Uhh so this was in my drafts which I havent checked in weeks and totally forgot about? Anyway seeing as the fic I was supposed to be posting today got deleted,,, yall can have this one from like 5 months ago instead lmao.
Tony really should have noticed sooner.
On the surface, nothing seemed wrong. Steve was fine. A little ragged, maybe, but fine. He acted in the same way, smiled at Tony no differently, scolded Clint no less.
What’s in your bag beard - Albus Dumbledore Edition
Dumbledore: I heard there was this new trend at my school, that everyone shows what they’re carrying around every day. Since I am the headmaster, I thought I should join in.
Dumbledore: They taste like liquid Sugar.
Dumbledore: Let’s go on.
Dumbledore: Another thing that’s very important to me:
Dumbledore: Music can be quite useful to ease up a tense situation. I want to introduce you to someone.
Dumbledore: Obviously, a school as big as Hogwarts needs a lot of money, so it’s always good to have a Niffler or two with you. Let me look for more.
Dumbledore: What the fuck is this?
Dumbledore: How could I forget about this?!
Dumbledore: Baby shoes. Not at all for nostalgic reasons
Dumbledore: Look how tiny they are!
((OOC: Dumbledore out. In the usual Sami-style I’m late to the party. But you know? Save the best for last ;) Luckily my thread will probably not be the last of this series Anyway special thanks to @kapitan5o for having this amazing idea! And my admiration to everyone who did this so far, y’all were incredibly creative! Now I’ll shut up))
A Reminder: Don’t underestimate female muses, not mine or anybodies. It’s fine for your character to underestimate them, however, do not let those feelings spill over into the real world. If a female muse is evil, believe it. If a female muse is powerful, believer it. If a female muse is strong, believe it. Don’t ignore the traits of a woman all because she is a woman: pay attention to them, so that you may understand what powerful beings they truly are.
The alarm blares, interrupting their conversation, but that’s usual. It’s the first sign of normality he can remember in his whole life, he thinks. And, like always, they have to drop everything to deal with the crisis, forgoing what is most important to save the world or something like that.
But when they have a breather, he tries to answer her question. He cannot think about anything besides the weight of his actions, but Jemma is the blood in his veins and not a thought at all, so he musters up enough courage to give her what she deserves (everything, she deserves everything) and finish the conversation.
“I do want to stop her,” he says quietly. “I just. I just, don’t want…anybody. To die because of me. Not again.”
On the other side of the desk, Jemma regards him evenly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I understand that, Fitz. I do.”
He doesn’t see how that’s possible, how she can possibly understand that he is soaked through with other people’s blood and he cannot bear one more drop no matter whose, how she would still be standing here with him if she knew what he had done.
“But we need you,” she adds. “No matter how we stop her we can’t do it without your brain and hands.”
“These hands?” He scoffs, holding them out to her helplessly. “I can’t do anything with them. Everything I have made has been to protect you and other people I love and instead I hurt them, over and over. I’d rather sit on them for the rest of my life than try one more time.”
Both hands are shaking, good and bad—though that’s just a relative term, isn’t it? His hands will never be good and whole again no matter how much he washes them. He can’t look away. All his life he had gloried in the work of his hands, and now they are nothing but a grief.
He is so concentrated on his blood-red hands that he doesn’t hear her coming, doesn’t notice she’s right beside him until her cold white fingers are wrapped firmly around his, somehow enveloping him despite her smaller size. He goes to jerk away—she shouldn’t get his mess all over her—but she refuses to let him go. Instead, she lifts their clasped hands to her mouth and kisses his thumbs one at a time. “Jemma,” he says, because it’s all he can.
She looks at him from beneath her eyelashes, but there is nothing teasing about her gaze. “We all have blood on our hands, Fitz. I have as much as you, and more. I can’t understand all you’re going through, but I know a bit about guilt and I can tell you that whatever bad you’ve done does not diminish the good things you’ve done as well.”
“What good things?” he asks bleakly.
His heart sinks at her silence. Even she can’t think of anything. But then she turns their hands so his are lying palms-up in one of hers, and she traces his creases and callouses with one finger. “I could tell you,” she says slowly, “a good thing you’ve done for every bone and ligament and tendon in both our hands. But you wouldn’t believe me. So I’ve got another idea: make this one last thing with me, and I will bear the weight. And then we will leave and do other things with our hands—bake cakes and paint rooms and grow vegetables, and hold each other, and never let go.”
He thought he had cried every last tear left in him, but one trickles down the side of his nose. She catches it before he can, cupping his cheek in her palm and stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. He doesn’t deserve her, he knows that. But he remembers, suddenly, that she has blood on her hands, too, but that would never stop him from loving her. If he can give it, he ought to allow her the same privilege. Turning his face into her hand, he kisses right over her heartline.
“I don’t know if I can,” he says, and she hears what he meant.
“We can, Fitz, and we will. Some things are inevitable.”
He looks down at where she is still holding his hands, thinking of another time he thought his world had ended and she dared to reach out and clasp them in hope of a different future. It’s not so different now. He still cannot see how the future he expects will change. But she was right then, and he hopes with all his heart that she will be right again. He trusts her more than himself, after all.
Slowly, his fingers curl around hers. “All right,” he says, feeling sick but sure. “But don’t let go of me.”