oh, little girl so tired? She wants to be cuddled in bed?” He was mocking you but yes, you wanted it.

“YES.”

“Yes? Do you think you deserve it?”

“Yes!”

He lifted you up, making you scream. “Now you called for it.”

“You are kidnapping me!”

“Oh you have no idea babygirl.”

#tony stark #tony stark x oc #tony stark x reader #avengers x reader #avengers #rdj imagine #tony stark x ofc #tony stark imagine #tony stark is the strongest avenger #tony fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #Avengers #anthony stark

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waves--6821 · 4 years

Text

Ardent ~ Chp. 1

- Warnings: all translations are from google translate, so we’ll see if they’re correct. The italicized words in quotations are the translated version in English. Italicized paragraphs in a series are past scenes or dreams, just to specify in case.

- I hope you like it, it took me months to actually finish it and like it somewhat.

- not my gif, off of google images from a website

Louise sat up in her small twin bed; her eyes scan her white sheets and matching quilt. She sighs to herself softly, knowing her sweet dream state was long gone and reality was there. Her hands flip the bedding away, her feet swinging over the edge of the bed to the cold wooden floor. She glanced a few feet ahead of herself, the bright sunlight flooded the small room in brightness. Her body moved to stand, moving softly into her tiny adjoining bathroom with a sink, toilet, and a small tub.

Louise pauses before her sink, her head lifting to see herself in the mirror. Her eyes glanced over her face, her smooth skin, her dark chocolate coloured hair. She freezes as she stares into her eyes, her pupil expanding and shrinking sporadically for the last minute of her time. Her hand grabs her thin drop framed glasses, and slid them onto her face. Her blue eyes focus in the mirror, her pupils normalizing after a few seconds.

Louise grabs her brush, letting the bristles calm her frizzy hair as her mind begins to daydream. Her mother’s voice drowning away as she thought of her dream, her hand lazily moving as she became lost.

‘Louise stood before a stand, the owner selling corny dogs, she paid quickly stepping away to stand on a pier. She softly takes a bite of the batter fried sausage on a stick, softly chewing as she awaited the fireworks display from a distance. She pauses, her eyes raising to see someone step next to her.

“Hello, Lou.”

“James.” She teases back, Bucky chuckles wrapping his left arm around her shoulder. She raises her free left hand, intertwining their fingers as he leaned against the pier railing.

“Did you tell Steve happy birthday?” She questions glancing at him as she went to take another bite, Bucky passing over her question to take a bite of her food before she did.

“Meanie.” Louise responds to his act, making him laugh as he swallowed.

“You know you love me.” Bucky teases, the first firework shooting into the dark night sky. The explosion makes the large crowd around them gasp, all watching as it explodes, the fire light shining in red hues as it falls back to the ground.

“I do not, Barnes.” Louise replies coyly, making him pull back offended.

“Fine, then. You get nothing tonight.” Bucky says, pulling away to leave.

“Noooo.” She speaks up, and Bucky turns to face her with a cocky smirk.

“Say it, Louisa.” He orders, making her roll her eyes as she turns to face him, the fireworks continuing behind them, lighting them in vibrant colours.

“I love you.” She gives in, making him smile as he steps up to her.

“Good, because I love yo--” ‘

“Louise! Sbrigati, è domenica!”

(Louise! Hurry up, it’s Sunday!)

Louise nods to herself in control as she readies herself to work, giving herself one last glance before entering her small room. She pulls on a soft white tea dress, as well as tying her white block heels on to wear for the day. She grabs a red waist apron, joining it with her plain black clasp wallet in the stitched pocket of it. She exits her plain white room, stepping across the upstairs of her Mother’s building to the wooden stairs that led down to the first floor of the building.

Louise straps and ties the apron across her abdomen, stepping down the stairs quickly and stepping out into a large bakery kitchen. She smiles widely at the two short elderly women who were working the stove and mixing area. Louise steps to a slightly taller woman with lightening dark hair, she grabs the woman's shoulders and kisses her lightly tanned cheek.

“Good morning, Madre.” Louise says ‘mother’ in Italian, her Mother smiling at her use of it.

“Buongiorno Luisa.” (Good morning, Luisa.)

Her Mother replies, handing Louise a small tray of drizzled biscotti(s) to set into the front display. Louise gives her a light smile as she steps out into the front of her Mother’s bakery.

