You do not have to be good.

Let me know if you want to RP out the giving of any of these gifts or need further elaboration.

Generally the gifts to the warrriors of Earth would come after Fandral received his box from Bruce because he's not really up-and-up on Earth stuff, but the Asgardians would receive their lot on time.

( All the things! )

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

e. e. cummings, my father moved through dooms of love

She hasn't been up here for years, now, not since Tiger Baron's second commitment to inpatient. Calculated paranoia had a bad way of compounding problems like acute schizophrenia, particularly when one's faith in the medical industry has already been ground down to nothing by forty years of smuggling to and from pharmaceutical companies around the globe. Raven wasn't the only one to cut ties: most of their old associates even stopped picking up for her, too. Tiger hadn't needed them anyway, of course. Most don't make it out of the life clean, but his combination of native intelligence and psychotic symptoms had apparently lent itself well to developing fortune and fortification, anonymity as well as a valuable brand of ignominy.

There are ten dogs on the property, by now, one for every acre. Tiger doesn't trust people. He mans his cameras himself. She's mobbed by a chorus of snapping shepherds the instant she's over the gate. They chase her up to the house and she hangs off the verandah by the fingers so she doesn't have to hurt them.

"What the fuck," Tiger shouts through the door.

She answers: "It's me."

There's a lull. ( "Who is 'me?'" )

I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind, but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil-minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people's time. I learned, in short, that love is not a condition of the spirit, but a sign of the zodiac.

—Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, Memories of my Melancholy Whore

A little while before they came to the river, Fandral slid off the horned mount and went into the jungle to find something to kill. He found one like a massive lacewing clasped around the girth of a tree, injured and moulting, so he furrowed his rapier through the growing split in the back of its exoskeleton, dug in deep, through new membrane, into black moisture. Of course, it resisted. The panicky gusts from its wings crumbled more of the dye out of his hair and clocked him smartly in the ear. He put a leg over its thorax, braced against the thumping, clutched its lower mandible and cradled it down into the dirt like the neck of an infant. He kept his balance, kept his focus.

It lasted a few seconds; perhaps a minute. Spattered with ichor, Fandral rolled off its back and did not tarry. The beetle he found afterward went similarly, and the centipede that followed made an unexpected attempt to run.

( It was not unlike figuring out sex when he had been younger, thinking about it all the time. )