Guess who's back! Thought you could get rid of me? NO. And now, good news, this story FINALLY HAS A PLOT.

Thank you so much to everybody who's commented and favorited and followed! I won't be shouting out comments for the last chapter because there was such a large time gap, but I will next chapter, I promise!

Also, my L key isn't working right, so anybody who spots a word that's missing an L, shout it out in the comments and I'll write you a one-shot or something because i'm like 94% certain I got them all, but you never know. lol

Steve was more than familiar with the ins and outs of an illness. He'd spent a good portion of his childhood sick with all kinds of bugs and diseases. There were the sorts of sickness that everybody got (and he got them more than anyone.) Things like colds and flus fevers and infections. Then there were the sorts that served as nothing more than an irritation despite the ever present threat of death—asthma for example. Asthma wasn't like the flu, it didn't make you feel awful and half dead. As a young boy, he often thought that maybe it was like a muscle—he was prone to attacks after any sort of exercise so, maybe, if he exercised a little at a time, he'd eventually grow out of it. This was not the case. Then, there were the sorts of illness that he knew were there, quietly torturing him. Scoliosis was a great example. The pain was small, almost ignorable, but ever present; an itch that could never be scratched, a constant, tiny irritation that slowly drove him up a wall.

Since the serum, Steve was much less prone to illness, but there were always the occasional, defiant viruses that proved able to slip past his immunity, once in a blue moon. It was strangely comforting, know that even in seventy years, some things never changed. The common cold was just as common and the world wasn't as foreign.

Illness crept up on the super soldier exactly the same, every time. The first step was always a decrease in concentration. Typically, he was the poster child for determination and singlemindedness, never wavering from a task until it was complete. However, when illness set in, his concentration was always the first to go, swiftly followed by motivation. Steve was very good at slogging through whatever duties he had to, so the first symptoms often went unnoticed. The second step in the process was always postnasal drip. This was, arguably, the worst part of any illness. Steve hated the feeling of that thick, sticky substance sliding down the back of his throat, catching in that awful flap in the back of his throat that connected to his sinuses. It was a constant irritation, a fullness that obstructed his breathing and reminded him far too closely of drowning. Then his throat would begin to ache, a painful, dull scratch in the back of his mouth that made itself known whenever he tried to swallow. As the hours would pass, the sore throat would worsen and the aches and chills would set in. Of course, Steve, ever the hard working, self-sacrificing little muffin that he was, always attempted to push through his illnesses without taking the time to rest. This always backfired. Always. The serum in his blood could wipe out diseases in no time flat… if only Steve would give his body the rest it needed to do so. Eventually, he'd always end up in bed, forcefully being fed soup by a very irritated Black Widow, who insisted that he needed to start taking care of himself. (They both knew he never would. Some things never change, after all. Not even in 70 years.)

Steve was no stranger to illness, nor was he a stranger to finding himself ill in uncomfortable places. He'd once gotten a twenty-four hour stomach flu while on a mission with Agent Barton in Brazil. To make things worse, he'd gotten lost from his partner and couldn't speak a word of Portuguese (despite being fluent in Spanish, his fever hazed brain couldn't seem to decode the sister Language.)

Never in his life, however, had Steve been ill in a position where he felt more powerless, more uncomfortable, and, frankly, more humiliated in his life. He was currently folded over beneath the low hanging top bunk of a teenager's bed, clutching onto a white plastic garbage can, and attempting to vomit as quietly as possible so as not to alert the aunt of the aforementioned teen.

Much like ironing and mountain climbing, silence and dry heaving are not two activities that are typically thought to go hand in hand. However, sometimes, miracles happen. (For ironing and mountain climbing, see Extreme Ironing.) In an effort to help the situation, Peter had skirted out into the living room and turned up the television to its max volume as soon as the ailing hero had sat up and said, "Kid, I hate to ask, but you wouldn't happen to have a bucket laying around anywhere, would you?" However, much to his credit, Steve was somehow able to stay remarkably quiet throughout the whole ordeal. Peter probably would've been impressed if it weren't such a weird thing to be impressed about.

Not knowing what to do with himself while the Captain's stomach attempted to turn itself inside out, Peter awkwardly inched towards the bed and sat down. He sat totally still for a moment, good hand flattened between his legs, lips pressed together in a tight line. He hesitated for a moment before placing his hand on his hero's back and gave it two or three hesitant, awkward pats, saying, "Hey, uh… it's…. uh, it's okay. Better out than in, right?"

