Chapter Text
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.” Tony Stark’s voice was sharp and angry, lacking its usual sarcasm and fond teasing demeanor.
“What’s wrong?” Steve Rogers set down the book he had been reading and walked over to Tony.
“ What’s wrong?” Tony repeated scathingly, shooting a glare at the Captain beside him. “What’s wrong? This is wrong, for God’s sake!” The genius tossed a magazine on the table in front of them, his and Steve’s own faces smiling up at them from the cover, along with a few of their other teammates.
“I’m… not following,” Steve said, picking up the magazine and flipping through its pages.
“ Look at this,” Tony demanded, pointing at the picture of the superheroes. “Look at my chest. Look at Bruce’s stomach. Look at Tasha’s waist and breasts for crying out loud!”
Steve furrowed his eyebrows as he studied the things Tony had pointed out. Indeed, he noticed, some things about his teammates were definitely off. Tony’s chest, while covered with a white tank top in the photo, was distinctly missing its faint blue glow of the arc reactor. Bruce Banner, who usually had a softer, more rounder shape than the rest of them, appeared to have been slimmed down to appear more like the others. Natasha, the only female in the photo, had a waist much smaller and a chest much larger than she actually did in real life.
“What… what happened?” Steve asked. “Why is everything weird looking?”
“Photoshop,” Tony spat angrily. “On something as stupid as a magazine cover, they photoshopped us.”
Steve squinted and looked back down at the magazine again, studying the other Avengers’ photos closely. His own picture seemed to have nothing wrong with it, as did Thor’s, but he was disappointed again when he noticed Clint’s lack of hearing aids. “For this photoshoot, didn’t they have us take shirtless pictures too?” Steve asked Tony.
“Yeah,” the genius replied bitterly. “They’re near the back of the magazine. I’ve yet to look at them, I’m pissed enough as is.”
Steve thumbed through the pages of the magazine again, finally stopping when he saw a full-body snapshot of himself, standing shirtless with only a pair of blue jeans on, the Captain America shield hanging loosely in his hand.
“Bullshit!” he yelled, his anger flaring up to match Stark’s. “Look at this!”
Tony leaned over and narrowed his eyes. “You look great, Cap, a natural model. What’d they do?”
Steve scowled and yanked his shirt over his head before Tony had a chance to protest. “They erased them,” he growled, jabbing a finger at his own skin, riddled with faint purplish-red lines along his taut, chiseled muscles. Lines that, upon further inspection, were most definitely not featured in the magazine photo.
“This isn’t right,” Stark said, closing the magazine angrily and tossing it at the wall. “They’re taking out everything that makes us us and making us look ‘perfect.’ It’s messed up.”
“What’s messed up?” a voice said from behind them.
The two superheroes whirled around to face another one of their comrades. Bucky Barnes had his hair up in a messy bun and his eyes blearily half-closed as if he’d just woken up.
“Photoshop,” Steve said, picking up the magazine from where Tony had thrown it and showing it to Bucky. “Look at this.”
Bucky looked at the picture of Steve shirtless for only a moment. “Did you cover up your stretch marks?”
“ No,” Steve hissed, gesturing to the photo angrily. “But apparently people who make magazines don’t like them.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said offhandedly, walking into the conjoined kitchen and grabbing a Captain America coffee mug. “They don’t like a lot of things. Last time they had me do a shoot for somethin’ they made me wear long sleeves and gloves.” He flexed the fingers on his metal hand. “Wouldn’t let me take ‘em off. Didn’t want the public eye to see, I s’pose.”
Steve and Tony stared at him.
“And you don’t care?” Tony asked incredulously.
“‘Course I care,” Bucky said, downing his coffee in one gulp and going to refill the mug. “Problem is… no matter what, people just ain’t gonna like some stuff about me. Best not to let it get to my head. I’ve got enough problems dealin’ with how I view myself, I don’t need other people breathin’ down my neck and calling me a bionic freak or whatever. Besides, it's not like they don't ask Barton to do the same thing, removin’ his hearing aids and all that.”
The three superheroes were quiet for a few moments, before Tony rolled up the newspaper and slapped it down on the table. “It shouldn’t be up to other people to dictate who you are. Everything these magazines and photoshoots are trying to cover up? That’s what makes us unique, and I’ll be damned if they try to take it away. Barnes, Rogers, assemble the others. We’re doing this ourselves.”
~~~
Two days later, Stark Tower was bustling with superheroes, and a frantic Pepper Potts was trying to wrangle them all.
“Is everyone here?” she called out, standing on a chair to see the whole room.
“I believe so, Lady Pepper,” Thor’s booming voice said from the back of the group, his blond head standing a good two inches taller than most everyone.
“Great, thank you Thor.” Pepper clasped her hands together. “So, you’ve all been told why we’re here, correct?” After a series of yes es and mhm s chorussed through the room, she continued. “Perfect. So, when your name is called, I’d like you to go through these doors and meet with our photographer. He’ll take some photos, maybe a few videos, then at the end we’ll all do a group photo and some separate interviews. Sound good with everyone?”
Another round of yep s circulated through the group, and Pepper stepped down from her chair.
“Thanks for organizing this, Pep,” Tony said, giving her a hug and a kiss on her cheek.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got somewhat of a bone to pick with those magazine photos too.”
“I think we all do,” Bruce Banner agreed, stepping up beside Tony and offering Pepper a timid smile.
“That’s why we’re doing this,” Tony said, his face set and his tone stubborn. “That’s why we have to do this.”
~~~
The process was long and tiring, and for some of the Avengers, it was downright painful, both emotionally and physically.
Eventually, though, they ended up all gathered around Stark’s large television to watch their final creation.
