what if the avengers spend the entire movie fighting ultron and they never get the upper hand and things are lookin’ pretty dire for them and then at the very last second pepper potts shows up and blows him up and then turns around and goes “that was okay, right? that was the bad robot? okay just checking”
these two are so precious together i should write them all the time
Mike loves the first kiss of cold in the morning, when the warm blanket of sleep slides free and he feels the chill left by imperfect heating. He loves the way it makes his skin crawl just a little, a sensation that almost matches the persistent buzz of nerves where his leg was once flesh and bone, making him feel whole.
“I’m not broken,” he says out loud, correcting himself, words unpracticed and a little clumsy with only partial belief behind them.
“Nope,” Skye agrees as she rolls onto her side and chases some of the cold with the warmth of her mouth, peppering kisses over his shoulder and onto his neck and cheek - unbothered but not careless of the scar-rippled flesh there. “Thattaboy, sticking to our self-love thing,” she coos.
“Your idea,” Mike reminds her, but he turns his face to watch her inelegantly wipe the crust from her eyes, day-old makeup becoming brittle. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, chuckling when her face contorts with a grimace as she accidentally plucks an eyelash.
“Oh, yeah, total goddess of the morning,” Skye mutters, blinking until her eyes are no longer attempting to tear. “Why don’t I wash this crap off my face before we go to bed?” she adds grumpily, settling back down beside him.
“You’re usually a little preoccupied once Ace falls asleep,” Mike reminds her lightly.
“Oh my god, shut up,” Skye says in mock outrage, thumping him in the ribs with the flat of her palm. “See if I get up and cook you breakfast now.”
“Since when have you ever touched a spatula in this house?” asks Mike, laughing, and he feels around beneath the covers until he finds her hand to grasp. He draws it free of the blanket and kisses her knuckles, tasting the warmth of her skin with parted lips.
“Well I’m sure not gonna now,” Skye says, but it’s a distant complaint, lost in the way her eyes fix on his and then drop to his mouth on her fingers.
“I’m not broken,” he murmurs against her, and draws her over onto his lap because it’s true.