Steve merely grunted. The attempt at comfort was appreciated. Not effective, or entirely welcomed, but appreciated. At the very least, the kid's heart was in the right place. Honestly, he would've told the kid off, asked him to step back if his mouth weren't so full of yesterday's ramen.

Steve was finished soon enough and curled up on Peter's small bed with all the grace of a floppy trash bag. He hadn't intended to, he was just so exhausted. After taking a moment to rest, he picked himself up, dragging himself by the reverse side of his spine, and forced himself into a somewhat upright position, reaching out for the sloshy waste bin as if he expected to get up and take care of it himself. His dirty blonde hair was tangled and the longer bits were sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he was far too cold, an everything hurt.

"No way!" Peter said with determination and snatch the vile bucket away. Steve, in response, managed enough energy to raise a questioning eyebrow. Peter cleared his throat to explain, "First of all, you're sick. Second of all, you're technically my house guest and aunt May would probably give me a lecture about how it's rude to- not that she knows or anything, but third! Third, I can't exactly have you traipsing through my home with May in the kitchen," he explained, speaking faster than he needed to, and purposefully avoiding eye contact with the chunky, surprising viscous material that freely swished about the inside of the basin.

"Uh, bad idea," Steve managed to affirm as he retracted his arm and tucked it beneath his body in an effort to conserve heat. He accidentally put too much pressure on both his aching ribs and throbbing wrist, and something must've accidentally brushed against the big, nasty freezer burn on his chest—and he bit back a pained yelp, instead curling further on himself and huffing like a startled hedgehog. This whole situation was weird and awkward and Steve just wanted to go home. He didn't even know which home—Brooklyn in the 40s, the Avengers tower before the big fight, the bunker he and his teammates were stashed out in, his apartment, hell- he would happily take the itty bitty dirty room in Brazil! Anywhere but here! Anywhere but here, with this kid who was too damn polite, and could probably be charged with treason if anyone found out he was hiding a fugitive in his bedroom. Speaking of the kid—

"You alright, Queens?" Rogers asked, eyeing the boy wearily as he aforementioned young man struggled to grip the bin with his good arm. Steve pushed himself up once again, propping himself on his elbow to get a better look at Spider-Man, whose face was screwed up and whose was rapidly growing pallid. "Queens?"

Peter jerked his head towards Steve and pushed his chin towards his chest as if reeling away from- oh. "Yeah, sorry. I'm uh, I'm a sympathetic vomitter," he explained and looked so absolutely miserably that Steve almost barked out a laugh. Instead of turning back towards the door (and, presumably, taking away the miserable bucket) Peter's bodyweight shifted and he turned back towards the super soldier and opened his mouth, having every intention to continue to explain his sympathetic vomiting. "See, it's not like a medical condition or anything. It's just the smell and the sound-"

Steve wasn't having it.

He untucked his good arm from where it was pressed tightly around his abdomen and waved the kid away. "Don't. Just… just go take it- wherever. Take it wherever," he said, halfway between a plead and a huff.

"Oh, right!" Peter said, wearing an expression that made Steve wonder if the kid was just now remembering what it was he was supposed to be doing. Peter skirted out into the hallway going far faster than anyone carrying a bucket of sloshing slop ever should, and Steve heard him call out, "Hi May, just taking out the trash!" followed by May's chirp, "What? With your arm like- let me do it. You go and rest," then Peter once more, "I'm okay, thanks though!" and finally, the sound of the front door shutting.

Steve draped his good arm over his eyes and groaned (softly, to himself, lest Aunt May hear him and discover that Peter is not, in fact, harboring an illegal dog, but an illegal war criminal.) Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Steve hadn't felt this awful since well before the serum, when he'd gotten a staph infection in his leg that had turned into an abscess. It had been different back then. The medicine wasn't like it was today. He could've died from that. Maybe he did and all of this was just an elaborate fever dream playing out inside of his head in his final moments of life. Maybe he was still just a sickly little kid back home in Brooklyn. Maybe his mom was hovering over him, moping his brow with a wet rag and humming a lullaby. Maybe Bucky was sitting by his elbow telling awful puns or talking about the adventures they were going to go on when he got better. Maybe nothing had changed. Wouldn't that be nice? No serum, no shield, no plane, no ice. He liked helping people, really he did. But sometimes… sometimes he wondered if it was all worth it.

