Chapter Text
Shawarma Palace is miraculously open. Walsh has only a vague idea of what time it is (daylight) or hell, even what day it is (is it still May?). But he knows he's hungry and exhausted and he's off shift for three days straight and he's going to do nothing but eat and sleep for at least the first day.
And if Allison manages to free herself from NYPD bureaucracy, he can add having sex to his agenda.
He pushes the door open, noting absently that the little bells aren't hanging from it any more, looks around and sees that that's just the beginning. The place was obviously damaged in the disaster, but it's been swept and cleaned and repaired enough for them to do business.
"Hey," he says, going up to the counter, and Alia comes out of the back room and smiles when she sees him.
"Walsh!" she says. "Good to see you. The usual?"
"Double the usual," he yawns. "I'm going home to recover."
"So where were you when the you-know-what hit the fan?" she asks while making up his order.
"Work," he says succinctly. "Haven't had more than eight hours of sleep since then, trying to round up looters and looky-loos and the usual suspects. I'm glad I don't work for the Health Department, or Public Works."
"We had a front row seat, for some of it," she says. "Papa saw it coming and hauled us all out the back and down into the warehouse before we could really see what it was."
"One of those flying gila monster things? Damn." Walsh takes the bag she hands him. "Smart Papa. You're lucky this block is only partly wrecked. I saw what happened to Grand Central."
"That's not the weirdest, though," says Alia. "After, like that night, a bunch of men came in asking if there was any chance of something to eat. I thought they'd escaped from a costume party or a comedy revue, all capes and black spy gear and stuff."
Walsh stares, comprehending.
"They were very nice," she goes on with exaggerated casualness. "The cooker was knocked out, but we gave them everything we had on standby. One of them was called Steve - he said he'd come by and pay for it soon, but Papa told him to forget it, it was the least he could do. And *then* - " She pauses and smirks, enjoying the moment. "The next day I saw a couple of them on the news and I figured out who they were. They're called the Avengers, and they live in that Tower built by Tony Stark, and they saved us from an alien invasion. Can you believe that? I can hardly believe it. And they ate our shawarma and the one guy, who must have been Stark, said he'd be back because it was the best shawarma he'd ever had."
Walsh shakes his head. He's seen the footage, too, and he can almost guess what her next comment will be, so he turns to go.
"Actually, you know, one of them looks just like you, Walsh."