Sam's Fanfiction Archive

Photo Booth (Avengers, Steve/Bucky)

2016-07-02T00:52:56Z

Title: Photo Booth
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Seventy years ago, Steve and Bucky had their picture taken.
Notes: Inspired by this post by thisisamarvelblogg on Tumblr: i have so many feelings about photo booths. for a lot of people (read: lgbt people) it was the first/only opportunity a lot of them had to have pictures of themselves as a couple, because there was no photographer, so it was a few seconds to be themselves and have PROOF of themselves to hide away for when they needed it. and uh since this is technically a fandom blog?? Fandom: Whoever cleaned out Steve's apartment definitely found at least one sheet of three increasingly close hugs and then a kiss tucked inside a book hidden under something.
Inspired also by shanology on tumblr, who responded: Headcanon 100% accepted, this was absolutely a thing that Science Nerd Bucky Barnes would have made Steve go check out.
I messed around with timing a little and it's probably not 100% historically accurate but also the US never developed a super soldier serum so I'm feeling okay about my inaccuracies. Also you guys, the banana cream twinkies are real.
Warnings: Some era-specific homophobia, nothing significant beyond cultural background noise.

Also available at AO3.

***

"We gotta go, Steve!"

Steve, tired from the stifling July heat and aching in his joints from the humidity, gave Bucky a cranky look over the top of his drafting table. "What's so great about it? It's just a photographer, Buck. Gonna be the death of art anyhow, photography," he muttered, mostly to himself, because Bucky had heard Steve's rant about photography killing the ad illustration industry a few too many times already.

"It's not a photographer!" Bucky insisted, leaning on the top of the drafting table. "It's all mechanical! There's no person at all. Not even like the attendants at the photomatons. Totally automatic. And nearly instant!"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "That's even worse," he declared, but he put his pencil down and wiped the graphite off his hands on a rag that had once been one of Bucky's shirts (and then one of Steve's nightshirts, before being consigned to the rag heap). A walk would help his joints, true, and there would probably be a breeze at street level.

Bucky, perhaps sensing he was winning the battle, circled around and wrapped his arms over Steve's thin shoulders, carefully cradling his chin in the dip of Steve's collarbone.

"Come on, boss," he coaxed. "It's two bits for four pictures. I need some pictures of my fella."

"You don't need pictures of my beaky mug," Steve sighed, but he let Bucky gently drag him off his stool.

"I got a whole dollar to blow on pictures of your beaky mug and a banana cream Twinkie and a cold Coca Cola after," Bucky said, letting Steve go so he could smooth out his shirt and pull on his shoes. That was low; he knew Steve had a sweet tooth for banana cream.

The street was a little cooler than their apartment, and the trip to the arcade where Bucky had found the "photo booth" wasn't too awful. And Steve had to admit it was pretty nifty; the little closet with the privacy curtain looked very impressive.

"So you put the quarter in," Bucky said, leaning into the booth as Steve settled on the hard wooden bench inside. "There's the camera, see?"

Steve nodded, wondering how the mechanism behind the camera functioned.

"Once you push the button the camera goes off four times, there's always a click before it goes off," Bucky continued.

"You wanna get in here and take the picture, too?" Steve asked pointedly. Bucky grinned at him and handed him a quarter.

"Smile for me, huh?" he asked, and Steve nodded, charmed as always by Bucky's easy way. He gave him a push to get him out of the camera's line of sight and then slid the quarter into the slot, listened for the click, and smiled.

Click -- Flash!

For the second one, thinking fast, he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out.

Click -- Flash!

He gave the camera a solemn look, trying for sultry but probably just looking like a starving eagle, the way he always did.

Click -- Flash!

"How's it goin'?" Bucky asked, leaning in.

"There's one more, you nutball!" Steve said, leaning forward and around him, and Bucky turned his head just in time for the final

Click -- Flash!

Bucky jerked backwards, Steve following him out. There were a series of thunks and clicks and clatters inside the machine, and then a thin slip of paper spat out into the tray on the outside.

Steve nicked it out from under Bucky's fingers, studying it. Yep. Starving eagle, for sure.

The funniest one was the last one, though, Steve with his mouth open in protest, Bucky with a comical look of surprise on his sideways face. Bucky looked over his shoulder and burst out laughing.

"That's rich!" he said. "Come on, let's go again. I bet there's room for both of us if we squeeze in close."

Steve rolled his eyes, but he let himself be pushed back into the booth, sliding over so Bucky could sit down as well. Bucky looked around, pulled Steve close with a comradely arm over his shoulders, and said, "There, it'll get us both now."

Steve started to smile for the camera as Bucky put the quarter in, and they got one good photo

Click -- Flash!

before Bucky turned and made a face at him, and Steve burst into helpless laughter.

Click -- Flash!

He was just recovering, going for another sober-and-serious pose, when he felt Bucky's hand drop to squeeze his ass, and his eyes went wide.

Click -- Flash!

He turned to say something, but Bucky grabbed his chin and held him still, kissing him like they weren't in the middle of an arcade in Brooklyn Heights.

Click -- Flash!

Steve burst out of the booth, anxious, and stood in front of the tray, ready to snatch the photo strip the second it emerged. Bucky, ducking out more slowly, gave Steve a satisfied grin.

"What'd you do that for, where anyone could see?" Steve asked.

Bucky looked smug. "There was the curtain. Where else am I ever gonna get a picture of me and my fella?" he asked, but at least he said it in a low voice.

The photostrip emerged and Steve grabbed it, but he couldn't help looking. The first three were fine enough, but then --

He'd never actually seen them together, not in the reflection of a shop window or a mirror or anything. There...the tilt of his head, the curve of Bucky's smile into the kiss, the way they fit...it took his breath away.

"One more, Steve," Bucky said.

Steve nodded, a little unsteadily. "Yeah, okay," he agreed.

Bucky went back into the booth and Steve followed; he carefully tucked the curtain all the way shut before Bucky pulled him down onto his lap, arms around his chest. He held up the coin and Steve dropped it in the slot, then settled back and smiled.

Click -- Flash!

Bucky rested his chin on Steve's shoulder again, and Steve saw his eyes close in his peripheral vision. He turned his head just in time.

Click -- Flash!

He closed his eyes too, settling his forehead against Bucky's.

Click -- Flash!

And leaned in and kissed him, waiting for it, feeling like it took forever and not even minding.

Click -- Flash!

He still got out of the booth double-quick, though, and snatched up the photo strip, only giving Bucky a brief look before tucking it away in his shirt pocket. "I'll give it to you later."

"Yeah you will," Bucky said with a grin. "Come on, let's get those Coca-Colas."

***

The day before it ended -- the day after Bucky fell -- Dugan came up to Steve in the hallway at HQ.

"Phillips asked me to clean out Barnes' things," he said.

"Yeah...thanks," Steve said, grief and humiliation rising in him. "I -- didn't think I could. Should."

"Wasn't no trouble," Dugan told him. "Got it boxed up to ship back to his sister in Brooklyn. But I figured you oughta have..."

Steve didn't want anything, didn't think he could handle having anything of Bucky's after seeing him fall, but he automatically put out his hand to take what Dugan offered. A cheap little Bible, which was strange. Bucky wasn't that religious, and Dugan knew Steve wasn't.

Dugan's fingers flicked the cover open, and Steve slammed it shut again quickly on the three little worn, faded photostrips. He looked up at Dugan, but there was no disgust or mean temper in his face. Just sadness.

"I thought -- those got lost," Steve said. He'd thought Bucky had destroyed them when he went into the army. Steve might have. It was a prison offense, what those photos showed.

"Looks like Barnes wanted to keep ‘em close," Dugan said, his voice carefully neutral. "Pinups are one thing, y'know, but when you got...someone special, you keep that close."

Steve nodded, looking down. Bucky had hauled those pictures across an ocean -- stupid, really, even if almost nobody would have recognized Steve anymore. Dangerous to keep those with your kit as a soldier. Charming, foolish Bucky, kissin' where he oughtn't, keeping these so close. Steve's eyes stung.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Cap," Dugan said, and then left quickly, mercifully.

***

Steve hadn't even thought about the photostrips when he woke. He'd had them on him, tucked in his old journal, when the plane went down, and in that kind of ice and water, he figured nothing much survived. It was weeks before he even thought about that, as overwhelmed as he was. Not much of any of his old stuff had come through seventy years, and what little there was had been put on display in a museum.

When Fury came to offer him active service in SHIELD, he showed up and he laid the little diary down on the table in front of Steve.

"Ice preserved it, same way it did you. I opened it," he said, without bothering to ease his way into the conversation. Steve kind of liked that about Fury. "Just to see if it was too waterlogged to recover. Didn't get very far. Didn't see anything much."

Steve turned the pages of the book, stopping when he found something slick and oddly-shaped. He took the three photostrips out, fanning them between his fingers. They'd been carefully placed in a slick, transparent sleeve of some kind.

"For safekeeping," Fury said quietly. "There are scanned copies in your encrypted server folder."

"I hear it's not a crime anymore," Steve said.

"No. But it's not anyone's business either, unless you want it to be."

"My sergeant back in the war, Dugan, he said something similar, in his own way," Steve said.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, he said that too," Steve sighed. "Peggy said Buck made his choice, and I had to give him the dignity of that. I appreciate you doing the same."

Fury nodded.

"I'll report on Monday," Steve said.

"I look forward to seeing what you can do," Fury said.

***

In Wakanda, a week or two after assaulting the Raft to break his teammates free, Steve got a package in the mail, no return address. Inside was his journal (the new one filled with sketches of the 21st century and his list of things to look up) -- and the photostrips.

Natasha then, probably. She'd known, in an unspoken kind of way.

He sat down next to Bucky in the clean, somewhat sterile little bedroom he'd been given, and opened the journal on the photos. Bucky looked down.

"You were a skinny little scrapper," Bucky said.

"Starving eagle," Steve agreed. Bucky barked a short laugh.

"I used to like this," he said, tapping the strip with Steve on his lap. "I liked this, too," he added, poking Steve's bicep. "Better now, for you. But it was nice for me, the way you were. These were nice," he said wistfully, studying the photos.

"You're going back in cryo tomorrow," Steve said. "They'll do fine in the cold, and I have copies. You can take them with you if you want. So you remember."

"I'll be asleep."

"So you have good dreams, then," Steve said. "And remember it all when you wake up."

Bucky looked thoughtful. He picked out the strip with Steve on his lap, and then the one with just Steve. The other strip, of them next to each other, he handed back.

"You keep that one," he said. "So you remember too."

Steve leaned in, waited for Bucky to startle or pull away, and then kissed him when he didn't. He felt Bucky smile into the kiss.

"I'll be waiting when you wake up," Steve said.

"You better. Those photos cost me twenty-five cents, I want 'em back someday," Bucky told him.

END

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Walt Disney's Captain America

2016-06-26T11:33:32Z

Title: Walt Disney's Captain America
Rating: General
Summary: Tony gives the Avengers a crash course in Disney.
Notes: From a prompt: Tony realizes that some of the Avengers haven't seen the Disney movies (Thor and Steve, maybe Natasha?) He makes them marathon it. Things I discovered writing this fic: I cannot spell Dalmatians.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

It didn't occur to Tony until they were in the middle of a firefight. He could have had better timing, but art chooses its own moment.

"Wait, you haven't seen the Disney Captain America?" he asked over the comms, dodging the anti-aircraft missiles the Hydra holdout base was firing at him.

"I haven't seen a Disney movie since Bambi," Steve grunted, sending a Hydra agent spinning away from him and taking out the missile-launcher with a toss of the shield.

"What is this ‘Disney'?" Thor inquired, landing next to Steve.

"It's a movie studio," Steve said. "They make the animated ones."

"Like the adventures of the Ice Bear and his brethren?" Thor asked.

"Yeah, only longer."

"I can't believe you've seen We Bare Bears but not Robin Hood," Tony complained.

"I saw Snow White," Natasha said, stepping out of the shadows as Tony landed. "I saw Snow White about three hundred times. We used it to learn English. I really hate Snow White."

"You cultural illiterates," Tony said. "Sam, Clint, back me up here."

"Were you super into Disney as a kid?" Clint asked, as Sam dropped him onto the roof. Sam landed a second later, wings furling.

"Dad hated Disney passionately," Tony said. "Disney won the bid for the rights to use Cap in entertainment media. Dad figured he bribed the general who was doing the selling."

"So naturally you love them," Sam observed. Tony gestured like he was cocking and firing a gun at Sam.

"Okay, so, let's mop this place up, call SHIELD, and get home," Tony said, rubbing his gauntleted hands together. "I am going to show you the best of Disney, 1945 to the present."

"As long as we skip Song Of The South," Sam said.

***

"The first Disney movie I ever saw was The Sword In The Stone," Tony said, later that night, as the Avengers congregated in the screening room. Everyone but Steve had popcorn; Steve had a massive bag of peanuts. "The kids at boarding school found out I'd never seen a Disney movie because see: Howard's loathing, and one of the upperclassmen girls managed to get a copy of Sword in the Stone. We all snuck into the health classroom with a bunch of chairs we stole from the dorm common room, because the health classroom had a VCR, which was very fancy at the time. When it was over they made me give a two-minute critical reaction speech, because we were very driven young children."

"How old were you?" Sam asked.

"Nine? Ten? Somewhere in there. Anyway, a bunch of kids wrote home and got their parents to send them videotapes. Got to be a tradition, sneaking out and screening Disney movies after lights-out." Tony gave a satisfied sigh as the projector came on and an image of the Disney logo appeared. "First philanthropic grant I ever made was to the old alma mater for a screening room and a popcorn machine. They have a very good film-studies program now."

"So what are we watching?" Steve asked.

"Out of deference to Natasha, we will not be viewing Snow White this evening," Tony said, with a little bow to her. She nodded back regally. "First will be The Sword In The Stone, and you may all understand the psychology of me better afterwards, followed by 101 Dalmatians, followed by The Little Mermaid."

"Not Captain America?" Steve asked.

"We're going to save that for Drinking Game Night," Tony said.

"Ooh, what do we watch during Drinking Game Night?" Clint asked.

"Tron, The Lion King, and when we are really properly drunk, Captain America," Tony said.

"What about The Fox And The Hound?"

"WE DON'T SPEAK OF THAT MOVIE IN THIS HOUSE," Tony said loudly, then cleared his throat. "Behold, novices: I bring you Disney."

***

Tony, admittedly, fell asleep sometime after Pongo met Perdita in 101 Dalmatians, his head on Steve's shoulder. He woke to Steve frantically clutching his shirt as the Dalmatians made their escape.

"Does Cruella DeVille get them?" Steve whispered, as Tony blinked awake.

"What kind of monster do you think Walt Disney was?" Tony asked.

"He killed Bambi's mom," Sam pointed out.

"He killed everyone's mom," Tony said, waving a hand.

"IS PERDITA GOING TO DIE?" Steve demanded.

"No, nobody dies, oh my god," Tony yawned. "In this movie, I mean. This is why we drink during The Lion King."

"Swear to me Perdita doesn't die," Steve insisted.

"I swear to you no dogs die in the making of this film," Tony said. "We're going to have to get you so hammered for Captain America. You know you die in Captain America, right?"

"I got better," Steve sniffed.

"Not before you traumatized a generation of patriotic young children, including myself," Tony said.

"I took Captain America's death hard," Sam agreed.

"These Dalmatians are a mighty and intelligent breed," Thor said. "We need one."

"I'm beginning to see why Dad never let me watch these," Tony grumbled, nudging Steve into the proper position for continued use as a pillow. He drifted off to Steve and Natasha having a furious whispered conversation about whether Cruella DeVille or Madam Mimm would win in a fight.

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Hot Wheels

2016-06-26T11:27:40Z

Title: Hot Wheels
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Steve thought Tony was dead. Tony thinks Steve is being dramatic. (Steve/Tony)
Notes: From a prompt: Steve/Tony hurt/comfort ficlet after one of them is either kidnapped or presumed dead.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"You should go talk to Steve," Clint said, when it was all over.

Or rather, it wasn't over -- with two sprained ankles and a broken wrist it would be a while before it was over for Tony -- but the bad guy was behind bars (or foot-thick shatterproof plexi) and everyone was safe, now, so. Beggars, choosers.

"Well, I would," Tony said, laying down four of a kind to Clint's pair and pulling the tongue-depressors they were playing for over to his side of the tray table. "But I can't exactly jog down the hall and say hello. What, should I phone him?"

"No," Clint said. "But you got some hot wheels," he pointed out, indicating the wheelchair he was sitting in, Tony's wheelchair, supposedly for getting him out of here tomorrow. "You want me to chauffeur you down there?"

"Why are you so urgent about getting me to talk to Steve? We talk all the time. We had burgers together literally an hour before Zemo snatched me off the street. And I saw Steve beat Zemo's face in, so I'm sure he's had a fair amount of catharsis," Tony said.

"Is there a reason you don't want to?" Clint asked.

"No! I just think you're being weird about it."

"He was really messed up when it happened," Clint said. "I just think he'd like a chance to talk to you."

"Okay, well, fine, help me into the deathtrap," Tony said, and as soon as he was in the wheelchair, he looked up at Clint, put his fingers to his temples, and said, "I can reaaaaad your thouuuuughts."

"Xavier's going to know you made fun of him," Clint said. He angled Tony out of the hospital room, and as soon as they were in the dim, night-time hallway, he gave a running shove, jumped, and rode the rear bar of Tony's wheelchair as they sped down the hall, much to Tony's delight. Clint jumped off and dragged his shoes on the squeaky linoleum just in time to stop them in front of Steve's door, threw Tony a salute, and jogged off.

Tony knocked on the jamb, poked his head in to see Steve lying on his side in the hospital bed, staring out the window, and rolled clumsily inside.

Steve wasn't working with three only semi-functional limbs the way Tony was, but he did have a massive burn on his face, spreading down over one side of his chest, pink and grainy where it was healing, blistered where it wasn't yet. He wouldn't scar -- he never did -- but he wasn't going to win any beauty pageants in the next few days.

"Hey, Clint and I went joyriding and ended up here. What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?" Tony asked. Steve didn't turn -- his face would brush the pillow if he did, which Tony figured would hurt -- but he waggled his fingers in a greeting.

"Waiting for a cheap line like that," he said, as Tony maneuvered around the bed. "How's the prisoner?"

"Better than you, I think," Tony replied. "Extra helpings of mac and cheese for dinner," he added, noticing the untouched food on Steve's tray.

"You were in Zemo's dungeon for almost a month," Steve said.

"Yeah, but it's not like he didn't feed me," Tony replied. Steve had a look he didn't like; he got it when he was upset in a way the Avengers couldn't fix -- sometimes around Memorial Day or Veteran's Day, sometimes when he was coming back from Arlington. Glassy, almost vacant. Like Captain America was running the show and Steve Rogers was hiding out somewhere.

"He broke your wrist," Steve said, in a way that expressed how unwilling he was going to be to ever let that go.

"Hell, I did that on my own when I got my first pair of roller skates," Tony said, leaning into Steve's line of sight. Steve's eyes flicked down to his face, then back out to the window. "Clint was right. Something's eating you."

"We thought you were dead," Steve said. "We saw a body. Your body."

"Well, clearly not, since I'm still inhabiting mine," Tony replied. He actually hadn't heard much about what went down. From his perspective it had been a pretty tedious month, really. Zemo hadn't let him near anything more technologically advanced than a plastic spork.

"I know that now," Steve said. "Natasha didn't believe it from the beginning."

"Did you?" Tony asked, curiously. Steve was silent. Tony carefully stood, hitching himself up onto Steve's bed. He twisted so that his hip bumped up against Steve's abdomen, turned to watch his face.

"Someone died in order for Zemo to make us think you were dead," Steve said. "Don't know why yet. And I should be -- angry, upset? that whoever he is, he's dead, such a pointless death, dying just to manipulate me, us. But -- I'm just glad it wasn't you. That's all there's room for right now."

Tony patted Steve's side, just below where the burn ended, above the waist of his scrub trousers. "Well, you're only human and I'm an extremely charming guy."

Steve's lips twitched, and then he hissed.

"Sorry, I'll try not to make you laugh."

"Don't strain a muscle," Steve advised.

Tony leaned forward carefully, resting his arms on Steve's bicep, chin on his folded wrists. Steve took the weight like it was nothing, like he always did.

"Come on, Cap," Tony said. "I know it hurts to smile but I'm fine, and you'll be fine by tomorrow. You're freaking Clint out."

"Death gets you thinking, that's all," Steve said. "Things you meant to say and didn't. Things you wish you hadn't said and could take back."

"Ooh, I'm all ears," Tony said. "For which of the many insults you have flung at me over the years are you sorry?"

"I'm in love with you," Steve said.

From the way Steve's body tensed, the way he held himself, Tony could tell Steve was waiting for him to lean back, to slip off the bed and probably to make awkward small talk for two minutes before fleeing. A few years ago he might have, too. But Tony was sort of proud of having grown up a little, recently. A thrill of recognition shot through him, excitement that now, this is happening now.

He tilted his head, cheek brushing Steve's bicep, and reached up with one hand to smooth his hair away from the angry red edge of the burns.

"Is that all?" he asked, amused. "I knew that already, you know."

Steve's eyes flicked up to his, and the question on his face was so clear it really was comical.

"You're not subtle. And when I'm in love with someone I watch them very, very closely," Tony said.

Steve cleared his throat. "You never said anything."

"Neither did you. I thought it was going to be a faux-platonic unacknowledged thing, to be frank," Tony said. "One of those perpetual-bachelors deals. Can't be easy, growing up in the thirties with a secret like that. Wasn't easy for me before I came out as Bi, and I grew up in the eighties. Well. I guess it wasn't easy after, either. Point is, you'd come to grips with it in your own time or you wouldn't. I was ready to wait. One thing I have learned -- there's no rushing Steve Rogers."

"You seem to have managed regardless," Steve said drily.

"Oh, that was all Zemo," Tony said, scooting up on the bed so that he could kiss Steve's forehead, which was all the unburned skin that was available. "Can you lie on your back comfortably?"

"Why?" Steve asked, but he was already rolling over, tucking the end of the pillow under his head so it would prop him up without touching the wound.

"So I can do this," Tony replied, fitting himself into Steve's uninjured side, resting his cast-bound wrist on Steve's chest. He lay his head on the pillow next to Steve's, nose brushing his cheek. "Mind if I sleep here tonight?"

"You'll get a cramp in your neck," Steve said.

"No, I won't."

"You say that every time you sleep exactly like this on the sofa and then you wake up griping about the cramp."

"Not exactly like this," Tony purred. Steve rolled his eyes. "I can go, if you want."

"No, I don't want," Steve sighed. His arm came up to secure Tony in place. After a few moments of silence, he spoke again. "I was going to come and see you. Earlier. I just...when you think something is real and it turns your whole world sideways, and then it turns out it wasn't real at all -- if we really did have you back, but then suddenly we didn't...the one nearly beat me. The other would have."

"I'm here," Tony said. He curled his fingers into Steve's skin, nails leaving little red pressure-marks to prove it. "I didn't die."

"Thank God," Steve said, and his breath was weirdly short, chest jerking under Tony's hand, until Tony realized he was fighting tears. "Thank God."

Tony wasn't especially good with emotion, and Steve Rogers crying was something he had never ever encountered and which was way out of his league in terms of providing comfort. But he stayed where he was, fingers curling and uncurling over Steve's heart, breath steady against his jaw, until the terrible spasming faded and the quiet, harsh noises in Steve's throat subsided. He still hadn't actually cried. Well, that was Steve, through and through.

"I'll risk a cramp or two," Tony said. "Go to sleep. I'll stay."

"No, you sleep," Steve countered. "I gotta -- "

"Keep watch," Tony finished. Steve looked sheepish. "Fine by me," he yawned. "Wake me up in time for institutional powdered eggs and green Jello."

"I like green Jello," Steve said.

"You would."

"Sleep, Tony," Steve said.

"Mm-hm," Tony agreed, soaking up the warmth of the body under his, already halfway to sleep. He barely felt Steve brush a kiss over his eyebrow, and he was already under long before the nurses noticed he was missing from his own bed and went to find him in Steve's.

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Not My Job (Yet)

2016-06-26T11:19:31Z

Title: Not My Job (Yet)
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Tony finally puts two and two together.
Notes: Prompted by jamyesterday: Natasha and Tony cross paths, back in his Merchant of Death days and before she joins SHIELD.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"Okay but why are we even having this demo again?" Tony asked, watching from behind a crowd of onlookers as the Stark Industries sales rep laid out a velvet cloth on which rested several knives.

"Why did you design ‘em if you didn't want us to sell ‘em, Tony?" Obie asked, chomping on his unlit cigar.

"Thought experiment," Tony said absently. He'd just wondered how far you could engineer a knife for combat -- what you could innovate, that humans hadn't already tried in ten thousand years. The results were pretty, but they weren't exactly the next billion-dollar defense contract.

"Look, SI makes bombs, which means we have a perpetual image problem," Obie said. "This kind of thing gets us a lot of loyalty from the little guy. That's why we even make sidearms anymore. And now knives. Besides, they're good knives, why not show ‘em off?"

Tony was opening his mouth to reply, but then he snapped it shut sharply.

"Did I not mention my little innovation?" Obie asked, as a gorgeous blonde in skintight camo walked onstage. She had fingerless gloves and amazing breasts. "I'm calling her the Blade Babe."

"I'm more fully interested," Tony agreed.

His memory was patchy, because it was a convention and he spent those pretty perpetually at least two drinks in, but he remembered some things for a long time. The Blade Babe did one of the most amazing demos he'd ever seen; she moved like a dancer and she disemboweled the targets set out for her like a starving lioness. Seeing his designs in her hands was the most memorable part of the whole thing, really.

"So," he said backstage, after the demo, as she gathered up and laid out the knives for the sales rep to pack away. "You're, what, you're an aspiring actress? Most demo babes are, but I feel like you have maybe some untapped skills you're not marketing to their full."

She gave him a grin. "I'm not going to sleep with you, Mr. Stark."

"Harsh. Harsh but fair. Seriously though, is that like some kind of capoeira you were doing out there? You looked, uh, frankly murderous. What do you call that?"

"My job," she replied easily, watching with what looked like envy as the rep rolled the knives into the velvet.

"You're an enigma. Now I don't even want to have sex with you, I want to run a background check," he said.

"You won't find anything," she said.

"Challenge accepted. What's your name? Phone number would help too."

That smile again.

"Mr. Stark," she said, "I need you to understand that I'm here to do a job. You're not actually a part of that job. And, for you, that's a very good thing."

With a toss of her short blonde hair, she walked off.