There was a hand on his uninjured shoulder and suddenly Steve was sitting up. His bright blue eyes looked around the room wildly. Where-? Spider-man. Right. Speaking of the kid… Steve's eyes slowly landed on a heap on the floor. Then the heap started moving and-

"Holy shit!" Peter exclaimed as he picked himself up off the ground. He was covered in blood. Blood?! No. Tomato sauce?

Steve's eyes widened. "Shit, kid! Are you okay?" he demanded. He'd hit the kid. He'd knocked him clean across the room.

Peter's head shot up and he raced for the door without any warning, abandoning the bowl and noodles and sauce without a warning. He was at the door just as it opened a crack and May asked, "Peter? What was that? What happened? Are you alright?" Thank the heavens for his Spider Sense.

"Yeah of course," Peter said as nonchalantly as was possible, whist trying to shield Steve from May's view. "I, uh, I just tripped and accidentally dropped my… bowl…" Peter said, trailing off with a wince.

May put her hands on her hips. "Peter, I've told you a thousand times, no eating in your room! You know how the rats get in and I don't want another rat problem,"

Peter slipped out of the room, weaseling through the door to close it behind him. "Aw, c'mon May," he said in his most innocent, most charming voice. "You know if we ever had rat's again, I'd just- pew! Pew!" he said, holding out his good arm and firing pretend webs at imaginary rats.

A small smile quirked across May's lips in spite of herself. "So if this whole… 'Avengers' thing doesn't work out, it's good to know that your job options are open," she teased while trying to still sound somewhat stern.

Peter smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, that's me: your friendly neighborhood pest control,"

"But seriously, Peter, no eating in your room," May reiterated.

Peter shifted his weight. "Just… one bowl?" he asked holding up one finger. "Because I'm hurt and, you know, with my healing factor, I've gotta keep up my metabolism,"

May crossed her arms and seemed entirely unimpressed. She regarded him for a moment, looking him up and down before finally relenting. "Alright, just one. But you have to put your dishes in the sink right afterwards," she said.

"I will!" Peter nodded and raced off towards the kitchen, throwing a bowl of spaghetti together and quickly returning to the door to his room.

May, who hadn't moved an inch, held out her hand, pinkie extended. "Pinkie promise?"

Peter snorted but, nevertheless, intertwined pinkies with her. "Pinkie promise,"

That seemed well enough to appease his aunt, who finally smiled in full and reached out to ruffled her nephew's hair. "Alright, go and get some rest. Call me if you need anything,"

"I will!" Peter exclaimed and slipped back into his room once again, where Steve had just finished scooping up the stray noodles with a rag. "No! It's okay, you don't have to do that!" Peter exclaimed, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the fact that Captain America, himself and in the flesh, was cleaning up his messes. He ushered the soldier back to his crowded little bed and sat him down. "Here, I, uh, got you this," he said, holding out the bowl of spaghetti. "You fell asleep. You were out for a really long time. But, uh, May made dinner and I figured you'd be hungry so…"

Carefully, Steve took the bowl and frowned down at it, brows knit together, searching for what to say. After a long silence, he lifted his head and asked, "Are you alright?"

Peter, who'd taken to wiping sauce off of his dressed, looked up sharply, with owlish eyes and asked, "Yeah, of course, it was actually super cool. I mean, it was startling, but I guess I can't really blame you for it because I woke you up and this is a new place and all. You really didn't hit me all that hard. See? Didn't even damage the wall! Hey, how are you feeling by the way? Oh, also, sometimes May's cooking is kind of bad so if you don't want to eat it, I can go out and get you something from the deli before it closes,"

And suddenly, Steve was, once again, regretting asking. The kid sure could talk. Somewhat amused, somewhat exasperated, and completely exhausted, he shoot his head and rose to his feet, setting the bowl on the nightstand.