It started off with a black screen. Then, the smooth, suave voice of the nation’s most famous genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
“I am Iron Man.” The screen filled with photos of the famous red and gold armor, flicking between newspaper headlines (IRON MAN SAVES CITY; IRON MAN DOES IT AGAIN; THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN; HE’S UNBREAKABLE; IRON MAN STOPS MANDARIN; ATTACK ON NEW YORK, IRON MAN SAVES MANHATTAN) and dramatic action shots of the superhero blasting bad guys with his repulsors. “But who is Iron Man? Not perfect.” A shot of a beaten-up and battered suit being pummeled by a villain filled the screen, followed by Voice-Over-Tony scoffing out a humorless laugh. “Hell no. Far from it. Iron Man isn’t invincible, or unbreakable. Iron Man isn’t just a hunk of metal or a mask. I am Iron Man. But… I’m also Tony Stark.” Images of Tony flash by on the screen. Some of them have him in crisp suits, shaking hands with foreign dignitaries, flashing several obviously fake press-appeasing smiles. Some of them have him in his lab, sporting only greasy tank-tops and basketball shorts, oil smeared across his face. A few images show him grinning a genuine smile, surrounded by his robots and numerous creations. The very last one shows the supposed invincible man of iron with hooded eyes and mussed hair, clothes wrinkled and face sunken, the faint gleam of tears on his cheeks and an empty whiskey bottle lying next to him. “ This is Iron Man. This is your hero. This is your invincible, unbreakable, savior. Broken. Battered. As scarred on the inside as he is on the outside. No more armor left to hide behind.” The screen switches to a shot of Tony, taken that day. Shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans. The camera zooms in close to his chest, where the arc reactor glows brightly. White scars zigzag across his tan skin, making a sort of mosaic on his chest. An art of scars. A masterpiece. “You may think it’s hideous,” Tony’s voiceover continues. “And trust me, you're not alone in thinking so. But this reactor, these scars, both mental and physical, these are what make me Tony Stark. These are Iron Man.” A picture of Tony from the waist up fills the screen. He has a pair of aviator sunglasses on his face, a single arm of the Iron Man suit on, pointing the repulsor at the camera. His chest is clothed in only a grease-stained tank-top, and his jeans are faded. Next to his image, words begin to form on the screen.
Anthony Edward Stark (Iron Man)
Alcoholism
Anxiety
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Depression
Childhood Abuse
Attempted Suicide
Scars
Self-Esteem Issues
Heart Problems
Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
Suicidal Thoughts
Basiphobia
“One of the basic rules of the universe is that nothing is perfect. Perfection simply doesn’t exist… without imperfection, neither you nor I would exist.” -Stephen Hawking
Tony’s picture disappears, the words lingering along on the black screen for a few more moments before fading as well.
“Are you okay?” Pepper leaned over and squeezed Tony’s shoulder lightly.
The genius wiped his eyes and nodded, eyes transfixed on the screen. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Next up is Steve. “I could do this all day,” his voiceover says as the screen flickers back to life. Pictures flash by: Captain America saluting the President, stoic and stone-faced. Captain America at the forefront of the Avengers, a threatening look of determination plastered across his features. Black-and-white images of Captain America from World War II, holding a motorcycle filled with USO dancers above his head and grinning at what had been an undoubtedly screaming and swooning audience. “I’ve been the face of America for nearly a century,” the Captain says, headlines filling the screen just as they’d done for Tony. CAPTAIN AMERICA: WAR HERO EXTRAORDINAIRE. CAPTAIN AMERICA, THE MAN OUT OF TIME. THE FACE OF AMERICA. MISTER RED WHITE AND BLUE. A few lines of The Star Spangled Man With a Plan play lightly in the background, more and more photos of Steve’s indomitable face scrolling by. “But I’m not perfect. Behind the mask, behind the cowl, behind all of the stars and the stripes… there’s me. Steve Rogers.” The entire screen is filled with a single image: a black-and-white snapshot of a young, pre-serum Steve Rogers standing next to an equally-young (and untraumatized) Bucky Barnes. Everyone in the audience, even those who were aware of what Steve had looked like before the serum, widened their eyes and overtly tried to glance over at the fit captain near them. As if they couldn’t believe that the kid made of skin and bones was really the same person as the nearly-invulnerable man they knew. Elbows and knees jutting out at odd angles. Scrawny. Sickly. Fragile. Nothing like the Captain America that had just been onscreen. “I used to be too sick to step outside in the winter. Too weak to hold my own in a fight.” The image shifted to another old photo, this time depicting pre-serum Steve with a bloody nose, black eye, and swollen lip. Two messily-applied bandages wrapped around his bloodied knuckles. Steve, watching the video from his seat, subconsciously ran a finger over the faint white scars that ran across the top of his hands. “Too stupid to know when to stop. Too stubborn to admit when I needed help. Too useless to defend my country.” The picture shifted again. An image of Steve’s old army enlistment form filled the screen, a red stamp reading DENIED covering most of the words. “And then Erskine happened. He developed a serum. Everyone told me he would make me… perfect.” Next came an image of Steve, strong and healthy and confident, standing in front of the Super Soldier machine, Howard Stark and Peggy Carter beaming proudly in the background. “Dr. Erskine was a smart man, and hardly ever was incorrect.” Voiceover-Steve paused for a moment. “But he was not right about that. I was made into the Captain you know today. All muscle and power. Strength and agility. Precision and health and everything else I’d lacked. But he did not make me perfect.” An image of Cap and his Howling Commandos. “A good man? Sure. A perfect one?” A picture of Steve in just a pair of boxers, stretch marks in plain sight. “Not a chance.” The camera zoomed in on the Captain’s skin, taking time to linger on every single line. Chiseled muscles rippled across his abdomen, but the camera didn’t focus on those for long. “I nearly doubled in size that day. Growing that much all at once takes a real toll on someone… even a Super Soldier. These lines, these marks, they make me. These are Captain America. ” Just as it had done for Tony, the screen filled with a single picture of Steve. He faced away from the camera, hands on his hips and the shield in its usual spot on his back. Words began to fill the spaces next to him.
Steven Grant Rogers (Captain America)
Asthma
Scoliosis
Heart Arrhythmia
Anemia
Anxiety
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Stretch Marks
Frigophobia
“Imperfection is not our personal problem– it is a natural part of existing.” -Tara Branch
Steve's picture slowly faded away, leaving his list of ailments on the black screen for a few moments more.
“Why'd you put all your old preserum stuff up there too?” Bucky asked quietly, leaning over to his best friend as they watched the screen.
“Because there's some little kid out there,” Steve responded. “Some little boy or girl, with a crooked spine or shitty lungs. And that little boy or girl needs to know that they can be heroes too.”
“You big sap,” Bucky laughed, playfully punching Steve's arm.
Steve chuckled softly and turned his eyes back to the screen. Once the letters had completely vanished, it was dark for a second.
Then, another familiar voice.
