He woke quickly to a flash of lighting, the white, piercing brightness illuminating the room with an eerie glow and startling him out of his sleep. The thunder that followed was ominous, the sound rattling the glass fixtures in his room and sending his heart racing frantically away in his chest as he lay in bed.

As a heavy sleeper, it was unusual that a storm could wake him, but his body and mind were now fully alert, both suffused with a thick tension as electricity filled the air, the staccato rhythm of his pulse only matched by the steady thump, thump of an agitated tail against his arm.

Phil stretched as he reached for the animal, his palm coming down to pat gently against Cap's side in an effort to soothe him, but the cat remained rigid, its unblinking eyes focused on the curtain as if he could see the rain beyond.

"It's alright, bud. It's just a storm."

His words were punctuated with more quick flashes and he flinched, closing his eyes against the strobe-light affect that threatened to blind him.

For nearly an hour, he tried sleeping, but he couldn't relax, his body poised for battle as if Thor himself were descending from Asgard, mjolnir gripped tightly in his hands and ready for a fight. Cap, too, was uneasy, as he paced the end of the bed listlessly, an uneasy whine escaping his throat with each consecutive crack of thunder.

Begrudgingly, he threw the covers off and padded into the kitchen, flipping the lights on as he went, in a desperate attempt to lower the strained atmosphere in the room.

Phil poured himself a glass of water, drinking deeply of the clear, refreshing liquid as the storm continued to rage on outside, paying no mind to the uncomfortable occupants within the fourth floor apartment.

It wasn't long until the torrential downpour quieted, but he waited until he could feel his eyes growing heavy before he stood to make his way back to bed, Cap weaving between his legs as he rounded the couch. He'd barely taken two steps when an unexpected, loud crack of thunder split the air, sending him into complete darkness and startling the cat and himself, as both the thunder that followed and Cap's shriek of fear was enough to force Phil back instinctively—straight onto a tail—and in an unconscious effort to step off as fast as possible, he tumbled backwards over the arm of the sofa.

The side of his head connected hard with the edge of the coffee table, sending his empty glass off the top to shatter completely against the hardwood.

It was, again, completely silent, save for his groans of pain, the storm having grown eerily calm in the ensuing commotion. Phil was dazed and dizzy, his head swimming as he rested, wedged awkwardly between the sofa and the table. Sitting up was difficult in his groggy state and it took him a few minutes to crawl onto the sofa, a few shards of glass sticking into his palm uncomfortably.

His head was pounding and it was only made worse when the power flickered back on, blinding him temporarily.

Phil.

He rolled over, pulling a pillow over his face to dull the knocking in his skull.

Phil!

There were voices in his head, dull but present and he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have been paying more attention, but he was growing sleepier by the minute.

"Phil, it's Melinda. Please, open the door!"

"Mel, my head hurts," he whispered into the pillow as he covered his ears.

"Phil, please!"

The pain didn't ease, but his faculties were returning to him slowly, enough so that he could truly distinguish her voice and the urgency within it.

He stood slowly, his knees wobbly and in an effort to stop the room from spinning, he grabbed at the nearest object to steady himself, but he winced when the glass in his palm drove deeper, the pain piercing through the lingering fogginess as he stumbled towards the door.

Phil swung it open, perhaps a bit too fast as he rocked on his feet, but he paid it no mind as, suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, steadying him. The warm hands that went to his cheeks were smaller than his own, but surprising in their strength nonetheless. They were gentle as they probed his scalp, fingers searching for something, though his brain couldn't make out what, but he hissed all the same when she found a tender spot just to the side of his right temple and he jerked away in surprise.

"Hey, hey, look at me," she ordered, voice filled with a soft concern, and, unwilling to upset her further, he did.

He had no idea what he looked like to her at that particular moment, but he watched silently as she tiptoed up to get a better look. Despite his uncertainty as to why he was supposed to, he stood as still as he could manage, taking in her pursed lips and her crinkled brow as she fussed, but before he was even aware of her movement, she'd let go of him and crossed the hall, throwing her own door open before she began clicking her tongue.

Cap came hurriedly, running across the hallway and into Melinda's apartment and Phil swayed on his feet at the blur of movement.

In an instant, she was back at his side, her hand grabbing his and lifting his arm across her shoulders in an effort to support his weight and, slowly, she began walking him out of his apartment and towards her own.

"Don't move so fast, Mel," he slurred, pouting at her pace.

Melinda carried him to her sofa, easing him down into the cushions carefully before running into her bathroom to grab the necessary supplies. She was back before he could really take notice of her absence and gently, she lifted his head until she could settle it on her lap.