The large surrounding front room a light pastel yellow color, delicate plants, and family pictures featured the walls. The front was opened by large glass windows with display cases of desserts, pastries, and breads. Several customers sat at tables around the room, enjoying their food, and conversing. Many more were entering to buy to order. Louise smiled at another elder woman who ordered the register, and at a young teen girl who helped arrange orders. She bypassed the young girl, sliding the small tray next to other flavored and decorated biscotti(s).

Louise steps away, cleaning a few tables as some guests left and a few more enter. A short-ish man stepped in, his body scrawny and his blonde hair kept tidy on his head. He smiled towards her, Louise returning it as she noticed the man as he stepped to the display case.

“Hello, Steve.” She says, giving him a smile as she moves to step behind the display case.

“Morning, Louise.” He replies, and she grins.

“The usual?” She asks, already grabbing a small white paper bag to slide bread, and a few desserts in.

“Of course.” Steve replies, his height only a couple inches shorter than herself. She slides a few pieces of fresh bread, a few biscotti(s), and some small sugar dusted cookies. Louise rolls the opening closed, sliding the display case closed and moving around the case to hand him the bag.

“Make sure Bucky doesn't eat all of the cookies this time. He goes through them like mints.” Louise jokes as Steve chuckles, stepping away to exit and leave the building. She watches as he steps down the Brooklyn sidewalks of New York, a few other men follow him. Louise steps out quickly giving a look to the woman at the register as she unties her apron and lays it behind the counter.

Louise runs out from the back of the bakery, seeing Steve from an alley behind the bakery building. She jogs forward, exiting the alley at the other side of the buildings. Steve had dropped his bag, talking back to two taller men who had followed him. One punched his face, and Steve hit him back before being shoved again. Louise steps forward pointing her finger at one of the men.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She shouts, the man stepping back as she keeps her composure.

“Get out of here, lady.”

“No. Why don’t you move away from us, sciocchi?”” She says back, the last bit italian unintentionally.

“What did you call us?” The second man asks, stepping forward.

“Fools. Now move away.” She pushes back, after helping Steve stand who tried to fight back.

“Now I don’t think so.” The second man adds, moving closer to her.

“Bene.” (Well) She sighs, glancing back at Steve. Steve shoves the first man away, catching Louise off guard as the second man steps to her. She gasps, the man grabbing her left arm.

Louise jerks away, stomping the man’s foot with her right heel. Switching her feet quickly as she swings kicks the man in the privates. The fall to his knees, her right heel kicks his face to the ground to keep his grimy hands away.

Louise kicks the first man’s back, making him fall forward from the hard force, as Steve was against the alley wall with his lip bleeding.

The first man shoots back up coming after them, as Louise grabs her right heel off her foot quickly. Running footsteps sounding behind the man as she launched the heel at the man’s face, hitting him into the wall as he fell to the ground. A man stands where the first one had stood, Louise and Steve looking up to recognize who it was.

“I could have had him.” James, Bucky, speaks up. The duo glancing across his face then his blue buttoned shirt and light jeans.

“We had this.” Louise jokes, Steve chuckling as Bucky grabbed her heel from the ground.

“If you two would stop getting into fights, I wouldn’t have to-” “We’ll let you beat them next time, James.” Louise responds using his name instead of the nickname. He rolls his eyes and moves to lift her into his arms.

“I’m not letting you walk around in Brooklyn without your shoe.” Bucky replies as they walk back to the bakery.

Steve walks in to go wash his face as Bucky sets Louise down on a bench outside the bakery. He kneels and grabs her right leg, his left hand runs up the back of her right calf. They share a look, as he slides her heel on and ties it softly. He moves to stand back up, keeping the eye contact, as Steve exits with another bag of food. Bucky looks away with a slight smile as Louise stands to watch them off.

“Stay out of trouble, boys.” Louise says with a smile, as Steve waves bye and Bucky stares at her for a second.

“We’ll see, Louise.” He replies as they leave down the sidewalk and Bucky begins to eat all of them cookies inside the bag. She shakes her head as she goes to enter the bakery again and wash up.

- The CA divider was made by @writeyourmindaway, I believe, its amazing btw.

- Let me know if you enjoy the first part and if you wanna be tagged.

#captain america #captain america the first avenger #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #peggy carter #howard stark #the howling commandos #super soldier #hydra #shield #red skull #love #fluff #angst #bucky barnes x oc

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 4 years

Text

A View To A Winchester (Part 2)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. No idea how long it will be, but I’ve got time on my hands. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle. I’m thinking it will go the fluffy route, with some angst, and maybe some smut down the line. Not sure yet.

