Entry 11: I've Been Practicing

[latemarch]

Title: I've Been Practicing

Entry Number: 11

Author: latemarch

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe/Original

Rating: PG? Crap if I know...

Genre: Romance, Action

Spoilers: The Avengers

Word Count: 6231

Author's Notes: Phew! I made it! This piece was actually inspired very heavily by Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, which is one of my absolute favorite pieces of art. I seriously love that painting and would empty my bank account to own it, seriously. I really wanted to write something that started with that scenario and see where it went. Somewhere along the line, it ended up being connected to the Marvel Universe, very loosely. The main male lead is named Gilmore Hodge, and if you watch Captain America closely, you'll see him in there. He's the one they wanted to choose for the project, but passed over for our dear Steve. He fought with Steve in WW2 and then we don't know much else about him, so I figured no one would know if I fudged up with him =D. Also, a connection to Agent Carter's one-shot with the serum thing. Minor appearances by Tony and Natasha at the very end.

Okay, well, I hope you enjoy!

"Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper



(Lex Shrapnel)

(Gilmore Hodge)

- - begin entry 11 - -

It happened the night the lights went out.

I was sitting in a diner, a twenty dollar bill lying on the counter in front of me to pay for the meal I’d just ordered - the change would be tucked safely away in my jean pocket, the last money I had in the world. I’d hoped to stretch my money long enough to get away from them, hide like a rabbit in the brush until the coyotes went past,. But I was no longer so optimistic, and with only a twenty to my name, I had no right to be.

“You want a slice of pie with that?” The diner attendant set my cup of coffee in front of me and wrote down the rest of my order: cheeseburger well-done with fries.

Biting my lip, I looked down at my money and nodded. “Sure.” What the hell, it wasn’t like it would have lasted me much longer in this city anyway. And I wanted a good last meal.

My server nodded. The diner had a kitschy but cute theme to it, a retro 1930s look, and he had one of those white paper hats on, a button-up white shirt, a tie. He replaced the twenty with a piece of apple pie and I watched the bill go with regret. The pie was steaming in front of me, and I was tempted to dig right in, but forced myself to abstain. With meals like this it was important to eat everything in the proper order.

“We got another one.” I heard him say as he passed my order to the cook in the back, and there was a mumbled, half-hearted response from the kitchen.

I was taking my change with I asked, “Another one of what?”

He was a young kid, maybe seventeen, with a skeptical face reddened by blemishes. “Ah, you know, it’s nothing.” He told me, tapping his pen on the counter. “Just this old guy in the back is kind of-“ And then he whistled and twirled his finger around his ear, international sign for crazy.

My mouth was already half full of pie because I couldn’t last any longer, so I swallowed as best I could and nodded sympathetically. The server’s attention turned to the man sitting at the counter at an angle to me - darkly dressed with a beakish face and a back to the broad front windows - and left me to my own devices. Which was just as well, putting the dollars and coins away touched upon the plastic baggie in my pocket and consequently, my troubles.

In my pocket was a flash drive and two small vials, proof and double proof. Having a job in the government usually meant semi-casual business attire and a lot of paperwork, not a typed list of superheroes’ personal and experimental information, a neatly labeled vial of blood from one of those superheroes, and another vial with a zodiac symbol on it.  Since the popular exposure of superheroes like Captain America, Bruce Banner, and Thor, legislature had passed preventing the illegal attainment of hero information, discrimination based upon hero status, and scientific experimentation a la Joseph Mengele on heroes. But the flash drive and substances were proof of all of the above.

Unfortunately, having something on the government meant that you couldn’t just report it to anyone at the government. It would be like reporting a theft to the thief himself. So when my superiors in DC sent goons to my tiny office, I ran. And not having any powers of my own, that meant that I had to rely solely on my savings.

There was no plan there, no safety net, just me, fleeing. Zig zagging the country drained me faster than I’d expected too, leaving me few final options. And having watched too many movies and stared too long at too many Edward Hopper pieces, I ended up at a perfectly preserved diner in NYC, liked I’d landed in a study out of time.