"Hey, where are you going?" Peter asked. "Do you have to pee? I can go distract May if you have to pee,"

Steve exhaled, long and weary. "No, no. Nothing like that," he said. "Listen, Peter. I appreciate your help, I really do. But I can't stay here. It's too dangerous, for both of us. If somebody finds me, you could get into a lot of trouble and I'm not willing to risk that,"

Peter seemed surprised by this. Nevertheless, his posture didn't change, save for the fact that he crossed his arms, which only seemed to ground him further. He gave no indication that he had any intention of stepping aside, which made Steve both proud and frustrated.

"I am," Peter said simply. Then, he had the audacity to shrug casually as if it were nothing, as if he didn't face the risk of life in federal prison if anyone found Steve in his teeny tiny little apartment.

"Excuse me?" Steve asked and immediately sat back down in an attempt to formulate a response, he was so completely blown over by the kid's nerve.

Peter exhaled, thought for a moment, then merely shook his head. "Look, Mister Captain Rogers, sir-" he began, which promptly earned him an unamused glance from the aforementioned hero. "Sorry, Steve," Peter corrected, though he disliked how the word felt on his tongue. The man was Captain America, defender of patriotism and liberty and America and freedom. The dude started off his career by punching Hitler in the face over and over and over, how much cooler could you get? It felt wrong to relegate him to something as informal as a first name.

"It's just…" After two words, Peter was already at a loss for what to say. Steve watched as his face scrunched up, lips flattening out, brows knitting together, cheeks twisting up towards his eyes- and he was unsure what emotion the kid was feeling. It wasn't shame or embarrassment, it was something deeper, something that obviously tugged at the very root of the kid.

"Where will you go?" Peter asked at last. It was strange, really, to see an expression of such deep concern on a face so young. It was an expression Steve had seen many times before on his mother's face as she hovered over him, dealing with the latest bout of influenza threatening to steal her child away from her. He'd seen it on Pepper many times during difficult nights when Tony seemed entirely convinced that his liver was the root of all evil and the only solution was to drink until it stopped functioning. He'd even seen it on Natasha once during a quiet moment after a stupid mistake landed Clint in a coma for three days.

It struck Steve as strange that a kid so young would wear an expression so ancient on behalf of a man he hardy knew outside of press coverage. It struck him so hard that he couldn't find the right words to articulate a proper response. His hazel eyes fell, landing on his hands and studying them as if the universe had knit the answer into his DNA and if he only searched hard enough, he might be able to find it. Slowly, he lifted his head and dragged the beginning of a response from somewhere buried inside of him: "Queens, listen-"

"-No, it's just-" Peter sucked in a sharp breath, and rolled his head across his shoulders. Brown, wavy hair, mussed from a day spent laying around in bed (those are the sorts of things kids his age out to be doing, not swinging around town desperately trying to provide some semblance of kindness to a world starved of mercy. Kids were meant to be selfish, weren't they?) shrouded his heads as he brought his head back around and tucked his chin against his chest. "When I was a really little kid, I remember my dad got this infection in his leg once. It was big and nasty and it got all swollen and it smelled gross, and his whole leg was huge! I mean it looked like something you'd see at a freak show!"

Steve quirked an eyebrow, both unsure of the relevance of the story, and somewhat taken aback by how freely the kid was able to talk about his deceased parents. There was a twinge of entirely unnecessary pride that bubbled up in Steve's chest (dammit, it was easy to see why Tony got so attached.) The past didn't hold the kid down. It was the sort of strength of character that Steve himself, admittedly, lacked—the ability to move on with one's life after a tragedy.

Peter flapped his hands wildly, as if trying to reign himself back in. The gesture served to shake Steve from his thoughts as well. "Anywhoodles! Yikes, that was weird. I didn't say that, pretend I didn't say that. But that's not the point. See, he got really sick. I mean, he was throwing up and really tired and my mom had to bring him soup and stuff and it just kept getting worse and, listen, I know you're a super soldier and everything, but I'm thinking your leg might be infected with something,"

Steve stared at him for a moment, head cocked backwards, before his composure dissolved and he laughed out loud. Peter, obviously irritated, put his good hand on his hip and scowled. "Hey what was that for, I'm being serious!"