“I'm always angry.” Pictures and videos of the Hulk's enraged face snarling swarmed the screen. Hulk pummeling the Chitauri soldiers. Hulk scaling a building with his bare hands. Hulk leaping from rooftop to rooftop in a single bound, growling and roaring all the way. Hulk, holding an enraged Loki by the ankle, preparing the smash him to the ground mercilessly (in the audience, Loki inhaled sharply and Bruce cast him a half-sheepish half-smug smile). “And you know why I'm angry?” Voiceover-Bruce laughed emotionlessly. “Because I tried to be perfect . I tried to fix myself, tried to become someone I wasn't. I, uh, quickly realized that wasn't possible.” Pictures of Bruce's experiment flashed onscreen. Wires and tubes and screens and numbers. And there was Bruce… tiny little doctor Banner. Hooked up to all the machines and gizmos and gadgets. Followed immediately by a video. Someone onscreen screamed. A loud, ear-shattering growl howled as the Hulk pounced onto a building. “The world's always been scared of the Hulk. But me? I was more scared of Bruce.” More images: Banner, curled up in the fetal position and sweating, eyes scrunched tightly together as he fought off the rage building within him. Banner, wrapped in three different blankets and numerous hoodies, still shivering after a nasty de-Hulking incident, his hands tightly clutched in his own hair. Bruce, with noise-canceling headphones over his ears, eyes closed as crimson blood streaked with bits of green gushed from a gash on his forehead. Banner, looking pale and sickly and holding a razorblade in his fist, little droplets of the same strange-tinted blood clinging to the tip. “I may not be your average superhero. I don't have biceps the side of your head, washboard abs, or even a million dollars. In reality, I'm more fragile. Soft. Not as pretty or strong as your other heroes.” A picture of Bruce, fully covered in a gray hoodie and sweatpants, standing next to Thor, who wore full battle armor, biceps bulging and hair flowing. The next picture was one Bruce had taken that day. He was shirtless and only in his boxers, proudly smiling as he showed off his rounder, softer belly and his less-defined figure. The camera panned across Bruce's body slowly, trailing along his waist and chest, even along his arms, where old faded scars were still present on his tan skin, next to newer, fresher ones that had obviously been inflicted not too long ago. “The Hulk may be your superhero. But me, Bruce? I'm far from one.” Again, the screen turned to be a single picture of the hero: Bruce, his curly hair wild and his hands balled into fists, a white lab coat hanging loosely over his favorite purple button-down shirt. Green flashing dangerously in his eyes and creeping up the veins on the side of his neck. But a huge, unmistakable grin on his face. “This body, these scars?” Bruce’s voiceover chuckled dryly. “These are your Incredible Hulk.” Words began popping up just as they'd done for Tony and Steve, this time spelling out all of Bruce's ailments.
Robert Bruce Banner (Hulk)
Attempted suicide
Self-harm
Anger issues
Childhood abuse
Low self-esteem
Body-image issues
Gamma-induced mutation
Victim of Human Experimentation
Angrophobia
“Your imperfections are marks of authenticity… and that is the beauty of you.” -Isaac Fowler
The others watched raptly as their friend’s image slowly faded from the screen, but Thor leaned over to Bruce and whispered, “has your name always been Robert?”
Bruce snickered and nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Yeah. I don't use it very often… reminds me too much of my dad yelling at me.”
Thor nodded and opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by his own voice booming from the speakers.
“I am Thor, son of Odin!” The god’s boisterous declaration was followed closely by a barrage of photos: Thor, brandishing Mjölnir, his hair flowing freely behind him. Thor, zapping a dozen of Ultron’s bots with a single bolt of lightning, his face frozen mid-laugh. Thor, his famous winged Viking helmet atop his head, kneeling before King Odin. Thor, swinging Stormbreaker wildly at Thanos’ army, snarling and screaming at the Mad Titan with such an expression of fury that everyone in the audience unconsciously shrunk back. Thor, standing at the forefront of the Revengers, with Hulk, Valkyrie, and Loki behind him, all poised and ready for battle with Hela and Surtur. “I am a god.” Voiceover-Thor sighed heavily. “But I am not without my faults.” An image of Thor, grasping Tony tightly by the throat, yelling in his face, expression contorted with anger as Tony looked down at him in terror. A picture of Thor, overweight and depressed, downing a bottle of beer, an XBox controller hanging loosely in his left hand. A snapshot of Thor, head in hands and hunched over in defeat, dressed in dirty Midgardian clothing and not the usual Asgardian battle armor he was famous for. “Fifteen hundred years can really take a toll on a man. Immortality can drive a wedge between you and those with whom your heart belongs. And sometimes… that wedge is permanent.” Two images split the screen: the one on the left depicting Thor and Jane, both wearing their battle armor and brandishing their weapons, Jane dressed to the nines in her Mighty Thor ensemble. The other of Thor kneeling before a headstone, flowers clutched in his large hand and tears streaming down his face. “A human’s life is but a mere second of an Asgardian’s. Bearing the pain of many losses becomes too much for even the mighty Thor to carry, sometimes.” The two images involving Jane shifted to two of he and Loki. One with them that had been taken that day in the studio, hands slung over each other's shoulders in a small demonstration of brotherly love. The other, depicting that fateful day in New York, Loki pointing his scepter at Thor, face twisted up in rage. Both brothers cast unreadable glances at each other in the audience then immediately looked away. “You lose people. They will betray you. They will die. They will all leave. And you're left with no one. Even a god feels alone. We are not immune to emotions, nor are we spared the pain of physical injuries. These depressive episodes, this missing eye… These are the God of Thunder. ” The screen shifted once more to a picture of Thor, taken on that day, his eyepatch off and flashing his scarred eye socket at his audience, a proud grin on his face. He winked with his one good eye, and the camera zoomed in a bit closer, panning slowly over the scarred and mangled flesh. Then, the screen went to a single picture of Thor. Like Steve had been, the shirtless Asgardian had his back to the camera. His arms flexed, and the expanse of seemingly perfect golden skin tensed up with muscle definition. Words began to fall into place, just as they'd done for every other hero previously.
Thor Odinson (God of Thunder)
Chronic Depression
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Alcoholism
Obesity
Overeating/Binge-Eating Disorder
Missing Eye
Trust Issues
“Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections.” -Gerard Way
Thor was unabashedly sobbing by the end of his segment of the video, a whole box of crumpled tissues in a pile at his feet. On his left, Bruce handed the god another box and offered him a sympathetic smile, while Loki, on his right side, awkwardly patted his brother's back.
The screen slowly changed, fading away from Thor’s image and list of maladies to… a pair of hands, one clothed in an archer’s glove and the other covered in bandages.