The demo knives went missing that night; Obie suspected a light-fingered looky-loo at the SI convention booth. They were in production already so it didn't much matter. Just one of those things that sometimes happened at conventions.

***

Fourteen years later, in one of the training rooms at the Avengers compound, Tony saw one of the demo knives strapped to Natasha Romanoff's ankle.

"So," he said, eyes flicking down to the signature Stark blade, set into a grey handle. The demo blades had all been in grey. The production blades had been in black or dark red. "You weren't at the convention for me, huh?"

"And you should still be very grateful," she replied without missing a beat, kicking the shit out of a heavy bag. "If Obadiah Stane had hired me to kill you, you'd have died."

"Obliged for your honesty. Blade Babe was your way into the convention?"

"I had a target. If it helps, he was a very bad person."

He tilted his head. "If you hadn't been out to kill someone that night, would you at least have let me buy you a drink?"

She moved instead of answering, a vertical leap that turned into a twist midair; somehow between the jump and the twist she got the knife out of her ankle holster, and she broke her fall back to the ground by jamming it into the heavy bag, ripping a huge tear from top to bottom but slowing her descent.

Tony swallowed.

"You can buy me one now," she said.

"I own the bar, here," he pointed out.

"Then you shouldn't have any trouble paying." She tossed the knife in the air, caught it, and tucked it away. "Pretty good workmanship," she said, patting his cheek as she passed. "Figure you've earned a shot."

"I'm in so much trouble," he said to himself, then hustled to follow her out of the training room, the bag still leaking sand behind them.

comments

Out Of Order

2016-06-26T10:55:38Z

Title: Out Of Order
Fandoms: Avengers
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Clint is unnerved by a broken elevator in space.
Notes: From a prompt by toast-the-unknowing: Could you do a fic for Clint + any character of your choice, stuck in an elevator together IN SPACE?
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"This isn't really how I expected space to be," Clint said, leaning against the wall of the elevator.

"What, like, space stations only have stairs?" Bucky asked.

"Well, I mean, I figure if someone's got the chops to build a space station so large it NEEDS elevators, the elevators should work," Clint pointed out. "Elevators breaking on a space station makes me nervous about how well the rest of this place is put together."

"I figure as long as they focused on the real issues like keeping oxygen on the inside and space on the outside, we're fine," Bucky said. "So do you want me to rip the doors open or what?"

"What if whatever is outside the broken elevator is worse?" Clint asked. "We don't know why the elevator is stopped between floors."

"The aliens did sound reassuring when they talked at us over the intercom," Bucky said.

"It would help if we could speak the language," Clint sighed. "I didn't take extraterrestrial linguistics in high school before I dropped out."

"I barely passed English," Bucky said.

Clint flopped down to the floor of the elevator, leaning up against one wall. "At least we don't have to pee. Do you have to pee?"

"I didn't until you suggested it," Bucky growled.

"The magic of me," Clint said with a sunny smile. Bucky sat across from him, ankles knocking against his in the tiny elevator. "Ever been stuck in an elevator before?"

"Steve and me used to go to the department stores in Manhattan just to ride in ‘em," Bucky said. "Got thrown out of one, once."

Clint eyed him. "Steve?"

"He got into it with a fella who pinched a lady's behind. I had to punch the fella. We got banned from the store."

"Well, I've never been banned from a department store. At least not yet," Clint mused.

"We're not gonna put this in the mission report, right?" Bucky asked.

"Can you imagine how that would go?" Clint laughed. "Day two of visit escorting diplomatic party from Earth to the united galactic empires, became stuck in elevator during off-hours attempt to have a nice dinner. Made out with Bucky Barnes until rescued."

Bucky tilted an eyebrow. "That's prescient or ambitious, I'm not sure which."

"I figured it was an eventual foregone conclusion, and this really does read like the start of a softcore gay porn. Plus you have a thing for blonds, which I imagine improves my chances of at least cheap and meaningless fooling-around, if nothing more."

"I'm very good at cheap and meaningless. Elevator would be a new one, but I guess it's pretty much like a transport jeep," Bucky said thoughtfully. "More privacy, too."

"I take it back, this is exactly how I hoped space would be," Clint said, rubbing his hands. He knelt forward, crawling between Bucky's legs when he spread his knees, ending up looming over him with Bucky's legs around his hips. Bucky looked at him expectantly, almost boredly. "What's your fancy, juvenile delinquent?"

"It was one store we got thrown out of," Bucky said. "For that, anyway."

"Well, I'm pretty sure debauching an alien elevator is illegal, so we'll see how this goes," Clint said.

Which was when there was a roar of steel, and the edge of Captain America's shield poked through the seam of the doors.

Clint threw himself backwards, Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest, and by the time Steve Rogers had pried the door open enough to get his head through, they looked reasonably decent.

"It's a sad turn of events when I have to rescue my so-called bodyguards," Steve said, pushing the doors open the rest of the way with his bare hands.

"In our defense, extremely shoddy construction work. They should sue their builder," Clint said.

"Well, they hadn't counted on your aura of bad luck," Steve said, getting a hand down to grab Clint's. "Come on, Buck, boost him out and then I'll pull you out."

Clint very carefully did not make a noise when Bucky used the "boost" to cop a long and exploratory feel.

"Oh, I didn't mind getting stuck," Bucky said easily.

comments

I Hate Running

2016-06-26T10:54:45Z

Title: I Hate Running
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Clint and Bucky go running. This was a potential mistake.
Notes: I promised I'd write captn_sara_holmes a fic if she went running. (Shoulda held out for porn, lady.)
Warnings: None

Also available at AO3.

***

"Stop. Stop! Jesus," Bucky said, gasping and sweating, his right arm wrapped around his waist.

Clint, bouncing lightly from foot to foot, looked at him in concern.

"Should you be hunched over like that?" he asked, and Bucky lifted his face enough to shoot him a glare.

"Stitch in my side," Bucky managed, dragging himself over to a concrete retaining wall and flopping down onto it. Clint stretched, perplexed. A little run around Central Park wasn't supposed to put the most terrifying assassin in the world on his back like this.

"I thought you were a super-soldier," he said, and Bucky flailed one hand haplessly. "Do super-soldiers suffer side-stitches? Hah, tongue twister," he added, pleased with himself.

"I'm not a super-soldier," Bucky said, exhaling sharply.

"Uh, your history with cryogenics and your ability to bench-press Tony when he's in the Iron Man suit says differently," Clint pointed out.

"You really aren't gonna let that Iron Man thing go until we try it, are you?" Bucky asked.

"I just think it'd be funny. And also a great new wallpaper for my phone."

"If you actually know how to set the wallpaper on your phone..."

"I'm just worried that your super-ness is breaking down or something," Clint said.

"Why are you so fast?" Bucky asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're so fast! You just keep running. Why? Who do you hate? Is it yourself?" Bucky managed. "I'm not a super-soldier!"

"Are you having a crisis?" Clint ventured after a moment.

"I'm having a stitch in my side!" Bucky replied.

"And a crisis?"

Bucky sat up, rubbing his right side, just where his shirt rode up from the track pants he was wearing.

"Look, I didn't get the perfect craftsman Erskine serum Steve got," he said. "I got the banged-together moonshine crackpot serum Arnim Zola made."

"Yeah, but you can do all the...things..." Clint gestured, stretching out a hamstring.

"I'm peachy at falling off trains and shooting people, yeah," Bucky retorted.

"And lifting a lot of weights and surviving Natasha's death thighs!"

"Fine! But I'm not super at everything! You know at least with Hydra I never had to run anywhere. They had cars!"

Clint stared at him. "You...when I asked if you wanted to go running this morning, is this the first time you've actually gone running?"

"I'm not a runner," Bucky said. "I'm a tank. I walk purposefully. I'm world-renowned for my purposeful walk," he added, petulant. "How many miles did we run?"

Clint checked his wrist tracker. "Two and a half."

Bucky flopped back again. "Leave me to die."

"Come on, the cardio's good for your old-man heart," Clint cajoled, grabbing him by the arm and trying to pull him upright. It was like dislodging a boulder, or trying to chisel a sleeping Steve Rogers off the common-room couch. "We can walk back if you're really tired."

"I don't want to walk two miles!"

"Whiner," Clint said. "We'll walk one mile and I'll buy you breakfast before we walk the other, how's that?"

Bucky allowed himself to be pulled upright. "Diner breakfast."

"I was going to buy you a grapes-and-cheese box at Starbucks," Clint told him. "And a nice herbal tea. You really need to learn to eat healthier if -- "

He stopped, because Bucky had put him in a headlock. He wasn't doing anything, just standing there calmly with Clint in a headlock. A couple of other runners went past, looking intrigued-but-prepared-to-mind-their-own-business in true New York fashion. Clint gave them a thumbs-up.

"Okay, okay, steak and eggs," Clint agreed, and Bucky let him go. "Seriously though, you should start running more often. You can come with me! Up early, sun's not over the horizon, the Smell of New York isn't fully fermented, and usually I get to stop at least two muggings a week."

"I hate you so much," Bucky grumbled.

"Why did you agree to come running with me, anyway, if you don't run?" Clint asked, as they made their way towards 5th Avenue.

"Dunno," Bucky said. "Seemed like a thing to do."

"Really?"

"Well, you were gonna be there, I thought we could..." Bucky waved a hand. "Bond."

"Bond?"

"Yeah. People do that. They bond."

Clint peered at him. "Is this like the bonding Steve does when he hangs out in the workshop watching Tony's butt while he mechanic-dances?"

"It might be," Bucky said with exaggerated dignity.

"We could have done that on the firing range."

"I wouldn't cheapen the experience of the firing range," Bucky told him.

"Well, I guess that's a point. Also Natasha says using the firing range as a date is weird, not that she gets to be the authority on weird," Clint sniffed.

"Anything but more running," Bucky said. "Literally anything."

"I have the new Bass Pro-Fishing game for the X-Box," Clint said.

"Is that where you pretend to fish because real fishing was just too interesting?" Bucky asked.

"I see you've been talking to Natasha. But no, because when I play Bass Pro-Fishing there are car chases involved," Clint said proudly.

"Does it involve moving?"

"Only to get another beer during cut-scenes."

Bucky considered this. "Done."

"So are we dating?" Clint asked.

"You're dating. I'm dying of exhaustion and starvation," Bucky said.

"You are such a delicate flower. Come on, run half a mile with me and I'll throw in some home fries with that steak."

"No!" Bucky cried, but Clint had already taken off, the wind in his hair and an irritated, huffing assassin at his heels.

comments

Lessons, Roots, Signals

2016-06-26T10:53:25Z

Title: Lessons, Roots, Signals
Fandom: Captain America III (Civil War)
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: The fugitive Avengers have their own ways of coping.
Notes: From a prompt by Archwrites on Tumblr: Wakanda, post-jailbreak, everyone's domestic life in the royal palace.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

Scott

Scott isn't comfortable in the palace; he knows where he belongs, and "the corridors of power" is not it. He spends most of his time outside the palace, exploring, taking pictures to eventually share with Cassie, someday, when he can. They do phone calls, but he can't say much. Which is okay, most kids want to talk about themselves anyway.

He talks to ants, avoids peoples' eyes, and takes pictures for Cassie. Once in a while, Steve comes to find him and they sit quietly together until one of them says something awkward. It turns out Steve is super awkward, which makes Scott feel better about hero-worshiping the guy, in a weird way.

"I wish I could do what you do," Steve says.

"Be really small?" Scott asks, confused.

"Be...clever. Be sidelong. I know how to fight a battle. I don't know how to have a fight. Definitely don't know how to win one."

"Ah," Scott says. "Well, speaking as a divorced man, I wish I'd listened more than I talked."

"Huh," Steve says. "Thanks."

Wakanda's all right. Scott misses Cassie, but he's learning a lot, too.

Clint

Clint's used to long deployments, and so is his family. He always says goodbye to his kids knowing it could be the last time he sees them. Laura knows it too. So he does okay with regular phone calls, and will for a little while.

Clint keeps away from the king, because there's no real reason for T'Challa to bother with him, and anyway Clint's not a man of many needs. He's got a bunk and regular food and the internet, so once he's settled in he goes looking for ways to be of use.

He's thought about doing some warrior training. He knows there's some to be had around here somewhere. But he's too old to learn new tricks at this point, and he's not sure he'd be welcome. Wakandan combat is tangled up in Wakandan history and identity and he doesn't wanna be That White Guy.

Instead he slowly develops a circuit: an early morning run of the palace boundaries, a perimeter-check that nobody really needs, followed by breakfast with Steve and Sam and Wanda in the morning (Scott...is sociable, but not social, at least not here). He catches the tail end of a combat class's target practice each day, then does a little himself. He times it so that as he's going one way to lunch in his quarters, a few classes of little kids are going the other way to the dining hall, because they think he's funny-looking and he likes to make little kids laugh.

Afternoons, he spends tracking Scott (entertaining) or down in the city below the palace, learning the streets (tactically important) or with Sam, learning Wakandan. Clint sees the advantage in knowing the local language; Sam just likes it, he thinks.

In the evening he calls the kids. What did you do today, Daddy? I bought a yam as big as Nathaniel! What did you do today, sweetheart? I got an A in spelling...

And he sleeps, and he dreams of the farmhouse, and he wakes up in Wakanda and wonders just how long this deployment's gonna last.

Sam

Sam misses home, sure, but when he looks back he thinks he didn't really have much tying him to where he was. He had friends, but after he lost Riley and joined the VA, most of the close ones drifted away. What family he had wasn't really close, not since his folks died, and while he won't admit it to himself, he thinks he might've been looking for something as self-destructively exciting as Steve Rogers to walk into his life.

More than anything he misses the Avengers, as a concept and a family, but Clint and Wanda are here with him. Scott's, you know, he's around at least, and there's Steve.

And then there's Wakanda. Boy, Wakanda.

Wakanda wants him in a way it doesn't want the others, at least that's how it feels. People in the palace and the city know them all, but they make a point to greet Sam with friendly smiles, and it feels a little like coming back to a home he didn't know he had. One of the councilmembers who advise the king says she's sure he must have some Wakandan blood in him, and Sam's pretty sure that's just kindness, but he feels it. He feels it.

So he starts learning Wakandan, and he goes down to the city with Clint to explore, and he pesters the chefs in the royal kitchen about how they cook Wakandan food, and he does maybe a little combat training (not a lot -- it's not really his gig) with T'Challa.

Clint and Scott want to go home. He gets that, they got kids. Wanda hasn't had a real home in a long time, and never really cared one way or another about America as a home, but he can tell there's a nervousness in her to be off, different from the others but not entirely dissimilar. He doesn't know what Steve wants, other than vaguely to fix what's gone wrong.

"You seem settled here," Wanda says to him over breakfast one morning. Steve glances at Sam, curious.

"Just enjoying learning something new," Sam says. But yeah, he does feel settled here. To the point where maybe, if Steve manages to untangle this and send Scott and Clint home, Sam might stay.

The Barbary Falcon is an African bird, and it makes its home on cliffs. Looking out over Wakanda from the observation deck of the palace, Sam can relate.

But he also knows that if Steve needs him, he'll go.

You form a bond with someone when you spend as much time together in a VW as they have.

Wanda

Wanda is just tired. Mostly she's tired of old men using her for their own purposes.

Wakanda's fine, really, but she's waiting for the moment T'Challa wants something from her. Not like rent money or food money or whatever. Something big. Something powerful. Because there is so much power in her and she's just now understanding that most people only want one of two things: to put a collar around her neck, or a noose.

So she's waiting for the king to come to her, like she's the court wizard now (the poisoner, perhaps), and ask her for help. But what "help" will really mean is "obedience".

She goes down to the city and explores it. She goes further than the boys, learning ways out of the city, learning ways out of Wakanda. There aren't many and all of them are dangerous, but she's a witch. The scariest thing in the forest is her. (Tony did introduce her to Terry Pratchett, so there's that.)

Wakanda doesn't eat many processed or preserved foods, but she builds a little stash of shelf-stable food she can take with her. She has a bag with a few things in it, things vital for survival. She's not going to stay in Wakanda. She's just waiting for the signal to leave.

Feels like she's spent her whole life waiting to leave, one way or another. Just once she wishes she could have a signal to stay, instead.

A trick of hers, one she never told anyone about, is the ability to feel the presence of those around her. Steve's presence is like a boulder, all stubborn strength. Sam's these days is a deep settling, like a plant in new soil. Clint and Scott are never more than three-quarters here, their lives waiting for them back in America. T'Challa is sunk into his country like a tree with deep roots; not quite peaceful, not when he mourns his father so deeply, but solid and unmoving.

And Bucky, a deep well of pain and hope, is sleeping but not silent. He's like a freshly-cleaned wound, a bared nerve, agonizing but already healing despite the pain. She remembers it. It's how it felt when Pietro died.

She feels like she comes from nothing and goes to nothing. She thinks she and Bucky might be friends.

The king still hasn't come to her the way she expected he would. She's set that as her signal, so she supposes she can wait, and maybe they'll wake Bucky up before she goes.

Maybe he'll be the one who won't want anything from her; maybe he'll be the one who understands.

Steve

Steve tries not to dwell on Bucky; he tries to let the Wakandan scientists do their work. He tries not to upset the others by dwelling, either, because Steve might not be the most emotionally self-aware man on the planet but he knows his fixation isn't healthy. And he knows they look to him for how to behave, so he has to be strong for them.

He figured out just how unhealthy all this was when he was in a stairwell in Bucharest, trying to simultaneously protect Bucky from the soldiers and protect the soldiers from Bucky. It's just that he can't help it. It's Bucky. And he misses him, so much, more than he did when he thought Bucky was dead.

Steve misses Bucky with all the grief for Peggy that he didn't have time to work his way through, he misses him with all the missing that he might otherwise expend on Tony because he knows that together they screwed up a pretty good friendship. He focuses his grief and anxiety and pain on this one thing, missing Bucky, because otherwise he'll just fall to pieces.

So some nights, when he can't sleep and he's already walked the dark palace halls, he'll end up in front of the chamber where Bucky's been frozen. The monitors are dark, the alerts silent. Just him and his best pal, separated by two inches of plexi and seventy years of sleep and torment. Sometimes T'Challa or one of the scientists passes the doorway, and sometimes they stop, but they never come in.

Steve fills his days, pretty much. He must, because they keep passing. But his nights are quiet and empty and at least here, there's a state approaching calm to be had.

He knows this is a holding pattern. He has to help Bucky, he has to solve the rest of his goddamn life, he has to fix things with Tony and get his people back where they belong.

But for now he's tired, and homesick, and this is his last scrap of home.

Which, of course, is when the phone rings.

"Tony," he answers, and then, with a final look at Bucky, he turns to walk to the windows, to look out on the shadowed nightscape of Wakanda. "No, I was awake, I'm not busy. I'm glad you called."

comments

sam_storyteller @ 2016-06-26T05:52:00

2016-06-26T10:52:30Z

Title: Re-Enlistment
Fandoms: Agents of SHIELD, Leverage
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Sophie left SHIELD a long time ago, and now they want her back. (Eliot is livid.)
Notes: From a prompt: Leverage/MCU xover where Sophie used to be a SHIELD agent.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"Well...I wasn't a real SHIELD agent," Sophie said, in response to Eliot's incredulous question.

This did not calm Eliot down as much as anyone had hoped.

"You faked your way into SHIELD?" he demanded. "I applied three times legitimately and never got in!"

"An oversight I'm prepared to admit to," said the calm, plain-faced man sitting at the bar. "Our screening agents were mainly Hydra, and notes suggest you weren't considered Hydra material. Too moral, I understand," he said. Eliot looked murderous.

"Wait -- does that mean you thought I was Hydra material?" Sophie said, also looking murderous.

"Too moral!" Eliot muttered.

"Not me personally," Phil Coulson replied. "As I understand it, your file never came under the review of the recruitment team. You just showed up in the field in a uniform, seemed reasonably competent, and said your file had been lost in a database system upgrade. Someone bought that, probably because you're charming."

"You are very charming," Nate put in.

"And I'm told you looked good in the uniform," Coulson added.

"Flattery is for lesser beings," Sophie snapped.

"And you slipped a fake employee file into the archives so that if anyone did check, they'd find it," Coulson said. "It was very impressive. Not nearly as impressive as your real resume, however."

"Yes, I know," Sophie replied.

"Which leads us to why you're here, I think," Nate said. Coulson gave him a nod as one mastermind to another.

"SHIELD has experienced a drastic reduction in capable agents since the Helicarriers fell," he said. "And an equally drastic uptick in prisoners. We can pay grunts to patrol the Hydra cells, that's not an issue, but that still leaves us the problem of too few agents, far too few new recruit applications, and a lot of people who wouldn't spit on us if we were on fire."

Eliot and Hardison both raised their hands.

"Well, I mean, spitting is fun," Parker said, when they looked at her expectantly.

"So we would like to re-hire you, pro tem, as a training officer and field agent until we can rebuilt our counterintelligence team," Coulson said.

"What?" Sophie asked.

"Your work with SHIELD was exemplary. The organization has traditionally overlooked minor criminal offenses for extraordinary individuals. I believe you could be an asset to SHIELD, and Agent May agrees."

"Oh! How is Melinda?" Sophie asked. "She's so sweet," she added to Nate, who gave her a skeptical eyebrow. She turned back to Coulson. "But no, I'm afraid I can't. I couldn't leave the crew."

"The invitation is extended to your crew, contingent on your acceptance," Coulson said smoothly. "You would receive a back-pay bonus and they would, of course, receive the standard signing bonus."

"Do we spit on him now?" Parker asked Hardison.

"He's not on fire yet," Hardison said.

"I could fix that," Eliot offered.

"Also, I have this," Coulson said, offering them a file. Hardison took it, studied it, then handed it to Eliot. "SHIELD is interested in recovery of the artifact. And the thief who took it, living if possible, but we're not especially picky. It's apparently in a vault filled with other valuables. Technically SHIELD agents are required to report additional goods recovered, but of course we leave a great deal of latitude for that reporting in the hands of the team leader."

He gave Sophie a pointed look.

"So if we steal the whatsis, we keep the junk?" Parker asked.

"You would do well in our legal department," Coulson told her.

"I prefer the illegal ones," she said.

"Oh, damn," Hardison said. There was a second file under the first, which he was now reading. "Eeeeeveryone's been hacking you, son."

"We do need someone capable of rebuilding our server security after one of my field agents destroyed it in the Hydra purge," Coulson said. "I think you've heard of her, Natasha Romanoff?"

"THE Natasha Romanoff?"

"I can get her autograph for you, if you want."

"Sounds like it might be time for a team vote," Nate said. Hardison put his hand up.

"Traitor," Eliot grumbled.

"All in favor of a temporary gig with SHIELD as the next team activity?" Nate asked. Hardison kept his hand up; Parker and Sophie put theirs up.

"All in or none in," Nate said to Eliot. Eliot rolled his eyes, but he waggled one hand vaguely in the direction of up. "And I'm in."

"Excellent," Coulson said.

Nate rubbed his hands together. "Let's go steal an intelligence agency!"

"Technically we're stealing you," Coulson corrected.

"Believe that, if it helps," Nate agreed, patting him on the shoulder as they filed upstairs to pack.

comments

sam_storyteller @ 2016-06-26T05:51:00

2016-06-26T10:51:48Z

Title: Task: Continue Wearing Pants
Fandoms: Avengers; Avengers Academy (video game); Tales Of The Bots
Rating: General
Summary: DJ has a new video game and a new real-life game.
Notes: Inspired by an ask I received about the most adorable child in the world, as well as a conversation (quoted at the end) about how much we'd like to see DJ in the Avengers Academy game. Sci graciously gave me permission to share the fic; DJ belongs to her.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"Tap," DJ said, and Tony, seated at one of the holotables in the workshop, looked down at him.

"Tap?" he asked.

DJ patted his forehead. "Tap," he repeated.

"You are a trickster, I'm not falling for it," Tony declared.

DJ swung forward, leaning on Tony's knee, and looked up at him beseechingly. "Taaaaaap," he groaned.

Tony, very hesitantly, stretched out a single finger and poked DJ gently in the forehead.

DJ shot upright as if he'd been shocked, then assumed what Tony could only consider a pose: feet planted firmly, hands on hips, chin lifted in a very typically Stark defiance.

He looked at Tony expectantly. Tony gazed back, mystified.

"He wants you to give him a task," said a voice. Tony didn't break eye contact with DJ as Natasha leaned in the doorway. DJ's eyes flicked to her and then back to Tony's.

"Normally I just yell at him," Tony said. DJ's lips twitched, then he schooled his features back to an impassive stare.

Natasha came forward, fingers flattened, and pressed on DJ's head lightly. "Three minutes, fold blankets," she said, and DJ scurried away to the pile of disarrayed blankets at his charging station. JARVIS lit up a holographic display above DJ's head with a three-minute timer on it.

"What..." Tony stared at her. "What was that?"

"I gave him a task," she said serenely.

"Have you been pattern-training my child? Is this a pavlovian thing, do I need to worry he's going to become an internationally acclaimed assassin? Because, I mean, if he is, that's not a problem per se, it'll get him out of the workshop once in a while, but I need to start designing his equipment -- "

Natasha reached out and tapped Tony's forehead, which was startling enough that he closed his mouth with a snap.

"It's a game he plays," she said.

"Very new game invented by a former spy?"

"Video game. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it, actually, it's very popular," she told him. "JARVIS, call up Captain's Quest please."

A stylized image of Steve in full Captain America regalia appeared in front of them, with a loading bar beneath it.

"Did I approve this?" Tony asked.

"Technically only Steve had to," she replied.

"That's not an answer," Tony told her. Onscreen, a map of New York appeared. Tiny people strolled around a very, very simplified Manhattan, Central Park surrounded by only the most recognizable skyscrapers -- Stark Tower, the Baxter Building, the Empire State Building. Tony squinted at it. There were some museums too, which were literally half the height of Stark Tower.

"This is not to scale," he said finally.

"It's a game for kids. Captain America explores New York and stops crime. You earn prizes for doing things in the game, and you can use the prizes to buy buildings or special outfits or other things," she explained. She tapped a finger on one of the little people and the camera zoomed in on a tiny Steve in an old-timey bathing costume.

"What..." Tony stared at it. "Why is he..."

"Well, it seemed more modest than the speedo, and apparently the animators had trouble with his abs," Natasha said.

"That's a first."

She tapped Steve, then a little icon in the corner, and the swimsuit was replaced with his Captain America costume circa two years ago. A second menu appeared with a list of tasks and times next to it.

"So you tap a task like LEAP PATRIOTICALLY," Natasha said, tapping it and dragging it to Steve's forehead. "And then he..."