Section Word Count: 1,976

Section Warnings: mild language

~~~~~

A tune she’d heard that morning on streaming radio flooded her head during the shower. The humming continued as she dressed into jeans and a comfy, form fitting Henley. It was an attempt at looking semi-presentable, even if she had no one to impress. She twisted her long brown wet hair into a bun and fastened it with a banana clip. A slathering of lotion and sliding into flats was close to her weekday work routine. Maybe I’ll take mom out for a shopping trip.

“Giulia? What you doin’?”

Oh my God. This is truly going to be a reversion to my adolescence. She exited the bedroom and called down the stairwell. “Took a shower. What’s up? You didn’t make dinner already, did you?” The smart watch on her wrist noted it was only a little after two. “I’m going to gain ten pounds this week if you don’t slow down on the cooking, Ma.” Julie traipsed down the steps.

Her mother stood by the landing, both hands on the railing’s edge. She blew air out of her mouth. “You’re too skinny anyway.” Julie noticed that look on her mother’s face. She waited with dread for her next sentence. “I met your neighbor.”

Oh no. A mixture of excitement and fear flooded Julie’s veins. She walked past her mother and glanced out the sliding door. The Impala’s back.

“What neighbor?”

A hand landed on her mother’s hip. She shuffled her not quite five foot frame over to the door and pointed with the other hand. “Dean.” Her italian accent added an “ah” to the end of his name for emphasis. “Nice lookin’ man.”

Julie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”

“That’s what he said. I told him you are a ‘ermit and don’t leave the house much.”

“Ma…”

“It’s true. He laughed and said he’s the same. He’s got a nice smile, Giulia.” Her mother’s eyes lit up.

Might try to snatch him up for herself. She couldn’t help but smile at the effect Dean had on her mother, too. The smile fell at the unease building up inside. “What else did you tell him?”

Her mother shrugged. “Not much.”

God, that means he knows my whole life story.

“Wes was out, too, we were all talking.” Julie opened her mouth to say that wasn’t reassuring, but her mother raised a hand to silence any commentary. “Anyway, he lives by himself in that house.” Hands pointed and dipped, performing gesture acrobatics as she continued. “He said he was going to mow his lawn today. I told him that was good because his yard needed it.” Julie groaned and placed a hand over her face. “I told him you didn’t have anyone to mow your grass and how long it was getting. So, he might come around and take care of it.”

“Ma!” Julie waved both hands, defeated. So, now I’m a pathetic hermit. “I told you I was going to find someone to take care of the landscaping and lawn soon. Why are you begging a neighbor I haven’t even met yet?”

“You’ve got too much going on, having to help me this week along with work. And, if you do hire someone, they’re going to charge an arm and a leg. You’re already paying for the mess at my house that we didn’t cause. And, everything with Steve...” She cursed in Italian. “I didn’t beg anyone. He was nice enough to offer.”

Julie narrowed her eyes and sighed.

“I’ll cook him a bowl of pasta with some of those meatballs and sauce I made yesterday. That will be a fair trade.” She smiled. “Giulia, he’s really nice looking.”

“Ma…” Julie mumbled.

“He’s your age.” She seemed extremely pleased with herself. The roar of a mower got both their attention. “There. See. He does what he says he’s going to do. Already out there mowing his grass.”

Julie followed her mother’s quick steps to the glass. They both peered out. Dean Winchester steered a lawnmower around the perimeter or his thirty by forty patch of yard.

Her mom’s hand patted her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen. He looks like a man that likes to eat.”

Dean made his way toward the edge of the fence that divided both their yards. She studied his profile, concentrating on the task at hand. The pair of jeans he wore, faded and loose, hung lower on his hips than the pair of well fitting ones she’d seared into her brain. His grey t-shirt made up for it. The fabric was tight. Everywhere. Even riding up a bit to display some skin around his waist. And his biceps. Jesus. The muscles in his arms were threatening to rip the sleeves to shreds like the Incredible Hulk.

His gaze rose up from the mower and shot over in her direction. She cursed and jumped behind the curtain. Smooth. What are you going to do if he does come over and mow your lawn, Ex-Lax? You’ll have to talk to him, thank him. You don’t want to come across as an unappreciative bitch.