Roger's laughter didn't last long. The aching in his ribs and chest prompted him, almost immediately to stop with the shenanigans, dammit, we're trying to heal! "No, I know you are. It was just a very round about way to get to your point. You should've started with that,"

Peter stepped backwards and examined Steve warily. "Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd believe me!" he exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. Looking unsure as to whether he wanted to feel hurt or offended or embarrassed or some combination of the three, Peter shifted weight and shook his messy hair out of his face, discarding any ill-emotion along with it. "Look, all I'm saying is that you seem really sick. Hey, don't think this is weird, because I swear it's not weird, I was just curious, but I've, uh, I've done a lot of research into your serum and stuff- er- your reports and things—reports on the serum, not on you, not to be weird or anything—but I thought the serum was supposed to work better than that,"

Steve barked out another laugh, good hand flying to his protesting ribs. Dammit, he couldn't help it. "Ouch, kid. Sorry, I didn't mean to disappoint," he began and Peter's eyes widened just a hair.

"No, I mean, not that it's disappointing or anything, it's just that-"

But Steve, feeling somewhat childish, couldn't seem to resist having a dig at the young super hero and butted in, grinning slyly, "-And I'm flattered to know that you stalk me on the internet—"

Peter's eyes widened once again, his whole face flushing beet red. "I don't stalk you! C'mon, man, I never said that!" he exclaimed, relaxing when he realized that the superhero was only joking.

"Is that how Tony found out about you?" Steve continued to press, unable to resist the temptation of a little harmless fun at the expense of the kid. "You bombarded him with DMs until he finally couldn't ignore you?"

Now it was Peter's turn to find himself taken aback. His face, the perfect picture of shock and mock horror, dissolved into an amused snort. "Did you just say DMs?" he asked and Steve's mirth immediately evaporated into confusion.

"Yes, direct message. DMs. That's what people say, right?" Steve was 94% certain he was right but there was still a lingering 6% that just wanted to make sure. The soldier had learned, very early on after waking up from his brief nap in the ice, that catching up on slang would be critical to surviving in the modern world. This need first became apparent when, during a press conference and in response to a question about Tony's behavior, Steve simply quipped, "Whatever keeps him gay (happy)", effectively hurtling the media into a panic. Steve then solidified his decision to catch up on new lingo after an incident in which Bruce asked if he was excited for the debriefing after a particularly disastrous mission and Steve sarcastically responded, "Yeah, it sure does razz my berries," and was effectively tormented with it for the rest of the week when Tony caught wind of it.

Peter grinned wickedly, then shrugged with one shoulder, sat back in the chair at his desk and said, "Yeah. It just surprised me is all. I just wasn't aware you knew how to operate a computer," He let the jab sink in for a moment before looking up (anxiously and fully prepared to flounder in apologies if needs be) just to make sure Steve wasn't offended, but the man in question was merely shaking his head and trying in vain to suppress a smile.

"Tony's having a bad effect on you, Queens," Steve said with a snort and a small smile and Peter, relieved, happily returned it.

The effect didn't last long, unfortunately. Peter's smile sagged away and that look of concern returned to his face. "Look, here's the thing: I really mean it. You're real sick mister- Steve," Peter wrinkled his nose. "Are you sure we can't just meet somewhere in the middle? How about just Captain?"

Steve rolled his eyes, "Steve, kid," he affirmed.

Peter opened his mouth and looked ready to protest but decided against it, realizing that he needed to focus on the argument at hand. "Look, I'm being serious. You're real sick. I mean you were puking up your guts for, like, fifteen whole minute and then you were out like a light and none of your injuries are getting any better! That can't be right, can it?" Peter was talking rapidly, his good hand flapping around manically as he punctuated his words with various gestures. "I mean, you've got the serum and all and, sure, maybe it's not as good as the crazy tabloids make it out to be, but even without the serum, your cuts and stuff should still scab, right?"

Peter rose to his feet, pushing himself upright from the desk in agitation. He ran a hand through his hair and paced back and forth between the door and the desk. "Look, I know this is super weird, 'cause I'm just some kid who totally kicked your ass in Germany-"

"I don't think-" Steve began, but Peter merely flashed a cheeky, if not somewhat distracted, smile.

"No, I'm only joking. Well, kind of. I did have your shield and everything and it was pretty badass-"


"Yeah, sorry. Anyways, I know it's weird 'cause I'm just some kid. And I don't want you to stay here either! Shit, I mean, I do, you're super cool, like this is hugely awesome that you're here in my house and everything- but you're sick and I'm not a doctor and I'm super unqualified for this but, here's the thing: nobody else will take you, right? I mean, you're a war criminal. You can't just waltz into the nearest ER and ask for help, right? They'd arrest you! And I don't… I don't know if I think that's right," Another sharp breath. Peter slouched back down in his seat at the desk.