I see better from a distance, the hands signed in ASL, a translation running across the bottom of the screen. Slowly, the camera zoomed out to show who the hands belonged to: a grinning Clint Barton, dressed in a purple T-shirt and jeans, a quiver slung over his shoulder. Being a superhero comes with consequences, Barton signed, the translation scrolling as he did so. The screen split: one side holding the same image as before, Clint signing out the narration. The other side flicked through photos of Hawkeye. Shooting an arrow through a Chitauri’s head. Backflipping off a building. Standing next to Kate Bishop, both of them in their purple archery suits, back to back with their bows held high (in the audience, Kate wolf whistled at her own picture. Clint threw a pillow at her with terrifying accuracy). Hawkeye isn't as cool or famous or rich as any of the other Avengers, Clint signed. He's no one's favorite… not even his own. The side of the screen that didn't show Clint’s fingerspelling switched to a different set of pictures. Ronin, in his dark suit and mask, plunging his blade into the heart of his opponent. Clint, during the Blip, sitting alone on his porch, surrounded by hundreds of pictures of his wife and children. Barton, with hot, angry tears pouring down his face, punching a wall with bloodied knuckles. Clint, high above the SHIELD base in New Mexico, aiming an arrow directly at Thor's back as the god struggled through the mud to get to Mjölnir. Everyone goes through trauma, the archer's wordless narration continued. It's how we deal with this trauma that defines who we are. And me? I chose violence. I chose to inflict pain on others so that I could ignore my own. Superheroes are not immune to pain. We feel it, both emotionally and physically. Being a superhero doesn’t mean you can’t be handicapped. The changing side of the screen shifted to a closeup of Clint’s ear, the hearing aid bright purple and prominent. Being a hero means you don’t let those handicaps stop you. This hearing aid? These bandages and scars? The blood on my hands? These are Hawkeye. The camera panned slowly around the image of Clint’s ear, making sure to show every bit of the hearing aid before switching the entire screen to one picture of the archer. He stood in a white tank top, jeans, and bright purple Nikes, head tilted slightly towards the camera to show off his hearing aid. His quiver was slung over his back, and his one fingerless-gloved hand held up the ASL sign for i love you as he winked and grinned at the camera . Words began to fill the screen, informing the audience of Clint’s maladies and conditions.
Clinton Francis Barton (Hawkeye)
Hard of Hearing (80% Hearing Loss)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Depression
Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms
Childhood Abuse
Victim of Mind-Control
“Life isn’t meant to be lived perfectly… but merely to be lived. Boldly, wildly, beautifully, uncertainly, imperfectly, magically lived.” -Mandy Hale
Gradually, Clint’s picture faded away, leaving the words boldly standing out on the black background for a few more moments.
“Sorry about the whole… mind control thing,” Loki whispered awkwardly to Clint, trying his best at signing the words as he said them.
Clint rolled his eyes and waved away the god’s concern. “I’m over it. Really. I just thought I’d put it in there. Y’know… in case any little kid who’s ever been mind controlled before watches this…”
Loki scoffed and leaned back in his chair. “Sarcastic bastard. I was trying to be genuine for once.”
“I know,” Clint said with a cheeky grin. “But I think a little sarcasm is warranted, right? Besides, you’ve made up for it since then. You’re good, Lokes. Really.”
Loki smiled warmly for a moment, before the screen switched to another image.
“I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.” This time the voice is feminine, though not any softer or less battle-worn than the ones before it. The images that flash onscreen are of the infamous Black Widow. Some depict her in a positive way, roundhouse kicking HYDRA agents in the face, pepper-spraying them directly in the eyes, flipping them over her shoulder. Others show her more negatively, during her old assassin times, holding a gun to the temple of certain politicians or holding Clint in a headlock on that fateful day they had met so long ago. “I lived a good portion of my life being trained,” Nat’s voice said as more images rushed past. “Trained to fight, trained to overthrow. Trained to kill. My mind wasn’t my own. I was told I was a Widow, and that Widows didn’t break. So I didn’t.” Images of the Red Room. Images of little girls of all races, sizes, ethnicities, and shapes. Images of operating rooms, ballet bars, and shooting ranges. Images of children strapped to their beds while they slept. “My skin is littered with scars and bruises. My mind is filled with the images they implanted. I’ve been torn apart and put back together, but I’ll never be the same as how I was before the Red Room.” The image changed to one of Natasha as a child, her hair dyed blue and her arm slung over Yelena’s shoulders. “I’ll never get that innocence back.” The picture shifted again, this time to one taken that day… Natasha and Yelena, in matching black sports bras, biker shorts, and combat boots, showing off their pale torsos and the dozens of scars decorating their skin. The onscreen-Natasha lifted her hands up to cover her face, giving her audience a clear view onto the words written on her palms in black Sharpie: Sexual . Yelena’s hands lifted up to show the word Abuse. All of the eyes in the room glanced in the sisters’ direction, besides one, but the Widows stared determinedly forward. The one pair of eyes that didn’t look towards Nat and Yelena went wide at the sight, as if a memory had just resurfaced in the owner’s brain.
“Buck?” Steve muttered, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder comfortingly. “You good?”
Bucky shook his head rapidly, missing the next few words Natasha’s voiceover said. “N… No. I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” The ex-soldier stood up so fast that the wooden dining room chair he’d been sitting in fell over with a loud clatter.
“James,” Natasha said, motioning for Pepper to pause the video. Pepper obliged, glancing over at Tony, hoping for some more insight on what was happening. “James, calm down.”
“No,” Bucky breathed, his voice barely audible as he bent down to pick up his fallen chair. He was in a stupor, barely registering what he was doing. Spiraling. “No, I can’t… I did… I did that… to… you, Natalia. And, oh God … Yelena…”
“James, look at me.” Nat gently grabbed Bucky’s chin and made him look up at her. Hesitantly, his eyes met hers.
“Я монстр…” Bucky whispered, his gaze tracing Yelena as the blonde Widow came up behind her sister.
“You’re not a monster, James.”
“DON’T LIE TO ME!” The moment the words left Bucky’s mouth he shrunk back, eyes wide and fists clenched. He backed up against the wall, feeling trapped. “Please.”
“No one’s lying to you, Buck-”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Bucky whispered, shaking his head. “Not with you, Stevie, I almost killed you… if it weren’t for the- the… well, you know… I would have… you could have died. Not with you, Stark, I don’t deserve to be here in your house, sitting in your living room, after I single handedly destroyed your family. Especially not with you, Наталья… or you, Елена… after everything… everything I did to you, back in the Red Room… the training, the torturing, the…” He gestured to the screen, where the frozen image still showed, paused on the Sharpie marker declaration.