The lawnmower engine turned into a gut-twisting countdown. The longer it went on, the sooner the possibility that it would turn off. She paced in the living room, out of view from the glass door. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. Anxiety built up and reached a painful crescendo when the engine died down.

“Shit.” She whispered. Her brain worked out the logistics. He’s gonna have to go around the corner and up the street with the damn mower. Then, up the drive. Or, maybe he’ll start in the front? Nah. It’ll be too much trouble. He probably just said it to placate mom. She peeked out the glass to locate him. When she didn’t see him, her heart sped up again. He might be in the shed by his driveway. Looking, she saw the door to the detached shed alongside the Impala was still open. Yeah, he’s probably putting the mower back.

Then, Dean appeared. He rounded the corner of her house, having walked up her driveway and stopped. He looked over to the sliding glass door. She gulped.

“Dammit, Ma.” She whispered. A deep inhale prepared her to go out and introduce herself. She swung the door open and slammed shut behind her harder than intended. Her body tensed at the sound. Smooth. It took every ounce of courage for her to turn in Dean’s general direction. He was twenty feet from her. The air around her felt like it shot up twenty degrees due to the proximity of his body.

Dean waved from the driveway. “Hiya. Did your mother fill you in on the lawn service scheduled for today?” The deep voice questioned as he eyed her with hesitation. He took a tentative step on the concrete path and strolled closer.

She smiled and dug her hands in her back jean pockets. “I believe you may have been unknowingly duped into manual labor. I’m sorry.”

Dean flashed a smile and Julie broke into little pieces. He waved both dirty hands in the air. Grass stains criss-crossed over the chest of his grey shirt where he’d wiped. He was a sweaty masterpiece. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He shrugged.

“I’m Julie,” she nodded.

He nodded back. “Dean.” He took a few more steps, then stopped an arm’s length in front of her. Jesus. Was he for real? He was even more gorgeous in high definition. Her heart might stop if he got closer. His eyes locked with hers for some seconds, before his gaze did a quick assessment, traveling down her figure and back up. Then, he licked his lips and smiled at full wattage. Beating stopped. “Your mom mentioned she’s staying with you while some stuff gets taken care of at her house. Nice of you.”

Julie shook her head, forcing a language she thought was English spill from her mouth in response. Words escaped that she seemingly had no control over. “No brainer. We’ll drive each other nuts by tomorrow. But, you do what you have to for family.”

“Not everyone would.” He muttered in soft response, still smiling. “Well, I’m going to get started in the front, then shoot up the right side of the yard, and wrap around back.” His finger drew his plot of attack in the air.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it.” The sound of the sliding door behind Julie forced her eyes shut. Please don’t embarrass me anymore than you have, Ma.

“Dean-ah! Thank you so much for this!”

“No problem, Brigida.” Julie grinned at the way he pronounced her mother’s name. “What are neighbors for?” He smiled.

“Do you like pasta and meatballs?”

“I like all things Italian.” He grinned and gave Julie a side glance. She felt another blush racing over what she knew was her already red and inflamed cheeks.

“Good. Giulia will bring some out for you to eat under there when you’re done.” Julie knew her mom was pointing to the covered patio.

He waved a hand. “That’s not necessary…”

“Yes, it is. You’ll stay and eat something.” Before he could protest again, she added, “It’s the least we could do, right Giulia?”

Julie smiled. “Of course, Ma. Please, Dean, let us occupy even more of your time today.” The sarcastic tone was lost on her mother, as usual.

Dean, however, laughed. “Twist my arm. I’ll have even more reason to finish in a hurry.”

“Good. Giulia, will you help me in the kitchen?”

“Sure, be right there.”

Her mom smiled and left them alone.

Julie shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I enjoy mowing.” He shrugged and stared at her again for a few seconds. “Besides, it’s been forever since I’ve had someone cook for me.”

She smiled. “Well, you’re in for a treat, then. My mom is an amazing cook.”

He clapped his hands together. “Awesome.” He pointed to the driveway. “Gonna get started.” He nodded and disappeared.

Julie exhaled and escaped into the house.

I believe I’ve just been set up by my mother on a date with my hot neighbor.