The place was well taken care of but weathered by decades upon decades of customers. The cherry wood bar was nicked but clean, the light fixtures cracking with age, and there were a few black and white photographs of old employees smiling under a banner that read, ‘1947: The Best Year Ever,’ over the bar. It was the kind of place that had served ten million over the years and was ready for another ten, with all the history, all the soldiers, all the politicians, the everyday men and women all passing through.

As the kitchen bell rang to send out an order to the birdlike man at the counter, a second man walked out of the night and settled into the seat next to mine. Being that the majority of the diner was empty and he chose to invade my personal space, I gave into my impulses to shift to the furthest edge of my chair and look at him warily.

He too was hawkish and wearing a dark suit, this one gray, and the hat on his head had a silky black band around it. Pulling one of the Phillies cigars advertised outside from his shirt, the man broke off one end and lit it with a match. Even in the fluorescent lights, his face was mostly dark under the brim of his hat, and the glowing cigarette a Cyclops eye in his face.

Uneven footsteps alerted me to an approach, and I looked up to see the cook himself coming closer. Appearing to be at least eighty-five, if not more, he had once been a tall, strong, vital man with the muscled bulk of a football player. But time and an injury-caused limp had withered and twisted his body. Even though his head was tilted downward, there were still some old scars on his left cheek and a lingering, hopeful sadness visible on his face. My heart ached for the obvious pain with which he walked and I couldn’t help but wonder why he was still working at his age. Why he didn’t have someone to help him.

The crash of my meal on the floor, the shattering of the plate, startled me and I jumped, spilling my coffee. Preoccupied with staring at the ruined remains of my twenty lying on the floor, it took me a moment to realize that the cook was looking me right in the eye. Underneath weariness and waiting, he had eyes brilliant like fossilized wood that had been polished until it shone.

“It is you.” The old man breathed, stepping heedlessly over the plate shards to plant his hands, rough from work and age, on the counter. “You told me you would come back. I knew you would not lie to me, and now here you are.” He seemed shocked, as if he had doubted his own belief for years and was no being proven right.

“Excuse me? I’ve never been here before in my life.” Either the kid was telling the truth when he said the hold man was crazy or the government had gotten seriously creative when it came to retrieving evidence that could ruin them. Without thinking, my hand crept to my pocket to clink the vials together and make sure that it was still there.

If it came to a point where I had nothing but my life left I could maybe bargain my way out with the flash drive.

“You came back.” An intensity in his roughened voice that scared me. Even more unnerving was that he reached out and placed his hand over mine on the counter, as if he knew me and we were special to each other.

He was actually gripping my hand tightly, and I had to wrench it out of his grasp to pull it away. Immediately, the old man recoiled, folding into himself as if he’d been punched. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What about the explosion? The nights working late together and getting up early to hear nothing but the city sleeping? Listening to the radio at night over coffee, convincing me that you knew what was going to happen.” There was a sudden rush of pink to his cheeks, and for a moment I got a flash of what he might have once looked like. “We kissed over there, in the booth, late on a night like this while the restaurant was closed.”

I was stunned that he sincerely believed all of this, that he claimed to know me and understand me. That he claimed I was a time traveler! I wanted to laugh at the ridiculous of it all, but the moment did not seem appropriate for humor. “I’m sorry.” I told him again, slowly.

The server kid was watching curiously from across the restaurant as the cook gripped the counter as dejection seeped over his face. “You promised you would remember.”

I didn’t have any response for that, as the emotion on his face was so poignant and earnest that I was taken aback, so different from everyday interactions. It was incredible to see that depth, looking at the painting of a Dutch master as opposed to a cell phone picture. Though the cook was decades older than I was, he looked into me as if we were one and the same, and I could not fix upon them human definitions.

Reaching for my pocket again, the entire room was yanked out of the heavy silence of our interaction when the cigar-puffing man next to me reached over and violently took hold of my wrist. Involuntarily I screeched and tried to yank away, but couldn’t, his grip too strong. The old man jerked forward as well as he could, but the situation escalated as the other dark stranger leapt over the counter, knocking over his bar stool with a clatter, and grabbed him by the shoulders.