"I dunno. I dunno who's right and who's wrong," He sounded almost… defeated. Confused at the very least and rightly so. "I don't even know what you guys were fighting about in Germany. Yeah, the Accords but what even are those, right? I just tagged along because holy shit Iron Man knocked on my door and asked me to go to Germany with him! How freaking cool is that! I mean that was the best day of my whole life!" Peter was grinning again.

Then, he groaned and put his hands in his head. There was a long period of silence and Steve, in a strangely paternal moment, reached out to pat the kid on the back, to comfort him, to tell him they'd think of something, but the kid's head suddenly shot up and Steve, feeling shaken out of his trance, retracted his hand. "I'm not gonna turn you in. I mean, you're still a hero after all. You're still Captain America. And you saved my life! I'm not gonna- we'll think of something. We'll figure it out. Just… just don't go yet, okay?" Peter plead. "You can't. Not like this, you'll get killed out there!"

Steve, somewhat overwhelmed by the bombardment of emotion and the sudden nausea that was creeping back into his stomach, opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut him off. "I mean, you're Captain America and all, but I once went patrolling while I had the flu and it was miserable. It was a total nightmare. So I… I know how it is, and I know you're a lot more experienced and stuff but this… this is really bad. So… so just stay one more night and we can figure it out,"

Steve was silent for a moment, considered the disheveled teen who was, in a strange sense, arguing for his life. It was an incredibly kind gesture, one that was rare in this world and made Steve feel strangely nostalgic. Some things never changed, he supposed. "You don't have to do this, Peter. You don't have to take on all this weight yourself,"

"Yeah, but I want to! I'm not just a kid, okay? What's there to be afraid of? The government? I'm not afraid of the government," he said and almost made a joke about being good friends with the FBI agent who monitored his computer but ultimately rejected the idea. Now wasn't the time for jokes and memes.

Steve chuckled. "You know, you remind me a lot of myself back when I was your age," he said, using that soft tone of voice that indicated he was joking.

Peter, taking the message, rolled his eyes. "Physically you're like, what late 20s, early 30s? You're like not even old enough to be my dad and you're talking like an old man,"

Once again, Steve tossed his head back and laughed. He really had to stop doing that, it was starting to hurt. "Hey, I'm old enough to be your great-grandfather. I demand some respect, young man,"

Peter smiled once again but, once again, it vanished quickly. "I meant it about staying. You're still a hero. If nothing else, you're still my hero. And if you got out there and died because nobody would help you, or because you were sick and got attacked and couldn't fight them back, it'd be my fault. Since I became Spider-Man, I haven't lost anybody yet, Captain Rogers. Please don't be the first person I lose,"

Steve didn't even have the energy to chastise Peter (again) for the name. He just felt… emotionally drained and strangely touched by the gesture. Slowly, he nodded. "Alright. Alright, you win. But just for tonight,"

Peter's mood did a complete 180. With his victory secured, he punched the air in excitement, groaning when the action jostled his shoulder. He then nodded dutifully and said, "Okay, but first thing's first, we gotta figure out why your serum isn't working. Second, we gotta fix your leg. Both of those things, not necessarily in order. Also, you need to eat May's spaghetti. I promise it wasn't too bad this time," he said, thrusting the bowl into Steve's hand and the super soldier had no choice but to acquiesce.

"You know, I actually think I might know someone who could help," Steve offered, twirling the noodles around his fork. "You got a laptop I can borrow?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah of course! Who is it?" he asked, reaching under the bed to fish around for his laptop.

Steve smirked. "How much do you know about Wakanda?"


1. I have two new Avengers oneshots in the works, both of which are referenced in this story. The first is about the mission in Brazil with Steve and Clint and the second is about the horrible misadventures of Steve's old slang because I did a lot of research on slang from the 20s-40s, and that shit is HILARIOUS.

2. I want to do an art swap. Anybody who wants to draw some fanart for me based on this fic, I'll write you a oneshot about anything of your choosing (except smut, not really my thing). Shoot me some of those hot DMs if you're interested and we'll talk.

Thank you guys for sticking with me through the hiatus. Love you all 3000!