He followed the finger that was lifted in front of his eyes dutifully as it was waved back and forth, but as her hand fell, he became more interested in the way her eyes scanned his face, his own doing the same as she continued to fuss over him.

Soon enough, her hands were back in his hair and he sighed contentedly, watching with wide eyes as she searched for what he guessed was a wound of some sort, pulling out an antiseptic and some bandages to keep it clean. He stared up at her as she worked, taking in every change in her features as she concentrated. He tried to reach up, to feel whatever it was she found so interesting, but she slapped his hands away with a soft bout of laughter.

"Stay still, I'm almost done."

He nodded, completely ignoring her words as he yawned, but he let her finish without further complaint as his eyes grew heavy again. He wanted to sleep, the pain having dulled somewhat but despite it all, he felt warm and—comfortable.

Phil could feel his eyes closing as her hands ran through his hair and he struggled to stay awake, his eyes tired but determined.

"Sleep, Phil."

Her voice was hushed, as if she'd whispered it in his ears, but she hadn't moved. He licked his lips, trying to speak over the cotton in his mouth. "Hey, Mel?"

"Hmm?"

She continued to card her fingers across his scalp lightly as she waited for him to continue.

"You're pretty," he admitted softly as his eyes closed. "Beautiful, ya know?"

And as he finally succumbed to sleep, he was too tired to notice that her hands had stopped moving.

He woke slowly to the sound of hushed laughter and he groaned against the noise as he rolled over into the vaguely familiar, flowery smelling pillows.

Wherever he was, was comfy, and, undeterred by his own confusion, he had no immediate desire to leave, despite the distant sounds of pots and pans being moved around and the hum of a television nearby that agitated his aching head.

"Fuck."

A round of girlish, high pitched giggles met his ears and finally, as if water had been splashed down his back, it dawned on him exactly where he was.

Opening his eyes, he was met by a pair of wide brown eyes staring down at him intently from across the arm of the sofa and he cringed at his language.

"Mornin', Phil," came Skye's quite voice and he wondered if Melinda had told her to whisper or if she'd just assumed it on her own, but either way he was grateful.

"Mornin', Skye," he replied groggily, and though his head still hurt, he was no longer dazed and confused as he sat up gingerly, his neck protesting the movement as he stretched. Looking around, he frowned. "Where's your Mommy?"

"She went to get you some medicine for your head. She said you'd need it." Skye paused then, a frown to match his own on her face. "Does your head hurt?"

Phil smiled at her concern. "I'm fine, baby. Just an accident. I'll be good as new with some rest for a day or two."

Just then, Melinda returned, some over-the-counter pain medicine in her hands. "And that's exactly what you're going to do today."

"Relax?"

She nodded as she stepped back into the kitchen. "You hit your head pretty hard and I'll bet you've got the headache to match," she guessed, smiling at him sympathetically. "You don't have a concussion, but that fall was still pretty nasty and the first thing they'd tell you in the ER is that you need to be monitored."

"Does that mean he needs to be watched, Mommy?"

"Only for his safety," Melinda called.

"Mommy is good at that," Skye whispered close to his ear, brow crinkled in thought. "She has eyes in the back of her head."

Phil snorted, smiling at the little girl now perched on the arm of the couch.

"I heard that," Melinda called, to which his and Skye's eyes widened as if they'd been caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar.

"And fantastic hearing," he whispered back.

"I heard that too."

They jumped, having not realized the woman in question had walked back into the room without a sound, startling them both. She held a glass of water in her hand and offered both it and the medicine to him and ordering him to drink.

"Thank you for helping me out last night. Honestly, it's all a bit foggy."

"I didn't do much. Just made sure you wouldn't need stitches and that you wouldn't bleed to death, but it looks worse than it is."

He smiled. "Still, thank you, but I can't impose on you guys. You've done enough already."

Melinda waved away his concerns. "I've got no appointments today and I'd merely planned on spending the day here with Skye, watching movies or cartoons. You're more than welcome to stay. In fact, I'd rather you did with an injury to your head like that."

He thought it over, content in the knowledge that Clint could run the bakery effectively in his short absence. His head still hurt, the area around the cut tender and, though he wouldn't call it a true concern, he knew that rest was what he needed after a spill like that.

"Well," he began, standing up slowly and groaning as his body cracked uncomfortably. "At least let me make breakfast then?"

Skye was probably just a tad bit too excited at the prospect, but all were pleased with the arrangement.

"We should probably re-bandage your hand, though, if you intend to cook."

He was confused momentarily, before a slow flex of his fingers shot a stinging sensation up his arm and he frowned at the white gauze he'd forgotten all about.