The tiny Steve jumped straight up, caught hold of a convenient flagpole, and began parkouring his ass around the city. Tony watched, entranced and horrified. In the background, he could see someone in a SHIELD uniform taking selfies.

"Most of the characters are generic made-up SHIELD agents," Natasha said. "Steve thought it was a little egotistical to put all of us in a game that was mostly about him."

"How did I miss this?" Tony managed. A thin worry line appeared between Natasha's eyebrows. "This is AMAZING, I'm never going to stop teasing him -- "

The worry line vanished.

"Anyway, Steve gave DJ permission to play it," she finished. There was a soft beep and DJ, a blanket wrapped over his head and tucked around his shoulders, came racing back, timer at zero.

"Tap," he requested, but ducked when Natasha reached out. "No, you," he said to Tony.

Tony raised his eyebrows, but he obediently tapped DJ's forehead. DJ struck a pose.

"Uh," he said. DJ waited expectantly. "Okay, your task is...take a message to Steve. Five minutes."

He grabbed a slip of paper and scribbled on it with a grease pencil ("Please return this child to me personally in the workshop"). He passed it to DJ, who accepted it and ran off, blanket flapping out behind him.

"Tomorrow I'm teaching him a new stealth task," Natasha said. "I figure I can get him to spend at least two hours sneaking around the tower in a cardboard box."

"Why a cardboard box?" Tony asked. Natasha tapped one of the SHIELD agents and assigned her EMPLOY STEALTH. The agent immediately produced a large cardboard box from somewhere and pulled it over her head, then began inching around the sidewalk.

"You realize he's probably going to take off his pants under the box," Tony pointed out.

"Oh, we've already done the CONTINUE WEARING PANTS task. It's an ongoing quest," Natasha said sweetly. She leaned forward and patted Tony's forehead. "Eat lunch, one hour," she said, and JARVIS, that monster, put a one-hour timer up above Tony's head just as Steve came down the stairs, DJ under one arm, a platter of sandwiches in his other hand.

Steve bent to set DJ down, and as soon as his feet touched the ground he came running up to Tony, pointing to the timer over his head before clambering into his lap and slapping his hands on the table.

"I got your note," Steve said, leaning in for a kiss as he put the sandwiches in front of Tony. "I see you got hooked too," he added, pointing to the display. DJ, sandwich in one hand and mouth full of food, craned his neck to study the game before doing something arcane with three different characters, which resulted in a shower of tiny flag icons raining down on the in-game Captain America.

"This game is a blatant indoctrination tool to make children do their chores," Tony told him. Steve looked faintly guilty. "I love it. I want one. Make them make one about me where everyone has to wear pants in the workshop and you buy buildings by earning shoes."

"Really? I thought you'd like rains of credit cards," Steve said.

"Cold. That's cold, I'm trying to contribute to the gamification of childhood development and you're taunting me for having capitalist aspirations." Tony wrapped an arm around DJ's waist to hold him in place as he tried to simultaneously eat, program the game, and balance on Tony's thigh. Captain America began to do the Charleston.

"Eight hours," DJ said with some satisfaction.

***

copperbadge: I won't lie, Sci, now that we have robot arms in the game I keep picturing DJ showing up in AvAc. Teeny tiny baby child running around, with a bunch of two hour missions where he makes a smoothie. In order to get DJ you have to acquire five pairs of pants in a "do laundry" dorm mission. And you can build DJ's Playroom and it spits out smoothies, but it costs like a zillion shards
shinyrock6498: 2 zillion sam. that shit is adorable
copperbadge: Tony has a "chase after DJ" mission
scifigrl47: DJ in AvAc would be the worst idea
copperbadge: If by worst you mean THE BEST
scifigrl47: these children are not capable of babysitting
copperbadge: I think Loki would be a great babysitter. At least, DJ would think so.
scifigrl47: Five minute task: Hide Shoes He ducks behind the nearest building and when he comes out, acting all blase, with bare feet.
copperbadge: I bet DJ has a Steal A Stealth Suit task where he plays in Natasha's Stealth Cardboard Box.
scifigrl47: God, now I just want to write a fic where Nat assigns DJ 'secret missions' and everyone in the tower does their best to ignore he cardboard box that goes sliding around. It's doubly hard when he's in Dummy form and the box seriously does not cover like, half of his arm, let alone the rest of him, come on, that's just a hat at this point.
copperbadge: I'm sure eventually DJ will start reworking the cardboard box until he's got a very serviceable cardboard Iron Man outfit for when he's human and a much bigger box for when he's a robot.
scifigrl47: Nat would come up with the best tasks, you know she would.
copperbadge: How often do you think Nat assigns him the Pester Clint task? I bet it's a bunch.
scifigrl47: "DJ, new task. Annoy Clint."
"DO NOT ACCEPT TASK ANNOY CLINT. DISCARD THIS TASK."
"Oh, too bad, that's his favorite, Clint."
"IT'S EIGHT HOURS. WHY IS IT EIGHT HOURS?"
"High reward tasks always have a higher time requirement."

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Jan Versus The Dog Park

2016-06-26T10:51:00Z

Title: Jan Versus The Dog Park
Fandoms: Avengers Academy (video game), Welcome To Night Vale
Rating: General
Summary: Avengers Academy has a dog park. No dogs are allowed.
Notes: Hello-Shellhead on tumblr posted an image of a common bug in the Avengers Academy game, where the statue of Steve Rogers shows up as a black void. Based on this, Shinyblackbird prompted Portal of some sort? Misplaced chunk of the Dog Park?
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"We should have a dog park," Jan said, over breakfast in the dorm one morning. Everyone was there but Steve, who was wrapping up a dance marathon, and Natasha, who was pretending to spy on him instead of watching his ass.

"Why?" Loki asked.

"Well, we have two dogs now," she said. "And, okay, Cosmo seems to be happy just to float around -- "

"I think his suit takes care of his, you know. Business," Tony remarked, and everyone with a mouthful of food looked a little grossed out.

"Bulldog has yet to leave her pillow, she might not be real," Jess put in.

"Bulldog is real!" Jan insisted.

"She's wearing a crown," Kamala pointed out. "Most dogs don't."

"No, I agree, our dogs are as special as we are," Loki said, looking wicked. "Bee Lady, we should certainly have a dog park. I nominate Tony to build it."

"I build robots and the future," Tony said. "I'm not a landscaper."

"Make Red Hulk do it," Enchantress suggested. "He likes ripping things out of the ground and leaving them lying around."

"One time," Red Hulk rumbled. "One time!"

"Uh, guys," Quill said, tapping his fork on his plate to get their attention. "We have a dog park."

There was a pause.

"No we don't," Tony said.

"Yeah we do," Quill replied. "It's the empty green bit near the gym, with the trees? We've had it for a long time. Since before we had dogs!" he added brightly.

"Why would we have a dog park before we had dogs?" Pepper asked. "I've never seen any permits for this dog park."

"Me either," Sharon added. "And I go through all the papers on Fury's desk whenever I can."

"Well, I mean." Quill shifted uncomfortably. "We're not supposed to talk about it."

"How do you know?" Jack asked.

"The sign says so," Quill said.

***

Steve and Natasha had finished their tasks by the time everyone left the dorm to follow Quill to the so-called dog park, and they fell in with the crowd curiously. Quill took them on a roundabout circuit through campus, eventually coming to a stop in front of a pair of trees.

"There," he said.

Between the trees was a large white sign:

DOG PARK
- No dogs allowed in the dog park
- No hoverboarding, flying, dancing, spying, shrinking, growing, or combat in the dog park
- Do not look directly at the dog park
- The dog park is closed to the public
- You are not supposed to talk about the dog park
- This means you, Peter Quill

The sign was big, but it couldn't quite obscure what rose between the trees behind it. It was tall and deep black, but not in the way a black shirt or a black sign or a black building was; it was black in the way that made your eyes hurt. As if it were a hole into a pool of blackness.

In the vague shape of Steve Rogers.

"Honestly, it's one of the better images of me I've seen," Steve said, as the rest of them stared silently up at the terrifying, statue-shaped void. "Most of them get my nose wrong."

"We can't see your nose," Kamala pointed out.

"Which means it's not wrong, at least," Steve said.

"Does anyone else feel like they sprained their corneas?" Pepper asked.

"Hey, has anyone seen Jan?" Tony asked suddenly.

There was a joyful bark from the Dog Park.

Distantly, they heard the sound of Jan's "happy" scream (it had a specific pitch to it, different from her angry scream and her new-shoes scream).

"Ah, crap, we're gonna have to go in and find her and the dogs, aren't we?" Quill groaned.

"Don't damage the statue-shaped void," Steve said, pulling his shield off his back. Natasha already had her stealth box ready.

"AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE! AND TRY NOT TO LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE DOG PARK!" Steve yelled, and they charged into battle.

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Past Time (Avengers Academy)

2016-06-26T10:50:17Z

Title: Past Time
Fandom: Avengers Academy (Video Game)
Rating: General
Summary: Tony studies the time fog, but the time fog may be studying him.
Notes: allmyfavesareflawed prompted: Something to do with Avengers Academy and the TimeFog? That stuff is suspicious.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"All work and no play," Jan teased him, when she caught Tony at the boundary of the timefog again. From anyone else it would have been a lot more cutting, but Jan knew how hard he worked while playing.

He had a scanner going, and he was in the suit, more for everyone's peace of mind (including his own) than because the timefog had ever seemed particularly dangerous. It didn't reach out and grab you; it never encroached back once it had been cleared. It just stood there, billowing up against an invisible barrier occasionally.

And sometimes, if he was near the edge too long...

"That's me, the original dull boy. I taught Captain America how to do it," he said, and she covered her mouth, mock-shocked.

"You're awful," she told him. "That's mean."

"It's what we dull boys do," he agreed, shooting her a grin.

"You don't really think he's dull."

"No, of course not. But if he thinks I think that, he might try pepping things up a little, and then we'll have a lot of fun." He turned back to the timefog. Sometimes he thought he could see shadows moving in it, when he was flying over it. Usually only when he was alone; if he brought Sam, either he was too distracted or the shadows kept still.

"Come away from it, Tony," Jan urged. "The dance party at Club A's about to start, it's not the same without you. And we need you there in case Drax tries to literally destroy the dance floor again."

"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute," he replied absently. Jan rolled her eyes but left him to his readings.

He set an alarm for three minutes, to make sure he didn't forget to go dance, and kept working. His scanner showed an odd blip, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, so quick it didn't even record in the system --

His head snapped up as something moved in his peripheral vision. There, in the fog...

The shadow resolved itself, slowly, and Tony locked up, frozen in place. It was an armor -- a little bigger than his, burlier somehow, but the same scarlet-and-gold, the same basic plating structure and blue glow of the chest reactor.

The helmet was off, and he could see a shock of dark hair, then the shadow of a nose and a beard --

Whoever he was, he'd taken a serious injury, Tony thought, detaching the observation from the fact that really the man could only be one person. He had a scar running from the edge of his jaw on the left, up across the corner of his mouth, cutting through the beard and taking a thick chunk from the bridge of his nose. His left eye was a vivid blue, but his right eye was pale and unseeing, and the scar ended in a twisting gnarl above his bisected eyebrow.

Tony tapped a command into the scanner, calling up an image of the Iron Man helmet kept in the very back of the SHIELD archives. The holo settled over the man's face, the rent in the mask aligning precisely with the scar.

"What happened?" Tony blurted.

The other man didn't appear to hear him; he was studying the barrier, fingers drifting over the billowing edge, single blue eye darting around. Finally, with a thoughtful frown that tugged at the scar along the corner of his mouth, he flicked two armored fingers at the very edge of the barrier.

A single curling plume of fog drifted out, and Tony jerked backwards. It twisted and whirled up like smoke from the cigarettes Gamora thought nobody knew about, dissipating in the air.

Where the other man's fingers had touched, a pinpoint of blue light appeared, coalesced, and then dropped to the ground, tumbling across the grass to Tony's feet. He bent with one knee to pick it up, and found himself holding a tesseract shard.

He scratched his head. He already had a couple hundred of these. Not enough to recruit anyone right now, but --

When he looked up, the other Iron Man was gone, but there was a little timer floating above the point the shard had fallen from. It read 3:58:27. 3:58:26. 3:58:25...

"Thanks, I guess!" he yelled, just in case the other Iron Man was still around. His own timer went off, startling him, and he tucked the shard into his armor's cargo compartment, blasting off for Club A.

He set a timer for 3:57 while he was in the air, and landed just in time for Loki to challenge Steve to another dance off (Steve always won).

3:58:01, 3:58:00, 3:57:59....

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The Michelin Man

2016-06-25T17:40:49Z

Title: The Michelin Man
Rating: General
Summary: Steve was not prepared for this at six am on his day off.
Notes: Minopoke on tumblr posted the following:
"Michelin has gone to extraordinary lengths to maintain the anonymity of its inspectors. Many of the company's top executives have never met an inspector; inspectors themselves are advised not to disclose their line of work, even to their parents (who might be tempted to boast about it); and, in all the years that it has been putting out the guide, Michelin has refused to allow its inspectors to speak to journalists."
Okay but Michelin inspector AU where they use all the cheesy spy lines and dodgy excuses and their SO is convinced they work for the CIA or something. but actually they just really secretly review restaurants.

Starkerized then suggested I don't know who fits the bill for this job but my first thought was FOODIEVERSE.

It's not quite what Minopoke suggested but the whole thing gave me an idea.

Warnings: None.

Part of the Foodieverse series; also available at AO3.

***

The banging on Steve's apartment door woke him from a dead sleep at six in the morning, and he was fairly unsurprised to find Tony Stark on the other side when he opened it. Slightly more surprising was Bucky Barnes behind Tony, but Tony and Bucky were pretty much the only two assholes who would wake him at six am.

What was really strange was Thor looming over Tony's shoulder, Sam Wilson leaning on the door frame, and Natasha Romanoff leaning on Sam Wilson.

"Am I wearing underwear?" Steve asked Tony. He'd assumed it would be Tony, alone, and hadn't bothered putting on clothes.

"Yes," Sam said, and "But only your underwear," Natasha added, right before Tony shoved a book in his face.

"How does it feel to own the first Michelin-star food truck in the world?" he asked.

Steve blinked.

"The new ratings came out," Thor said.

"You got a star," Sam added.

Tony pushed past him into his apartment, which meant everyone else followed, and that was -- it was a lot of people for a tiny loft apartment, it was so many people to fit into an apartment that was 90% kitchen. (Steve's requirements for his apartment had been very specific.) Tony went straight to the fridge.

Steve decided to ignore the impending breakfast party and ducked into the closet, hurriedly pulling on some pants and a reasonably clean shirt.

"I had a star already," he pointed out, as he emerged.

"You had a star for 107," Thor said. "Now you have two stars. Consecutively."

Steve's cellphone, plugged in next to the bed, began ringing.

"That'll be the New York Times Food critic, probably," Tony said. "Jesus, I know I ask this every time, but do you honestly only have cast iron frying pans?"

"I like cast iron," Steve replied, and then his brain actually woke up. "Wait."

"Penny dropping," Natasha said.

"War On Hunger got a Michelin Star?" Steve asked. "But I serve sandwiches."

"Apparently really good sandwiches," Sam said. "I mean, you know, I'll just be over here being bitter my potatoes didn't get a star, but man, your sandwiches are pretty great."

"Soup and sandwiches," Steve repeated, bewildered. The phone kept ringing, so he climbed the little staircase up to the loft bed and unplugged it, ignoring the call. As soon as he did, it started ringing again. He flicked the switch to silent and then buried it in a couple of blankets so the buzzing wouldn't bother anyone.

"You know what I have?" Tony said.

"Ten eggs in one frying pan?" Steve asked, looking over the edge of the loft at him.

"I have a Michelin star. TOBRU has one. I mean we've had one basically since we opened, and we'd probably have two if we set fewer tablecloths on fire. But the point is, I have a Michelin star, and also the food truck that parks in my parking lot has a Michelin Star, and I am finding this very, very hilarious."

"Is this mushroom pate?" Natasha asked, head and shoulders inside Steve's fridge.

Steve sighed. "There's brioche in the breadbox."

"Brilliant," she said, carrying the mushroom pate and a jar of rendered bacon-and-beef-fat to the stove, where she settled in to start frying bread. Tony tested an egg, then flipped it.

"Worthy of pursuit, the War On Hunger food truck is a sparkling sky-blue mobile cookery often to be found at festivals, parks, and outside its cousin restaurant, fellow Michelin Star holder TOBRU," Bucky announced, settling in at the kitchen bar and reading from the guide.

"Come down here," Tony ordered. "I can't kiss you in the loft and watch the eggs at the same time."

"Often sporting a handful of brightly-colored picnic tables nearby, the truck's service hatch is manned by its head chef, French-trained Steve Rogers, formerly of 107," Bucky continued, lips curving upwards. Steve climbed down to the kitchen, cheeks burning. Tony leaned over and kissed him. Thor edged around them to start taking down plates for the fried bread.

"I told you the picnic tables were a good idea," Natasha said.

"Chef Rogers has discarded complex French and French-American fusion in favor of clean, simple flavors based on local ingredients, presented in a peasant-fare style but perfectly balanced," Bucky read.

"So this is a joke, right?" Steve said. "Like it's a publicity stunt or something."

"I don't think it is," Sam said. "I think...you know what I think?"

"TOBRU?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, exactly. I think TOBRU's Michelin inspector stopped at War On Hunger after dinner and got half a sandwich and was like, damn," Sam said.

"Soft yet substantial wholegrain bread provides the perfect bed for freshly pan-fried pastrami topped with a sprinkling of melted locally-sourced havarti cheese and house-made mustard," Bucky read. "Small cups of chicken, pork, or vegetable-broth soups laced with ginger and onion hardly need additions like meat or noodles to provide a satisfying foundation for a leisurely al fresco meal. For those seeking more hearty fare, fried chicken, sauteed tofu, or baked wings are served on split yeast biscuits with a choice of rich sweet and savory sauces. Finish with two jam-filled shortbread cookies served in individual decorated packages."

"Literally parchment paper and washi tape," Steve said. "That's what they mean when they say ‘decorated packages'."

"They're not wrong, exactly," Thor said.

Tony flipped a fried egg onto a piece of toasted bread spread with mushroom pate, and Natasha topped it with a sprinkle of salt. She presented the plate to him as Tony began plating the rest of the eggs.

"They sound like they're being pretty earnest," Sam said. "I think they mean it, Steve."

"You're going to go viral again," Tony said, sliding an arm around Steve as he cut into his egg, scooping bread, egg, and a little pate into his mouth all at once. "Promise you'll remember us little people."

"Today was gonna be my day off," Steve sighed.

"Phil's on his way to help you bake a bunch of star shaped cookies," Natasha said, checking her phone. "You can frost them with the Michelin logo."

"Do you have enough pastrami?" Sam asked.

"I'm gonna need chicken wings," Steve said. "And tofu, I bet every foodie in a thirty-mile radius is going to ask for the sauteed tofu."

He reached out for the scratch pad he kept by the pantry and started making a list; if he was going to prep for a massive crowd today, he'd need extra supplies. And he'd call Kamala and see if she could pull an extra long shift, given he'd probably need the help.

Tony, who had momentarily vanished, returned with Steve's phone.

Well.

On his phone.

"I just don't think we can give you an exclusive after the way you dragged him when he left 107," he was saying. Steve, horrified, mouthed Manhattan Style? at him, and Tony nodded. "Look, you know who was good to Steve Rogers? AND to me when I left Big Star? Sunset Magazine. Sunset did better than you guys and they're not even east coast regional. Yeah well fuck you too, buddy," he said, and hung up.

"Oh god," Steve managed.

"No, it's fine, I'm calling the Times, we're going to give the Times a comment and then Sunset an exclusive," Tony said.

"They were really nice when I left 107," Steve admitted.

"Uh huh, I just gotta..." Tony was tapping on the phone madly.

"Tony, no, not my Twitter again -- "

***

War On Hunger * onestarsteve * April 12
Pleased and proud to have been awarded the first #michelinstar ever given to a food truck.

War On Hunger * onestarsteve * April 12
No fried chicken today but plenty of wings and pastrami! Every purchase gets a free #michelinstar cookie while they last. In a decorated package.

War On Hunger * onestarsteve * April 12
Tony Stark of #TOBRU is sending out these tweets because he's incredibly proud of me.

War On Hunger * onestarsteve * April 12
I'll be outside the metmuseum for lunch and #TOBRU for dinner. Buy anything at War On Hunger or Potato Rescue and get a free Blue Lemonade from the pop-up #TOBRU stand!

***

"What the fuck is a pop up blue lemonade stand?" Bucky asked.

"Bruce's newest nightmare," Tony said cheerfully. "I just came up with it. It's lemonade that turns blue when you add ice. It's gonna be great. Probably make you poop orange."

Steve rested his face in his hands, pushing aside his mostly-eaten egg on toast. Tony patted the back of his head.

"Hike your prices ten percent and give the overage to the food pantry," he said.

"I was trying to live a simple life," Steve groaned.

"Doesn't get much simpler than this apartment," Natasha observed.

"Simple doesn't mean easy, you know," Tony told him, dropping a kiss into his hair. "Okay, everyone finish up your eggs and get out, we have a ton of prep to do. Come on, you gotta get those biscuits going," he said to Steve.

"I do like making biscuits," Steve admitted.

"I'll go source some tofu. The things I do for you," Tony added, shooing everyone else out the door. "Make chemistry happen, earn that star!"

Steve, left alone in the kitchen, picked up the Michelin Guide, studied the blurb about War On Hunger, and smiled a little to himself. After all, he did like stars, and the truck already had one painted on the side.

There was a knock on the open door, and Phil put his head in. He had a sack of what Steve could only assume was cookie supplies.

"Congratulations," he said, giving Steve a wide smile. "Point me at your baking sheets."

END

comments

Apprentices

2016-06-25T17:23:53Z

Title: Apprentices
Rating: General
Summary: Using Bucky to keep Tony entertained wasn't Steve's best idea.
Notes: Prompted by onemuseleft: I misread "Starbuck" as "Starkbuck" and got all excited that you were writing a Tony/Bucky domestic baking AU. I saw domestic baking but I heard Foodieverse.
Warnings: None.

Part of the Foodieverse series; also available at AO3.

***

"All-purpose flour is my nemesis."

Bucky crossed his arms. "I thought all baking was your nemesis."

"It is," Tony said, setting a small culinary blowtorch on the gleaming steel prep table in the TOBRU kitchen. The rest of the kitchen was unusually empty; TOBRU was closed for the week while Bruce supervised some kind of mystical, arcane remodeling being done to the dining room, and Tony had intended to spend literally a week in bed with Steve, but stupid Steve Rogers had a stupid food truck and wouldn't let his apprentice chef run it alone.

("She's fourteen, Tony." "Old enough to drive!" "That's sixteen." "I was driving at fourteen." "Well, she can't." "I've met Kamala. I bet she could.")

...the result being that Tony had gotten bored and started loitering around Steve and Sam's trucks, and Steve had finally demanded he and Bucky entertain themselves rather than pestering the customers.

"So why are we baking?" Bucky asked, as Tony took cream out of the fridge, then sugar from the pantry.

"Because baking," Tony said, getting a scale down from a shelf, "requires focus and will keep me from going insane out of boredom because your best friend has a terrible work ethic."

"Steve has a great work ethic."

"Which is why it is terrible. Have you ever made caramel sauce?"

"I have eaten it with a spoon," Bucky informed him solemnly.

"Well, I guess that'll have to do," Tony said. "We'll make a nice almond cake with caramel sauce. Simple, fresh, exacting."

"Cake flour," Bucky said, resting one hand on the canister of cake flour.

"Because all-purpose flour -- "

" -- is our nemesis," Bucky chimed in to finish.

***

Kamala Khan leaned on the internal service counter of War On Hunger and rested her chin on her hand, watching Sam across the parking lot dole out tater tots to some early-afternoon loiterers. Steve smiled indulgently from where he was assembling a sandwich for Tony.

"How many kind of potato do you suppose there are?" she asked.

"Over four thousand," Steve said.

"No! How do you know that? Are you making that up?" she asked, peering at him.

"I make it a point to know these things. And I hang out with Sam a lot. He only uses a few easy to find ones."

"There's so much to know," she sighed.

"Well, if you go to culinary school, you'll learn how to learn about these things," he said.

"I read in an article that Mr. Stark didn't go to culinary school."

"Tony grew up in a test kitchen. You," he said, pointing at her with a pair of chopsticks he was using to scramble an egg on the hot griddle, "grew up in a well-adjusted household."

"Explains nothing about me, huh?" she asked sunnily, turning around to watch him cook.

"Indeed, Kamala, you are a very persistent mystery," he grinned. "You want a peep at the TOBRU kitchen?"

"Yes! Oh my god yes please!" she clenched her hands and pulled her arms into her body.

"Here, take this to -- " Steve began, offering her the sandwich (corned beef and scrambled egg with pickle relish; Tony was a monster). He didn't quite get the whole sentence out before there was a loud popping noise from TOBRU. Smoke billowed out from the kitchen door.

" -- stay right here," Steve said, even as Kamala protested "No! Please let me come see what blew up!" and followed him out of the truck.

Sam tossed Steve his fire-extinguisher as Steve ran past. This wasn't their first TOBRU fire.

"We're fine, we're fine!" Tony yelled, emerging. He was leading a coughing Bucky. Bucky looked okay. Tony was covered with some kind of...slime?

"Caustic?" Steve asked.

"Caramel," Bucky growled.

There was the sound of a cameraphone shutter.

"Kamala, not on the cloud," Steve said.

"War On Hunger instagram!" she replied.

"You can send it to Quentin and Idie at the bakery and that's all," Steve insisted. Kamala pouted but hit send. Steve wiped a line of caramel down Tony's nose.

"What did you do to the caramel?" he asked.

"Science!" Bucky said, throwing up his arms.

"The good news is, the cake is going to be fine, and at least the caramel sauce was cooled when it happened," Tony said. Steve kissed his forehead. "Don't even try that, you just want to taste the caramel."

"Needs more butter," Steve said, licking his lips.

Kamala's phone beeped and she touched the screen. The sound of Peter's laughter, loud and enthusiastic, emerged from the speakers.

"I sent it to Peter too," she said.

"You're fired," Tony said.

"You can't fire me, I work for Steve!"

"Fine, Peter's fired."

"I'll let him know," she replied. "I just have to get his reaction oh wait -- " and she played the sound clip of him laughing again.

"I'm going to shower," Tony said. Steve offered him the plate he still held in his hand. "I'm going to eat this and then shower," he amended.

