Where freshly minted Captain Kirkreads up on stuff evenwhen he’s not on shift and nods off in random conference rooms on the Enterprise. Certain first officers who don’t require as much sleep take care of things.
Thought we had the time, had our lives Now you’ll never get older, older Didn’t say goodbye, now I’m frozen in time Getting colder, colder One last word One last moment To ask you why You left me here behind You said you’d grow old with me
We had plans We had visions Now I can’t see ahead We were one We were golden Forever you said ”
Michael Schulte “You Said you’d Grow Old with Me”
I’m sorryyy ~ I was subjected to this song; then, I had many feelings, and I had to cope somehow
Whether or not these 2 get back together or not, I hope they can at least reconcile the regrets they may have had.
A quick little IronStrange drabble with unofficial son Peter that no one asked for!
Tony’s turning a corner on the first floor with Stephen at his side, the two lost in a heated discussion about strategic planning for front-line Avengers, but he slows to a stop when the two reach the front entrance just as Peter shoves the large doors open.
Peter’s five shades too pale, something Tony didn’t think was even possible, and he’s shaking and sweating, his chest heaving as if the mere effort of climbing the steps up to the tower was the most physically tasking challenge he’s done his whole life.
“Kid?” Tony’s frowning, and he can feel Stephen tense slightly beside him.
“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, voice broken, trembling, as he offers a weak wave. “Hey, Doc,” he adds along a shaking breath.
“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, concern pulling creases in his forehead.
Peter seems to contemplate the question for a moment before offering a half shrug. “I’m not sure–” His jaw goes slack, and his brows furrow.
“Peter?” Stephen offers, low vibrato echoing against the bare walls.
“He’s going to faint,” Stephen says quickly as he starts toward Peter, with Tony, who’s borderline dumbfounded, hot on his heels.
Peter’s eyes suddenly roll back, and his body goes limp, forcing Stephen to teleport from his space, across the small distance between himself and Peter, to Peter’s side, making it just in time to catch the unconscious boy.
“He’s burning,” Stephen mutters under his breath, concern lacing his tone as Tony reaches the two.
“Peter’s temperature is elevated to 103.3 degrees Fahrenheit, Sir.”
“Goddammit,” Tony curses under his breath, raking one hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. “Why’s it so high, FRIDAY? Has he been skipping sleep again?”
Stephen swings a strong arm behind Peter’s knees and wraps the other one around the younger boy’s shoulders, lifting him to his chest with a frown. “Again?” He parrots back, concerned.
“His body’s exhibiting multiple signs of fatigue. My best assumption would be that he hasn’t slept in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Forty-eight hours?” Stephen exclaims, tone louder than usual, as he and Tony start toward med-bay. “Is this a regular occurrence, Tony?”
Rolling his eyes, Tony storms forward, just one step faster than Stephen. “This is his thing,” he starts with a sigh. “He has no self-preservation abilities whatsoever.”
“I wonder who he picked that up from,” Stephen mutters under his breath as Tony holds the door to med-bay open for him.
“What?” Tony asks, a little too sharply, and Stephen shakes his head, keeping his eyes locked to the nearest bed.
“Nothing,” he mutters before rattling off a list of supplies for Tony to collect as he gently sets Peter onto a bed.
“It’s not a virus, right FRIDAY?” Tony asks, returning moments later with an armful of supplies, much more than what Stephen asked for.
“My scans are coming back relatively clean, Sir. He just needs a full rest.”
Stephen nods along with FRIDAY’s words as he pulls Peter’s lids up to peek at the boy’s eyes. With his lips pressed into a firm line, he smooths one hand to Peter’s burning forehead while the other finds his wrist, two fingers pushing into a small dip to track Peter’s pulse.
“His condition isn’t great,” Stephen says after a few focused moments. “But as your assistant said, sleep appears to be the best remedy. All we can do is make him comfortable.” He motions to the damp cloth in Tony’s hand, and Tony steps forward, draping it over Peter’s boiling forehead with a frown.
Stephen takes a few steps back as Tony moves through the motions of fluffing Peter’s pillow, draping a blanket over him, then frowning down at him with crossed arms.
“This happens far too often,” Stephen says, a drawn conclusion based on Tony’s actions, but Tony treats it as a question.
Tony only nods, a tired, drawn out sigh slipping past his lips as he moves around the bed to lean against the table beside Stephen.
“Why do you let it happen?”
“The kid only listens to me half the time.”
“He models his behavior after you.”
Tony drags a sharp gaze toward Stephen. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Stephen only leans over, nudging Tony’s arm with his own as he keeps his eyes locked to Peter’s listless form.
“I’ll talk to him when he wakes up.”
A breath of a laugh slips past Tony’s lips, and he brings one hand up, patting Stephen’s shoulder with a quick shake of his head.
“Okay, good luck with that. Let me know how it goes.”
Keith is pinned down. His Marmora blade gets knocked out of his hand, then his bayard. He tries to call it back, but before he can he gets knocked flat. As the killing blow comes down on him, Shiro scoops up the black bayard and slides in front of Keith, ready to take the hit for him.
Summary: Sometimes, Garcia Flynn doesn’t do so well with time travel. Lucky for him, then, that his mind can take him anywhere. Alone, at first. Then, with her.
Warnings: A little violence, a little language
Notes: My first garcy fic! Inspired by a prompt from @shady-swan-jones, who wanted time-drunk Flynn. Which, then, somehow turned into this? Endless love and thanks to @seethelovelyintheworld for reading this over. Hope you guys like it!
It was September 22, 1692, and Lucy was standing by a creek in the woods near Salem, Massachusetts, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It had become a part of her routine, feeling out of place decades, even centuries, in the past. Even so, in lieu of thinking too hard on it, and giving herself a time mindfuck headache (Rufus’s words), she watched out of the corner of her eye as Flynn dipped his hand into the water, and pressed it into the back of his neck.