After calling Clint to let him know he was in charge and Melinda swapping out his bandage, Phil made his way to the kitchen, his body a little stiff and, though his head was throbbing, he was in a better mood than expected as he searched through the now-familiar cabinets. Upon finding an assortment of fruit and some crème cheese, he decided on crepes and set to work as Cap took up residence at the counter, as per usual, purring as Phil rubbed that perfect spot behind his ears.

He could see the two of them, Skye's head on her mother's lap as they watched tv, the familiar sounds of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck drifting through the apartment to mix with the sounds of their laughter.

It was maybe ten minutes later when Skye crawled up on the stool next to Cap with a piece of paper in one hand and a number of colored pencils in the other. "What are you making?"

"Some strawberry-banana crepes."

"What's that?"

He smiled. "It's like a fancy, filled pancake. French food."

"It smells yummy," she informed him, breathing deeply with a grin on her face, before turning back towards her drawing and selecting a blue pencil.

"What are you drawing?" he asked, trying to peek over her arm as she showed Melinda the picture.

"No! You can't see yet!" she told him, covering it further. "It's a surprise."

Holding his hands up in surrender, "Okay! Fair enough, but how come she gets to see it?"

"Because she's Mommy."

He found himself rolling his eyes at her meager response as Melinda laughed, but, satisfied that he'd given up on looking, Skye went back to coloring, the two of them keeping an eye on him diligently as he flipped the crepes and declared them finished.

"I don't have any coffee, but I've got orange juice and green tea, if you'd like."

"Orange, please," he replied, placing a plate in front of Skye carefully. "This might be a little hot, okay? Blow on it a bit first just in case. I don't want you to burn your tongue."

Dutifully, she did as told and ate slowly, a few "mhmmm's" slipping out here and there between forkfuls. "It's so good. Thank you, Phil!"

Melinda echoed her sentiments exactly. "We should hire you as a private chef."

"I'm more than happy to cook for the both of you any time," he laughed, "I'll even throw in my famous home-made chili next time. Hopefully, I won't have to hit my head."

They smiled around forkfuls of pastry, Melinda clearing her throat first. "How is your head, by the way? Still sore?"

Melinda was watching him carefully, for any sign he might be in pain, but, surprisingly, he felt fine. Better than fine, really, once he thought about it. Yeah, his head was tender no doubt, but he hadn't realized that at some point, it had stopped throbbing completely.

He'd forgotten all about it.

Phil entered his own apartment sometime after dark, after a full day of cartoons, movies, and pure shenanigans. For nearly half an hour earlier that afternoon, he and Skye had discussed the finer points of a pillow fort made out of ordinary pillows or couch cushions, but in the end, they'd only succeeded in demolishing Melinda's living room, though she truly didn't seem to mind. Eventually, they'd compromised on the fort, the sides made from couch cushions and the top made from the throw pillows and blankets within reach and, to his amusement, they'd even talked Melinda down into the fort with them for a short while.

Melinda's worry had seemingly dissipated, for the longer he'd remained with no signs of any serious issues or pain, the less concerned she'd appeared as she was laughing just as much. Though, if it was with them or at them, he didn't know.

Phil smiled at the still-fresh memory as he let Cap slip from his hands to the floor. His own apartment lacked the homey feeling that his neighbor's so easily possessed and the difference was stark after spending the whole day across the hall; even Cap seemed slightly out of sorts as he parked himself in front of the door to sleep.

He was halfway through brushing his teeth when a soft knock on his door caught his attention and, toothbrush still in hand, he returned to it, frowning at the white paper that had been slipped under the gap that Cap was pawing with a certain amount of confusion.

"What is it, buddy?"

Strangely enough, the cat merely began purring, his head and body connecting with the wood softly in random bout of affection.

Bending down, he decided that, from what he could see, it looked like a note that a crush in grade school might have passed, but there were no hearts drawn on the outside of this one—just his name, in colored pencil.

He opened it slowly, his bewilderment blooming into a warm, sharp sort of feeling in the middle of his chest.

It was a drawing of Skye and himself, her smaller figure sitting atop a kitchen stool with what appeared to be a cookie cutter in one hand and Cap in her lap with his paws reaching towards a cookie at the edge of the counter. His own figure was standing just to the left, his arm extended out as if showing her the best way to get the most treats out of the dough.

And they were smiling.

The picture itself was beautiful and incredibly detailed despite Skye's young age, but it was the words below that made his heart swell.

Baking Buddies

Love, Skye

Please, review? It's been a terrible last couple of days. Some encouragement would be most welcome.