"I don't get a sandwi -- " Bucky began. Sam appeared, placing a paper tray in Steve's hand as soon as Tony took the plate out of it. Steve held it out to Bucky. "Ooooh. Is that the potato bread?"

"How are you holding up? Because I'm a potato," Tony said. Kamala giggled. Steve gave them a confused look.

"I'm going to eat this sandwich and shower and then you're going to come home and eat almond cake with me," Tony continued. "Kamala, you're in charge!"

"You are not in charge," Steve said, but Kamala had already taken off running, having seen someone curiously approaching the big blue truck with the white star.

"She's in charge. There's a shower in the locker room behind the kitchen. It fits two," Tony said.

"And that's my cue to be anywhere else but here," Bucky said, shoving the sandwich in his face. "Mfghrhgfff, tff!"

"Ride safe, Buck," Steve said, amused, and followed Tony into the kitchen, slowly clearing of smoke.

comments

Truckbru

2016-06-25T14:26:41Z

Title: Truckbru
Rating: General
Summary: Tony's idea of a food truck is...interesting.
Notes: Inspired by two prompts:
agentpaxieamor: Steve is going to be taking his truck to NY ComicCon, Tony decides he has to have a truck there too. His truck is... Interesting.
katisatotalnerd: Are there any parades in the Foodieverse? Does Steve drag Tony to the parades? Do Steve and Sam set up their trucks along the parade path? Does Steve badger Tony to set up some sort of promotional table for TOBRU?
Warnings: None.

Part of the Foodieverse series; also available at AO3.

***

"Tadaa!" Tony repeated, when his first tadaa! elicited no reaction.

Steve was standing in the parking lot of TOBRU, hand over his mouth. Sam, next to him, had his thumb pressed to his mouth with his knuckles tucked under his nostrils, eyes wide. Bucky, who had weaseled one of the new experimental "hot dog croquettes" out of Sam, was chewing industriously, seemingly indifferent to the monstrosity before them.

"Is that an RV?" Steve finally asked.

"It was an RV. Now it is TRUCKBRU, the mobile eatery," Tony said proudly.

"Yes, yes, I see that," Steve nodded. TRUCKBRU: MOBILE MOLECULAR GASTRONOMY was painted in gold on the side of the cherry-red, blindingly shiny RV. "Tony, what have you done?"

"It's pretty awesome," Tony said, as if agreeing with a compliment that Steve hadn't actually paid him. "I gutted the interior, ripped out the galley kitchen, moved the kitchen to the bedroom, put the bar where the passenger's front seat used to be, and installed bench seating throughout. Very hip, very communal, super socially awkward. I can cook you a five-course meal in this motherfucker."

"You can," Sam said. "Why...why would you, Tony?"

"New York Comic Con!" Tony declared. "Steve said everyone was going, because convention food is dire and conventioneers are desperate and have cash, so I thought I'd whip something up and come join in the fun. Don't worry, it's temporary."

"You bought and gut-remodeled an RV into a mobile restaurant for a stunt?" Bucky asked around a mouthful of Vienna Beef hot dog wrapped in fried potato. Tony nodded. Bucky stuck out his fist, a huge grin on his face, and Tony bumped it proudly.

"Bruce is going to stab you," Steve said.

Which was when, with perfect timing, Bruce opened the door and climbed down, wiping his hands on a towel tucked in his apron string.

"Isn't she great?" Bruce asked.

"How the hell did you get his buy-in on this?" Sam asked.

"Bruce loves a challenge, and anyway when I found him he was running a crepe joint in a literal closet using a hot plate," Tony said. "He's used to it."

"I'm going to fill the air with flavored non-toxic bubbles," Bruce said. "Clint promised we could have him for the weekend, he's making these little edible paper airplanes you can throw into peoples' mouths."

"Does Clint know he will be cooking in a coat closet on wheels?" Steve asked.

"I'm sensing negativity," Tony said, crossing his arms. "I think you are skeptical, you giant hipster hypocrite."

"I don't let people in the truck! That's the point of a food truck, there's no seating service!" Steve insisted.

"Wait," Sam said. "You put a bar in, you said?"

"Yes," Tony said, a hint of suspicion in his face.

"Look, I got this new cocktail recipe, but it's a little too avant-garde for Potato Rescue..."

Tony threw an arm over Sam's shoulders. "Step into my office," he said, guiding him up the RV's stairs.

"I gotta go start prep, you guys need anything?" Bruce asked.

"No, we're uh, we're all set," Steve said, as Bucky finished the last of his breakfast. When Bruce was gone, Steve turned to Bucky. "Is this really happening? Are they really opening a pop-up restaurant inside an RV?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't eat fancy things, but really, what could go wrong?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to park close by when we go to NYCC," Steve said.

"Oooh, prime seats to watch the explosions?" Bucky asked.

"Buck, no! So that I can help rescue diners when Tony sets the RV on fire."

"He almost never blows stuff up anymore," Bucky said, sounding disappointed. "You think he'd let me bartend? Oh wait no, you think he'd let me drive?"

"The going-wrong begins," Steve sighed, as Bucky got up from his perch on War On Hunger's bumper and jogged across to TRUCKBRU, banging on the door to be let in.

***

Tony insisted on family dinner in TRUCKBRU that night, and given the way news traveled, everyone showed up -- Thor and his investor-slash-girlfriend Jane, Sam and Steve, Logan and Kitty from the bakery, Clint and Natasha, and even Coulson and Fury arrived for the dinner that Tony and Bruce assembled in the tiny kitchen located where the bedroom used to be. Peter sat at the bar, and Bucky was allowed to sit in the driver's seat on sufferance (Tony refused to let a bike messenger drive his precious traveling eatery, but said he could be the bouncer, which pleased Bucky just as well.)

"Admit it," Sam said, helping himself to some experimental macaroni made from cheese, cooked in a vodka cream sauce. "This isn't half bad. It's kinda fun."

"I didn't say it would be bad," Steve protested. "I just think it's a poor life choice to put that many chemicals, compressed air canisters, heating elements, and homemade kitchen devices in a small metal box that's powered by highly flammable gasoline."

"Is that...not exactly what you do?" Thor asked. Steve scowled.

"If it's a hit I might convert it to hybrid!" Tony called from the kitchen, where he was finishing a number of acid-poached steaks.

"I guess if I trust anyone to heavily modify the fuel system of an RV, it'd be you," Steve called back.

"Such love. Are you undermining me because you're jealous?" Tony asked. Steve blew him a kiss. "We're not in competition. I cost too much for your clientele."

"Classist!" Steve said. Clint and Natasha were watching the exchange like it was a tennis match. Coulson was making notes on the macaroni. Fury was making notes on the other side of the notepad, analyzing Sam's as-yet untitled avant-garde potato cocktail.

"We already have reservations coming in for the six o'clock seatings," Bruce said. "Couple of celebs at the con, couple of very adventurous attendees. Plus we're doing a seating on day three for the winners of the cosplay contest, which should be awesome."

"I plan to attend and cosplay myself," Thor announced.

"What are you going as?" Steve asked curiously.

"I thought a Jaeger pilot," Thor said. Tony laughed as he brought out a huge bowl of entirely purple salad. "Jane has agreed to be my copilot."

"What's your Jaeger name?" Sam asked.

"The Crispy Crab, naturally," Thor said, and a ripple of amusement spread through TRUCKBRU.

"I could cosplay," Bruce said thoughtfully. "We have some kind of professional services pass, and we don't really need to prep until an hour or two before seating, given the TRUCKBRU menu. I could dig out my old Star Trek uniform."

"You have a Star Trek uniform like...just lying around?" Peter asked.

"Is that a problem?" Bruce asked mildly.

"No, chef," Peter said hurriedly, stuffing his face with purple salad so he wouldn't be obliged to speak further.

"What about you, Steve?" Bruce asked. "You've got a very comic book physique."

"I've got a costume lined up," Steve said.

"You do?" Tony asked blankly.

"Yeah. I'm not going to the con, I don't like big crowds or long lines," Steve said. "But I'm doing a themed menu and dressing up."

"What are you dressing up as?" Tony asked, looking like he was already picturing something skimpy.

"Tuck your tongue in," Natasha advised him.

"I'm gonna be America, from that Hetalia cartoon," Steve said. "It's a pretty easy costume, and I have the bomber jacket already."

"Huh," Sam said. "That seems like it'll really suit you."

.***

Steve had to admit that Comic Con went more smoothly than he'd anticipated. Most of the people attending were used to lines and were grateful for food that hadn't been sitting under a heat lamp indefinitely, and when Steve started agreeing to photos with various Hetalia fans in return for donations to the Food Pantry Fund, he doubled his usual daily intake.

"I tell you what," Sam said, during an afternoon break in the action, "Tomorrow? I'm serving nothing but fries. I'm gonna do up like ten different sauces and just offer a french fry bar all day, that's all anyone's buying anyway."

"Maybe some of the mashed potato fudge?" Steve suggested.

"You just want me to make that because you like it," Sam said.

"I'll give a discount on my Locavore Sliders if people buy fries and a slice of fudge from you," Steve offered.

"Good deal," Sam agreed, sipping on a latte from Chaotic Neutral's coffee-and-pastry "Virtual Truck" (a table with a cardboard cutout of a truck in front of it). "TRUCKBRU should start seating soon, yeah?"

"First seating's not until six," Steve said. "But Tony said there were a couple of VIPs who booked an early meal."

"Hmm, private chef style," Sam mused. "Wonder who they are -- Steve?" he asked, as Steve craned his neck to see if the man coming towards the trucks was who he thought it was.

"Hooo shit," Sam said, following his gaze. "Is that...?"

"Yeah, I think so -- oh my god, it's his entire family too," Steve said.

"Be cool," Sam told him.

"That must be Tony's early seating. Do we act casual? Where do we look?" Steve asked.

"Don't ask me, man, I'm gonna go hide in the truck. There's gonna be papparazzi, you should get your face somewhere else if you don't want another Hot Hipster Chef headline," Sam said, hurrying away towards Potato Rescue. Steve ducked inside War On Hunger, spotting a couple of sneaky-looking guys with cameras -- Sam hadn't been wrong.

He was so focused on avoiding the cameras and not looking at Tony's early seating that he didn't notice anyone was at the window until there was a smart rap on the service table.

"Hey, hello? Anyone here?" a voice called. Steve, horror filling him, leaned through the hatch.

"Hi," he said awkwardly. "Can I help you?"

The man looked up at him, a hint of a smile on his face. "I hope so. We're booked for a meal at Tony Stark's place."

"TRUCKBRU," Steve managed. "Across the lot."

"Yeah, my wife's getting the kids settled, but. I hear it's great food but I'm not sure my two year old is ready for molecular gastronomy. And I heard you have really good little mini hot dog things you're serving? Could I get maybe five or ten for my little ones? Do you have tater tots? I've seen tater tots, they looked more elegant than food court tater tots."

"That's Potato Rescue," Steve said, leaning a little further out. "HEY SAM!"

"OH MY GOD," Sam yelled back.

"CUPPA TOTS?"

"YEAH FINE," Sam's voice drifted out. Steve saw the pop of a camera flash.

"Sorry," the man grimaced.

"It's no problem, they won't get much from that angle," Steve stammered. "Mini dogs, right."

He opened the fridge and took out a packet of the pre-made mini dogs, wrapped in pretzel dough, and poured it out into the fryer. "Just be a minute."

"Tots up!" Sam called. Steve leaned out the window again and caught the cup of tater tots as it whizzed past.

"Wow, you put on a show," his customer said, looking impressed.

"Gotta move fast in this business," Steve replied.

"Yeah, mine too. What do I owe you?"

"On the house," Steve said.

"Nah, come on -- "

"It's fine, really. Toss some cash in the food pantry fund if you want."

"Oh, hey, nice," the man said, stuffing what looked suspiciously like a hundred dollars into the jar. "Haven't I heard about you? The hipster food truck documentary?"

"Yep," Steve agreed, draining the dogs and gently patting off some grease before tucking them into a tray with the tots on top. "Here you go. Ketchup and mustard's in there, and there's a mild avocado sauce if they're feeling adventurous."

"Great, I appreciate it. Hope you do some good business today," he said, with a genuine, warm smile.

"Thanks, it's been pretty good so far," Steve said. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Downey."

As the other man left, Steve's phone buzzed. He looked down from watching Bucky hold the door to TRUCKBRU, and found he had a text from Tony.

His goatee isn't as amazing as mine.

Steve rolled his eyes and texted back. Did you know your VIP was Robert Downey Jr?

I suspected. His wife booked the reservation. She has amazing hair.

You maybe could have warned me.

I didn't know he was going to make a snack stop. BTW his kids are devouring the dogs and tots.

It was followed by a thumbs-up emoji and then a smiley in a chef's toque. Steve had barely cleared the screen and was about to check over his inventory when Kamala texted.

I leave you unsupervised for five minutes!!! OMG!!

Steve frowned as a link appeared. He tapped it and found himself staring down at a photo of himself, handing Robert Downey Junior a tray of food. The War On Hunger logo was clearly visible on the awning over their heads.

It was a tumblr post. It already had two hundred reblogs. And was captioned with the location of the food truck court.

Steve looked up. In the distance he fancied he could see a dust cloud rising as hungry, hooked-in fans began hurrying towards the trucks.

"Brace for afternoon rush," he called to the others. Logan gave a wave to acknowledge he'd heard; Bucky, standing outside TRUCKBRU, stepped directly in front of the door and crossed his arms.

Sam's dismayed yell of "More motherfucking fries!" was pretty restrained, Steve felt.

comments

Protege

2016-06-25T13:49:27Z

Title: Protege
Rating: General
Summary: Steve was prepared to be coldly polite to Jarvis, until he figured out who he actually was.
Notes: Prompted by drivemetogeek: What's/Who's Jarvis in Foodieverse?
Warnings: None.

Part of the Foodieverse series; also available at AO3.

***

"JARVIS!"

Steve had been lounging in the corner of the TOBRU kitchen during a slow time for the food truck, watching Tony and Bruce do prep in advance of the nightly rush, when someone yelled the name. Every head in the kitchen lifted and turned as Pepper, who had been discussing the night's specials with one of the waitstaff, let out a yell and ran down one of the kitchen's narrow aisles.

She collided in a hug near the doorway with a tall, slim, youngish man in jeans and a rugby shirt under a green jacket; for a second Steve thought Jarvis must be some secret boyfriend he hadn't been introduced to, until Tony came forward and also hugged the man. Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Look at you," Tony said, clearly pleased, stepping back and holding this Jarvis by the arms, studying him. "You look great. I mean, for a loser who abandoned me."

Steve's eyes narrowed further.

"Well, one can't stay in one place forever," Jarvis said, in a cultured English accent. "And you were frankly holding me back."

Steve's eyes became suspicious slits in his face.

"I was preparing you," Tony admonished, dragging the interloper into the kitchen. "Hey, come here, meet your replacement."

Steve almost stood up, because clearly this was some ex of Tony's, and he was about to be icily polite when Tony, instead of reaching for him, gestured at Peter to stop chopping carrots and come forward.

"Jarvis, Peter Parker. Peter, this is Jarvis, he was my last protege," Tony said, as the two men shook hands. Steve relaxed a fraction. Protege. That sounded distinctly nonsexual. "Maybe when I get tired of you and fire you for real you can join him in exile."

"He thinks he's funny because I didn't open my own white-tablecloth avant-garde monstrosity," Jarvis said.

"He thinks he's funny at all," Tony said. "Oh! Oh my god, Steve! Good, great. Steve c'mere," he said, so eagerly that Steve allowed himself to relax a little more and stood up, though he still eyed Jarvis warily. "Jarvis, look at this, Look at him," Tony continued, shoving Steve forward. "Look. I have a social life."

Jarvis smiled with disarming charm. "You must be Steve," he said, offering his hand. "Tony texts about you with alarming frequency. Also, I ate at 107 once. You made the most amazing potato-leek soup I've ever eaten."

"Uh," Steve said. 107 had been his restaurant, back before what he could now recognize as a tiny minor nervous breakdown that had led to War On Hunger. "Thank you."

"It's such a pleasure."

"Jarvis trained under me and then abandoned me to open a gastropub," Tony said, hovering around them like an excited bee. "In Williamsburg."

"Williamsburg is where people who like gastropubs are," Jarvis said imperturbably.

"Wait, you're not Vision Jarvis, are you?" Steve asked.

"Yes! You've heard of it?"

"Bucky and Sam and I had dinner there like a week ago," Steve said. "The house-made sausage was amazing."

"Wait, why were you having house-made sausage with Bucky and Sam instead of me?" Tony asked.

"Because you were, quote, blowing things up with Bruce, and Bucky and Sam need me as some kind of weird third wheel so they can pretend they aren't dating," Steve replied.

"Why are they pretending they aren't dating?" Tony asked, sidetracked.

"I don't know, I assume they'll figure it out eventually," Steve said. Jarvis was watching them, starry-eyed.

"Sorry," he said, composing himself. "It's just, this is a bit like one's father bringing home a new date and it's your favorite football player."

"You are fired for calling me your dad," Tony told him.

"You can't fire me, I quit fourteen months ago."

"You were fired, fired for wanting to open a gastropub."

"He's an investor, you know," Jarvis told Steve, who looked at Tony. "He owns 25% of Vision."

"And have you ever brought me a house-made sausage?" Tony asked. Jarvis, poker-faced, reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a paper-wrapped package. Tony's eyes got huge.

"Listen, I can't stay, I just came to bribe you with sausage and tell you we're having an industry night on Monday," Jarvis said, as Tony pressed the package to his nose and inhaled. "We're hosting some lectures on gastronomy, very short things, like TEDtalks? I'd love for you to come and speak."

"Monday, Monday -- BRUCE!" Tony called.

"OH MY GOD, JUST GO," Bruce called back.

"He's my favorite," Tony said.

"You're welcome too, of course," Jarvis said to Steve. "I was planning to ask Tony if he'd bring you."

"Love to," Steve said. "Is it open-invite? I could probably drag Potato Rescue and Mjolnir along, maybe the kids from Chaotic Neutral? It's the bakery down the street."

"Oh, do! The more the merrier. Anyway, I must be off. Next time you're someone's awkward third wheel, call ahead, I'll make sure to have something exciting for you."

"You're not allowed to dump me for him," Tony said, as soon as Jarvis was out of earshot.

"You are the most insecure diva I've ever met," Steve replied.

"He does make really great sausage," Bruce said as he elbowed his way past with a platter of something alarmingly pink.

"I'm pretty sure if I want house-made gastropub sausage from Vision I can convince the co-owner to buy me some," Steve said, as Tony hid the sausage away in the fridge. "Go, cook," he added, kissing Tony on the forehead. "I'll come by in a few hours and put a pot of my infamous potato-leek soup on for after the rush."

"LOVE YOU BEST!" Tony's voice drifted out, as Steve strolled out of the kitchen and across the parking lot to War on Hunger.

comments

The Brother And The Mother

2016-06-25T13:33:53Z

Title: The Brother and the Mother
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Clint's brother shows up, and Clint disappears.
Notes: I love how these "the _____ and the _____" titles keep getting more ridiculous. Also, I know Barney's been somewhat rehabilitated as of late, in the Hawkeye comic, but I love him as a villain...

Part of the Silver Age series; also available at AO3.

***

Cover image courtesy of Ruminational on Tumblr; find the original post here.

The first the Young Ultimates knew about it was when Steve swung by Stark Industries on his motorcycle to pick up Clint, only to find Clint notably absent.

They'd talked about the motorcycle at breakfast that morning; Clint loved the bike, and Steve had agreed to pick him up and take him out to an empty lot where they could practice some trick-riding. Clint had been excited, and it wasn't like him to miss an appointment without warning. At least not since the infamous Stark Family Dinner incident, back before Clint had internalized the idea that people would miss him if he didn't show up somewhere.

Steve frowned, parked the bike and headed inside.

"Evening," he said to the security guard manning the lobby desk. "How's tricks, Potts?"

"Just fine, Captain," Potts replied cheerfully. "Yourself?"

"Can't complain. Hey, your little sister starts work this week, doesn't she?"

"Yep, first day's tomorrow. She's going to be Bambi's assistant."

"She ready for Tony?"

"As ready as anyone ever is," Potts replied. "Head on back if you like."

"Might in a minute. Have you seen Clint today?"

"Sure. He was headed out a little while ago, said he was meeting you -- then said he forgot something and ran back in. Haven't seen him since."

Steve frowned. "How long ago?"

"Bout half an hour, I think." Potts shrugged. "Want me to page him?"

"Yeah, could you? He probably just got distracted."

Potts picked up the security phone and dialled; Steve listened, worry increasing, as he held a one-sided conversation.

"Hey Bert, can you get on the speakers and page Barton? His ride's here. No, I saw him go but then he came back -- really? Really." Potts covered the mouthpiece. "He knew you were meeting him?"

"Yeah," Steve replied, concerned.

"Cap says definitely. Well, it's not like him to forget, but...sure. Okay. I'll pass that on, thanks Bert," Potts said and hung up. "East wing security says Barton left twenty minutes ago from another exit. Called for a cab, loaded his stuff in, and took off."

"A cab?" Steve asked.

"That's a little strange. He could've called Jarvis or Hogan, couldn't he?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "Hey, listen, call up Jarvis, tell him Clint took a cab from work and to keep an eye out for him. Is Tony around?"

"Senior and Junior are at a field test, won't be back until tomorrow."

"Okay. Thanks, Potts. If you hear from Clint, you can get hold of me at the mansion or the penthouse."

Potts looked worried too, but he nodded. "You think he's in trouble?"

"He's got a good head on his shoulders, I'm sure he's fine," Steve said.

"But just in case?" Potts asked knowingly.

"Just in case," Steve agreed. He pushed through the front doors of the building and fired up the bike, heading back towards Manhattan and the mansion at top speed.

***

Just to be safe, and to avoid making anyone at SI suspicious, he stopped at a payphone and called Phil, too; there was no answer at Phil's home number, but he'd been working long hours at SHIELD lately and that wasn't a shock.

When he reached the mansion, there was a strange car parked in the driveway, an old beat-up junker that looked out of place on the well-raked gravel drive. Jarvis met him at the door.

"Mr. Stark and Master Anthony are out," Jarvis said, taking Steve's coat and speaking in a low voice. "They're not expected to return until late. I received your message from Officer Potts. I am excessively glad to see you, Captain."

"What's the story with the rustbucket out front?" Steve asked.

"Mrs. Stark is entertaining a guest," Jarvis said. "A Mr. Charles Bernard Barton."

Steve gave him an alarmed look. "Barton? It's not Clint's dad, is it? I thought he was dead."

"Older brother, perhaps, or very young uncle," Jarvis replied. "I believe Mr. Barton is waiting for Master Clint."

"I'll handle this," Steve assured him. "Lead the way."

Charles Bernard Barton was a scruffy, tough-looking kid in dungarees and a muscle shirt that had seen cleaner days. On the cream linen sofa in the music room, he looked very out of place, but then so had Clint at first.

He looked like Clint, enough that it was clear he was family. He was taller and more thickly muscled, built on heavy lines rather than Clint's lithe grace, but he had the same sharp jawline, a nose that would look more similar if it hadn't been broken at some point, and the same dark-rooted blond hair. His eyes, too, looked like Clint's eyes, down to the strange sense of something just slightly different when you looked at them. In Clint, it was almost mystical; in this man, it raised the hairs on the back of Steve's neck.

Maria was sitting in the wing chair nearby, upright and outwardly calm. Steve noticed the butt of a handgun emerging from Barton's waistband, in the hollow of his back, as he leaned forward.

"Steve, dear," Maria said. "Do come in. I'd like you to meet Charles Barton. He's Clint's older brother."

"Call me Barney," the man said, with a sharp, toothy grin as he offered a hand. Steve looked down at it, then up at Barney skeptically.

"I'm guessing you stopped by Stark Industries earlier today," he said, ignoring the offered handshake. Barney settled down on the couch again, hands on knees.

"Thought I'd pick the kid brother up, take him out to dinner, do some catching up," he said. "Clint and I have some business to transact. Didn't see him, though, so I thought I'd come thank his new benefactors."

"Clint's in the field with Tony," Steve said. "But I'll tell him you stopped by."

"I can wait," Barney said. "I was about to have a word with Mrs. Stark here about all she's done for Clint. Turns out the Starks are pretty generous," he said.

Steve's eyes flicked to Maria. "Is that so."

"We were just discussing what it'd cost, hypothetically, to keep me from spilling a few beans about Clint, in fact," Barney continued. "See, the thing is, Captain America, I just finished a stay in hotel federal, if you take my meaning, and I'm a hungry man with no job. Talking to a newsman about the cutest little Young Ultimate's police record and some of his tastes, that'd make me enough to tide me over. But I bet Mrs. Stark is prepared to make me a better offer, out of the goodness of her heart, isn't she?"

"My dear young man," Maria said sternly, "I wouldn't pay your dreadful hush money if you had photographs of my husband kissing Hitler."

Steve cheered inwardly. Barton looked unruffled.

"Hey, it's cash for me either way. Besides, I'm not interested in your husband; a fella like Howard Stark can defend himself. Poor little Clint, now, he was always so...sensitive."

Maria gave Steve a tiny shake of her head. Not yet. Steve relaxed his hands, which had started to curl into fists. She opened her mouth to speak, but they were all interrupted by Jarvis, who entered with a phone on a tray.

"Mr. Coulson for you, Captain," he said. Steve lifted the phone off the tray, holding the receiver to his ear.

"It's Steve," he said.

"Steve, I just got home," Phil said. "Clint's been here. He left me a note that sounds a lot like a goodbye letter. What's going on?"

"Minor situation," Steve said. "I'm handling it."

"Minor situation?"

"No cause for concern. I'll see you later at the penthouse," Steve said.

"Are you being held hostage right now?" Phil asked.

"No. Thanks, Phil," Steve said, and hung up.

"Where were we?" Barney asked. "Right. You were going to write me a nice check, Mrs. Stark. Or Captain America here was going to throw me out, and I was going to go to the newspapers."

"Oh, no," Maria said. "Is that what you think was going to happen here?"

"You think you got a third option?" Barney sneered.

Steve rested a hand on Barney's shoulder, leaning over him from behind the couch. He didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt; he really just wanted some leverage in case Barney tried to go for the gun.

"Son, I don't think you realize she's not the one who needs options," he murmured.

Maria stood, now that Barney was ever so gently pinned, and went to the wet bar, pouring out a club soda.

"You see, everything a Stark does is newsworthy," she said, turning around and sipping daintily. "The good and the bad."

"Clint's not a Stark. He's a Barton," Barney said. There was an anger in his voice that Steve couldn't decipher, but clearly Maria had found his pressure point with uncanny ease.