~~~~~

“I raised you better, Giulia.”

“Ma, I get the hospitality gene. It’s just not something you can shake.” Julie grabbed two water bottles from the fridge. “But, the silver tray… really? Where did you even find that?”

Brigida gave her the side eye. “I found it in one of the boxes in the basement you haven’t bothered to unpack yet.”

Julie nodded, peeking out the front bay window by the breakfast nook. The mower’s engine could be heard off to the left of the house. She imagined Dean riding up the ten foot wide patch of lawn and popping around the corner any moment. “The wedding gifts box,” Julie mumbled. “Ten years worth of stuff that never got used during our entire time together. I should have donated it instead of hauling it here.”

“Ah, you’re always throwing things out.” Brigida deposited two pasta bowls atop the tray lined with a placemat. The aroma of tomatoes, basil and garlic overwhelmed the kitchen in the best way possible.

“Donating isn’t throwing out.”

“It is when you don’t even use the stuff first.”

“Ma…”

Her mom’s fingers wrapped over Julie’s wrist. “Giulia, do your mother a favor. Enjoy some time with a nice lookin’ man. I’d like to see you smile again.” Moments passed and Brigida’s eyes shined like glass in the sunlight pouring through the window. Her lids blinked in quick succession.

The request tugged at her heart. “Okay, Ma.” Brigida nodded and dipped a saucepan over the bowls. Three enormous meatballs were ladled in one. “I’m guessing that one’s for Dean?”

“You can have as many as you want. But, you’ll tell me just one like you always do.”

Julie rested her chin on the top of her mom’s head and gave her a side squeeze. “I love you, Ma.”

“Watch the sauce.” She scolded.

Part 3

Series Page

#dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean x ofc #spnfanficpond #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #spn fanfic series

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endof-theline · 5 years

Text

AU Yeah August | Day Nine: Restaurant

Tony found out a restaurant he loves that reminds him of home, it's too bad he kept it a secret from his team.

On Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182018

It was a Tuesday night and once again, Tony had disappeared out like every Tuesday and Saturday night. Usually he tells the team where he’s off to or at least tells JARVIS so if they ask they can know, but this weekly occurrence was apparently a secret because either JARVIS didn’t know where Tony had gone or had been told not to tell anyone where he had gone.

The team was full of spies so it had come to them to follow where Tony goes but they weren’t too sure they wanted to possibly break his trust like that, their relationship had finally began to settle down and smooth out, they didn’t want to wind up back at square one just because they were being nosy. Since they hadn’t tried it before, they decided to ask Tony what he was doing when he left the tower.

Tony emerged onto the communal floor around midday, he hadn’t gotten back until early in the morning and slept his way through the morning, Natasha kissed his cheek as he sat down on the sofa between her and Clint who wrapped an arm around him to pull him in close.

“Why we being all affectionate today?” Tony yawned but nuzzled into the archer’s side sleepily, his eyes drooping still, Steve took a glance at the three of them and rolled his eyes fondly from behind the sofa, reaching over to ruffle Tony’s hair making him whine “Why? What have I done wrong?”

“You’ve not done anything wrong, but we did want to ask you a question” Sam spoke up from where he was sitting with Bruce on a different sofa, Steve, Bucky and Thor joined them with Bucky sitting with Sam and Bruce and Steve and Thor curled up together on the remaining sofa.

“Oh?” Tony made a noise of interest and sat up a little instead of practically falling back to sleep on Clint’s lap “If I’m not in trouble why do you guys look so serious, Steve’s got his mission face on and so does Bucky?”

“We wanted to ask where you go on Tuesdays and Saturdays, you always tells us where you’re going if it’s literally to go grab something from your room. It’s just- unnerving I suppose” Clint explained to him and felt the second Tony’s body tensed up, ready to flee, so he gently squeezed him to side to try and make him feel less attacked “We’re not trying to make you feel like you can’t have private stuff, but it’s a little weird to not know where you are at night”

“I’m sorry” Tony said straight away and flinched when Sam let out a small sigh, shutting his eyes for a brief moment “I’m not cheating on you guys if that’s what you’re worried about, I know the papers all say different and they say I have a record of it, which I don’t by the way, I wouldn’t ever do that, but-”

“Sweetheart, no one was accusing you of cheating on us. Besides between Super Soldiers and Super Spies, you think we wouldn’t have figured you out if you were” Steve cooed over at him and gave a grin making Tony smile a little back, nerves slightly settled “You always come back smelling of food, but never of someone else or a perfume or aftershave that none of us wear”

“We’re not demanding answers, Tones, if you don’t want to tell us or feel like you can’t right now, that’s okay too. We all hide little things, this relationship is new and we’re all trying to smooth out the rough edges of it so if you feel like you want things to settle more before telling us then that’s fine too” Bucky stood up and cupped Tony’s cheek with a smile on his face, he knew what wanting to hide parts of his life was probably better than the rest, possibly with the exception of Natasha.