“Man, which one of us hasn’t done something we regret?” Sam Wilson asked, standing up from his spot on the couch. “You don’t think I replay the scene of Riley’s death in my head every day, knowin’ that I could’ve prevented it? We’ve all done things we ain’t proud of, Bucky. That’s what this whole thing’s about. Sayin’ we’re more than all these scars and bad things. And all those bad things, Buck? They weren’t even you doin’ ‘em.” Sam scoffed. “You cried watching Ratatouille, excuse me for not thinkin’ you’re some crazed murderer and rapist.”
“Listen to Sam,” Nat said softly, pulling Bucky’s chin up yet again to meet her eyes. “We put that in there as a testament against the Red Room. Not you. Got it?”
“Мне жаль-”
“Got it?” Nat repeated, more forceful this time.
Bucky just nodded.
“Good.” Nat squeezed Bucky’s shoulder once, and gave him her kindest smile, the one she usually reserved for calming Hulk down or getting what she wanted in an interrogation. “Now c’mon, let’s finish watching this damn thing so we can eat something. I heard the Bartons cooked, and Laura’s food is to die for.”
Bucky smiled, just a bit, at this and looked over at Steve with pleading eyes.
“C’mon Buck,” the Captain said, throwing an arm around the ex-assassin’s shoulders and pulling him into the armchair he’d been previously occupying, ignoring the small wooden chair Bucky had tried to pick back up in his hasty episode. Bucky snuggled close to Steve, eyes not quite back in complete focus and breathing not back to absolute normal, but better. Better was all Steve could ask for sometimes.
With a nod from Natasha, Pepper clicked the button to unpause the video, and the audience of superheroes had their attention drawn back to the screen, which now showed an image of Nat, dressed in a plain black tank top and jeans that were ripped at the knees. Her arms were crossed in front of her face, the golden Widow’s Bite gauntlets around her wrists prominent against the darkness of her outfit. Her head hung down, strands of red hair falling in front of her face, obscuring her from the audience. “These scars, this trauma, all of them? These are Black Widow.”
Natalia Alianovna Romanova (Black Widow)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Victim of Psychological Conditioning and Brainwashing
Childhood Abuse
Sexual Assault and Non-Consensual Rape
Forced Sterilization
Scars
Survivor’s Guilt
“She’s a beautiful piece of imperfection. Beautiful, flaws and all.” -R.H. Sin
“Lovely quote, Tasha,” Pepper said from the back of the room.
“One of my favorites,” the ex-assassin replied with a grin.
“Shhhh,” Sam hissed, his eyes dancing with mirth as he teased them. “The best part is coming up.”
Indeed, Sam’s voice popped up next. “On your left.”
Sam nudged Steve in the arm and chuckled.
A snapshot of Sam, from the waist up, his Falcon goggles on his eyes and wings on his back, took up the entire upper left hand corner of the screen.
“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal,” Bucky’s voice said as his own picture appeared and took the upper right hand corner of the screen next to Sam, his shoulder-length hair neatly combed and dark eyeliner on point. His picture was also from the waist-up, and he had detached his metal arm, so that he just had a small, bandage wrapped stump, covered in hundreds of deep scars.
“Somebody’s gotta look out for the little guy, right?” This time it was a younger, higher-pitched voice, and the masked face of Spider-Man filled the lower left hand corner of the screen under Sam’s image (a quiet and muffled “damn right, kid” came from where a shrunken Ant Man was pilfering through a bag of pretzels, but everyone chose to ignore him).
“I am burdened with Glorious Purpose.” Loki’s voice was suave and smooth as always, and his picture began to form right below Bucky's, next to Spider-Man. His long hair was slicked back just enough so that it looked sleek and not greasy (an important distinction, the antihero had claimed as he had styled his long black mane earlier that day), and he too was wearing eyeliner (much less noticeable than Bucky’s, however, because as the Asgardian had also claimed earlier, he didn’t want to look like Rocket Raccoon).
Just a mere moment after Loki's face showed up onscreen, Sam's faded away. In its place came another list:
Samuel Thomas Wilson (Falcon)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Depression
Survivor's Guilt
Low Self-Esteem
Scars
Bucky's face was the next to fade, and his list manifested onscreen, the longest one so far:
James Buchanan Barnes (The Winter Soldier/White Wolf)
Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Anxiety
Chronic Depression
Suicidal Thoughts
Attempted Suicide
Self-Harm
Amputee
Scars
Victim of Psychological Conditioning and Brainwashing
Forced Dissociative Amnesia
Cryophobia
Acrophobia
Iatrophobia
Sexual Assault and Non-Consensual Rape
“Why's that last one there?” Bucky whispered in Steve's ear. “That didn't happen…”
“Nat told Pepper to add it,” Steve responded just as quietly. “She said that if she didn't have a choice then you didn't either. You weren't yourself and you didn't consent to it.”
Bucky looked over at Natasha, who winked at him from a few seats away. Bucky gave her a small smile and burrowed in closer to Steve.
Beneath Sam's completed list, Spider-Man’s picture gradually began to disappear, replaced by a few descriptors of his own.
Spider-Man
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Anxiety
Depression
Trust Issues
Scars
Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
Nyctophobia
Peter Parker, not afraid of showing the Avengers his true identity but still hesitant to unmask himself in the video, was hanging from the ceiling in a hammock he'd spun out of webs.
“You good up there, kid?” Tony called up to him as Loki's picture began to dissolve as well.
“Sure thing, Mister Stark!” Peter called back, swinging his legs and watching the video raptly.
Once the fourth and final picture had disappeared, words took its place just as they'd done for everyone else.
Loki Laufeyson-Odinson (God of Mischief & Stories)
Depression
Anxiety
Suicidal Thoughts
Pathological Liar
Self-Harm
Attempted Suicide
Childhood Abuse
Trust Issues
Antisocial Personality Disorder
Narcissism
The four columns of ailments stood boldly on the screen for a few moments, allowing the audience to have a moment to soak it all in. Then, Sam's words slowly faded and turned into a picture of the shirtless Falcon, Riley's dog tags around his neck and his head bowed in a sign of mourning. In his right hand, he held the picture of him and his friend in the Air Force, heads tipped back mid-laugh, their happiness frozen in time. Sam, in the audience watching the video, stared unblinkingly forward, unwilling to let anyone see the tears welling behind his eyes.
Bucky's list was quick to follow suit, fading away to make room for his picture. The ex-assassin’s picture showed him shirtless and wearing his WWII dog tags, flexing and showing off the thin scars that ran across his right wrist and entwined with each other all the way up to his elbow. Bucky, still crammed into the armchair with Steve, uncomfortably shifted and pulled the sleeve of his leather jacket down further over his right arm (a strange difference for the other Avengers to see, as it was usually his metal prosthesis he tried so hard to cover up). Steve, next to him, squeezed his shoulders comfortingly and pulled him in for a side-hug, as best as he could in the small chair.