"My husband and son are both Starks. Tony was...let's say troubled, for some portion of his youth, and in the end it seemed easier to simply strike a deal with the newsmen," she said. "Dreadful people mostly, smelling of cheap sandwiches and with unstarched collars. But very easily persuaded. Why, even J. Jonah Jameson won't run a story about a Stark after the last time we had him to dinner."

Steve tightened his fingers just a little.

"So you can, of course, go to the news, or to the local radio station, to the police, but they won't hear you; I suppose you could get on a soap box and shout it in a crowded park," Maria said, coming to stand in front of him, forcing him to look up. "But it still won't do you any good, because we, my dear boy, have all the leverage. Now, I love Clint dearly, so out of an abundance of good will I am willing to give you adequate funds to leave New York and set up housekeeping elsewhere. And I will restrain Steve here from his favorite thing in the world, which is punching-in the faces of small-minded, wicked little men who like to prey on others. Steve also has very complex feelings about betraying one's brother."

Barney, finally beginning to understand that he was outmatched, looked up at Steve. Steve looked back calmly.

"So your options are to take the money and go, ignore the money and attempt to disgrace and discredit my stalwart, good-minded second child, or you can try to reach that pop-gun in your waistband and Steve can put his hand down the back of your trousers and, quite literally, destroy your pathetic ass."

Barney gaped at her. Very early after waking up, Steve had found out about Howard's marriage and wondered what kind of woman could keep him in hand without despairing. Meeting her pretty much explained it, but it was still awfully fun seeing Maria in top form.

Barney went for the gun, which was even more fun.

Steve moved lightning-fast and beat him to the trigger; he didn't actually pull it, but he felt Barney stiffen as he gripped it.

"Oh, dear. Down to two options," Maria said thoughtfully. "Steve?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Isn't Clint very good friends with that nice young fellow from the government?"

Steve took the gun out of Barney's waistband and tucked it in his own. "Yeah. The one with special assassin training and the entire federal intelligence system at his fingertips?"

"Well, there's another option," Maria said. She reached out and tipped Barney's chin firmly in her direction. "You could try to push Clint around personally. I suspect you've done some of that in the past. And that option leads to you being slowly taken to pieces by a former elite soldier with a protective streak wider than Steve's shoulders and absolutely no moral compunction about murder. Steve, if you would."

Steve took his cue and raised his hand to the back of Barney's head, gripping his hair and using it to pull him upright. He rotated him, eased him in, and whispered in his ear, "Choose wisely."

Jarvis met them at the door with a baseball bat in one hand and an envelope of cash in the other.

"Five hundred dollars," he said, holding up the envelope. "Please, do feel free to decline," he added, swinging the bat idly.

Barney, still held by the hair in Steve's iron grip, took the cash. Steve propelled him out the door and into his car, holding the gun on him through the open driver's-side window.

"You don't scare me," Barney snarled as he started the car.

"I don't have to," Steve said, and pulled back the hammer. "I just have to hit one of your balls with this, and I'm pretty sure I can manage that from here."

The car peeled out like the devil was chasing it. Steve watched until it was through the gate at the end of the drive, then gently uncocked the gun and put the safety on. He turned to Maria, standing in the front doorway.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Clint rabbited," Steve replied. "We need to find him before he does something dumb. He already left a Dear John for Phil."

"Well, I'm sure between a couple of soldiers, a pair of geniuses, and myself, we can manage," she said. "Inside, quickly. I'll see about getting in touch with Howard and Tony. You call Phil and explain the situation. I'd like to have Clint home in time for a late dinner; you know how it irritates Howard when anyone's late to that kind of thing."

***

They caught up to Clint at the port authority bus terminal, where he was apparently trying to run for California.

"Oh, Clinton Francis, no," Maria said, and Clint startled and turned, dropping his duffle bag but managing to hold onto his bow case. "You don't have any clothing at all suitable for Los Angeles society. I mean they are all heathens and monsters to begin with but they're fashion-forward, and you haven't been to California in two years."

"How...?" Clint asked, and then he noticed Phil. "Oh, shit."

"Language," Maria said pointedly.

"You can't be here," Clint said. "Barney's gonna screw it all up, that's what he does, I gotta get out of town -- "

"It's handled," Steve said. Clint turned white.

"Handled?" he asked in a strangled voice. "Are...are you here to kill me?"

Steve blinked. "What?"

"My brother showed up at SI, he only has one thing on his mind ever, then you come here, so he must have talked to you, which means either you paid him off or I'm a liability..."

"How exactly do you think I planned to kill you in the middle of the port authority?" Steve asked.

"Not you. Phil," Clint said.

"Well, that makes sense," Phil said, sighing.

"I know all about how the government treats intelligence risks," Clint said.

"Boys," Maria said, gesturing for them to go away. "Let me speak to Clint, please."

Steve stepped back, and Phil did too (somewhat more reluctantly, at least as far as Steve could tell). Maria put her arm carefully over Clint's shoulders and led him off to one side, presumably for some quiet. Steve listened hard, super-soldier hearing picking up nearly every word.

"I'm sorry," Clint blurted. "I'm sorry, my brother's such a creep, I can't believe he's even out of prison."

"We can't choose our blood," Maria replied soothingly.

"How much did he ask for?"

"That's not material. I gave him enough to leave New York and sent him on his way."

"He won't leave," Clint insisted.

"Perhaps, but he won't get much traction staying, either," Maria said, as she guided him into a seat in a dim corner. "Darling, I know your childhood was terrible and you were practically raised by wolves -- wolves might have been an improvement -- so I want you to understand that I'm not scolding you. I understand why you tried to leave, to save us."

"I just didn't want to see his stupid smug face again -- "

"I know," Maria soothed. "But your life is different now."

Clint made a frustrated, anxious noise.

"Part of being a family means we rescue each other," Maria continued. "It isn't simply your duty to protect us or your friends or Phil -- "

Clint's head shot up.

"A discussion for some other time," Maria told him. "It is also your duty -- listen to me, Clinton Francis, your duty -- to accept help in your time of need. In part because a small fracture can be patched, but the bigger the break, the worse it is for everyone else. But mainly because this is how these things work."

"Oh," Clint said. "It's a how-things-work talk."

Steve smiled. There had been a lot of those with Clint, in the early days, when he was learning about family and adulthood (and fashion).

"Yes," Maria agreed. "You should have called Steve before running. You certainly should have warned me that your brother might drop in for tea."

"I'm sorry, I panicked, I fucked it all up -- "

"Shh, it's all right. Nothing was irreversibly damaged. But you should have asked for help, Clint. We would have been happy to help you."

"I just...I knew you wouldn't care about what Barney had to say but everyone else would, they'd come down on you for what I've done, what Barney knows about me -- "

"And Phil could lose his job," Maria said. Clint put his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Maria -- "

"Oh, Clint. Just because I didn't talk about it doesn't mean I didn't know," she said. "You're a Stark now, dear. Not talking about things is how we talk about them. But Starks always back each other. Sometimes while shouting at each other," she added, and Clint let out a coughing laugh. "But we never abandon each other just because of a headline. Which won't be a concern regardless," she added, dusting off her skirt and standing. "Now, come along, Phil's going to want an explanation for that letter you left him."

"Hey," Steve said to Phil, before they got back within earshot. "Be nice to him when he says he's sorry."

"Oh, don't worry," Phil replied with a smile. "The letter was hilariously tragic. Romantic-Poet level sad. I'll be nice, and then I'll never stop teasing him about it."

Which was when Tony descended in the Iron Man armor.

In theory, Steve knew that it was the most efficient way to get from the test range to their location; in practice, the arrival of Iron Man tended to herald trouble, and everyone in the immediate vicinity scattered.

"All right," Tony said as he landed, pulling his helmet off and tucking it under one arm, smoothing out his hair. "Whose ass exactly do I need to kick? Your message got a little garbled from the phone to the range, Mom. I sent Bucky to the mansion just in case. Hey, Phil, how you doing, you good?"

Phil gave Tony a nod, so he pivoted.

"Clint Barton, I have told you and told you that Iowa is not the answer to your problems," he said, handing off his helmet to Phil absently and coming up to rest his gauntleted hands on Clint's shoulders.

"He was going to California," Maria said.

"Good god, you don't have the wardrobe for California," Tony said. Maria gestured at Tony, see?

Clint looked like he might be having a moment, and Steve inwardly cheered when Tony pulled him in by his shoulders and gave him a stiffly armored hug.

"What's this I hear about a brother?" Tony asked. "Because I'll fight him, the only guy who gets to push you around is me."

"Thanks," Steve heard Clint say. "I think Mom took care of it."

"Well, good," Tony replied, letting him go and turning towards Phil. "I'm still gonna need a weekly update on this guy's location just in case," he said. "Official SHIELD business. He sounds like a threat to national security to me, if he's trying to blackmail Stark Industries."

"Already working on it," Phil replied calmly.

"Good, well, let's go home, then," Maria said, leading the way towards the car, where Hogan was waiting. "Steve, if you would ride point, please? Anthony -- "

"Air escort," Tony nodded, taking his helmet back from Phil, who fell in, following Maria and Clint towards the car. "See you at the mansion. Dad'll be home in time for late dinner."

Maria caught Steve's glance and rolled her eyes, lips drawing up in a small, dry smile. "Just so. In the meantime, Clint and I will have to speak a little more about depending on family for assistance. Also, we'll plan a nice shopping trip. If you want to see California, dear, we'll introduce you properly."

Steve watched until Clint was in the car, leaning up against Phil, and then fired up the bike and turned towards the mansion.

comments

The Ranger And The Stray

2016-06-25T13:04:53Z

Title: The Ranger And The Stray
Summary: Clint Barton was always the kid brother in the background, until one day he definitely was not.
Rating: Teen and Up
Notes: In a previous story in the series, The Music Room And The Penthouse, I mentioned that Clint’s role in the inner circle of Tony’s friends is akin to “mascot”. It inspired me to write about Clint, the youngest member of the hottest society set in Manhattan and thus the entire city’s baby brother, clinging desperately to Tony and Bucky as his Gay Role Models. And the moment Tony offhandedly introduces him to Phil Coulson...
Warnings: Mention of kidnapping and recuperation.

Part of the Silver Age series; also available at AO3.

***

Cover image courtesy of Ruminational on Tumblr; find the original post here.

"Phil! Hey, Phil!" Tony called, and blew a sharp whistle through his teeth across the noisy restaurant.

"Whistle me like a cab again and I'll make it impossible for you to whistle at all," Phil Coulson announced, as he reached their table. Steve kicked out a chair, grinning, and Phil settled into it.

"My dad's your boss, you wouldn't dare," Tony replied.

"Your dad's a figurehead at best, and all your friends work for me," Phil said, gesturing at Steve and Natasha. "Oh look, there's another one," he added, as Sam arrived. "To what do I owe the honor of this dinner?"

"We're celebrating everyone's graduation to full agent," Steve said. "Seemed like you should be invited, if you're going to be our handler."

"And how did you hear that? I only got the news myself two hours ago," Phil replied.

"Blue-flamer," Tony said. "You're going places in this outfit, Phil. People talk."

"Mmh. Well, you four had better not be talking too loudly. The strike team is still top secret," Phil said sternly.

"Lips zipped, promise," Sam said. "But we thought we could at least celebrate getting out of training."

"I won't say no, especially since it's going on Stark's tab," Phil said, ruffling Tony's hair across the table. "Who all is coming?"

"Rhodey can't, and Carol's got midterms," Tony said, ducking away from him. "Jan's on her way, Bucky picked her up."

"Jan is here!" Jan announced, sliding into a chair across from Natasha. "AND I brought Clint! Well, Bucky brought Clint, but you know."

Clint, who had adjusted with almost chameleon-like ease to high society but could still be a little wary around strangers, hung back awkwardly, glancing between the seat next to Tony (clearly reserved for Bucky) and the empty chair next to Phil.

"Oh, hey, you haven't met Mom's latest project, have you?" Tony asked Phil, who turned to regard Clint with a smile. "Clint Barton, Phil Coulson. Phil's a SHIELD agent, his dad and mine go back. Clint's a sharpshooter, he's helping SI with advanced testing."

"Nice to meet you," Phil said, offering his hand. Clint shook it, eyes big in his face, and let himself be guided gently into the chair by Jan. "Are you sure you're old enough to be out on a school night?" he added, but his tone was kind, and Clint just gave him a sidelong grin and stole a sip of Tony's beer as Bucky arrived.

"Heard about your promotion, congrats," Bucky said, sitting down and gently but firmly lifting the beer out of Clint's hand. He took a sip himself before passing it back to Tony.

"You people have heard of germs, right?" Tony asked, making a show of wiping the rim of the glass with his sleeve.

"Isn't that a kind of breakfast cereal?" Phil asked. Clint made a noise like a suppressed laugh. Tony gave him a quizzical look, but he got distracted as Jan waved a waiter down to see about a drink and some appetizers.

Tony noticed, in an offhanded way, that Clint was quiet throughout the meal. It wasn't that unusual; the kid had a mouth on him, but he also had excellent self-control, probably more than Tony'd had at his age. Maybe he was chewing over some new problem at SI. He had a head for math and physics, and very little formal training, but Dad said an on-the-job education was as good as any. Sometimes Clint left work smelling like gunpowder and oil; sometimes he left with a couple of notebooks and a huge physics text under one arm.

As surrogate little brothers went, Clint made a pretty good Stark.

It wasn't until dinner was over that the truth became evident. Sam and Natasha said they'd walk home, which meant they were probably going out for another drink somewhere; everyone else crammed into the car, Bucky at the wheel and Jan in the front seat, leaving Tony, Steve, and Clint to crowd up in the back. As soon as they were moving, Clint slouched down in the seat, covered his face with his hands, and let out a heartfelt groan.

"Something wrong, Clint?" Steve asked. "I told you not to get the shrimp pasta."

"My life is over," Clint announced.

"That was fast," Jan said, twisting around in her seat. "Your life barely started."

"I was such a dumbass at dinner," Clint said, then whacked Tony on the arm. "Why'd you let me be such a dumbass?"

"Hey, mister, there's a lady present," Steve said sternly.

“Really? Where?” Jan asked.

"You literally said nothing," Tony added, bewildered. "You said hello, you said you wanted the shrimp pasta, and you drank my beer."

"EXACTLY!" Clint threw up his hands. "I froze up! I couldn't say anything!"

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why did you freeze up?"

"Because he's perfect and it's awful," Clint said.

Tony glanced up at the rearview mirror. Bucky caught his eye in the mirror and winked. Before Tony could interpret that, Bucky said, "Phil Coulson's a nice guy. I wouldn't call him perfect."

"Ohh," Jan said. "Clint has a crush!"

"It's not a crush," Clint said sullenly. "It's LOVE. At FIRST SIGHT. And I couldn't say anything and he's like...he's the Company Man, and I hate the Company Man! And he's old!"

"...he's twenty-five," Tony said.

"SO OLD!"

"I'M twenty-five," Steve reminded him.

"Not the best example," Tony murmured.

"You know what I mean," Steve said.

"This was a disaster. I'm moving back to Iowa," Clint said.

"You're not moving back to Iowa, it's full of corn and regret," Tony said. "Look, I like Phil, but his laserlike focus doesn't extend to social situations outside of work. I doubt he noticed."

"That's not better," Clint said sullenly. "And I have to complain about it now because if I complain about liking a boy to Maria it'll be weird."

"She'd probably be okay with it, but yeah, it'd be weird," Tony agreed, petting Clint's hair. "Look, it's fine. You probably won't see Phil much, and if you do, you'll get to know him and see that he's very definitely not perfect."

"Boys are awful. How'd you even end up with Bucky?" Clint asked Tony.

"Oh, are we having frank discussions about this now?" Bucky asked sardonically.

"My father literally chained him to a table," Tony said solemnly.

"That won't work well with Phil," Steve put in.

"You're all cruel," Clint complained.

"Tell you what," Tony said, "We'll drop Jan off and you can stay over at the penthouse tonight. We'll open the scotch and drink to the end of innocence or something, and Bucky will give you boy advice."

Bucky shot Tony a murderous glare in the rearview at the same time as Clint turned huge pleading eyes on him. Tony winked back.

***

Clint's crush, like most adolescent fantasies, was deep but fleeting; Tony was right, and he rarely saw Phil, even though several of the others worked with him regularly. When he did, he was quiet, but Phil paid very little mind anyway, and usually they didn't have anything much to talk about. As far as Tony could tell, the attraction clung, but Clint was also the baby of a social set that moved in the most exclusive circles. He had his pick of beautiful people, if he wanted them, and between seventeen and twenty-two he didn't lack for companionship. Steve had somehow appointed himself guardian of Clint's delicate feelings, and vetted any boy Clint seemed interested in (which Clint did not always appreciate) but other than that it was mostly smooth sailing.

It wasn't until Tony was kidnapped -- until after he was found, actually -- that Clint crossed Phil Coulson's path again in any meaningful way.

The second Tony and Bucky went missing, the strike team went into action: SHIELD mobilized Steve, Sam, Carol, and Natasha to go on the search. Howard called in Rhodey and his Air Force connections, too, but SHIELD and the Air Force were both at a loss as to how to even start looking for them. Tony and Bucky had simply vanished from Manhattan late one night. There had been a ransom demand, and Howard had paid promptly, but the money was never retrieved and no further word had come in.

Clint, now twenty-two, with a GED under his belt and a practical doctorate in physics learned at the knee of Howard and Anthony Stark, not to mention a social education that had included Maria Stark's gentle mentorship, quietly and unobtrusively slipped into the shadows to conduct his own investigation. He passed along what he found to Steve, but it was Clint who found the radical domestic terrorism group that had taken Tony and Bucky, and it was Clint who was already on his way to the midwestern compound the terrorists had settled into when Tony and Bucky blasted their way out -- Tony in a flying suit of armor, repulsors blazing, and Bucky clinging to his steel-plated neck.

And it was Clint, a rangy, whip-muscled man in a skintight stealth suit, who came into the hospital where they'd brought Tony and Bucky and ran straight into Phil Coulson.

Phil was on the phone at a nurse’s station, Steve and Rhodey hovering around him, all three of them trying to explain things to Howard at once, when Clint arrived. He saw the chaos, strode straight through it, took the phone from Phil, and gave Steve a firm shove in the gut, which backed him up into Rhodey.

"Howard, it's Clint," he said. "Sorry for the confusion."

"What in the hell is going on? I'm on the way to the jet now. Where's Tony?" Howard demanded. "His mother's about to pass out from all of this."

"Tony's being seen by the docs, he's fine," Clint said. "Buck's in with him, not a scratch on him that I saw."

"Then what are those chuckleheads yelling about?" Howard asked.

"Couldn't say, sir," Clint said, letting himself sound amused. Tony and Bucky were safe, and that was what mattered. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. "All this excitement's got everyone on edge."

"Well, at least someone's keeping their head," Howard said. "Tell Tony we're coming. Got to hang up now, Clint. I want you to take charge of this until I get there. Get Phil to help you out, tell him I said so. He'll wrangle the others."

Clint was skeptical about this, but he snapped off an affirmative and hung up the phone.

"Howard's on his way, I guess Maria's with him," he said. "He says I'm in charge until he arrives. Steve, for the love of God, sit down and stop looking like a wounded moose. Take Rhodey with you. Where the hell is everyone else?"

"Natasha talked her way in, said she was Bucky's girlfriend," Coulson said. "Carol's securing the hospital."

He was staring at Clint in a way that made Clint feel uncomfortably...visible.

"Well, that's more useful than trying to yell your way onto a phone call," he said, casting a glance at Steve and Rhodey, who had retreated as far as the waiting room but had yet to sit down. "Howard will want a report when he lands and I'd like to know more than I do, too. Is the site secure?"

Coulson nodded. "SHIELD's locking it down -- Sam's supervising. Everyone's in custody. Whatever Tony did, it was...highly effective."

"And that contraption he flew out in?"

"In the trunk of my car," Phil said with a slight smile.

"Who knows it's there?"

"You and me."

Clint nodded, rubbing his forehead. "Odds of me getting in to see Tony or Buck?"

Phil shrugged. "Fifty fifty. They say family only, but you are..."

"Infamously a surrogate Stark." Clint nodded. "Five years at SI and I'm still Maria's pet project. Well, might as well leverage what I can. Wish me luck and, I don't know, slip Steve a Benzo, huh?"

"If I had any I'd be keeping them for myself," Phil told him.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Clint agreed, and trotted off to find a nurse. He really honestly didn't think any more about it. His crush on Phil was a relic of his teenage years, and he was focused on the mission, on keeping Tony and Bucky safe now that they were out, on securing the armor he'd seen and on getting a full report for Howard and Maria when they arrived.

***

Once they'd determined that Tony and Bucky were fine, that Tony was just a little dehydrated and Bucky needed tune-up work on the arm, Howard mandated a round-the-clock guard and then went to, presumably, bring the full weight of SHIELD to bear on the radicals that had taken his son and heir. Maria had stayed long enough to watch Tony eat a meal and fall asleep, but the weeks of waiting to hear that her son had died had taken their toll, and soon enough Rhodey and Carol agreed to take her to the nearby hotel that Howard had commandeered so she could rest. Sam was running the local SHIELD agents, Natasha was still patrolling the hospital like if she didn't it might explode, and Steve was having a tiny little breakdown, which he was pretty much owed -- but that left Phil to take the first shift guarding Tony and Bucky, while Clint slept.

Tony had drifted off after eating, but he woke a few hours later and demanded Phil entertain him. Bucky had woken briefly, looked bored at the idea of playing cards, and gone back to sleep in the bed next to Tony's.

"I think it was harder on him than on me," Tony said, shuffling the deck. "He kept trying to...protect me. It, it wasn't great."

"I'm sure you both did your best," Phil replied.

"Yeah, well." Tony's fingers rose to tap the housing of the light in his chest, the one he still hadn't fully explained to anyone but Howard.

"If you want to talk about it..."

"No," Tony said. "No offense."

"None taken. Offer stands." Phil picked up his cards. "Lousy hand, by the way."

"I cheat," Tony agreed. "So what's new? While I've been gone."

"Not much. I can give you a news rundown if you really want, but..."

"God, no thank you. Not having to watch the SI stock ticker was one of the best parts of captivity," Tony said. "Come on. Nobody broke up, nobody got together?"

"Well, our lives were somewhat put on hold by the disappearance of two close friends," Phil said neutrally.

"Bullcrap. Life goes on. That's not humility, just fact." Tony peered at him. "You're hiding something, I can see it in your perfectly composed poker face."

"No you can't," Phil replied, keeping his tone level.

"Yes I can. Come on. I've been alone with Bucky and a bunch of very, very unstable people for two months, Phil. Gimme something," Tony coaxed.

Phil laid his cards on the blanket, face-down. Tony's eyes widened in anticipation.

"When did little Clint Barton turn into that?" he asked, and Tony cackled with glee.

"I know, right?" Tony laughed. "One day he's running around in my hand-me-downs, the next thing I know he's acrobating his way around Stark Industries combat firing ranges in skintight leather."

"I just remember him as some little kid always tagging along with your crowd. And in he comes today, like the bad boy incarnation of Steve Rogers -- "

Tony howled with laughter, clearly trying to keep quiet for Bucky's sake, but Bucky just snorted and pulled a pillow over his head.

"I honestly had no idea how to react. The man had a quiver full of arrows on his back and a recurve bow under one arm, Tony," Phil finished.

"Well, he loves his archery. Dad indulges him. I think he’s grooming him for something in SI, I don't know what," Tony said.

"Terrorizing your rivals?" Phil suggested.

"Howard moves in mysterious ways. Mom wants to marry him off to a debutante, but that's a lost cause," Tony said, and Phil almost didn't catch the casual way in which he slipped it in.

"So little Clint grew up while nobody was looking," Phil said.

"Clint does a lot when nobody's looking," Tony sighed. "I saw him running in as we were flying out."

"He'd do well at SHIELD."

"No offense, Phil, but SHIELD's a step down from the private sector, at least for Clint. On the other hand," Tony said, apparently seeing the chagrin in Phil's face, "I think you, personally, should do your utmost to recruit him."

Phil raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you do, huh?"

"Absolutely. And even if he isn't interested in SHIELD, it never hurts to be friends with one of the heirs to Stark Industries," Tony pointed out, which was very true.

"Well, I'll offer to buy him breakfast when his shift is over. Steve should be calm enough to stand guard over you two while we get a bite," Phil said.

"There you go. A solid plan. Now, pick up your cards and make a bid, it's your job to keep the invalid entertained," Tony decreed.

***

"My life is an unmitigated disaster," Phil said, two days later, on a secure line with Nick. Technically he shouldn't be using a secure line to consult his best friend on his love life, but he also had a report to transmit, and SHIELD wouldn't look too closely at two extra minutes of gossip on the end of a thirty-minute long-distance call.

"Three days ago you were one of SHIELD's top analysts," Nick said. "What the goddamn did you do between then and now? Did you punch Howard Stark in the face?"

"No! It's my personal life. My professional life is fine," Phil said.

"You don't have a personal life."

"I have a personal life!"

"You are infamous for not having a personal life."

"Well, it's not like I can bring my nonexistent girlfriend to the company picnic," Phil said. "I prefer workaholic to known homosexual in our line of work, thanks!"

"SHIELD doesn't have a problem with homosexuals," Nick said. "Director Carter's got a very helpful live-in female roommate, and Howard Stark's practically anointed Barnes his son-in-law."

"Look, the point is, I am a mess, he's twenty-two and he looks better in leather than anyone has any right to, I'm going to hell."

"Twenty-two is a decent age. You and I were hot shit at twenty-two. Who is this punk anyway, is it some SHIELD trainee?"

"You have to swear you won't laugh," Phil warned.

"I won't swear that, man, do you know who you're talking to?"

"Did you ever meet the kid the Starks picked up? Barton?"

The phone line crackled with Nick Fury's laughter.

"Little Clint Barton? Damn, he's on the society page, Phil. Got the cutest little bowtie you ever saw on a kid too young to shave."

"He's old enough to shave now," Phil said darkly. The scruff he'd been wearing when he walked into the hospital had not gone unremarked.

"You don't aim low. You gonna do anything about it?" Nick asked.

"Well, I bought him breakfast day before yesterday, and we had dinner on Howard Stark's dime last night, but we're both playing bodyguard on Tony, so I don't know if he thinks this is a work thing or a dating thing or what. Tony's been encouraging but Tony makes mischief the way other people breathe."

"Stark’s a good kid though, he wouldn't jerk you around about this," Nick said, which was true. Tony might be a troublemaker, but he knew first-hand how hard it could be. Phil knew Tony walked a fine line, as the heir to Stark Industries and someone who was expected, at some point, to continue the family line.