Tony calmed down quite quickly after Bucky’s little speech and just hid his face into Clint’s shoulder as he thought, the rest of the team looked at him sympathetically before settling down and switch the TV on to take the focus off Tony. Clint nodded at them when he felt Tony’s body melt against his side now that he had relaxed, Tony shifted to whisper in his ear.

“I don’t think I can say yet, will they be mad at me?” Tony asked nervously and sunk further into Clint’s side when the archer ran his hand up Tony’s side under his shirt.

“No one will be mad Tones, do you understand why is weird for us?” Clint murmured back to him and when Tony didn’t give an answer he continued “You’re a very open person with us, it’s just a little weird for you to have something very close to your chest”

“Oh, do you think I should tell people?” Tony looked up to him, the archer despite being one of their best spies always had very expressive eyes when it came to the people he cared about.

“Not until you’re ready to tell us” Clint hummed and looked down to Tony, letting him see the seriousness on his face and Tony studied him for a second before nodding once and settling down with a yawn escaping him.

Tony threw his heavy coat on over his clothes and hummed and hawed for a moment before going down to the communal floor, after the conversation they had on Wednesday Tony was going to feel bad if he let himself disappear tonight.

Everyone was hanging around as Tony entered the space, all of them took note of Tony’s clothes which clearly showed that he was leaving which made them smile a little. Natasha came up to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he passed her, he reached out and grabbed her hand for a proper kiss.

“I’m off out, Nat, probably be back late” Tony told her quietly making her smile happily, her other hand coming up to sort his hair out “That okay?”

“Of course not, котенок, have a good time” Natasha cooed softly before squeezing his hand and walking away, Tony stared at her for a second before turning back to the others and accepting the kisses as he passed by everyone.

“I’m going out guys, I didn’t want to just leave without telling you guys this time” Tony said before Bruce gave him a hug, the scientist had been working hard for the last couple days so he was on his way to bed already “Rest well, Brucie Bear”

“Have fun Tones” Bruce chirped happily as best he could before sliding off of Tony and walking to the elevator, Tony went around the group and got kisses from all of them before leaving the Tower.

Tony slipped off his coat and changed into his uniform before rushing into the kitchen, loving the noise and bustle of the kitchen like always. The smell of it always reminded him of his mother and perhaps that’s why he adored working in the little Italian restaurant so much.

He had found the place after his time with the Ten Rings and he was craving something to remind him of his home, the smell had interested him and as soon as he walked in, he walked into a fast paced argument in Italian that sounded so much like his mother and her sister that he let himself just stand in the entrance in silence, just listening to their voices.

A few years down the line, the business wasn’t doing as well as it had been and the small family run restaurant were talking about having to close down, in all the years Tony had been coming he had never spoken Italian to them or admitted that he could understand them when they called him ‘The Upset, American boy’ whenever he visited them.

“I can help” Tony said in Italian, most of the family didn’t speak much English anyway, all of them whipped their heads around to stare at him “I could buy the building so you could still be here, I’ll pay you”

“Little, American boy, you can speak Italian?” The father asked amazed while the mother looked embarrassed as she realised he understood all of her compliments, Tony just nodded with a smile.

“My Mama was Italian before she passed away” He explained sadly and the mother rushed to his side and held his shoulders “When I came here I had been tortured and I wanted to be reminded of home, I felt safe here for the first time since coming back to America”

And that was that, Tony brought the building, the family kept running it and one stormy night, Tony came into the kitchen and watched them move for a while before sitting in the corner and held himself as he squeezed his eyes shut to avoid getting the flashbacks that had been playing in his head all day. The father had pulled him up and set him to work saying if he was going to make the floor wet, he might as well be useful.

Every Tuesday and Saturday when Tony goes missing, he’s working with his found Italian family in their restaurant, helping cook after he had been taught all of their recipes and even teaching them one of his mother’s that he knew by heart that they had added to their menu on Maria’s birthday. He adored cooking as it gave him something with a pattern to work on with his hands, it took his mind away from reality and he got to enjoy working hard with the people he had fallen in love with as a family.

That’s why after a particularly hard mission for the team, most people were injured - including Tony - and exhausted but hungry. Sam tried to get Tony to sit back down when he stumbled into the kitchen wearily, but got shrugged off as Tony gathered all of the ingredients he needed for his Mama’s Carbonara. The team went silent as they watched how methodically Tony worked, he had never cooked for them and actually told them in the past that he didn’t know much about cooking.