Peter’s picture was the next list to disappear, swiftly being replaced by an image of him in his Spider-Man mask and a pair of Iron Man boxers, proudly displaying all the cuts, bumps, and bruises he'd sustained from his years as a superhero. His wiry yet strong frame vaguely showed his youth, with smooth pale skin and prominent muscle definition.
“Nice underoos, Underoos,” Tony chortled from the audience, earning a swift slap to the back of the head from Pepper.
Loki was last to have his words vanish, but the surprise that took their spot was enough to make a couple of Avengers gasp and Loki look down at his feet in shame. It was, indeed, a photo of Thor's brother, but there was no Odinson in this picture… only Laufey. Loki had taken his true Jotun form for the image, a horned crown of pure ice atop his blue head. His hair was still jet-black and neatly slicked back, but his eyes had taken on a bloodred hue that sent chills down everyone’s spines. Loki knew his true form was terrifying, and upon hearing everyone’s quiet gasps and hushed murmurings, the son of Jotunheim’s king inwardly cursed himself for allowing the photographer to take the pictures. Jotun Loki extended his hands out flat in the photo, giving his audience a clear view of all the various self-harm marks along the god’s cerulean forearms: cuts, scratches, scars, and, most commonly, burns. Everyone in the room fell silent as the heroes all pondered… could the bloodthirsty villain who tried to kill us… be a victim of his own story?
“Loki,” Thor whispered softly, leaning over to where the antihero was sitting silently, eyes still fixated on his black loafers. “Brother, I… I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Loki whispered back, not bothering to disguise the scathing tone in his voice. “No ever does.” Agitated, but more embarrassed than anything, Loki mirrored Bucky’s previous actions and pulled the sleeves of his all-black suit down lower over his injured forearms. From across the room, the two ex-killers made eye contact, and, if only for a brief moment, they understood each other perfectly. Loki reached into his jacket pocket, almost subconsciously, and wrapped his fingers around the cool metal of the trench lighter he had swiped off Stark’s workbench earlier that day.
Still scrunched into the armchair with Steve, Bucky's hand drifted slowly down to his own pocket and he cast a small, unreadable glance at the captain next to him.
The four images began fading, and soon the screen was plain black.
“Wakanda forever!” a familiar voice cried from the speaker, just as the upper left corner of the screen (where Sam's picture had been just moments before) was filled with an image of the Black Panther, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and claws shining sharply.
“I can't control their fear… only my own.”
An image of Wanda Maximoff, red beams of light floating off her palms serenely, took the spot Bucky's picture had previously occupied
“I've spent years in a haze, trying to forget my past.” This time it was Valkyrie's voice that spoke, a snapshot of her in her Asgardian battle armor taking up the screen’s lower left corner.
“There's always room to grow.” The newest image was a full-body shot of Ant-Man, shrunk down and standing to his full five-inch height proudly in someone's outstretched palm.
The four superhero images stayed onscreen for a moment, before Black Panther disappeared, only to be replaced by a column of words.
T’Challa Udaku (Black Panther)
Social anxiety
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Scars
Low Self-Esteem
The words, bright white against a solid black background, stood boldly in place. Soon after, Wanda's image disappeared, followed by Val’s and then Scott’s, until there were four more columns of ailments taking up the screen.
Wanda Django Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)
Anxiety
Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Prolonged Grief Disorder
Antisocial Personality Disorder
Suicidal Thoughts
Borderline Personality Disorder
Bipolar Depression
Victim of Human Experimentation
Survivor's Guilt
Brunnhilde (Valkyrie)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Depression
Alcoholism
Survivor's Guilt
Suicidal Thoughts
Self-Harm
Attempted Suicide
Scott Edward Harris Lang (Ant-Man)
Anxiety
Scars
Depression
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
As suddenly as they appeared, the columns of words began to dissipate. T'Challa’s list was replaced by a picture of the Wakandan king from the waist up in only a purple tank top, showing off the faded scars that littered his arms and shoulders, remnants of battles long since forgotten. The king’s head was bowed slightly, his eyes not quite meeting the camera and his lips quirked upwards in a half-smile. The other Avengers knew that T’Challa put on a mask when he was in public, acting the part of a regal foreign dignitary that he really didn't want to be. But they never had quite grasped to what extent the usually-courageous and fearless warrior hated the ever-shining spotlight and scrutiny.
Soon after T'Challa's new picture appeared, Wanda’s face showed back up onscreen again as well. Her hair was frazzled, her makeup was smeared, and a burst of bright red light shone from behind her as she screamed silently, mouth open and eyes screwed tightly shut. The pain Wanda had endured, the losses she'd faced, the Avengers knew about it all. They'd never known, however, the toll it had taken on the woman's mentality. Stephen Strange, in the audience, looked away from the screen, the image of Wanda far too similar to the borderline-psychotic Scarlet Witch he'd once known.
Once the image of Wanda was burned into their brains, Valkyrie reappeared onscreen. She was wearing a black sports bra, not entirely dissimilar to the ones Nat and Yelena had been shown wearing earlier, holding both arms out flat in front of her. One forearm was decorated with the detailed mark of the Valkyries, while the other was riddled with deep, jagged scars that crisscrossed along her skin. Her torso, too, bore the evidence of many battles, with bruises that never faded and scars that wouldn't go away creating a mosaic along her body.
The last to show up is Scott, this time from the waist up like everyone else, wearing a light gray tank top and his trademark crooked smile. In one hand, he held up his prison mugshots. In the other, a snapshot of him and his daughter Cassie hugging in a park.
The four images of the superheroes stayed onscreen for a few moments before fading back to total darkness yet again.
“I’m kind of done with you telling me what I can't do.”
The picture that appeared was of Captain Marvel, blonde hair flowing, blue eyes glowing, and her entire body pulsating with pure, undiluted power. Just the sight of her battle-worn but beautiful face, meshed with the voice-over declaration, made a few of the spectating Avengers shrink back in fear (Carol, seeing their reactions, smiled proudly to herself).
“You don't have to do this alone.”
This time it's James Rhodes, tall and poised in his image despite the clunky War Machine suit he wore.
“We're in the endgame now.”
While everyone in the audience trembles subconsciously at the daunting declaration, the image of Stephen Strange takes the spot below Carol Danvers. His hair is combed back neatly, and the red collar of his cloak is standing up as rigid as always. The golden chain of the Eye of Agamotto gleamed against the navy blue of his shirt.
“If you ever feel lost, just look into the eyes of the people you love.”