I looked up into the slowly revealed face of the hawk-stranger as the brim of his hat tilted up and his eyes squinted over my face, looking like they should belong to a supervillain and not a man. There was a horrible, sinking, gasping pit in my stomach that was realizing with the velocity of a crashing car that this was the dreaded end of the line - this government agent had finally caught up to me.

“I remember something, Jill Stevens. I remember what’s on that flash drive. And I know to whom those vials belong to. The question is, do you?” His breath puffed in my face, smelling like nicotine and little hard candy peppermints.

“Get away from me!” I struggled, knowing by his face that there would be no trade, no bargain, no last minute negotiations with this man. I wouldn’t even have the chance to offer up my honor in exchange for my freedom. “Let go of me!”

A badge reading ‘Agent Moreno’ was pulled out his pocket, while the diner attendant ran for a telephone - the old cook was thrown to the floor as the other agent went after the teenager. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him grab the base of the old wall phone and rip it out of the fawn painted wall - and with the phone went any slim hope that we might call for some help.

New York City it might be, but the street outside had been unusually deserted as I entered a restaurant, part of the reason why I was drawn to the area. Around us were only other businesses, all already closed down and shuttered for the night - this little diner the last vestige of a once bustling community in the area.

Reaching for a something, anything on the counter, my hand found the tin napkin dispenser and I launched it at him, bouncing it off his shoulder. Spurred to action, we both made a grab for my pocket as the moment of staggering realization passed. The flash drive and blood bounced to the floor as we clumsily fought over each item, but the green serum marked ‘zodiac’ was caught between Moreno and I. He pinched the cap between his fingers, while I had a slim grip on the rounded end. There was a great roaring in my ears and I realized that I was screaming at the agent to get away from me. Across the restaurant, the teenage server was struggling with the other agent and the cook was slowly making his way towards us, clutching at his hip, his limp much more pronounced.

Agent Moreno was shouting back at me, something that sounded vaguely like he was arresting me and reading me my rights, and the old man who claimed I’d kissed him was calling my name. And in all the chaos, I was hazily wondering how he knew my name in the first place and wasn’t clenching my hand around the vial so hard my knuckles hurt, so of course, that was when it slipped.

The sweaty glass left my fingers and the sudden momentum sent Agent Moreno scrambling. It tossed up into the air, green liquid glinting under the lights, and for a moment he caught it, just with the very tips of his fingers. Also suddenly tugging on nothing, I stumbled back into the heavy glass of the front windows that shook under the impact of my weight, and could only watch as the vial fell to the floor.

Both agents were reaching into their jackets for some kind of cell phones, calling codes to each other that I didn’t have enough clearance to understand, while I crouched ready to dive for the vial, when the glass shattered on the ochre linoleum floor.

A period of stillness too fast to even be considered a moment occurred before a crippling explosion ripped through diner. It was a lucky thing that I wasn’t still pinned against the glass because I could have been thrown into the street, but instead there was a sharp pain in my back as I skidded over the linoleum floor and thud heavily against the restaurant wall. The cook was halfway too us, and he collapsed on the floor against the streak of jade painted bricks ringing the restaurant in a three foot wall. Outside in the unattached distance, car alarms pierced the quiet neighborhood and I heard someone moaning in pain as a bright light pierced my eyes.

Opening up before me, there appeared a sort of wormhole, shining with blue white light and revealing a world in as much chaos as we were in. Wormholes, portals, had been known for some time, ever since Tony Stark’s famous trip through one to save the world during the Battle of Manhattan. Some appeared organically, while others were created by scientists for the purpose of their study. Some of the worlds were peaceful, and friendly, though many others were not, like this one. And through this wormhole I could see only rubble and dust and the crouched form of a young man on the floor.

Agent Moreno had landed near me, having crashed into some bar stools by the wall, as had the flash drive. The blood was gone, splattered like burning red paint on the floor. Two-thirds of my proof was gone, but both the agent and I saw that one last piece of it, the flash drive, still survived at the same time.