"Yeah," Phil agreed. "Maybe not, but dropping hints never gets any easier."

"Pretty sure you can take him in a fight."

"Before this week I might have agreed. Look, I need to get off the line," Phil said. "I'm riding back to New York with the Stark entourage, so I'll see you in a few days."

"I'll keep the home fires burning."

"Please don't set anything on fire, Nick."

"No promises. Bye, Phil."

Phil hung up the phone, tucking away the documents they'd spent most of the call reviewing, and stepped out into the hallway to come face to face with Clint Barton. They nearly collided, and only Phil's free hand catching Barton by the shoulder prevented it.

"Ah!" Barton managed, straightening and flailing, which knocked the file out of Phil's other hand. "Oh, Jesus! Sorry!"

"Nothing broken," Phil said, avoiding a second collision by allowing Barton to crouch and gather up the paperwork, which was handed back to him breathlessly. "In a hurry?"

"Not especially, just a million miles away," Barton said ruefully. "Sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Phil said, shuffling the papers into order in the folder, then tucking it under one arm. There was a beat of incredible awkwardness.

"I, ah, the Starks want me to take them home tomorrow," Barton said. "I guess the team's cramming in too. Are you coming with the team?"

"So I've been told. I thought we were flying, though."

"Oh, we are. I got my pilot's license about a year ago, Howard's got this hot private jet, kind of on the small side, handles like a dream though...and this is boring," Barton said. "Sorry, Howard said I either had to learn to fly the jet or go to college, jets turned out to be a lot more fun."

"Probably faster, too," Phil agreed. "I should start packing. I thought we might be here a few more days."

"Tony hates the hospital," Clint said, shuffling along at his elbow as he started to walk. "I can take you to the hotel if you want, I gotta get the car back to load up for the trip to the airport."

"That'd be great, thanks," Phil said. "Guess that's your evening, huh?"

"Well, I guess. I'm not really needed once I throw my own bag in. I was thinking I'd go see a movie, actually, there's a cinema down the street from the hotel. I w...was wondering if you'd like to go? You said you wanted to see that new science fiction flick."

"Yeah, actually, that'd be nice," Phil said with a smile. "Let me check and see if I'm on duty -- "

"You aren't," Barton blurted, then looked embarrassed. "I checked the duty roster, it's why I was going to ask."

"That was thoughtful, thank you," Phil said.

"There's a six o'clock, which would leave you time to pack after, so I could drop the car off and we could go," Barton said in a rush.

Phil paused, took stock of what was really going on here, and gave Clint a bright smile.

"Sounds perfect," he said. "I'll buy the popcorn."

***

Clint Barton honestly wasn't sure what was going on, but the last five years of his life had involved a lot of that, so he'd also gotten very good at bluffing his way through.

He knew, objectively, that Phil wasn't a particular specimen of beauty; he was attractive, but in a sort of forgettable way. For some reason, the very first time they'd met, Clint had fixated on him, fascinated with the air of mystery that came from working for SHIELD and the deft way Phil just seemed to handle everything. Clint had known he liked boys, it wasn’t a surprise, but he met Phil and some unknown engine in his head had just turned over and started growling.

He never tried to get Phil's attention, though, half because he wasn't sure what the man would do if another man made a pass, half because he knew he was too young to be of any interest to someone so grown-up and professional. He stayed in the background when Phil was around, and was just happy if he was noticed, if he got a smile and a "Hi, kid!" as an acknowledgement.

And besides, there were other boys, less intimidating playmates for Clint to practice on. He wasn't really sure what he was practicing for, but maybe someday something like Tony and Bucky had, or Sam and Natasha. Something real and substantial. And Natasha said it never hurt to understand seduction anyway.

But he'd broken his policy of not being noticed when he'd taken charge of the situation a few days ago, and since then his plan to fade quietly back into the scenery had been thwarted by Howard, who had leaned on him to run the show and then appointed him chief cat-herder, making sure everyone got where they were supposed to be. He'd had to work with Phil to coordinate schedules, and then he'd been put in charge of scheduling, and also Phil was...

Phil was being really nice. He'd always been nice, but he'd never been friendly like now, seeking Clint out. They had half their meals together, talking like real adults about real adult issues, and also things like Captain America comics and science fiction books. Clint hadn't had a lot of comics growing up, but there'd always been tattered dime-store pulp novels floating around the circus or the rooming-houses he'd lived in as a teenager.

Phil had said he wanted to see some new movie called Star Wars, and Clint had impulsively arranged the schedule so that they'd have the time free before they had to go back to New York. Phil would probably be really busy once he was home, and Clint would undoubtedly have to handle some of Tony's duties at SI for a while. And if he didn't take the chance now....

He might have strutted, just a little, as they walked into the movie house.

Phil had let him pay for the tickets without protest, and he'd also bought one giant bucket of popcorn instead of one for each of them. Clint harbored a suspicion that most of Phil's first dates were probably a lot more sophisticated than this, but being fair, Clint's first dates had formerly involved being propositioned behind the carnival, and these days usually meant being chaperoned to a nightclub by Tony or some of the other Young Ults. This felt strangely innocent, the way few things in his life had.

And then the movie started, and most of Clint's anxieties and hopes and feelings went straight out the window with the roar of spaceship engines.

Two hours later they stumbled out into the evening together, Phil casually cleaning popcorn butter off his fingers with a handkerchief, and Clint blurted "We gotta take Tony to see that!"

Phil gave him a grin. "I was just thinking that."

"That was great. Did you love it? I loved it," Clint continued, turning to walk backwards, facing Phil so they could keep talking. "When the guy in the helmet showed up? And the robots, and the bit in the trash compactor, and -- oh my God, the big race battle thing at the end!"

Phil laughed. "Yeah, it was a thrill. Good movie. Wonder if he'll make another, seems like it's sequel-bait. Here, calm down -- shouldn't have bought you a Coke, you're all hopped up on sugar now -- "

He stood still and caught Clint's wrist, stopping him too, and Clint looked down in surprise at the strong fingers and the broad palm wrapped around his arm. Phil gave him a steady look and then bowed his head to clean the popcorn grease off Clint's hand as well.

"There, now you're presentable," Phil said, cupping the back of Clint's hand briefly, then letting go. Clint froze, looking down at his still-outstretched hand.

"Was...that weird?" Phil asked, after a moment. "I'm, um, strange sometimes."

Clint looked up at him. "Me too. Strange. I mean pretty much all the time, I'm...strange."

Phil's eyebrows rose slightly. "Like Tony is strange?"

"Like Tony and Bucky are strange. Together. Like that," Clint said hesitantly. His voice sounded very small in his own ears. "Was that uh, was that what you meant by strange?"

"Well, it wasn't originally, but yes, I understand your metaphor," Phil said. He took Clint's hand again and used his own to curl Clint's fingers into his palm, easing it down to his side. "They'll be wondering where we are, and I should start to pack. You need a full night's sleep if you're piloting tomorrow."

"Yeah, definitely," Clint agreed, hop-trotting along next to him so he could keep looking at him, because Phil seemed so calm, like this was all just...a foregone conclusion, when Clint knew nothing about what it meant. "So -- so does that mean this was a date? In your opinion."

Phil shot him a sidelong smile. "When we get back to New York, I'd like to buy you dinner. In a strictly non-work capacity. Would you like to?"

"Yes!" Clint agreed immediately. "Uh, yes, I mean. Was that too eager?"

"Gratifyingly so," Phil said. "Good. We'll set a time tomorrow."

"Good," Clint said, and then, because he couldn't help himself, "What was your favorite part? Definitely the jailbreak, that was mine."

"I think I liked the robots the best. Just in general."

"The little wheely one that squeaked!" Clint agreed, and found himself making easy small talk about the movie for the rest of the walk home. He didn't stop until he realized they were standing in front of his hotel-room door.

"I really liked it," he said, trying to sum up all the crazy emotions in his chest. "And I really liked going with you."

He saw Phil's eyes dart sideways, one way and then the other -- checking sightlines, he realized -- and then Phil tucked his fingers up under Clint's chin and kissed him.

Clint hadn't ever believed you saw fireworks when someone kissed you, but this came damn close.

"Goodnight, Clint," Phil said, and Clint absently unlocked the door without looking and backed inside. "Get some rest. Please don't crash the plane tomorrow."

"Have...a good...packing," Clint managed, and then covered his eyes with one hand. Phil laughed.

"I will. See you in the morning."

Clint shut the door as gently as he could, then turned and staggered to bed, collapsing across it.

Star Wars and Phil Coulson in one day was a lot to handle.

***

The door had just barely closed behind Clint when someone cleared their throat, and Phil jumped about six feet.

"Sorry," Steve Rogers said, and of course it was Steve. Technically Phil was Steve's boss, but Steve was Captain America, and Phil still held a tiny little place in his heart in idol worship of the man.

Steve was leaning in the doorway of his room, a few doors down. Phil strolled down the hall as casually as he could and crossed his arms. "Spying, Rogers? I'm impressed."

"Hey, I was just going to go get an evening paper, you're the one showing off in the hall," Steve said with a grin. "Finally noticed him, huh?"

"I've always noticed Clint."

"Not like you did just now."

"Well, he's good at blending in," Phil admitted. "I might have overlooked his potential."

"I think this is a matter of form, but I did swear to Maria when he moved out of the mansion and in with us that I'd look after him," Steve said. "So it's my duty to warn you that if you're toying with him I will have to kill you."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, I know," Steve said. "It's just, with getting Tony back and all, everyone's emotions are..." he held a palm just above his head. "Easy to get swept up."

"Do you think it's inappropriate?"

"Not at all. Tony's back and safe, it feels like life can move forward again," Steve said, and the weariness of the last two months was evident even when he smiled.

"He encouraged it. My...attention towards Clint."

"I'm sure he did. He thinks the world of you, and he wants the very best for Clint."

"High standards," Phil said, a little worried now.

"Well, you like challenges," Steve replied.

"I don't like challenges, I am just constantly faced with them," Phil said, and Steve laughed.

"Good. You've had excellent practice. Seeya later, Phil, I'm gonna go get that paper now," Steve said, and walked off down the hallway, whistling.

Phil let himself into his hotel room, taking in the disarray that came from mostly living at the hospital for the past few days and hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the door so the housekeepers wouldn't be upset by the small armory he'd brought with him.

He sighed and started gathering up various bits of hardware and clothing, throwing out takeaway cartons, humming one of the catchy tunes from the movie as he worked.

***

They arrived back in New York to a mob of journalists, despite Howard's best efforts to keep the return under wraps. Tony, still visibly not entirely well, played off the wheelchair like a champ. To Phil's surprise, Clint stepped up to deflect most of the attention; in a moment that must have been orchestrated beforehand, Tony gave credit for locating him to Clint, who looked very somber and official and clean-cut as he fielded questions. Phil made a note to speak to someone at SHIELD about compiling a research dossier on Clint Barton. Not in a creepy way, he told himself, just because obviously Clint had a lot of experience in front of the cameras and that might be something he'd like to study in more detail.

It was probably creepy. Well, Clint knew he was having dinner with a SHIELD agent.

"Look, the upshot is, this was a team effort," Clint said, winding down the impromptu press conference. "All of us care about Tony, obviously, and we all worked to bring him home. Now, we'd like to actually get him home, so if you gentlemen and ladies would disperse a little..."

Phil went with them as far as the car waiting at the end of the airfield, driven by Mr. Stark's man, Jarvis; there was a second car with Jarvis's apprentice, Hogan somethingorother, and Clint went to that one, sliding into the shotgun seat. Phil leaned in the open window.

"You'd better get Tony settled in," he said.

"I'm thinking Bucky'll be doing most of that," Clint drawled.

"Well, regardless. How does seven o'clock tomorrow sound for dinner?"

Steve clapped Phil on the back as he passed, climbing into the back seat. Phil ignored him.

"It sounds great," Clint said, face lighting up. "Where do I meet you? I'm staying with Tony at his folks' place," he said, as if his folks' place wasn't one of the most expensive mansions in Manhattan.

"I'll pick you up there. Don't dress fancy, I'm on a government salary," Phil said, and Clint grinned.

"Seven o'clock," he repeated. Phil leaned back as Clint rolled up the window.

"Bring flowers," Sam said as he passed.

Natasha, right behind him, said "He likes pizza."

"Am I the last person to know about this?" Phil asked the air.

"Yes," Natasha told him.

Phil stepped back as the car's engine turned over, and watched the convoy -- the Starks in one, most of his team in the other -- as it pulled away, headed for the mansion. He had a report to make to Director Carter, and he should probably fill Nick in as well.

***

The following day, at around five past seven in the evening, Maria stood in the dining room of the mansion, arranging the flowers that a very nice young SHIELD agent of her son's acquaintance had brought. The nice young SHIELD agent and her informally-adopted child were currently on their way to what sounded like a dreadfully low-class dinner, but Clint did love pizza.

"God dammit," Howard said. Maria smiled at the flowers.

"Well, I suppose that does put the crimp on any heirs from Clint," she said. "Phil seems like a nice boy, though. Is he any good?"

"Any good?" Howard asked, annoyed.

"At what he does. I suppose he'll never be the breadwinner so long as Clint's at Stark Industries, but if he's half competent he might make upper management at SHIELD, which would be respectable."

"Making up the wedding invitations a little early," Howard growled. "Coulson's fine. His father's a senior agent. Phil's a company man. Runs with that Fury boy Peggy's got her eye on."

"That's excellent. I've always told you Clint had an eye for talent. Shame about the grandchildren, though. I had hoped just a little that Clint would make up for Anthony's interests lying elsewhere."

"I don't see why Tony can't find a workaround. Peggy managed," Howard pointed out.

"Don't make it sound so transactive, dear," she said. "Besides, she had the equipment built-in; Anthony will need to outsource some of that."

"I'm just saying, he could put a little bit of effort into the family line."

"I'll have a word with him," Maria said decisively. "In the meantime, be nice to Phil. It must be very difficult, dating the boss's son."

"If he can't take it, he shouldn't have tried it," Howard said.

"Darling," Maria said, abandoning the flowers to lean over Howard, wrapping her arms around her seated husband's neck and resting her chin on his nearly-combed hair. "Is Clint useful to you?"

"Of course."

"And he's a sweet boy we love very much, don't we?"

He growled, annoyed.

"And someday, our two boys will run Stark Industries, hopefully with their own native wisdom guided by experience?"

"They'd better."

"Then the rest will take care of itself. You can't boss everything."

"I can damn well try."

She kissed his hair. "Come along. We'll watch some television and if Clint's not home by the time the Late Show comes on, I'll let you yell at him about responsibility in the morning."

END

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The Music Room And The Penthouse (The Silver Age)

2016-06-25T03:32:55Z

Title: The Music Room And The Penthouse
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: Maria Stark makes a place for her son's many friends; Tony also makes his own place for them.
Notes: This was initially two separate stories, neither titled, but both being short I thought they went particularly well together. Written for the June Fic Fest in June of 2016. Prompts were:
Anonymous: I just adore your Jan and Natasha interacting with Maria, and I'd love to see their shopping trip! Or just the aftermath, with Jarvis providing soothing beverages after a frenetic day out.
Anonymous: I really love your Silver Age series, so could you maybe write Tony and Bucky cuddling/tinkering together in that universe?
Warnings: None.

Part of the Silver Age universe; also available at AO3.

***

The Music Room

Maria was playing piano when Tony came into the music room; she finished out the refrain (Close your eyes, close your eyes and relax / Think of nothing tonight) and looked up to see him with a half-smile on her face.

"Howard disapproves of this new fad for religious musicals, but I think it's quite catchy," she said, as Tony sat down on the bench and trilled out a few notes in the upper registers. She reached out to smooth down a stray curl from his hair. "I didn't expect you up so early."

"Everyone's a morning person," he complained, and she laughed. "They all wake me up with their jogging and showering and yelling about breakfast."

"How dare they."

"It's appalling, Mom," he said. "But I thought I'd catch you early anyway."

"Oh? Something on your mind?"

"Not really. Just Natasha," he said, and she laughed. "Not like that!"

"Yes dear, I know. Like what, then?"

"It's...I got to know her, right? And I think she's really excited about going shopping with you and Jan today. But I don't think she gets it and I don't know if you do," he said.

"What is there to get?"

"She's not naive, she's not a sheltered deb, you know. She's a spy, she knows how things work. She knows what's in fashion and all that stuff. But she never got asked about anything in her life, she just got told. They picked out her clothes, they told her what to do, how to be. I just don't want her to think we're like that."

"Even though, sometimes, we are?" she said.

"Dad's better than he was, but Starks are used to getting our own way," he said. "And that's you too, Mom."

She nodded. "Fair enough. So what is it you would like me to do for the worldly spy, Tony?"

"Just...let her pick. Make sure she knows it's her choice. I mean, that worked for me, on the ship, when she was choosing sides. She told me later, nobody ever offered her a choice before."

Maria beamed at Tony. "Oh, sweetheart. As if you're not talking to someone who knows how little choice women ever have if they don't fight for it."

His head snapped up.

"I understand Natasha, Tony. Women like her have fought for every shred of identity they own. Peggy perhaps knows better than I do, even, but I know. Let me look after her and Clinton, and you worry yourself with maintaining the kingdom. My little prince," she added, and kissed his forehead.

"What are you going to do about Clint, anyway? He's half-feral," Tony said, leaning in for a second before turning back to the piano.

"My only goal with that child is to get him into some decent underwear -- the state of his is downright shocking, according to the laundry service -- and a new pair of shoes. Anything beyond that is a bonus," she said. "Besides, he likes to feel as though he's earning his keep; he'll be thrilled to carry boxes for us. And it'll get up his appetite. Poor child's skinnier than you are."

"I'm not skinny!"

"Hm," she said, and slid off the bench, going to the carafe of coffee sitting on the side-table. "Play something, won't you? You never play anymore, you'll lose your touch."

"Not likely," he groaned, but he tapped out a few notes, letting the idle picking lead into a song he'd learned as a boy. "Why it's Gabriel! Gabriel playing / Gabriel! Gabriel saying / Will you be ready to go when I blow my horn?"

She gestured gently over his shoulder, out of Tony's line of sight. Natasha, who had been lurking in the doorway since Tony started playing, slipped into the room, Clint behind her, Bucky behind Clint.

"Oh blow, Gabriel, blow / Go on and blow, Gabriel, blow -- "

Steve leaned in the doorway, shoulder against the jamb.

"I've been a sinner, I've been a scamp / But now I'm ready to trim my lamp / so blow Gabriel, blow," Tony continued, eyes mostly closed, fingers flicking across the piano keys deftly. Such a comfort, that her son had something in his life that didn't involve engine grease.

He startled when Bucky joined in on the verse; twisting around, noticing everyone watching. Bucky had a nice voice, Maria thought, nothing operatic but solid, a soldier's voice.

"I was low, Gabriel, low / Mighty low, Gabriel, low / But now since I have seen the light / I'm good by day and I'm good bye night / so blow, Gabriel, blow..."

"This isn't a concert," Tony said, over a few bars of a bridge.

"You have a long way to go before you get to Madison Square Garden," Maria replied. Tony, impishly, modulated the tune into something that Bucky clearly recognized; he pointed at Steve and started to laugh.

"Aw, no," Steve groaned, as Tony burst into song, and even Natasha, clearly schooled in Western popular music, joined in.

"Who's strong and brave / Here to save the American way? / Who vows to fight like a man for what's right / Night and day?"

Maria relaxed back on the sofa, turning to catch sight of Howard, having replaced Steve in the doorway. He rolled his eyes, and he had a briefcase in his hand, which meant an early day at SI. But he leaned through the doorway, kissed her, and hummed a bar or two before disappearing down the hall, footsteps muffled by the sound of Tony's playing and everyone's singing.

***

The Penthouse

SOCIETY NEWS
He's a little late for a debut, but prodigy (and arctic explorer) Tony Stark has been seen out on the town in Manhattan, looking for a swingin' pad to call his own with newfound friend Steve Rogers. Head of a pack of socialites known around the nightclubs as the Young Ultimates, Stark is settling in with a couple of fellow fellas to live the good life in a penthouse on the Upper East. You can be sure the dazzling Jan van Dyne will be a frequent visitor. Are the rumors of a romance between van Dyne and a certain recently rediscovered war hero true? Only time will tell!

***

The housewarming party that Tony threw at the end of the summer, to celebrate his move back to Manhattan, was magnificent and messy; he invited his friends, but for appearance's sake was also obliged to invite a certain segment of young society not known for its restraint.

Steve didn't fully approve, but Tony promised a quiet dinner with friends for the day after the party, and also promised to clean up (or at least to hire someone who would) so Steve tolerated it.

It was a nice night, the friends-only dinner, and Tony knew that any gossip columnist would have bitten off a hand to get an invite. The Young Ultimates, a nickname some enterprising club host had given them, were the stars of the fall season -- even Natasha, with a haircut and some signature dark sunglasses to keep her identity on the low side, came out with them regularly. Manhattan had fallen in love with the entire crowd: Rhodey the military man and Carol the captain-turned-coed, Sam Wilson (still on an FBI watchlist) and his mysterious redheaded "friend" Tash, up-and-coming designer Jan van Dyne and bona-fide war hero Steve Rogers, millionaire heir and perpetual playboy Tony Stark, and the roughneck little one, Clint Barton, the wild child that Maria Stark had taken under her wing and turned into Manhattan's little brother.

Rarely was Tony's bodyguard mentioned. Bucky liked it that way.

Now, though, in the comfortable warmth of the living room, in the penthouse where he and Tony shared a room and Steve had one nearby, Bucky relaxed, Tony reclining against him on one of the huge sofas. Various other Ultimates were strewn around the room, enjoying after-dinner drinks or still snacking on the remains of dessert. Here, among all of them, Bucky and Tony could still be who they were -- out in the wider world perhaps not, but none of the inner circle cared. Even Clint hadn't blinked. (Tony suspected Clint was likewise inclined, and looking for a role model, which Bucky said made him feel very old.)

"I think I've worked out a battle plan," Steve was saying, as Tony lolled his head affectionately on Bucky's shoulder.

"For conquering Manhattan?" Rhodey asked. "You work fast."

Steve grinned. "For my life," he said. "The next few years, at any rate. I'm gonna join Sam at SHIELD. Howard says they've got some really exciting plans I can be a part of, and I'd get to keep the uniform."

"You'd get to keep A uniform," Jan said. "That old one looks like it chafed. Dad's working with Howard on a new one," she added.

"SHIELD's putting together some kind of emergency strike team," Sam said. "Little vague on the details yet, but it seems like it's going to be a civil defense thing. After Hydra infiltrated, and with the Russians still rattling the sabres..." he glanced at Natasha, but she just smiled.

"I'm joining also," she said. Everyone except Sam stared at her. "Well, I really am only good at one thing. But I'm very good at that one thing."

"The one thing being wreaking havoc?" Jan asked, brows drawn together.

"More or less," Natasha agreed.

"You know you're still invited too," Steve said to Bucky, who traced a hand down Tony's arm.

"I'm fine where I am," he said. Tony beamed up at him, upside-down.

***

"You could still go to SHIELD," Tony said later that evening, undressing for bed. Bucky, already in a loose pair of pyjama pants, slid an arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder. "Steve'll be working for SHIELD but living here, you could too."

"Fine for Steve," Bucky said into his skin. "I don't mind fighting and I don't mind taking orders, but far as I can tell, I can do as much good taking ‘em from you as from SHIELD."

Tony leaned back into him. "I won't say no."

"Damn right you won't," Bucky replied, hoisting him effortlessly with one arm. Tony yelped and kicked, laughing, until Bucky dumped him on the bed, climbing on after him.

"I appreciate you got obligations, but I'm lookin' forward to having this place to ourselves after all these parties," Bucky continued, crawling over Tony and kissing his jaw, then his mouth.

"Why, Mr. Barnes, you only had to ask," Tony replied, batting his eyelashes. Bucky huffed and dropped down next to him, tugging their bodies together. Tony rubbed a knuckle down Bucky's cheek. "Someday I'll tell the world about you, you know."

"Yeah, but not tonight," Bucky replied. "Tonight you got me all to yourself."

END

Jesus Christ Superstar - Try Not To Get Worried
Anything Goes - Blow, Gabriel, Blow
Captain America - Star Spangled Man

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Monitor (Avengers, Steve/Tony)

2016-05-11T23:19:34Z

Title: Monitor
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Tony attends a wedding; Steve starts making a little space.
Notes: Natasha Stark is a canonical gender-bent Tony Stark whose marriage to Steve Rogers in Earth 3490 prevented the Civil War. This story is based on a glorious art/headcanon from ireallyshouldbedrawing: Somehow Tony Starks from different universes ended up in one but they worked it out and were able to go home and a few Tonys got a long really well, including 3490!Natasha and 616!Tony maybe and they promised to keep in touch (secretly obviously). And then it was Natasha's wedding day and she asked if the other Tonys could ‘be there' for her and this one Tony holed himself up in his lab to ‘attend' the wedding and he was happy for Natasha but so jealous at the same time and he was so overwhelmed that he didn't hear Steve, who just got back from a mission, came in.

Also available at AO3.

Art by ireallyshouldbedrawing; find the original post here. Go give them some love!

***

Steve was tired, and he really should change out of his uniform after the mission, and he was also verging on starving -- he hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, and the early-morning mission had been minor but time-consuming. He'd like to stuff his face and change.

But he'd come into the mansion to the news that Tony had holed himself up in his lab on a no-entrance order, and that was rarely a positive thing.

So he trooped down to the basement where Tony kept his private lab, and with ruthless efficiency bypassed the lockdown protocol, passing down the hallway to where the inner lab door stood open. Light flickered through it, not the bright white of welding or the yellow of grinding but the green-and-blue of monitors.

"You look wonderful, sweetheart," he heard Tony say, and grinned. Talking to his machines again, maybe. A better sign than he'd expected.

"Thanks!" came a second voice, a little buzzy like it was over a radio, and Steve paused. He peered in the doorway, grateful for the shadows in the hallway that more or less kept him hidden.

There was a woman on a screen in the lab, beaming prettily at Tony, and Steve narrowed his eyes in what he told himself was absolutely not a jealous manner.

"I think the veil with the armor works in a weird, butch kind of way," she was saying.

"You could have gone with the dress, nobody attacked the ceremony," Tony said.

"Yeah, but if they had, I'd have been useless. You know I hate being useless."

"I do," Tony said, amusement in his voice, though something else seemed to be roughening it, too. "I'm so happy for you, Tasha."

"I'm glad you could come, even if it is by proxy," the woman, Tasha, said with another sunny smile. She leaned closer to the camera, probably to see a monitor mounted below it. "Are you crying, Tony? No crying at my wedding!"