A snicker rose up from somewhere in the audience as Star Lord’s picture finished the four-way mosaic onscreen.
“How corny !” Rocket Raccoon said, hissing with laughter and pointing a paw at Peter Quill.
“Hey!” the Guardians leader said defensively, looking over at the sentient tree sitting next to him for help.
“I am Groot,” the tree said with a shrug of its leafy shoulders.
“What do you mean he's got a point -” Quill spluttered.
While Rocket wheezed breathlessly, Carol Danvers’ picture slowly faded to black, only to be replaced by the now-familiar white block of text. Following Carol, Rhodey’s image soon too dissipates, Stephen and Peter’s following suit in time.
Before long, there are four stark-white columns of ailments standing brightly against the pitch dark background.
Carol Susan Jane Danvers (Captain Marvel)
Depression
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Anxiety
Low Self-Esteem
James Rupert Rhodes (War Machine/Iron Patriot)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Anxiety
Scars
Shattered Spine
Paralysis
Stephen Vincent Strange (Doctor Strange)
Severe Nerve Damage
Depression
Scars
Anxiety
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Peter Jason Quill (Star Lord)
Depression
Anxiety
Narcissism
Trust Issues
Childhood Abuse
Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
Alcoholism
Then, just as expected, the pattern continues. Carol's list of maladies disappears, only to be replaced by another image of the female Captain, wearing a cropped red spaghetti-strap shirt and showing off the myriad of bruises and scars along her body. Her eyes no longer held the glowering scintillation that they had in the previous picture, but her tan skin still had a phosphorescent sheen that exuded power.
Rhodey appeared next, standing farther back from the camera than everyone else had so that he could show off the lower half of his body. The strong metal braces that clamped around his jeans pulsated a dull blue, not entirely dissimilar to Tony’s arc reactor, as they held him upright. Rhodey, shirtless in the image, had his hands folded neatly behind him in a military parade rest, standing ramrod straight and at attention.
Stephen was closer to the camera than everyone else had been previously, holding up his scarred hands. The nerve damage that had single handedly (pun intended) ended Strange’s surgeon career wasn’t able to be shown in an image, but the pale scars caused by the crash made Harry Potter-esque lightning bolts zigzag across the sorcerer’s skin.
Peter Quill, the half-Celestial, was much like a Super Soldier in the fact that any injuries he sustained healed without scarring, so there weren’t many afflictions to show off as the Guardian leader stood shirtless in his picture. He did, however, appear otherworldly, with faint blue light glowing on his fingertips and one eyebrow raised at the camera. There was something jarringly ethereal about Star Lord that any viewer could tell just from glancing at it; an intangible aura that the other Avengers had grown used to seeing with the Asgardians, but somehow different all the same. In Quill’s left hand, he held an empty bottle of booze, the label printed in some foreign alien tongue that none of them recognized.
Once the four pictures disappeared, the screen faded to black. A few of the Avengers moved to get up, believing that the video was over, but a familiar symbol burned brightly on the screen. A pulsating, bright red A, the telltale Avengers insignia that donned every one of their uniforms.
“Who you are is not for other people to decide,” Pepper Potts’ voiceover said.
Then the screen shifted one last time.
And the image that appeared was unforgettable.
Twenty-three superheroes, even ones that had not given their testimonies in the video, all stood together on two-tiered risers, spelling out one glorious message.
Tony Stark stood tall in his gold and red Iron Man suit, the helmet popped up to see his iconic trademark grin and tinted aviator sunglasses. His right hand was extended out, the repulsor pulsating with whitish light, while the left hand held a piece of paper with a large letter Y on it, scribbled in Tony’s nearly-illegible manuscript.
Next to him stood Steve Rogers, wearing his old Captain America combat suit from the 1940s save the helmet. His blond hair was fluffy and longer than he usually kept it, shaggy over his forehead and ears. In his hands was the world’s most famous and formidable weapon, the perfect circular shape of the shield appearing as the letter O.
Next to Steve was Bruce Banner, his skin green and glasses perched on his face, taking on the persona that the world had come to know as Smart-Hulk. He was clothed in a purple button-down shirt and starched white lab coat, holding a paper with a bold letter U on it, the letter carefully printed in the doctor’s blocky handwriting.
Next to Bruce stood his cousin Jen, who, ironically, also sported green skin and bulging, hulking (pun intended yet again) muscles. Her pantsuit was ironed and pressed neatly, but the bunny ears she gave her cousin and the goofy grin she wore on her face were anything but professional.
On the other side of Jen Walters was Thor, his hair loose around his shoulders and his freshly-polished battle armor gleaming. Stormbreaker was strapped to his back, Mijolnir brandished tightly in his left hand. In his right hand the god held tightly to a paper with the letter A written boldly on it in Thor’s regal lettering.
Next to Thor, Clint grinned brightly, holding up the ASL sign for R, his fingers crossed tightly together. The archer had his bow and arrow strapped over his back, and his Ronin sword sheathed at his side. He was wearing his purple Hawkeye suit with a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and the obnoxiously bright purple Nike high tops Kate had gotten him for his last birthday (that he pretended to hate but secretly loved).
Speaking of Kate, she was standing next to her mentor, her own purple archery suit barely visible under her faded black denim jacket. Her jeans were also faded and black, with large rips on each of the knees. She, not entirely dissimilar to Jen, was giving Clint bunny ears, grinning so wide her eyes were scrunched closed.
Standing next to the two Hawkeyes was Natasha, decked out in her full Black Widow tactical gear. Two handguns were holstered at her sides and the Widow's Bite gauntlets were clamped around her wrists, but she looked far from a terrifying killer with her red hair styled in a complex braided updo. The Black Widow grinned at the camera, holding up a paper with a bright letter E on it.
Yelena stood next to her sister, her arm thrown casually over the other Widow’s shoulders. The blonde woman was sporting braids similar to Natasha’s own and her all-white tactical gear. She too had weaponized gauntlets encircling her forearms, but opted for one larger gun at her hip rather than her sister's dualies.
On the second row of risers, slowly lower than the first, stood Bucky Barnes. The ex-assassin had his shoulder-length hair thrown up into a messy half-bun, a thick coating of eyeliner accentuating the grayish blue of his piercing eyes. Barnes had opted to wear his old kevlar suit for the photo, and had ripped the left sleeve off a leather jacket to put on over it, matching the leather of his combat boots. He was smirking slightly, his right hand resting casually on his hip and his Vibranium left arm holding tightly to a paper that showed the letter B.