My back was an aching mass of bruises, but I pushed myself to my feet and lunged for that last chip, that last proof that the last few weeks of my life had not been entirely wasted. At the same time, Agent Moreno, poised almost like a runner at the starting gate, launched himself forward, and instead of either of us reaching the flash drive, our bodies collided at a poorly planned, painful angle.

The collision pushed me up onto my heels until I teetered and struggled to grab a hold of my balance in the confusion. While the agent tried to untangle and weave through the mess of my legs, I stepped back and onto the spilled blood and glass shards. It would have been alright if I had just fallen backward onto the floor, even if it meant I was taken into custody - but instead, I fell into the portal.

It felt like the universe had taken a huge, indrawn breath, and just happened to suck me in too. And suddenly, though I was still hearing a cacophony of noise, it was a different catastrophe. All around me was a cloud of dust that was slowly settling and the noise of people calling out from the rubble and the sounds of two men calling me name through the crying and the screaming. It was still night here too, outside the world was cast in a raw green wash that had the same tint of colors as tide pools on the beach.

I was back against the same wall, in the same restaurant, which took a moment to settle in. “What the hell. What the hell. What the hell.” I muttered, as I crawled along the wall, blinking dust out of my watering eyes, to find the entrance to the space behind the counter.

Crouching just at the cusp of it, I felt a hand grab my ankle, and I shrieked, kicking backward as hard as I could. The assailant held on though, and then crawled until we were face to face in the hazy space.

It was a young man, maybe twenty-four but probably younger. In his face was the contradictory knowledge of the sorrow of war that already revealed his past as a soldier. His hair had once been combed to curl in umber waves around the slope of his forehead, but it was ruffled and pushed back by anxious fingers. With a square jaw and a straight nose, the handsomeness of his face was nearly assaulting, even more so when accompanied by the physique of a running back. On his left cheek, red and angry scars split his skin, scars that pinched and darkened when he suddenly smiled at me. And his eyes were brilliant, just like polished, fossilized wood.

“It’s you.” He said, taking the words right out of my mouth and sounding relieved, glad to see me. “You’re okay.”

I was at once aware of how hard my heart was pounding as I replied, “It’s you…” And searched for a name in his face.

As everything rushed around us, disappointment slowly colored his expression as he answered me, as if I should know, “Gil?” And when a moment went by he elaborated, “Gilmore Hodge?”

Still, though I recognized him from our encounter in the restaurant as a tired and trapped woman and an elderly man, and I recognized him from some forgotten past that itched in the back of my brain, I did not recognize his name.

Disrupting our meeting were gunshots that sounded from the front of the restaurant, and Gil briefly peered over the counter to see what was going on. His pants were ripped from the explosion at the hip, and I could just see through the hole more scars - these thick and mottled over his hip bone, clearly agonizing in the chaos. Ducking back down, he took my hand and pulled me halfway up, “This way Jill!”

We ran across the back of the cherry wood counter, still holding hands, and I found myself almost slowing to accommodate his pronounced limp. Looking up, I saw a banner over the front doors, still attached by one corner and only halfway there, while the other half lay in shreds on the floor. In a glimpse, I made out the words, ‘1947: The Best Ye-‘ before I found myself yanked into the back kitchen of the restaurant.

Collapsing back against a cast iron stove, it was finally reality - I had traveled back in time, somehow. That old man back in the restaurant - he was the same young man sitting next to me, and he had been telling the truth.

After reading all those news articles about extraordinary journeys and superheroes who proved themselves over and over again, hearing about young men and women that had only one chance for something life changing to happen, and I was finally one of them.

Gil was leaning forward next to me as the sounds of a battle broke out before us. His hair and hands were smeared with dust, and so were mine, I realized. “They’re back. I told you they would be back after they came looking the last time, Jill.”

“The last time?” My head was swimming, and it was all I could do to ask questions and follow along.

“Yes, Jill.” He said forcefully, angrily, like an abandoned husband finally confront his wife. “Yes, Jill, three months ago in November when they came looking for while you were out looking for apartments. And I told you they weren’t going to let the blood and the serum and the drive go so easily, and you swore, you’d come back to me.”