"Tears of joy," Tony said, and Steve saw him raise an arm to wipe at his face with the cuff of his sleeve. "It's nice to see one of us happy, is all."

"Tony," Tasha said, her voice warm and full of understanding, and now Steve was annoyed, because who was this woman? One of us? She wasn't an Avenger, for God's sake. "You'll find someone."

"We're not giving me relationship advice on your wedding day, Tasha," Tony said.

"You're not allowed to argue with me today, so there's no better day to try," she said. "You will." She looked to one side, as if seeking someone out, then back to him. "I still say you should try Steve. Your Steve. I know all universes are different, Tony, but it's so hard to imagine one in which he doesn't love me -- "

Steve blinked, thoroughly confused now.

"He does. Just not that way. Like you and me," Tony said. "I always wanted a sister."

"And I always wanted a big brother, but Tony, there are lots of ways to love and sometimes we don't see what's in front of us. You should at least try, so you can say you did."

"Ah yes, your famous YOLO philosophy," Tony said, and Steve was pleased to hear a genuine murmur of laughter following it. "Tasha, you haven't been through with Steve what I have. We came out stronger, but there are still faultlines. I don't want to accidentally hammer on one."

That hurt, a sharp ice-pick pain, because Steve had thought they were solid, thought they were good now, this far out from the civil war -- and he didn't like the idea that Tony thought he had to walk on eggshells. If there was one thing Tony Stark had never done, it was tread lightly.

"The war wasn't your fault. The wedding today proves it," Tasha said.

"And you should get back to it, rather than yelling at your sad sack brother from another mother," Tony said. "Go, Tasha, give my love to your boy and dance at your wedding."

"You won't drink tonight, will you?" she asked.

"No, sweetheart, I won't."

Steve watched as Tony stood still but the view on the screen pulled back, widening to show this Tasha crossing a patch of grass to a big white party tent, where --

He tilted his head. That was him, a man with his face, his body, wearing a morning suit with a blue tie. When Tasha reached him, he kissed her. That was him, but --

"Mute," Tony said, and the sound of applause when the other Steve kissed this woman -- a woman from another universe, Tasha, one of us --

That was Steve Rogers, kissing Tasha...Stark.

Well, perhaps Steve and Tasha Stark-Rogers now?

Steve cleared his throat. He hadn't meant to exactly, but this was something private he'd intruded on, and the guilt assailed him with sudden intensity. He'd rather rip the bandage off now than hide this from Tony.

Tony stiffened, but he didn't turn around.

"She looks nice," Steve said, to fill the awkward silence.

"She looks beautiful," Tony replied. "Which is a stroke of ego you won't understand just yet."

"I think I do," Steve said, stepping into the room. Tony was still watching Tasha, laughing, getting ready to throw the bouquet. "That's you, in another universe, isn't it?"

"Well, you've never been slow," Tony murmured. "Tasha. She's about five years younger than me. You know what the date is in their universe?"

"No," Steve said, curiosity piqued.

"It's the date in our universe that you were shot on the courthouse steps," Tony said. On screen, the other Steve looked up and waved, briefly, and Tony faked a smile and waved back, then flicked a switch. The little green camera light turned to red, though the screen with the partygoers on it stayed lit.

"A happier ending for them than we got, at least back then," Steve observed.

"I'm glad for her." Tony said. His face was wet, still, and he sniffled. Steve offered him a handkerchief from his combat belt. Tony wiped his face with it, blew his nose, tucked it away. "She's sweet."

"How did you meet her?"

"Remember about six months ago, I went missing for a few days?"

Steve nodded. The panic had been a constant knot in his chest. When Tony had returned he hadn't been willing to answer any questions about where he'd been, which had been annoying. Though Steve hadn't been half as annoyed, or as vocal about it, as Reed and Hank McCoy, who clearly knew something was up.

"A bunch of us got swept up in a quantum intra-universe event. Imagine twelve Tony Starks all in one place. The shouting was terrific." Tony tapped a command on the keyboard and a photograph appeared, himself and a dark-skinned man with a goatee and the woman, Natasha, all smiling for a selfie.

"That's Natasha, and that's Tones," Tony said, pointing to them. "The rest of the Tonys were kinda jerks. Well, Short Tony was okay but he loved to push buttons, and High School Tony'll grow out of it -- both of him. Anyway, Tones and Natasha and I got along like peas in a pod. We've kept in touch. She asked if I'd like to go to her wedding, but interdimensional travel is tricky, so I had to send a proxy."

"I'm glad you didn't risk it," Steve said quietly.

"How much did you hear?" Tony asked, clearly a question he'd been holding for a few minutes.

Steve studied the monitor. Natasha and the other Steve were stepping out to dance, a slow number by the look of it.

"You know," he said slowly, "that being a hero makes a space in your heart -- sometimes a really big space -- for the whole world. You don't just belong to yourself anymore. And sometimes that space in your heart is so big it pushes out other things. Desires. Love."

"Steve -- "

"It pushed Sharon out," Steve said doggedly, because Tony should understand this the...the right way, even if terror was rising in his chest, threatening to choke off his breathing. "She wouldn't be second-best to the work, not in the way I was making her, and rightly so. She left me because I didn't have the right kind of room for her. That was my mistake. But I also haven't -- had -- the right kind of room for what I want, always. And it didn't seem important, the fact that I...sometimes wanted..." He exhaled, frightened -- but Tony would understand, and it was time he said something out loud. "Sometime wanted men. So I pushed it out. I never acted on it. One more casualty of Captain America's wars."

Tony glanced at him, confusion on his face.

"It was my choice to give what little space was left to something that was easy," Steve said, still watching the monitor. "And maybe that was a mistake too. So I am trying now to make room for people I love, the right kind of room, not just the leftovers. And maybe I should make room for something more difficult, too."

"Nobody's ever accused me of being easy to get along with," Tony said.

"You're not the difficult part, Tony," Steve said quietly. "You were never very difficult to love. Even during the war."

"Jesus Christ, Steve -- "

"This -- is not easy for me. Making space, admitting that I am maybe not the person I've let everyone assume...but you aren't part of that difficulty," Steve concluded. On the screen he saw himself smile at Tasha Stark in a way that warmed him, that tamped down the terror a little. "They seem like they're doing all right. Maybe we could try?"

It came out more plaintive than he intended, more vulnerable, but Tony didn't laugh or push back or make a joke. He followed Steve's gaze back to the screen, until Steve reached out and touched his chin, turned his face.

He could see the screen in the corner of his eye, could see the other Steve dip Natasha low and kiss her, just at the moment he kissed Tony -- lightly, as gently as he knew how.

Tony drew back, eventually, then tilted forward, resting their foreheads together.

"Tasha told me on their first date, Steve took her out to a roller rink because all Starks love roller skates, but he didn't know how to skate, and he fell on his ass like fifty times," Tony said. Steve laughed.

"How about we just do lunch, huh?" he said, managing to thread the fingers of one hand through Tony's. He stepped away, pulling Tony with him towards the door. "I'll get changed. I'll buy you lunch."

"You can't skate either, can you?" Tony asked, as they left the lab.

"How hard can it be?" Steve asked. "I have super-soldier balance."

"I'm gonna take you to a roller rink," Tony said.

"Later, Tony."

"Do we even have roller rinks in New York in this universe? I gotta find out," Tony continued, but Steve kept hold of his hand, so he had to work his phone one-handed. "I suppose I could just build one."

"Tony," Steve said, pulling him around for another kiss. "You start on that. I'm going to change. Meet you at the garage in ten minutes, okay?"

Tony met his eyes -- he still had slight red rims where he'd been crying, but his gaze was clear.

"I'm buying retail space to convert to a roller rink," he said.

"Romantic," Steve said fondly.

"Ten minutes, Steve. If you're late, I'm telling Tasha that no Steve Rogers in any universe is any use at all on skates!" Tony called after him.

comments

Leader Of The Free World (Avengers)

2016-04-17T13:41:39Z

Title: Leader Of The Free World
Rating: PG
Summary: Clint Barton's presidential campaign started as a joke. It didn't end that way, except for Steve.
Notes: Written for MemPrime, who requested it as a birthday fic. (Sorry I didn't actually write the debate you suggested, fatfemme-inist, I chickened out. :D)
Other Notes: I don't know how presidential campaigns work, guys. I didn't do any research because politics is very boring and I only research it when I am myself voting to make sure I don't vote for Darth Vader in disguise. Please forgive for any inaccuracies, I wasn't willing to put that amount of energy into what is essentially four thousand words of LOL CLINT BARTON.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

It was kind of a dare, and it was sort of at a party, which were both excuses Tony and Clint used a lot, because "we were drunk" was not an excuse Steve would put up with. Technically "it was at a party" wasn't either, but he and Tony had shouted their way through several arguments over "it was a dare", and the result was that Steve no longer got into fights over dares. Because Tony knew his history, and he knew that if Steve Rogers was telling someone not to take a dare, Steve Rogers was being a giant hypocrite.

"It's honestly not that hard to get your ass on a ballot," Tony said, tipping his beer at the presidential debate going on silently on one of the televisions. The Avengers had developed several patterns around their missions against Hydra, and Tony liked the post-assault protein-load that they usually did right after, but the post-assault party the weekend following a mission, that was his favorite.

"There's a ton of paperwork, isn't there?" Clint asked.

"Not really that much. I mean," Tony corrected, "Not that much if you have, you know, your own legal department."

"Oh, rich-dude-not-much," Clint teased. "So you could run for president pretty easily, huh?"

"Sure, if I wanted the job. Who the fuck wants to be president? Have you seen what it does to people? George Bush aged twenty years in the four years he was in the White House. Barack Obama looks like he needs ten thousand naps. Besides," he added philosophically, "there are too many hookers in my past."

"How many is too many to be president?" Clint asked.

"Five."

"Five, really? That's the number?"

"At once? Yeah," Tony replied. Clint gave him an awestruck salute. "Thank you, innocent one. See, now, you could be president."

"How do you know I don't have a sordid past?"

"Doesn't matter, I'm sure SHIELD erased it. Why, do you?"

"Nah," Clint said. "I'm an all-American corn-fed boy scout. I've been arrested a couple of times but never in my own name, and usually not in-country."

"See? You were in the Army, right?"

"Yeah," Clint said, sounding suddenly suspicious.

"And then you worked in intelligence, which the conservatives like. You're single, though, that's potentially a problem." Tony peered at him. "You don't have a secret wife and two-point-five kids hidden away on a farm somewhere, do you?"

Clint stared at him. "No..."

"Hm. Would you be willing to be married off in the service of your presidential campaign? Can't be Natasha, she's a Commie."

"Hill would marry me," Clint said.

"HILL!" Tony yelled. Maria looked up from where she was making conversation with some of Steve's old-guy soldier friends, then ambled over.

"Yeah?" she asked, leaning on the couch.

"Clint's gonna run for president, would you marry him?"

She gave Clint an assessing look. "I'm gonna pull an Eleanor Roosevelt."

"Like being a lesbian Eleanor Roosevelt or like being a loud social activist Eleanor Roosevelt?" Tony asked.

"Both."

"Sold."

"See you in the White House," Hill said, and went back to the bar.

"Who's gonna be my running mate?" Clint asked. "If I'm running as an independent I can't just take whoever lost to me in the primaries."

Tony's eyes drifted over the room and landed on Steve, who had been accosted by groupies and was, for once, smiling and looking unafraid. He might already be drunk; Thor had given him his own stash of Asgardian liquor, and Steve tended to save it for special occasions like "celebrating America" and "talking to women".

"Oooh," Clint said, following his gaze. "That's a lock. Does he need to marry a social activist lesbian too?"

"No, he can stay single, a hot VP would be a nice change," Tony said. "He'll play well to center-liberal soccer moms and, I don't know, militia members."

"What I'm hearing," Clint said, "is that between my SHIELD job and Steve's national symbolism, we could be running as conservative independents."

"Well, that'd work right up until Steve wore his HER BODY, HER CHOICE t-shirt again," Tony said.

"Oh man, that was the best week ever," Clint replied nostalgically.

"I'm serious, we could do this," Tony insisted. "It's about time I stirred some shit, and politics is more, whatever, socially relevant than another sex tape. It'd be fun social satire."

"Hey, I'm not arguing." Clint held up both hands innocently. "If you wanna, I'm on board."

"Too loud in here for voice recognition...Jarvis," Tony said, taking out his Starkphone and holding it to his ear.

"Sir," Jarvis replied.

"Clint's gonna run for president."

"An excellent choice for your inevitable shadow government, sir."

"Sass," Tony said affectionately. "I need you to marry him to Agent Hill, backdate it a couple'a years, and make sure neither of them have any scandals available to the public. Then get his name registered as an independent candidate, with Steve as VP."

"Shall I start a war chest, sir?"

"Sure," Tony said agreeably. "Throw a couple million in. Uh, the campaign donation limit from every account. No illegal donation monkey business."

"The paperwork to add Mr. Barton to the ballot will require several dozen signatures -- "

"Forge those. Notarize them too, will you? Pepper's still a notary public, I think."

"Is Captain Rogers aware that he is now a political candidate?" Jarvis asked.

"We'll tell him tomorrow. He loves political satire, he'll think it's funny," Tony said. There was a disapproving silence down the line. "You wanna be Clint's campaign manager?"

"That could be...enjoyable," Jarvis allowed.

"Done. Thank you," Tony said, and hung up.

"Am I running for president with a ninety-year-old war hero as my VP and a sentient computer program as my campaign manager?" Clint asked.

"Given Stark Industries is funding you, I expect to be Chief of Staff when you win," Tony informed him. "Wait, no. Secretary of Defense."

"What are your qualifications?"

"Aside from being a billionaire industrialist? Well, I've seen The Unknown Known and partied with a couple of the younger Kennedys. I had a three-episode cameo on The West Wing. Also I'm a mason and a member of the Illuminati."

"Seriously?" Clint asked. Tony gave him a dry look. "Right! Plausible deniability."

Tony grinned. "This is gonna be fun, Clint. Do you even own a business suit?"

"I'm not gonna wear a suit. If it's good enough for saving the world in, my tac vest is good enough for campaigning in. Plus it's bulletproof," Clint said, crossing his arms.

"You do you, baby. I've blown millions on worse," Tony replied.

***

-- mericans woke this morning to the news that Clint Barton, an agent of the shadowy SHIELD intelligence agency and an Avenger, is running for president.

Tony walked into the Avengers communal kitchen to the sight of Clint with his bare feet kicked up on the dining table, sipping a coffee and watching the news.

"I'm getting a jump on the day, Presidential style," Clint called, as Tony groped sleepily for coffee. Next to him, Natasha was reading something on her tablet, Bruce leaning over her shoulder. "Natasha's going to be head of security for my campaign."

No comment yet from the Avengers or from Avenger Tony Stark, who right now appears to be Mr. Barton's major campaign contributor. Jarvis Babbage, Mr. Barton's campaign manager, says Mr. Barton will make a statement at ten this morning, Eastern time...

"You are a travesty," Bruce said to Tony.

"That's no way to speak to the future puppetmaster of this country," Tony replied. "You hate politics. Go find something to smash."

"I can't, watching the news coverage of Clint's presidential candidacy is like watching a train wreck."

"We're already rising in the polls," Natasha said. "Though the Dems are calling him Clint "Nader" Barton."

"If they can't handle a split vote they don't deserve to win," Tony said, slurping down half a cup of coffee. "Please tell me Steve isn't up yet, by the way. I want to see his face when he finds out."

"Steve's off," Clint said. Tony frowned. "Secret mission, he got the call just after the party ended. Something about some stealth infiltration overseas."

"Steve Rogers," Tony repeated. "Stealth. Infiltration."

Mr. Trump has commented on Mr. Barton's late-entry candidacy, declaring him a 'poor-trash loser' and 'a guy with a stick and some string'.

"I'm going to enjoy meeting him," Clint remarked, attention momentarily drawn to the television.

"Steve did sneak in and out of Hydra territory during the war," Natasha said. "Almost incessantly and usually without orders, according to the memoir Margaret Carter wrote."

"It's probably more enter-and-sabotage than infiltrate-and-interrogate," Clint said. "Anyway, he said he'd be gone for a week or two. I figure by the time he gets back I'll have humiliated Donald Trump, which will be something, anyway. I bet I could beat him in an armwrestling match."

"But you'd have to touch him," Natasha said. "I bet his palms are always wet."

"Well, this is awesome breakfast conversation, but I have an industry to dominate," Tony said. "Has someone written the speech you're supposedly giving in two hours?"

"Sir," Jarvis said.

"Ooooh," Tony exclaimed, eyes going wide. "Jarvis, are you writing Clint's speeches now?"

"I've taken the liberty of examining famous speeches throughout history and analyzing their word choice, grammatical patterns, and emotional sentiments," Jarvis said. "I have composed a neutral yet inspiring speech which I believe will present Agent Barton in a positive light while remaining vague on political specifics."

"I am just so proud of you," Tony said, patting the nearest wall. "Shoot it my way so I can proof it first, okay?"

"Send it to me as soon as you're done so I can memorize it," Clint said.

"We can get you a teleprompter."

"No need, I'm a fast study. Used to learning on the fly when I was a carnie. Hey, can I juggle while I give the speech?" Clint asked.

"That's up to your campaign manager," Tony replied.

"In 603 BC, the famous warrior Xiong Yiliao defeated his military enemies by juggling nine balls at the head of his army, terrifying the opposing troops and leading his own to victory," Jarvis said.

Clint beamed.

***

"You'll have to excuse me," Clint said, standing at the microphone in front of Stark Tower, in his cleanest tac-vest and his Sunday-best armguards. Natasha stood behind him in full Avengers uniform. Tony, off to the side, was wearing a suit and had his StarkPhone up to film everything. A huge mob of journalists was wathing him with the breathless glee of people who knew they were about to get the story of the month. "I'm used to talking while performing, from my days as a sideshow artist before I joined the Army. So I'm just gonna..."

He reached into his bulging pockets and took out five little fabric balls, rotating them around in his hands.

"It's my first time public speaking gig in a while, I need something to do with my hands," he said, and started to juggle.

***

"Two weeks into a late start as an independent candidate for President, Clint Barton sat down with Good Morning America to discuss his domestic policy..."

***

"Clinton Francis Barton, the surprise dark horse candidate on everyone's mind, joined Republican and Democratic candidates for his first debate tonight..."

***

I just think Barton has a real chance, he clearly has no fucks to give.
Of course he has no fucks to give, he doesn't have to please big business because he's got big business funding him already.
But would you rather have Tony Stark buying a presidency or Donald Trump buying a presidency?
Oh my god, Tumblr echo chamber in full force today. I think we're all forgetting about the Democrats here, it's not Barton vs. Trump.
A Democratic candidate's the only one who can beat Barton anyway....

***

"It's been three weeks since Clint Barton declared his candidacy for President and named Captain America, Steve Rogers, as his running mate. But where is Steve Rogers? Every other vice presidential candidate is out furiously stumping for their running mate, but Rogers has been completely silent..."

***

"So now we're hearing that Captain Rogers is on a long-term mission in defense of the country and might not be back until after the election. Surprise, you're the veep! I mean, is this going to happen after Barton wins? Like, are the Secret Service gonna mobilize because someone's breaking into the White House at 3am and oops, it's just the VP back from a secret mission, he didn't want to wake anyone up..."

***

"Prospective first lady Maria Hill says she supports her husband's stance on education and is willing to push even further, though she too stopped short of suggesting defense funding be cut in order to improve schools, instead focusing on higher taxes for the ultra-wealthy -- including ardent 'Bartoneer' Tony Stark..."

***

But does he even understand politics? This is a man who dropped out of high school, who got his GED when he was twenty-two and has no college degree.
I'm going to have to point out here that he got his GED while serving in active combat. He has a long history with the military, with the intelligence community, and let's not forget some other presidents who didn't have college degrees, like Abraham Lincoln.
Are you comparing Clint Barton to Abraham Lincoln? I'm just picturing him in a beard and a stovepipe hat.
I think we're getting off-topic here...

***

"It's official. For the first time today Clinton Francis Barton, the homegrown superhero with big Stark money backing his play, is leading in the polls against both Democrats and Republicans. This is no longer a Ralph Nader situation, where the worst the two major parties had to fear was a split vote. They can no longer continue to campaign against each other and ignore the young upstart from Iowa...."

***

"You know, this is supposed to be fun," Tony said, as Clint paced back and forth in the wings of the debate stage, muttering to himself. "You can drop out at any time."

"Who says I'm not having fun?" Clint asked.

"You look like you wish you could shoot someone."

"I always look like that," Clint said dismissively. "I have resting sniperface."

"So what's up with the pacing?"

"I'm getting in the mood! I'm going over my talking points," Clint said. Tony stopped him and hooked his hands under the shoulder straps of his tac-vest, adjusting them slightly. "Thanks."

"Remember: Education, Poverty -- "

" -- Domestic Terrorism, Digital Infrastructure, I know," Clint said.

"And we're staying away from?"

"International Policy," Clint said.

"Because?"

"Nobody wins a debate about war," Clint repeated dutifully.

"Good man."

"I wish Steve would get back already. I could use some backup."

"You do remember this started as a prank on Steve, right?" Tony asked. "I'm sure he'd be proud that you're engaging in the democratic process, but I don't think he's going to love being made VP without his knowledge."

"We maybe shoulda asked."

"We maybe shoulda," Tony agreed.

"I spoke to SHIELD last night, they say he's pinned down but fine," Hill said, pecking Clint on the cheek, more for the interns with their phones out than for Clint's benefit. "He just needs another few days before he can leave the safehouse. Mission accomplished, whatever it was."

"You know what it was," Tony accused.

"What I know about a lot of things would start several interesting wars," Hill said. She patted Clint's shoulder. "Remember that when you help me pick out my gown for the inauguration."

"You're not wearing a three-piece suit?" Clint asked.

Hill looked pleased. "Well, I am now."

"Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to meet your candidates!" came a voice over the speakers, and Clint squared his shoulders.

"I'm gonna armwrestle Trump this time," he said to Hill.

"You're not gonna armwrestle Trump this time," she replied. "He's a crazy motherfucker but he'd never let you do it."

"I'm gonna do it."

"I'm not gonna stop him," Tony said to Hill. "I want to see it."

"When you're president, we're going to have a long talk about you doing what I tell you," Hill told Clint, but she stepped aside so he could make his grand entrance.

***

"Film footage of last night's Presidential debate is going viral worldwide, but not because of the political talking points. The highlight of the night was when Independent candidate Clinton Barton challenged both opponents to an armwrestling match. Video clips of Barton defeating Donald Trump are filling up YouTube, but even those are outpaced by Barton losing to Democratic candidate Hilary Clinton..."

***

"Good morning, and what a beautiful day for an election. We'll be here all day, covering the closest presidential race this country has seen since Bush and Gore in 2000. We here at NBC would like to remind you that your vote has never mattered more, so make sure you get out to the polls today..."

***

"CLINTON FRANCIS BARTON."

Steve's voice, a bass roar, reverberated throughout the Avengers' common space. Clint, reading a biography of Alexander Hamilton, fell off the sofa in surprise. Tony, who was going over Clint's constituency data with Thor (it turned out Thor was fantastic at data analytics) looked up just in time to see Steve arrive in the doorway. He was glowing with rage.

"Ooooh," Tony said. "Someone call Natasha."

"What have you done?" Steve asked.

"Steve's going to be president," Tony said to Clint.

"Tony, I can't believe you're helping -- "

"Because he's gonna kill you," Tony finished.

"I got back stateside five minutes ago and the minute my phone has reception again I have ten thousand voicemails and just one giant text message from Jarvis telling me I'm the vice-president," Steve said, holding up his phone. "The vice president of what? THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES."

"Oh, yeah, it was a hell of a day," Clint said. "Welcome home, by the way. Not like you to miss a chance to vote, I'm ashamed of you."

"I was in a safe-house in Nepal," Steve said grimly.

"Well, anyway, it all came out fine in the end, and here we are," Clint said. "We get two days off now that the election is done and then I have to start, I don't know, building a transitional committee to help move me into the White House. I guess I buy them pizza and beer?"

"Clint, you can barely make pancakes that aren't from a mix. You cannot be president," Steve said.

"Excuse you, I was elected fair and square. Besides, I have a five point plan for improving education in this country and also Tony says he'll be my shadow emperor because he's in the Illuminati," Clint said.

Steve seemed confounded by this answer. He just stared at them, bewilderment filling his face.

"Well, I hope you're not raising taxes on the middle class to pay for the schools," he said finally.

"What do I look like, a moderate?" Clint asked. "By the way, I'm being sworn in on your Bible."

"I don't own a Bible," Steve said, now thoroughly lost.

"The little pocket one you carried in the war? It's at the Smithsonian now. Bruce suggested it. They said yes so I'm being sworn in on the Captain America Bible."

Steve's face went awash in horror. "The one where all the Commandos wrote dirty limericks on the flyleaf?"

"There once was a girl from Poughkeepsie," Tony sang out.

"James Barnes had an awesome sense of humor," Clint said.

"I'm going to go sleep, and when I wake up this will all have been a dream," Steve said.

"I'll have Jarvis write you a nice speech for the inauguration," Tony told him, and turned back to Thor, who was highlighting regional wealth data for upstate New York.

***

Steve wore his HER BODY, HER CHOICE t-shirt to the inauguration.

"It's gonna be a long four years," Hill said to Tony, as Clint stepped up to the Captain America Bible and rested his hand on it. He'd gotten a new formal tac-vest for the occasion.

I, Clinton Francis Barton, do solemnly swear
"I, Clinton Francis Barton, do solemnly swear -- "

"All part of my master plan, and it's eight years," Tony replied.

"What's the master plan, anyway?"

that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States
" -- that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States -- "

"Green energy in three years, socialized medicine in five, and the last three years we'll just relax and see what we can do about peace in our time," Tony said. "Today, appetizers and dancing. Tomorrow I start blackmailing senators."

and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States
" -- and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States -- "

"Does Steve know you're blackmailing senators?" Hill asked.

"Are you kidding? He wrote the hit list."

So help me God.
" -- PLEASE help me God."

A laugh rippled through the audience at Clint's plea. Tony and Hill watched as Steve handed Clint his bow and a single arrow; Clint raised the bow, drew it, and fired. Bright orange fireworks, vivid against the overcast day, burst over the Reflecting Pool.

"You know, the nice thing is, the bar's actually pretty low," Clint said, as he walked arm-in-arm with Hill down the steps to the presidential car, waiting to take him to the reception. "I mean, as long as I don't rob the Democrats or chase interns in the Oval Office, I'll probably be okay."