Next to Bucky stood another long-haired ex-killer. Loki’s green and black outfit was neat and tidy, the black and yellow cape that he’d received on Sakaar rippling out behind him slightly. His palms were together in front of his chest, as if he were holding open a book, and a bright green beam of light, shaped like the letter E, shimmered from the magic. His lips were tilted upwards ever so slightly in his trademark smirk, and the black stone of his horned helmet gleamed dimly.
Next to Loki was T’Challa, wearing his trademark black suit, the silver spikes that adorned his collar glinting marvelously in the subtle purple light that emanated from the suit. He wore no mask, and his face showed pure happiness as the king held up a paper with the letter A scrawled on in T’Challa’s penmanship.
Shuri stood next to her brother, an arm thrown over his shoulder and a teasing grin on her face. She too wore a Panther suit, silver and gold accents gleaming against the Vibranium-infused armor. The princess copied her brother, wearing no helmet atop her head, but instead choosing to embellish her face with the signature white dots she commonly sported.
Beside the Wakandan warriors stood Wanda Maximoff, her red corset tight around her abdomen. Her hair flowed freely around her shoulders, ornamented by the infamous crown of the Scarlet Witch. Wanda’s hands were held similarly to Loki’s, with a magicked red letter U floating from her palms. The witch’s eyes gleamed a slight scarlet hue, but a grin spread its way across her face, showing that she was truly not as evil as people had been led to believe.
Next to Wanda was another kickass woman warrior, her dark hair tied expertly back in an intricate design. The Dragonfang dagger glinted threateningly as it hung from Val’s hip, and the intense look in the female combatant’s eyes was one that could make even the toughest of men fall to their knees in surrender. Nevertheless, despite all of her imposing qualities and more-than-threatening demeanor, Valkyrie Brunnhilde was smirking slightly, no hint of inebriation in her features. In the Asgardian soldier’s hand was a piece of paper, the letter T written fancily on the parchment in a messy yet carefully-crafted manuscript.
On Val’s right shoulder, easy to miss if one isn’t looking closely, is a man, shrunken down to no more than six inches tall. Scott Lang holds up his hands as if in celebration, his grin huge despite his miniature appearance.
On Valkyrie’s other shoulder, hovering slightly, is another shrunken person. Wings glinting mysteriously and yellow suit instantly recognizable, The Wasp also has an arm up in excitement, the other placed on her hip in midair.
Next to Val and her shrunken comrades stood the familiar armor of War Machine, dark charcoal in color and an intimidatingly-large gun resting on the shoulder. James Rhodes’ helmet is popped up, as Tony’s had been, and the soldier grins, holding a paper adorned with the letter I up in his metal hands.
Beyond the War Machine is the intergalactically-famous face of Peter Quill. Star Lord is decked out in an Aerosmith tee-shirt and maroon leather jacket, his Walkman holstered on his belt loop like a weapon. Connected to the small music player was a pair of old headphones, trailing on a cord all the way up, resting around Quill’s neck. In the Guardian’s fingerless-gloved hands was a paper with a nearly-illegible letter F scribbled onto it in what appeared to be red Sharpie.
Beside the Guardian leader were two more galaxy-savers. Groot’s arms –or branches– stretched up to the ceiling, forming a prominent letter U above his tree-like head.
Rocket Raccoon stood on his best friend’s shoulder, clinging tightly to the tree’s “arm,” muzzle turned upwards in his trademark sly grin.
Next to the Guardians was one of the world’s most famous faces. CEO of Stark Industries, fiancee of America’s richest inventor, number-one mention in the Twitter tag #SHERO, and overall girlboss. Pepper Potts was in the blue and gold Rescue suit, helmet popped up like Tony and Rhodes, grinning happily as her strawberry blonde hair hung slightly in her face. Clutched in her fingers was a paper, the letter L written carefully on it.
High above the others, Sam Wilson had his wings extended, flying in midair with a large poster held tightly in his hands. The large white paper had a huge heart on it, with each of the Avengers’ signatures scrawled on the inside. Sam seemed to have been mid-laugh when the picture was taken, eyes scrunching shut with the force of his grin.
On the other side of the frame, still above the rest of the group, was Spiderman. He wore his red and black suit, mask covering his face. The teenager hung upside down from the roof, supporting himself on one thin string of webbing. Next to him was an intricately-designed and perfectly-spun Avengers symbol made entirely out of webs.
Between Sam and Peter Parker were two more heroes.
Carol Danvers, her hair now styled chicly at her shoulders, wore her trademark gold, red, and blue suit. Bright light radiated off of her; she practically pulsated power through the screen. Her eyes were miniature nebulas of pure energy, glowing brighter than anything else on the screen. Captain Marvel held her hands up by her chest, making a heart with her fingers and smiling sincerely.
Doctor Stephen Strange, hovering in midair directly above Hawkeye, was decked out in his famous Cloak of Levitation and blue tunic-like Mystic Arts robe. The cloak billowed out behind him and the green light of the Eye of Agamotto gleamed brightly from his chest. Protruding from his back were seemingly hundreds of hands, all with their middle and ring fingers down, unmistakably signing i love you to his audience.
The eyes of all the heroes watching scanned the screen hungrily, drinking in the self-assuring message that their picture spelled out.
Then, voices.
“Even if you have scars everywhere,” said Tony Stark.
“Even if you have stretch marks,” said Steve Rogers.
“Even if you’re not the most attractive in the room,” said Bruce Banner.
“Even if you’re missing an eye,” said Thor Odinson.
Even if you can’t hear, signed Clint Barton.
“Even if you’ve been abused,” said Natasha Romanoff.
“Even if you’re depressed,” said Sam Wilson.
“Even if you’ve done the unthinkable,” said James Barnes.
“Even if you’re scared,” said Peter Parker.
“Even if you’ve tried to take your own life,” said Loki Laufeyson.
“Even if you are stressed,” said T’Challa Udaku.
“Even if you believe the lies people tell you,” said Wanda Maximoff.
“Even if you’ve given up,” said Valkyrie Brunnhilde.
“Even if you feel that you’ll never be forgiven,” said Scott Lang.
“Even if you feel small,” said Hope Van Dyne.
“Even if you lack confidence,” said Jennifer Walters.
“Even if you can’t walk,” said James Rhodes.
“Even if you think you’re worthless,” said Shuri Udaku.
“Even if your hands don’t work,” said Stephen Strange.
“Even if your family has fallen apart,” said Peter Quill.
“You are beautiful!”
The last declaration was made by all of the heroes simultaneously, their letters flashing one more time against the black wall they stood in front of, before disappearing into nothingness.