“Wait, wait!” He looked as if he was about to keep going, but I couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Gil… Please, I need you to just tell me what you know about… Us, from the beginning.” A smaller explosion sounded, blowing chips of wood back to us. “As quickly as you can.”

He frowned at me, as if he couldn’t tell if I was putting him on or not, before finally moving to place his hand on my knee. Our arms had been brushing together, but now the heat of his skin was cutting through my jeans like there was nothing there, and the longer we connected, the more of a bond I felt, pushing through cobwebs and layers of oblivion in my head.

“You appeared in July.” Gil started. “You were confused, and at first we all thought you were crazy. But Jimmy gave you a job here as a waitress and… We got to know each other. I was in the war, you know that - you knew that -“ He corrected himself. “And I was an arrogant, angry son of a bitch. But you wouldn’t take any of my shit, and eventually we…” He blushed, seemed embarrassed, and I had to remind myself that I was potentially dealing with the 1940s mentality that men did not express their feelings like this.

Even after everything I had experienced that day and gone through to get to that point, the moment that actually took guts was the moment I placed my hand on his and encouraged him. “Go one.”

“We fell in love.” Gil spit out quickly, embarrassed to linger. “You told me about your time, and at first I didn’t believe you. Led to some pretty unhappy shifts together.” He chuckled. “Whether or not we were happy, it was pretty good entertainment for the rest of the fellas.”

“And then I convinced you? About my life? And the future?”

“And then you convinced me.” He agreed. “And you told me about what you were running from, and why. We thought it was over until that day in November. I don’t know if you remember this, but I’d - well, I’d proposed.”

A sharp pain pulsed in my chest, and I wanted to remember, so badly. It seemed like we’d had so much together and I felt robbed to not have it anymore. Angry, and bereft that this rich past that was undeniably mine as Gil elaborated details only I could know over and over, had disappeared like sea foam on the sand. “You did?” I interrupted him.

He nodded.

“And I said yes?”

“You said more than yes.” And then he smiled again in some private amusement that I desperately wanted to be apart of. “Everything was great, until these g-men came in asking about you. That night I told you what had happened, and you left within the hour. You said you would come back, that you would remember me. And now here you are, only fulfilling half of your promise.”

My shoulders slumped, the air let out of me as Gil stared me down, serious and wounded. We had found our own little sanctuary in this mess and all I could do was put the pieces together. And every single piece had to do with that damned green serum.

“I’m sorry you thought that I had forgotten you.” I whispered, so that he could barely here it. Even more so, I was beginning to recover the memories, just enough to madden with their tantalizing story. “All I know is that I was there, and now I’m here.”

“You’ve said that before.” Gil slumped back against the cold cast iron of the stove, hair falling into his face and eyes dark with gut feeling and emotions. “I believe you.”

His hand was beginning to withdraw from my knee, but I clutched at his fingers desperately. I didn’t want the contact to end, I craved it like I’d been deprived of it for nearly seventy years. “Gil, you know if they’re still looking for me, for this stuff that I wish to God I’d never picked up, you know I still can’t stay here.”

He looked down, and I saw his lips clench with upset. Returning to my gaze, he asked me suddenly, “Can I try something?”

I had barely nodded before he was kissing me, hard, with a built up passion and anger and remorse that was nearly impossible to control. We were all around each other for that moment as lips molded and tongues explored teeth and each other, and I almost thought, came this close, to the memories bursting forth in my head.

But we were panting and pulled apart, and still I could only get glimpses of the strongest urges. I knew him, but I still did not know us.

I knew what he had tried to do, that it was an attempt to change my mind, and forced myself to preempt anything else. “I still can’t stay here. Gil, I’m sorry. I know I’m saying that to you a lot, but it’s always true.”

Caught between understanding that I needed to return to my time and needing me to stay with him, our newly re-forged connection nearly imploded, but was saved, ironically, by the very people I was trying to outrun.

