thor stomp

The following silly idea was inspired by an ad in my newspaper.

If the House of Mouse show ever came back, they could technically have Marvel characters in episodes now. And I had a thought about an episode where such characters would fit in - 

Mickey overhears Minnie saying “Oh, I just love heroes~!” and, being Mickey, he decides to become a hero to impress her. In-between the cartoon segments, he asks different Avengers heroes for help.

  • Captain America lets him borrow his shield, but Mickey throws it, it bounces off everywhere, hits Bruce Banner, he turns into the Hulk, and chases them.
  • Tony offers to give him an Iron Mouse suit. Mickey tries it on, but gets stuck to a gigantic magnet from the prop room.

  • Mickey asks Thor for advice, Thor is more than happy to give it, but Mickey interrupts “Oh, by the way, you dropped this” and gives him the hammer. Thor stares, and then stomps off in a pout, leaving a confused Mickey behind.

  • Hawkeye and Black Widow say heroes beat up bad guys, but the villains at the House aren’t attacking anyone. So Hawkeye pelts most of them with arrows, then says “Mickey did it”. Another chase ensues.

Minnie demands to know what Mickey is doing and why he’s causing so much trouble. Mickey says he overheard Minnie talking about what she loves - just as Daisy comes in, saying she has everyone’s lunches. Minnie grabs hers, and says “It’s just as I said, I love heroes… hero sandwiches are absolutely delicious!”


Steve didn’t get sick.  Not anymore.

Mostly, it was a running joke, that Steve didn’t get sick.  They chuckled about it, when Clint was huddled under a battered SHIELD hoodie looking petulant and feverish.  When Bruce got up and drank a cup of tea, then promptly went right back to bed.  When Tony sneezed continuously through a meeting, ignoring everyone’s attempts to get him to leave.  When Natasha moved slowly from room to room, porcelain pale and with dark hollows beneath her eyes until she found a safe hiding place.  Even when Thor stomped from one end of the Tower to the other, the thunder rattling inside his head almost audible for anyone nearby.

Steve didn’t get sick.  He hadn’t since the serum.

And when they groused at him, when they muttered half-hearted curses at his immune system in half a dozen languages, he just smiled, and said that he’d done his time. He’d been sick enough, thank you very much.  His entire life, he’d been sick, and he’d gotten it out of his system.

Steve didn’t get sick.  It was only fair.  If life could ever be called fair, this was fair.

Sometimes, he wished he could, though.

Tony didn’t like to be sick, and he didn’t like to admit that he was sick.  During the day, he’d deny it with a few tense words, and swallow a pill or two when he thought no one was looking.  A few aspirin and a cup of coffee, and he’d be on his way, his jaw set and his eyes promising murder to anyone who dared to bring it up.

Steve brought it up anyway.  Tony didn’t appreciate it.  

Steve didn’t get sick, Tony grumbled about that, when he got sick, and Steve would just smile and get him something warm to drink that didn’t involve caffeine or alcohol.

But some nights, Steve would be awakened by the sound of Tony coughing, and he’d remember.

He remembered that, remembered it in a way that was still vivid, still terrifying.  He remembered the way a coughing fit could go on and on and on.  The way he would cough until there was no more air left in him.  Until the cough was not a sound, nor a exhale of breath, but just a rattling contraction of muscle and bone that shook him to the core.  The way that he would inhale, desperate and afraid, only to lose the hard won oxygen before it could do him any good.

He remembered coughing until his body was drawn up tight, his arms and his legs and his head all folded up, wrapped around his spasming, empty lungs.  He remembered coughing until his ribs vibrated like a drumhead, hollow and empty and about to split.

He remembered coughing until he cried, and until he nearly bled.  Until he did bleed, flecks of red like glitter across his pillow.  He remembered learning to bury his face in arm, his fingers clawing at whatever they could reach, just to keep things clean.  He remembered the way it would dry on his skin, bright red going dull, going dark against skin that was almost whiter than his linens.  It stayed there, because he was too tired, too weak to get up and clean it.

He remembered all of it, as he listened to Tony struggle to hide his cough, to muffle the sound in his pillow or a tissue.

The air wasn’t stained with coal soot anymore, and their bedroom was always warm, their bed was always clean.  There was no hint of black mold, clinging to the damp edges of building materials so substandard that they were probably illegal.  There was a doctor near, who would come if Steve called, there was medicine and care.  

Tony wasn’t going to die, because of a cough.

But Steve would lie there, in the darkest points of the night, and listen to Tony cough, ragged and hollow, and he would feel his own lungs empty.  In some half-rational sympathetic response, he would wait, unwilling or unable to inhale until he felt Tony do it first.

He’d spent years, unable to take a deep breath.  He was used to it.  He’d been sick for so long.

Steve couldn’t get sick anymore.

But sometimes, he’d roll over, curling close to Tony’s back, wrapping an arm around him, giving him something to hold onto as he coughed, as he shook, and wish that he could.  

Instead, he held on, and tried to breathe for them both.