Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by El Taco Taco
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El Taco Taco Schist happens.

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They were calling it ‘Fury’s Big Week’ in hushed whispers all throughout the helicarrier. It was a cute name; classic S.H.I.E.L.D. understatement for the latest series of world changing disasters. It let them feel in control—after all, the Big Week wasn’t the worst they’d ever faced, and it was over. It was a lie, but a necessary one. So when Hill brought drinks by her cramped quarters to ‘celebrate surviving that clusterfuck’, Natasha simply opened the door wider and let her in. After all, it hadn’t been just Fury’s big week.

“If I never have to go to New Mexico again, it’ll be too soon,” Maria scoffed, raising a bottle to her lips, sprawled across Natasha’s small loveseat. Natasha kicked a leg out along the floor, leaning forward to refill her small tumbler. Maria stretched out, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I’ve got to finish? My desk is literally buried in it.”

“You didn’t have fun mopping up after literal aliens?” Natasha quipped, leaning back on a hand, idly swirling her drink with the other. “Come on Hill, where’s your sense of wonder?”

“It ran off somewhere after the fifth local tried to corner me with a crazed conspiracy theory,” Maria muttered, clearly unamused. Natasha snorted into her drink.

“A crazed conspiracy theory that hits a little too close to the truth?” She asked, looking up at the exhausted brunette. Maria groaned, throwing her head back. Natasha offered a wicked little laugh, dodging the bottlecap that Hill tossed at her head.

“Don’t remind me,” Maria took a long swig of her drink as they sat in companionable silence. “Fury says you’re heading out again.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Natasha mused, raising her glass to the light to watch the light catch across the crystal. “It should be fun; it’ll be a nice change of pace from Stark and Harlem.”

Maria nodded, clearly satisfied with this answer. The silence set in once again, both women lost to their own thoughts, drinking as the dimming sunlight traced a path across the table. Natasha breathed in the quiet,

“It’s getting late,” Natasha said when Maria placed her third empty bottle on the table. She nodded, rising to her feet, nimble fingers collecting her things. Rising as fluid as water, Natasha caught the empty bottles by the neck, silent footfalls accompanying Hill to the door. “Don’t drown in your paperwork.”

Maria’s lips quirked to one side, her dark brow arching as she appraised Natasha. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, and then reconsidered it. Instead, she offered a quiet nod, boots clicking along metal floors, as she disappeared into the bowels of the helicarrier.

The bottles clinked when they were dropped into the bin. The sun had finally set, and only black clouds filled the glass. Natasha navigated the small room in darkness—red labeled bottle finding a home in a cupboard, her crystal glass wiped clean and tucked into a secure box that was slid into a drawer and locked. Everything was still and shadowed.

She hadn’t meant to stay. She’d delivered her report to Fury as soon as she’d arrived, and received her orders in his next breath. Moscow called for her, to play a familiar game with another ex-KGB. She had meant to pack a bag, stop by a safehouse and make her way across the world in the morning. Instead, she’d dropped her gear on her bunk and let Hill distract her with drinks and conversation.

Natasha locked her quarters after stringing up her security wires. This was S.H.I.E.L.D., one of the most secure places on Earth, but old habits died hard. She ghosted through the carrier, taking to ducts that were never meant to provide passage for people, that Natasha had long since become familiar with. She climbed, muscles shifting, hands finding holds along rivets and creases as she moved ever higher.

Pale fingers eased open a small ventilation cover, guiding it aside. Natasha slipped out to the familiar deck, the wind roaring in her ears. She crept along the small walkway, footsteps solid as she ducked into the quiet nook she’d found her first week with S.H.I.E.L.D. as an asset, not a prisoner. The helicarrier was filled with secret spaces, both intentional and quirks of construction alike. Natasha had meticulously mapped all of them, but this one was her favorite.

From here she could watch the world, glittering lights shimmering through wisps of clouds. The room—if it could be called that—was more an enclosed space between decks, tucked behind the armored plating, accessible only from the exterior of the ship. It was ventilated and the thick glass told Natasha that it had been purposefully built in. Perhaps the engineers had known that the spies of S.H.I.E.L.D. would need nigh-on inaccessible hidey holes throughout the helicarrier. She hoped those engineers had been given a bonus for their foresight.

Natasha swung herself onto the I-Beam with the best view, settling against the window to watch the eastern seaboard far below. Curling into her loose, grey sweater, she tucked a legging clad leg beneath her, the other foot dangling over the beam. The engines hummed through the steel walls, clouds whispering by, kissing the window with raindrops.