A government agent burst in to the back kitchen - this one looked vaguely familiar, like he might be Agent Moreno’s grandfather, and his suit had all square shapes and high-waisted characteristics of men’s suits from the World War II era. His gun was small, with a long barrel, something out of a film noir, but that didn’t make it any less intimidating as shots rang out and grazed past us with startlingly small margins of error.

“Come on!” Gil pulled me up and tugged me out the other door, trying to hug the walls as we ran. “Stay low!” And the commanding note to his voice told me that this was Gil on the battlefield, this was a Gilmore Hodge I had never met before, in either life.

Out the swinging kitchen door and back behind the front counter, we crouched beside shaking bottles of liquor and stacks of ceramic plates. I saw the slight tremble to Gil’s left leg and knew that he must have been in incredible pain, wished that he wasn’t. From our position, I could see that the wormhole was still open, and that part of the battle was waging between times - my modern world at once attacking and defending from his present, while more g-men crouched in corners and returned fire from our side of the portal.

Gil hissed at me to be careful as I inched forward and hugged the curve of the counter, just looking around it to see what my path looked like. A glint of black plastic caught my eye, one too shiny and out of place to belong in a post-World War II New York City. It was the flash drive, tucked just underneath a large chunk of rubble that had shielded it from much more destruction. It meant that I had something left to go for, that I had a reason to return to the future and it wasn’t just my own cowardice in the sudden face of a relationship that was driving my determination to leave.

Appearing at my side, Gil hugged close to me, shielding me with his body as pieces of cement and wood and dry wall flew through the air. “I’m gonna go for it.” I panted to him, watching as a g-man took a hit and slumped against the wall. Only one was left returning each volley of shots from the future, the one who had confronted us in the kitchen. A corresponding cry came from the wormhole, and I knew this past agent had found a target with his gun in the future.

“You can’t, Jill, don’t do this!” It felt like he was shouting into my ear in this war zone, yet I knew that he wasn’t, only so close that seemed as such.

“I have to!” Turning to face him, I found us only inches apart, breath mingling in the cold New York night air. I could see the sweat dripping down the sides of his face, and the accompanying panic in his eyes. “There are bound to be police there. If I can get that flash drive to them, then maybe this will all end. You say you know what’s on this, so you must know how important this is.”

He looked down for a moment and I couldn’t read him, but then he nodded, and I knew that Gil had decided there would be no persuading me to another path.

“I will remember you this time. I promise I will come back.” I told him, taking his face in my hands, and the words were déjà vu. Already I was feeling the intensity of l’appel du vide, the call of the void, to jump.

“I’ll cover you.” He replied stoically, once more that soldier, and already he was looking for a weapon to use.

I couldn’t let that happen - I knew that he’d be hurt if he did and that I’d have to act in seconds if I wanted to keep him safe - while his back was turned, I pushed Gil forward to the floor, face first. Taking the opportunity, I thrust myself into the melee, first to the flash drive which I gripped in one sweat-slicked palm, and then into the blue-white light of the wormhole. Agents on either side of the portal were shouting things, at me, at each other, as I dove through and into the future.

I came out in the present, rolling to stop by the broken front windows. Quick moments of silence had punctuated the entire evening, and they did so again as the cops and emergency personnel all stared at me. In the background I saw someone dressed in brilliant fire-engine red and gold, someone else in all black prowling at the edges of the scene.

“I’m one of you!” I shouted in the face of several gun barrels that were thrust towards me. “I’m from now!” And before I knew it I was dazedly being manhandled to my feet and marched toward the broken in door.

On the way past, I could see the old picture hanging up on the wall, miraculously intact, and Gil’s smiling face, now overwrought with new meaning, made my eyes prick with tears. The portal was closing, the shining light getting dimmer and dimmer as the past closed up under the weight of the future, and there was no sign of young Gil anywhere.

The police seemed to think that I was one of the assailants, and I didn’t even have time to give the flash drive to anyone before I was halfway in handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right-“

“To can it.” Someone interrupted the officer reading me my rights. And then someone pinch me, because Tony Stark in his Iron Man suit walked up, the person I had glimpsed walking around in red and gold. “Let the girl speak, will ya thin-Seth-Rogen? She just went through a very traumatic experience. Let’s determine if she broke any of your littering laws later.” Mr. Stark paused. “Natasha!” He yelled, and the Black Widow in her catsuit melted from the shadows. “You wouldn’t mind clearing up any legal matters would you?”

