Every relationship had them, that finite set of areas, which are discussed ad nauseam, never igniting controversy.
For most people, it's the weather, but when one of the core constituencies is the God of Thunder, the topic can become a wee bit explosive.
Some feel most comfortable when talking about their children. There aren't any in this group of miscreants, although some have wondered about Tony. If he does have one (or more), he's not come clean. At least not yet.
So what do a group of highly evolved, extremely dysfunctional people discuss at the end of a bad night, after all the adrenaline is spent? What should they do when the dust is settled, and the mission complete, but the idea of going home is too much to bear? Down time is a necessary part of the regeneration process, both physically and mentally, but that doesn't enable the root function of healing, which is also the weakest point of the entire group.
Human interaction.
In a room, where the silence is oppressive, and emotions frayed, they find a common currency, which speaks volumes, without betraying those things each holds deep inside, that raw little piece that makes them who they are.
"Chocolate cake."
Steve's flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. As the words arc up and reverberate off the metal of the hangar bay, he allows himself to slip to a safer place, warm and bright with the heat of birthday candles and smiles.
Happy birthday, Steve.
"Naan." It issues forth like a prayer, one of the many chant's over heard from Bruce's lab. "Naan with lots of garlic butter."
"Fluffer-nutter."
"Warm cinnamon rolls."
The foods are a language in and among themselves, ways to express the holes or the longings, the easier times when things were lighter, or maybe just not as complicated as they are right now. Everyone has a different preference, and they all speak to something unique about the contributor. Thor's offerings are sweet and heavy, Clint's strange combinations, most comprised of either peanut butter or bacon.
"Sliders," Tony says. "The best grease possible, and only White Castle will do."
There's another long pause, as everyone inventories the preferences. The team has spoken, bearing their sole, and lightening the load.
Well, almost everyone.
"Shit on a shingle."
After years in the United States, Natasha still struggles with the phonetic pronunciation of sh. It's the only time she audibly betrays her Russian heritage, well, aside from when she's angry, but then the betrayal is flagrant.
"The first meal I had, after my defection," she says softly, "Was shit on a shingle."
"Sounds like you pissed someone off," Clint says. He's the only one who could get away with any type of barb when Natasha is this open. For him, teasing is the easiest way to bridge affection. No one else can get that close.
Then again, maybe no one has ever tried.
"Chipped beef on toast," Steve clarifies. He can still remember the thick cream sauce, heavy on the flour and broth, that formed the binding for the mystery meat. "It was a staple during basic. I think I'm still digesting some of it. Uncle Sam stuffed so much down our throats, it was physically impossible to get hungry. I think these days it would be considered carb loading."
"Did you know they sell it in the grocery store?" Natasha doesn't seem to hear either of them, or if she did, she doesn't seem to care. "You can buy a frozen brick and make it whenever you like. I keep a box and a loaf of bread in my freezer for days like this."
They're all spent, lying on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, safe in their memories and their happy places. Simple though they may be.
Chocolate Cake. Naan. Fluffer-Nutter. Cinnamon Rolls. Sliders from White Castle. Shit on a Shingle.
These are the safe topics, and this is how they slowly begin to heal.
Quick writing challenge for myself, unbetaed - just a quick character study to knock the rust off as I spit polish what's posted of Who You Are and work on the remaining part of the story.