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[FF Snippet - Avengers - Stony] Hot PointsTony grumbled as he hugged his jacket closer to himself. How the hell did he get talked into coming here? Social gatherings were not his bag of chips, especially ones that involved all the idiots from school sitting around watching bigger idiots give each other brain damage for fun. He was also pretty sure that half the people here were making out under the bleachers anyway, and what the hell, man. If he couldn't get any, he sure as hell didn't want to be watching people that were. It wouldn't take more than a fake yawn to dump his forty-two ounce soda onto the ones right under him-
"OW." Pepper had stomped on his foot with her own. He gave her a pout that seemed to beg for her to let him have some fun.
"You don't want to get stuffed in a locker again, do you? I thought you'd be embarrassed enough that the fire dept had to come cut you out in front of everyone." Oh god. She had her arms folded over her chest. How the hell did she manage to look so menacing like that? Tony
[FF - Avengers - FrostIron] Between Breaths, Ch 3Chapter 3
I hope I will get the chance to be someone,
To be human,
Look what we've done,
Look what we've done...
"Oh my god, Tony, no. Please. Please tell me that's not a dead hooker." Pepper was standing by the wet bar on the top floor of Stark Tower, massaging her forehead from stress. Tony, who was currently carrying an unconscious Loki by the armpits, made a point to roll his eyes at her.
"Oh please, I would have at least called you to have a Persian rug ready for me." He headed towards his bedroom. "We'll just drop him in here, Happy." The driver nodded, guiding the rest of Loki's body through the doorway. After they laid him on the bed, Tony walked out while rubbing his palms together as if they were dusty. "Oookaayyy. Who wants to put him in jammies?" Pepper gave him a 'sometimes-I-can't-believe-you're-for-real' look.
"Are you even going to explain what's going on? Do I even want to know?" She had her ha
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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