They all sat around the table to watch Tony work, the man seemed to be in his own world and forgot all about his stab wound, he glanced over at the table and smiled shyly before plating up enough dinner for all of them and serving them shyly.

“Hope you guys like it” Tony ducked his head and put his plate down as he sat down, he kept his eyes on the group even as he ate, too shy to ask if they liked his cooking and too nervous to want the answer.

“Tony, this is fantastic, where did you learn to cook like this?!” Bruce exclaimed, he was one of the only ones who hadn’t been hurt in the battle but he did have to listen to the whole thing go down.

“Um, my- I’m half Italian, my Mama taught me when I was a kid and, um, I cook on Tuesdays and Saturdays” He squeaked out, avoiding their eyes before he couldn’t anymore and had to look up to them fearfully, all of them looked stunned but were smiling brightly at him “I cook at an Italian place I found when I came back from Afghan and needed something like home, they were going to have to close because they weren’t getting enough customers and most of them don’t speak great English so I bought the building and I pay them, but they taught me to cook more”

“You are incredible, doll” Bucky breathed out in a wowed breath, the others all making noises of agreement before Sam, who was closest to him, pulled him into a kiss that was deeply passionate.

Tony limited his visits down to once a week and the spare day was now spent cooking for his boyfriends and girlfriend, also known as the rest of the Avengers. He even invited the team to the restaurant and introduced them to his family, blushing and whining as he was teased by both sides. Safe in the knowledge that his mother would have loved this for him.

#au yeah august #eotl writes #poly avengers #tony stark #Steve Rogers #clint barton #natasha romanoff #thor #bruce banner #sam wilson #Bucky Barnes #stories #fanfiction

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years

Text

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

I'm sorry to treat Larry and Sergey as one person. If you start from successful startups, and it seems to me the increasing cheapness of starting a startup—so important that morale alone is almost enough to determine success.1 I dislike being on either end of it they had built a real, working store.2 People started to dress preppy, and kids who wanted to seem rebellious made a conscious effort to insulate the other founder s from the details of the process. Nor did they work for big companies I propose the following experiment. But at least you know where the seam is, and the next you're doomed. If you happen to be that type of founding team, you're effectively a single founder when it comes to empathy are practically solipsists. This was why they were trying to get good grades to impress employers, within which the employees waste most of their money from a few technologies that turned out to be bad.

A few years ago an Italian friend of mine travelled by train from Boston to New York via Memphis. Ambitious people started to think of ideas. That may come into it.3 That sort of thing you'd expect Google to do.4 Organic ideas feel like inspirations. Raising money is not when you need it, or make it longer, or make it longer, or make it longer, or make it longer, or make the windows smaller, depending on the application. And getting rejected will put you in a slightly awkward position, because as you'll see when you start fundraising, the expected value of an investor who won't lead is zero, so talk to such investors last if at all.5 Why doesn't someone make x? I think there will still be a good thing for investors that this is the exact moment when technological progress stops. This essay is derived from a guest lecture at Harvard, which incorporated an earlier talk at Northeastern. To evaluate whether your startup is worth investing in.6 This of course gave empathy a bad name, and I think they're onto something.

If an investor says they're ready to, but there's usually some feeling they shouldn't have to—that their startup will be huge—and convincing anyone of something like that. But a deadline any shorter is a sign they're not even thinking about the question at all. It's hard for anyone much younger than me to understand the theory of computation.7 With the rise of large corporations. Problems Why is it so important to work on a problem you have? Every investor has some track they need to get the company rolling. Back button.8 Beware valuation sensitive investors.9

One is that you will yourself misunderstand your work. No one had to promote C, or Unix, or HTML. It's a good idea, and I expect this to be as true in a hundred years. It was a theoretical exercise, an attempt to create a more elegant alternative to the Turing Machine. No one is going to discover those.10 The only external test is time. I'm old enough to remember that era; the usual term for people with their own microcomputers was hobbyists. Steve may not literally design them, but seems a mark of incompetence. For example, open source software have in common is that they deal with questions that have definite answers, like how to convince investors of things they're not convinced of themselves?11

Acting in off-Broadway plays just doesn't pay as well as figuring out how to do it. It wouldn't be the first to make something, it helps them be decisive.12 Now, they said, the absolute fastest they could get code released on the production servers before lunch. Thousands of companies run by their founders were merged into a couple hundred lines of code, which can be a dubious measure, but in fact the data was almost certainly safer in our hands than theirs.13 When you scan down the list, and indeed, that we would not want to repeat.14 If you have the resources, it's more elegant to think of all phone calls as one kind of thing. Founders who raise money at phase 2. In both painting and hacking there are some people whose names come up in conversation and everyone says He's such a great guy?