The spy took a moment to look me up and down, and I knew she spotted the flash drive in my hand. “Nyet. Not at all.”

And then as Tony Stark the Iron Man was leading me away and telling me that I could call him either ‘Tony’ or ‘Tony Stark the Iron Man,’ I caught a glimpse of Gil. Elderly, shocked, sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was pushing away an oxygen mask when our eyes met, and I thought he was going to say something.

Now I knew him, now I read the person that was inside that aged body, and I missed that person. I wished he would say something, anything to me. A mutual glance traveled between us, an acutely meaningful look between the two of us, both wishing to connect but reluctant to start. The moment passed as I was swept away, and he stayed there.

Two Days Later

It was with some trepidation that I returned to the diner.

An intense twenty-four hours filled with Tony Stark and poking and prodding and interrogation, followed by another twenty-four hours of mandatory hospital time, and this was the earliest convenience at which I could return. After spending weeks on the road and incalculable time in another world trying to keep safe proof that could bring down entire bureaus, it was strange to have that all over with.

But it paid to have rich friends in high places. And Tony decided that he definitely wanted to be friends with anyone who had been through what I had been through. The newspapers covering the newly replaced front windows were plastered with articles about the scandal, and my face was on the front cover.

I didn’t even know if Gil would still be at the restaurant - if he would even be out of the hospital yet - but I did know that in the last two days I had missed him more than I’d missed anyone else. Ever. Just those few moments spent hidden together had rekindled a deep relationship that had burst forth inside of me, refusing to be ended. I still didn’t have all the memories, the fine details - would still need to get to know him before things returned to the way they were in November of 1946, but I had the important stuff.

A new bell jingled when I pushed open the front door. Inside was awash with the mingling smells of diner food and new construction. All the debris had been cleared away and already things were nearly back to normal - just a few signs that anything amiss had happened left over. A couple of bar stools were missing, and some of the floor was still being replaced and the walls were being repainted. The counter was brand new, though still made of cherry wood, and behind it stood Gil.

He was leaning against it and staring at the front door just like he was waiting for me.

“I told you I’d come back.” I said, surprising him by moving forward to place a delicate kiss on his left cheek, by the scars. There was a bruise on the right side, high on his cheekbones, and some bandages on his forearms, but otherwise he seemed alright.

“You did.” He replied, just beginning to smile, but that smile faded quickly. “I’m too old for you now.” Wistful but resigned.

I planted my hands on the counter, over his, like he once had. “Well, actually we have a choice.” I started, ignoring the other patrons watching us. “It turns out, it was always me. I made those… wormholes. Tony suspected as much when I told him everything.” A pride welled up in me that I’d never thought I’d be able to feel. “I’m one of them. I could be a superhero.”

But Gil wasn’t laughing, and so I continued. “But we don’t have to do anything. If this is too much, and you can’t take it and you want me to leave, say so now.”

I knew Gil was thinking, his eyes brighter than normal with streaks of honey brushing through them. “What do you want to do?” He asked me, and it was sweet that he didn’t want to pressure me with his opinion.

“Well, I’m actually supposed to go say hi to Howard Stark for Tony.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal to be running errands by time travel. Gil grinned slowly, a smile that revived much of the young man he once was, and that I would soon see.

Stepping to a safe distance I remarked, “I’ve been practicing, too.” And then I raised my hand, and opened the wormhole.

- - end entry 11 - -

I can't believe that I finished! Woot! Of course now in an hour I'll be starting NaNo and I'll be back at the beginning all over again! Oh well… I really had a great time researching Nighthawks and reading about it, incorporating little details. If you go to the wikipedia page and read Jo Hopper wrote on the piece, you'll see that I tried to use specific phrases and details in the descriptions. And it's always fun to write for Marvel!

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this little exercise in madness, and that you all had a great time reading and writing this month!