She breathed deep, and let herself believe that Fury’s Big Week was over, if only for a night.
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by El Taco Taco
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El Taco Taco Schist happens.

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In all his many years, the stars of the Yggdrasill had never seemed so cold. As a child, he had turned his gaze towards them, certain of his place among them. He would be King of Asgard, protector of the nine realms, and stand tall among those burning stars. It had been a truth as sure as the blood in his veins On every battlefield, he had known that he was fated for glory, that lightning was born of stars and dust and that he was a colossus in the guise of flesh and blood.

Now, Thor turned his gaze skyward and knew how very small he was. The stars burned like ice, infinite and remote, and there was no dust in his veins. How frail he was, standing on the edge of the shattered Bifröst Bridge, so close to being swallowed by the cosmos. Falling would be such a quiet thing, like the space between breaths, like the shift when a hand let go to float down, down, down into the cosmos.

Somewhere in the spill of stars, in the infinite, a brother’s body whispered through the void, an almost lover searched for truth, and worlds turned, uncaring, relentless in their march.

“Brooding is a poor look upon you,” cut through the silence of the stars. Thor inclined his head towards the interruption, lips curving into a humorless smile. Fandral’s footsteps echoed across the ruins of the bridge. The reed of a man drew to a halt at his side, looking out into the vastness of the heavens, gripping his belt. Thor offered a huff of laughter.

“I do not brood, my friend. I am merely thinking,” he remarked, fixing his gaze on the point where the Bifröst once stood. Fandral’s lips quirked into a grin, laughter rippling through his voice.

“Never in my wildest fever dreams did I think I would witness the mighty Thor reduced to thinking. We should have exiled you centuries ago,” Fandral quipped. His light hand reached out, clapping Thor firmly on the shoulder. The larger man chuckled, shaking his head. They turned away from the infinite, falling into step towards the towering glory of Asgard.

“You are not wrong—although I suspect I should be wounded that you were so fond of my exile,” Thor returned. Behind them, the stars glittered, but Asgard shone before them. As a child, he had been eager to turn his gaze skyward, to dream of bigger things beyond his home. Midgard, frail and small, had reminded him of the splendor in the earth beneath his feet, the wonder of the air in his lungs. He had lost so much journeying through the stars; and he had found so much when he’d finally made his way home.

“It was quite the reprieve,” Fandral’s shoulders shrugged as they walked towards a curving street, along childhood paths long since memorized. “But I suspect I would have eventually gone mad without our bumbling misadventures to pass the time. As wonderful as it was to not be stabbed for a spell, we would be lost without your nose for trouble.”

“For that, I am grateful,” Thor’s laugh was not thunderous, but it was warm, and Fandral seemed pleased by the sound. They wound through familiar streets, greeting faces both old and new, in companionable idleness. The palace loomed ever higher, and the lines across Thor’s brow deepened when its shadows landed across their faces.

“We have not yet celebrated your return,” Fandral remarked simply, an unspoken question lingering in the air between them. “We should sing of your triumphs.”

Triumphs, Fandral said, as if the Nine Realms had not been ripped apart only days ago—as if there were triumphs worth celebrating with his shadow empty and the stars so cold. Fandral arched a golden brow, amusement playing across his face.

“You are brooding again,” he informed Thor, “Come. Those thoughts will hold for a few hours while we welcome you home. With any luck, Volstagg will have left food and drink for us.”

“Unlikely,” Thor remarked, but followed Fandral deep into the palace. Earth and air, he reminded himself, home. They swept down the lazy spirals of staircases, deep into the palace, into the chamber where they had celebrated so many times before. The last time they had stood here, he’d had a brother in his shadow and fury in his veins. He mourned their loss, and yet—and yet this felt more like home than it ever had before. Asgard was here, present and real and warmer than any story of glory or towering star. Here, with his merry band of misfits, far from the battlefield, with tables heavy with a feast, he was home.

“The man of the hour!” Volstagg’s voice erupted from behind a mountain of food at the head of a table. A wide grin crossed Thor’s face as his old, and most enthusiastic friend, leapt up. They embraced with heavy claps on the back. Fandral’s steps were light, his smirk smug as he inclined his head towards Hogun.

“I take great delight in reminding you that I told you so,” Fandral grinned, weathering Hogun’s withering look with fiendish glee.

“You are insufferable,” Hogun deadpanned. Thor laughed and they exchanged warm greetings, his gaze scouring the room.

“Is the Lady Sif not joining us?” He questioned, brow furrowing.

“Business with Heimdall,” Hogun informed him simply, “She will not be delayed long, we hope.”

“And now,” Volstagg cried, voice echoing through the chamber, its timbre merry “We feast!”
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