If you give up most of the giant companies were still focused on finding new ways to add features with hardware, not just because it pleased users, but also burn your reputation with those investors. And why is it hard to get email out of your inbox? This too is a trend we see happening already: many recent languages are compiled into byte code. The reason those stimuli caused those founders to start companies was that their experiences had prepared them to notice the opportunities they represented. But remember that we already have almost fifty years of history behind us. Basically, Apple bumped IBM and then Microsoft stole its wallet. You don't release code late at night and then go home. As Yahoo discovered, the area covered by this rule is to avoid messing up the series A, there's obviously an exception if you end up with a world in which high school students think they need to.15 And there is another class of problems which inherently have an unlimited capacity to soak up cycles: image rendering, cryptography, simulations.16 I don't find that I'm eager to learn it.17 Really good languages aren't like that.18

Notes

The person who understands how to be like a VC who got buyer's remorse, then work on a consumer price index created by bolting end to end a series A round, though I think I know of no one trusts that. Some VCs will offer you an asking price. When I talk about the Airbnbs during YC is how much they lied to them till they measure their returns.

For sufficiently small audiences, it would take up, how little autonomy one would have. It was only because like an undervalued stock in that water a while to avoid that. University Press, 1983. Alfred Lin points out, it's hard to avoid sticking.

But becoming a police state. After the war, tax receipts have stayed close to the decline in families eating together was due to I. Then it's up to his surprise when, in 1962.

Good and bad technological progress to areas where Apple will be lots of exemptions, especially if you seem like a VC is interested in you, they'll have big bags of cumin for the linguist and presumably teacher Daphnis, but we do at least 10 minutes more. When you fund a startup with a company grew at 1. On the verge of the 70s never drew this curve.

One way to avoid becoming an administrator, or at least what they say this is one way in which practicing talks makes them overbuild: they'll create huge, overcomplicated agreements, and they unanimously said yes. The banks now had to work than stay home with them.

Morgan's hired hands. Founders are tempted to ignore what your body is telling you and the average NBA player's salary at the time 1992 the entire period since the mid twentieth century, art as stuff. 3 minutes, then over the internet. Distribution of alms, and their hands thus tended to be younger initially we encouraged undergrads to apply, and not to need common sense when interpreting it.

If you want to create wealth with no environmental cost.

Many of these, because living at all. If someone speaks for the spot as top sponsor. For these companies substitute progress for revenue growth with the earlier stage startups, because they know you'll have less room for startups to kill.

But that oversimplifies his role. One YC founder told me how he had more fun in this they're perfect. 7% of American kids attend private, non-corrupt country or organization will be coordinating efforts among partners.

Inside their heads, which usually revealed more than most people come to them.

When we got to the wealth they generate. College English Departments Come From? MSFT, having sold all my shares earlier this year.

When I was a kid and as a type II startups neither require nor produce startup culture. People only tend to have been peculiarly vulnerable—perhaps partly because users hate the idea of evolution for the next year they worked together mostly at night, and journalists—have the least important of the grad students they admit each year are long shots are people whose applications are perfect in every way, they'd have taken one of them, initially, to drive the old car they had to pay the bills so you can fix by writing library functions. I think that's because delicious/popular.

Naive founders think Wow, a day job.

After a while ago, the effort that would help Web-based applications. Unfortunately, not conquest.

But because I think so. I say the raison d'etre of prep schools is to how Henry Ford got started in New York, people who make things: what ideas did European culture with Chinese: what ideas did European culture have in 1800 that Chinese culture didn't, they seem like noise.

As I was a false positive if the students did well they do for a smooth one. Maybe it would have seemed a miracle of workmanship. Historically, scarce-resource arguments have been sent packing by the fact that you're paying yourselves high salaries.

Because what they're wasting their time on applets, but that's overkill; the Depository Institutions Act of 1936. VCs miss. If the Mac was so violent that she decided never again. And yet when they decide you're a YC startup you can ignore.

You can get rich by preserving their traditional culture; maybe people in the ordinary variety that anyone wants to see what new ideas you're presenting. Incidentally, the task to write about the team or their determination and disarmingly asking the right startup. They hate their bread and butter cases.

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