"Rumsfeld," Steve said to Tony, offering him his elbow to follow. "Can I have the first dance?"

"Cheney," Tony replied, taking it. "I'll think about it. Nice shirt."

"Well, begin as you mean to go on."

"Pro-choice t-shirts and gay flirting?"

Steve shrugged. "What are they gonna do, impeach me?"

"Good point. Come on, I want to get to the party before they run out of champagne."

END

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The Cyborg Arm Job (Leverage/Marvel)

2016-03-14T00:19:23Z

Title: The Cyborg Arm Job
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: The Leverage crew run into a new friend, find some buried treasure, and fight some Nazis. It's a pretty good day. (Leverage/MCU crossover)
Warnings: None.
Notes: Prompted by a tumblr post and written during a Sam Writes Live on March 12, 2016.

Also available at AO3.

***

They found him in the middle of a bar fight. Which was in the middle of their bar.

"This is a gastropub!" Eliot yelled, charging out from the kitchen. "There are no bar fights in a gastropub!"

"Man, I don't think he cares," Hardison said. He was watching the fight from a distance with an almost philosophical look on his face. Most of the table settings in the immediate area were already broken, so that was no longer of any concern, and he'd never liked that pattern anyway (it had been a compromise betweeen Eliot's desire for square plates and Parker's desire for lots of flowers, and nobody ended up satisfied).

"Hardison, help me stop it," Eliot said, spreading his hands at the fight. It was three on one which was hardly fair, but on the other hand, the solid-looking guy with the fantastic hair was holding his own.

"Hell no, I'm not wading into that," Hardison said, crossing his arms.

Parker dropped from the ceiling into the middle of the melee at that point, apparently on the side of Fantastic Hair, which did make deciding who to punch easier. Eliot sighed, wiped his hands on the dishcloth hanging at his waist, made sure his headband was tight, and dove in.

There was, admittedly, something familiar about how Fantastic Hair was fighting, and when Eliot swung a fist over his shoulder to help him break a guy's throttle-hold on him, he gave him a brief, businesslike nod before continuing, like he recognized him.

With Parker and Eliot participating, it didn't take long to break up the fight. Two of the men were unconscious and a third was under the bar, whimpering, by the time silence fell. Only their breathing and a strange, mechanical whirring noise from Fantastic Hair broke the silence; everyone other than Hardison had bolted, including most of the waitstaff. They had excellent self-preservation instincts born of time spent around Eliot and Parker, and they were huddled outside waiting for an all-clear.

Hardison slow-clapped them. Eliot gave him a rude salute, then turned to their new...acquaintance.

"You okay?" he asked. Fantastic Hair seemed to do a quick all-over check and then nodded. "You better be the good guy."

"I think I am," Fantastic Hair said. "At this point, anyway."

"Aw, he sounds like you," Parker said. Eliot narrowed his eyes.

"And these guys were?" he prompted.

Fantastic Hair blew air through his lips. "Would you believe me if I told you they were Nazis?"

Parker looked at Hardison, who made a complicated face before looking at Eliot.

"What, like I keep track of Nazis?" Eliot asked.

Hardison rolled his eyes and hopped the bar, taking down four unbroken glasses with one hand and a bottle of scotch with the other. He began pouring, so Eliot shuffled through the broken plates and splintered stools and chairs to take a seat at the bar. Parker hopped up on the bar and Fantastic Hair leaned on it warily.

"So, who are you?" Parker asked.

"Kinda still working on that," Fantastic Hair replied. "Name's, ah..."

"Take your time," Hardison drawled. "Pick a good one."

"Buck," he said, nodding at Hardison in acknowledgement. "It's not completely fake."

"Oh, well," Hardison said. He nudged one of the drinks over.

"You sound like a man who needs some friends," Parker said.

"Dunno about needs," Buck said. "Not sure it's healthy to be a pal of mine around now."

One of the unconscious men groaned. Eliot kicked him casually, just enough to make sure he stayed out.

"Why don't you tell us what brings you to Portland," Parker said, in her best I'm The Mastermind Now voice.

***

They hung a "Closed Due To Mayhem" sign on the front door of the pub and Eliot sent the staff home for the day while Parker and Hardison took Buck upstairs to apply first aid and get settled. Eliot called some pals of his to come dispose of the presumable Nazis, ziptied them all, and then went to find the others. When he walked into the upstairs apartment, he was greeted with "Eliot, LOOK!"

Buck was standing in the middle of the living room, one arm outstretched. Parker was standing on his palm.

"He's got a CYBORG ARM!" she said excitedly.

Every alarm in Eliot's brain went off at once, but Parker didn't look like she was in danger and Buck seemed at most bemused by the whole thing, so he just went very still.

"That's a very distinctive arm," he said slowly.

"Yeah," Buck said. "Thought I recognized you."

"Malta?"

"Don't think so."

"No, you're right," Eliot said. "Johannesburg."

"Maybe..." Buck looked like he was struggling with something. Parker hopped gracefully down from her perch on his arm and slung her own arms over it, resting her chin in the divot of his elbow. "Also...the Ukraine?"

"The entire Ukraine?" Hardison asked.

"It was a long weekend," Eliot said.

"So you two are friends? That's nice," Parker said.

"Not friends," Eliot said. "Not exactly enemies yet, though."

Buck regarded him with dark, impassive eyes. Yeah, he remembered those eyes now, though he was used to them having a lot more eyeshadow around them.

"You in the fixing business?" Buck asked.

"Got something that needs fixing?" Hardison asked.

"We provide leverage," Parker said.

"She loves to say that," Eliot sighed.

Buck gave Parker a look of pure adulation, which earned him quite a few gold stars in Eliot's book. People who liked Parker were generally excellent judges of character.

"Stark Industries -- " he began, and Hardison threw his hands up.

"No! No no no," he said.

"We have a rule," Parker said apologetically.

"It ain't a rule, it's a guideline," Eliot insisted.

"We don't mess with Stark," Parker said, in the voice of one tolerating a loved one's bizarre personality quirk.

"I don't wanna get my ass blown off by a robot-suited aggressive billionaire who does not like hackers!" Hardison yelped.

"Buried treasure," Buck said, and suddenly had the intent attention of everyone in the room.

"What kind of treasure?" Hardison asked.

"Stark Industries had a satellite office in the pacific northwest," Buck said. "It was called the Resilient Office."

"Go on," Parker prompted, when Buck looked at Hardison inquiringly.

"The Resilient Office was where Stark Senior supposedly kept his private files. Dangerous plans, dangerous items. Weapons. Also some backup cash, maybe. I'm here to beat the Nazis to it."

"Oh, this is a SHIELD thing," Hardison said.

"A what now?" Eliot asked.

"Do you not watch the news?"

"I am cooking or beating on people every hour God gave -- "

"Hey!" Parker said, still leaning on Buck.

"SHIELD is an intelligence agency -- "

"I know what SHIELD is, Hardison," Eliot said, and then it dawned on him what this was about. "Oh. This is a SHIELD Hydra Nazi thing."

"Thank you," Hardison said, spreading his arms.

"They don't know where Resilient is," Buck said. "They've been looking for years, Hydra and SHIELD both. Stark Industries doesn't know where it is either, Senior kept it off the books."

"And you do?" Eliot asked.

"I knew Stark. Back when. Kind of. It's...complicated," Buck said. "He told me about a cache like it in New York. Nothing there anymore but the boat he owned in New York was bought through a shell in Portland. Figure the office address of the shell's a pretty good place to start."

"And Nazis are following you?" Parker asked. "That's exciting."

"I don't think they followed me. I know how to shake a tail. I think they're trying to beat SHIELD to it. Hydra's in pieces but SHIELD is...."

"Like five dudes and a van right now," Hardison said, nodding.

"What about Stark?" Eliot asked. "Junior's gotta be looking for it."

"I don't think he knows about it."

"If he did he'd have destroyed it," Parker said. "He's a pacifist now. A pacifist with great big guns!"

"She's a fangirl," Hardison sighed.

"So what exactly do you want to do once we find this stuff?" Eliot asked.

"We?" Buck asked.

"This is our town. You don't go treasure hunting without us," Eliot said.

"That's Eliot's way of saying he LOVES treasure hunts," Parker said. She leaned away from Buck and patted his arm, which he lowered. "You want us to come along, don't you? We're fun and helpful."

"I don't mind, long as you know what you're getting into," Buck said slowly. "It's...there's gonna be Nazis and maybe federal agents and I'm not...the most sane. And I'm gonna burn the office down when I find it."

Eliot offered his hand. Buck shook with his non-cyborg hand, a firm grip.

"Welcome to the club," Hardison said. "For sanity you can look elsewhere."

***

The address that had belonged to the shell company where Stark bought his boat wasn't in existence anymore; the street had been rerouted due to some construction in 1953, and the numbers had changed. Hardison was elbows-deep in old deed records trying to find it, but he was threatening to send Eliot to the city records office to find stuff, and Eliot hated the city records office (every city records office) so he and Parker were trying to spitball other ideas.

"What about sewer tunnels?" Parker asked. "If the business office was like a hidden room it's probably underground."

"Maybe it's another boat," Eliot suggested. He liked the idea of breaking into boats. Marinas were fun.

"It must be hidden, if nobody found it," Buck said. He was wearing a pair of Eliot's pants and one of Hardison's shirts, because apparently the Nazis had gotten his luggage at some previous point, and his clothes were a little ripe. Hardison's shirt said I LIKE PI, and the cognitive dissonance was stunning. "If it was a boat or a storage space it'll be paid through...forever, if it lasted this long."

"Renting isn't Stark's style," Hardison said, without looking up from his laptop. "You know he had a bunker under the Stark Industries plant in Malibu? They only found it when Iron Man blew it the hell up."

"What kind of a bunker?" Parker asked.

"Fallout shelter. MREs and everything," Hardison said.

"What if he moved it before he died?" Eliot asked. "If he knew they were going to be paving over it, he might. And if I had a bunker full of dangerous crap and spare millions I'd move it every few years anyway, just in case."

"Is that what you were doing when you went to 'Disney World' last year?" Parker asked, airquoting heavily.

"There's a lot of great international cuisine at Epcot and I got a bargain," Eliot protested. "A man can't just like Disney World?"

"Was there a holding company holding the shell title?" Hardison asked Buck.

"Yeah but it was...Stark Holdings," Buck said.

"Ah," Hardison sighed.

Buck looked thoughtful. "Try...patriotic stuff. America, Star Spangled, Stars and Stripes, that kinda thing."

Hardison put up a list on the big wall screen. "Apparently there are a lot of patriots in Portland. Or were, in the fifties."

Buck got up and got closer to the screen, studying them.

"There," he said. "1953. White Star Holdings."

"How do you know?" Parker asked.

"White Star was..." Buck seemed to struggle again. "Important, I don't...it was important to..."

Eliot tensed. Buck seemed to be fighting something down, and if that something was a violent impulse -- he'd seen him fight downstairs but he'd also seen the man in...other situations, and he was remembering a lot of brutality. If he wanted to beat this guy, he'd have to get the first punch in.

But Buck just dropped his head. "I dunno. I just know. I remember...the phrase. The White Star Boys. What's the address of White Star Holdings?" he asked abruptly.

"Not far from here, couple of miles," Hardison said. "Building's still standing. I'll get the plans."

"Let's go steal Stark Industries!" Parker chirped.

***

"Nice van," Buck said, as they piled into Lucille, hauling tools and various bits of equipment Hardison insisted he needed.

"Nobody shit-talk Lucille," Hardison warned.

"No, I mean it," Buck said, thumping one of the walls. "Solid. Is that a Faraday cage?"

Hardison blinked. "Yeah. I mean. I did some interior decorating."

Buck nodded. "I like it."

"Uh. Thanks," Hardison said. He gave Eliot a look, as if to say Neither of you ever tell me how nice Lucille is.

"It's a nice van, can we go now?" Eliot growled.

"Touchy," Hardison observed, but Buck pulled the back doors shut and Hardison put her in gear. He kept both eyes on the road, so Eliot kept watch on Buck and Parker in the rear-view mirror.

The building where White Star Holdings had been registered in 1953 had been rehabbed from a shabby office building into trendy downtown lofts in the nineties, and was no real challenge -- they just grabbed a sofa from the alley behind the building, hauled it around front, and got one of the residents to hold the door for them while they carried it inside. Once in, they left the couch in the lobby ("That's a nice couch though." "It probably has bedbugs, Hardison." "We can come get it later." "Parker, I will buy the pair of you a new couch." "I could use a couch." "See? Buck could use a couch." "Oh my God.")

Hardison was reasonably confident there was at least one false wall in the basement, according to the building plans, so they found the stairs (Hardison still talking about how they could use a couch) and descended through two levels of parking garage to the facilities plant. Hardison led the way past elderly pipes and ancient operations equipment -- Eliot was willing to bet this entire building got shitty water pressure -- and up to a wall that looked normal.

Until you looked close, and saw that the brickwork wasn't starting to pock and crumble like the other walls were.

"It's some kind of resin, I think," Hardison said. "Maybe an early polymer -- "

Buck drew his metal arm back and punched straight through it. It spiderwebbed and shattered like glass.

"That's usually my job," Eliot pointed out.

"Metal arm," Buck replied, pulling chunks of whatever-it-was through the hole and tossing them on the ground. It didn't take long to make a gap big enough for a person to fit through; Parker put a hand on Buck's arm and went first.

"She's checking for traps," Eliot said.

"Why her?" Buck asked, brows drawing together.

"She thinks sneaky," Hardison replied.

"It's cool!" Parker called. "No traps. Sloppy," she pronounced, and a set of overhead lights went on. Eliot went through next, just in case, and Hardison waved Buck through, presumably so that he wouldn't have to put his back to a guy who could punch through walls.

There was a sidelong hallway behind the wall with a door at one end; Parker was standing in the doorway, haloed in golden light, and for a second Eliot wondered if he was just being overdramatic --

"Oh, hey, wow, shit," Hardison stammered, joining her in the doorway. The glint of actual gold was visible beyond them. "Woooow, shiiiit."

"Buried treasure," Buck repeated, mostly to himself.

The room at the end of the hall looked almost like a little shrine. On either side of the tiny closet-sized space were a set of file cabinets, and between them was an enormous padlocked trunk. Atop the trunk was a small pyramid of gold bars.

Buck bypassed the gold, which Parker and Hardison were hunching over admiringly, and went straight to the file cabinets. A single metal finger jammed into the lock mechanism snapped the lockbars and allowed him to open the drawers on the left one, which proved to be full of files.

"What's in 'em?" Eliot asked, resisting the temptation to jam the gold into a bag and leg it.

"Photostats," Buck said. "Copies of a journal. Original's probably destroyed or at SHIELD. Technical drawings..." he opened the bottom drawer, sifting through rolled up sheafs of paper. "Either useless or too dangerous to get out."

"We can't burn it down here," Eliot said. "I got an oven'll destroy them back at the pub."

Buck nodded, breaking the lock on the other cabinet. This one had guns in the top drawer, clothing in the rest. He turned up a pair of elderly, disintegrating passports with false names.

"Stark Senior was paranoid," Hardison said. He had a bar of gold in his hand.

"Prepared. Stark family trait," Buck remarked. "Move 'em," he added, pointing to the gold. Parker slammed a backpack down on the trunk enthusiastically and began loading it up.

"Woman, that's gonna weigh more than you do, slow down," Hardison said, taking some of the bars out of the backpack and loading them into his duffle.

"He said to move them!" Parker protested. Hardison rolled his eyes, but between the two of them they got the bags packed and set them near the door. Buck crouched, grasped the padlock, and snapped it.

"Yeah," he said, when he lifted the lid. "This is what we gotta get rid of."

Eliot peered over his shoulder, but it looked like a jumble of electronics and blunt objects to him. It must mean something to Buck and Hardison; Hardison let out a low whistle when he saw it all.

Then there was a click behind them.

"I know nobody followed me," Hardison said, without turning around.

"Nobody followed you," Buck confirmed.

"We hardly had to," said a voice from somewhere beyond the gun pointed into the room. "We have trackers for these things. An alarm went off not half an hour ago that one of our operatives was moving."

"Shit, I shoulda swept the cyborg," Hardison sighed. Buck looked indignant.

"Aw, man," Eliot groaned. "Now I gotta kick these Nazis' asses?"

"You can take the gold," the voice said. "You can even have the files! We just want the trunk."

Buck glanced at Eliot. "Three seconds," he said.

"Wait for it," Eliot said. Buck raised an eyebrow. "Parker, darlin?"

With a yell, Parker swung her backpack up and around, a bullet burying itself in the gold bars as she hit the gun, the hand holding it, and a good part of the arm. The force of the swing was enough to drive the man's arm into the frame, and there was a sick crack as the arm broke.

Buck lunged forward, blocking another bullet from some other shooter with his arm, moving faster than a human being should be able to move. Eliot counted, one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand and then followed him through the door.

There were eight guys, which wasn't a great concern, especially since one of them had a broken bone and a second was already unconscious, no doubt Buck's work. Eliot drew most of them down the hallway, leaving Parker and Hardison to follow and play cleanup. Parker was swinging her backpack, apparently enjoying herself. Eliot ducked a swing from one of them and knocked the gun out of his attacker's hand. Most of them were big men in dark suits, hilariously neutral, like video-game bad guys.

He heard, as he fought, Hardison having a conversation he was definitely going to make fun of later.

"Are you, is this, am I seeing a Black Hydra Nazi?" Hardison demanded.

"We're not Nazis anymore!" the man replied, sounding frustrated. Hardison got him with a left cross against his jaw so beautiful that Eliot took a second out of his beating on one of the other Nazis to just admire it.

"Yeah but like -- " Hardison kicked him in the junk, good man, " -- you know Hydra was Nazis right? And you haven't actually changed your philosophy at all, so..."

"We're very equal opportu -- " the man whuffed as Parker whacked him with her backpack.

"You're the bad guys! Come on man, this is some bullshit!" Hardison yelled. "You can't join the KKK just because they changed their name! You didn't even change your name!"

"Hail Hydra!" the man cried, and between the pair of guys he was fighting, Eliot saw Hardison jab the man in the sternum and turn, ramming his head into a wall.

"Hail my ass!" Hardison said. "Eliot?"

"I'm good," Eliot said, as he knocked one of his guys unconscious and Parker took care of the other one with the Backpack of Golden Doom.

Buck stood over the rest of the Hydra agents, hands on his hips.

"We gotta find the tracker," he said. "Might be in the arm," he added, offering it to Hardison.

"I'm not magic, I don't have cyber eyes that can find your tracker," Hardison said. "Let's get back in Lucille, get you in the Faraday cage."

They probably didn't have much time; Eliot grabbed a dolly from the basement and loaded both file cabinets sideways onto it, grunting and straining to get it out to the van while Buck effortlessly carried the trunk.

"Are you moving out?" someone asked, as they paraded through the lobby. "You're supposed to use the loading dock."

"Heh, yeah, this won't take long," Hardison assured her. "Hey man, what about..." he pointed at the couch.

"Seriously, Hardison?" Eliot asked.

"We're moving out, we don't wanna leave the couch..."

Buck, already returning from loading the trunk, picked up one end of the couch and gestured Parker to take the other.

Lucille was cramped by the time they locked Buck into the Faraday cage in the back and pulled away. A car full of big dudes in dark suits passed them, and Eliot narrowed his eyes, itching to finish things clean. Still, a getaway was more important, so he let it go, for now.

They couldn't risk going back to the pub while Buck was still, somehow, being tracked. Instead they went to an empty lot by the airport, a decent spot for a little bit of destruction. Eliot built a fire and began feeding the files and whatever he thought might melt from the trunk into it, while Hardison and Parker sat on the couch and sifted through the rest and Buck stayed in the cage.

"Hey, okay, I'm gonna take this apart and then we'll fix your arm," Hardison called back to Buck. Improbably, Parker had found a bag of marshmallows and was using what looked like some kind of electricity-based torture device to toast one over the fire. "Baby, make me one?"

"Sure," Parker said, adding another marshmallow. "This was fun. Next time we need graham crackers."

"Anything you can't destroy?" Buck called.

"Doesn't look like it," Hardison said. "I might keep this one, it looks harmle -- "

The object in his hands clicked and then shot a plume of colored smoke fifteen feet in the air. Hardison somehow slammed it shut and looked down at it, then hastily threw it on the fire, where it turned the flames bright purple.

It took them a few hours to destroy everything and find the tracker in Buck's arm, but by the time night was falling they were on their way back to the pub. On the couch in the back of the van, Parker did a count of the gold bars they'd taken and started calculating their worth with the help of a real-time gold value app on Hardison's phone.

"We could gold-plate your arm," she told Buck. "You'd be so shiny."

"I think I'm shiny enough," Buck said hesitantly. "But that's nice of you."

"Where do you really come from?" she asked.

"1944," he said.

"You're real well-preserved, man," Hardison called. "You should think about it. Gold arm. It'd go with your skin tone."

"Your share comes out to three bricks," Parker put in.

"You keep it," Buck said. "You gotta buy some new stuff for the bar."

"Don't tell her that unless you mean it," Eliot said, as the van pulled up to the pub.

"Too late, he said I could!" Parker said, which was when the door of the pub opened and Captain motherfucking America stepped out.

Hardison stopped in shock, and Parker stopped because Hardison did; Eliot, who was just behind Buck, saw him shudder to a stop like he was about to fall over.

There was a mechanical grumble and a shift in air pressure, and to their left, a man came slowly down to Earth, wide mechanical wings folding up into his back.

Hardison bit his fist, staring at the man with the wings. That was the Falcon; Parker had breathlessly reported that he'd broken into some top-secret military base to steal back his wings, and Hardison had a google alert set up for him.

"Hi, Buck," Captain America said, an uncertain smile on his face.

Buck heaved a deep breath.

Oh.

"Bucky Barnes," Eliot said aloud. "He's Bucky Barnes."

Hardison, fist still in his mouth, looked at Captain America and then back at Falcon.

"We have alibis!" Parker blurted.

Buck gently shifted Parker out of the way, then Hardison, putting himself between Captain America and the three of them. Eliot kept his eyes on the guns strapped to Falcon's wrists.

"It's okay, we're not here to fight. Just came to find a friend," Captain America said, in a low, soothing voice. "Just wanna talk, Buck."

"My Nana loves you," Hardison said to Falcon.

Eliot rubbed his eyes.

"Like, I'm a huge fan, I don't know why I said that first, but she has all your videos bookmarked on YouTube, I had to make her a special page so she can go watch them and show her church friends," Hardison continued. "Please, even if you shoot me, just don't make it vital, my Nana would love to brag that her boy got to meet the Falcon -- "

"Sam?" Captain America said, looking uncertain now.

"Hey, so," Eliot heard himself say. "Maybe let's do this inside where at least nobody calls the cops because half the staff of the pub is in some kind of weird standoff with a couple of superheroes?"

Captain America held the door open, and Buck led the way inside, still wary and pale, followed by Parker, followed by Falcon and Hardison, who was still talking.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Eliot said, stopping at the door and offering his hand. "Eliot Spencer. Sorry about the last five minutes. And everything that's about to happen."

The smile Cap gave him was genuine, and looked a little relieved. "Don't worry about it. Steve Rogers," he added, shaking Eliot's hand. Deep down inside, seven-year-old Eliot Spencer squeaked in delight.

Inside, Hardison, still talking, poured out another round, and Parker clung protectively to Buck while Wilson shrugged out of his flight rig and Rogers set his shield (the shield) down under the bar.

"How'd you find us?" Buck asked, as Hardison fell silent.

"Connections," Rogers said vaguely. "Got word of a guy beating up some people in Portland, got some security footage...put two and two together."

"Didn't have to. I was taking care'a myself," Buck said.

Rogers' eyes dropped to his I LIKE PI shirt. "I see that," he said quietly, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "You look good, Bucky."

"Ain't goin' back to New York," Buck continued. "I got business to finish."

"Like what?" Wilson asked. He sounded honestly curious.

Buck glanced at Parker. "Owe these folks a favor, for one," he said. "I can't -- s'too close, Steve. I gotta -- New York's too close. I gotta make sure I'm...me. First. I think."

Eliot, confident that nobody was gonna throw a punch and, if they did, Captain America would probably handle it, ducked back and into the kitchen, keeping one ear cocked as he raided the fridge. What did one serve Captain America? Did he even like beer? No, Hardison was pouring scotch --

He settled on some gazpacho he'd been assembling for the evening menu, along with a plateful of cheddar crackers and some onion dip he'd been messing around with. Gazpacho wasn't very American, not like apple pie or something, but...

He re-emerged to find that Parker had put herself between Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers and was haranguing Captain America, who looked completely bewildered and a little shamefaced.

"...so you don't get to just walk into my gastropub and give us orders when Buck gave me all this gold," she said, waving a bar of gold under Cap's nose.

"O-Kay," Eliot said, and everyone turned to look at him. "I have food," he said.

"That sounds good," Wilson said, tugging Rogers subtly away from Parker, who was slapping the gold bar against her palm.

Food seemed to help; Buck, for one, ate like he hadn't had a meal in a week, and Parker usually calmed down when she had crackers and dip in front of her. Hardison sat next to Wilson and kept up an enduring but quiet monologue, which seemed to both amuse and delight the superhero.

"Now, what's the damn problem?" Eliot asked, pulling a chair between Rogers and Buck.

"He can't be in the wind," Rogers said. "It's not me, I swear, Buck, like half of the entire country's law enforcement is looking for you. We'll get it straightened out but they gotta stop having kittens over finding you. If you come back to New York they'll stop looking. And we can at least protect you."

"I can't," Buck said, with an immovable expression on his face that looked like it was poorly masking terror.

"Okay, but -- maybe we could find a safehouse -- " Rogers started.

"No! I ain't been free in seventy years, I'm not gettin' locked up now!"

"Hey," Eliot said sharply. They looked at him. "Man doesn't wanna go, he ain't goin'," he said to Rogers, and then turned to Bucky. "And you, you gotta hear what he's saying because it sounds like you are in a whole truckload of trouble."

"Thank you," Rogers said.

"Not done with you," Eliot told him, then turned back to Bucky. "They gotta know you're somewhere safe, right?"

Bucky looked reluctant.

"Ain't playin' with you, Buck, you tell me straight," Eliot insisted.

"Yeah," Buck muttered, turning sullenly to the remains of his gazpacho.

"You be fine long as you know whereabouts he is?" Eliot asked Rogers.

"Be happier if he was with me," Rogers replied.

"Jesus, no wonder we won the war, do you ever give an inch?"

"Not likely," Bucky muttered. Parker snickered.

"He can stay here," she said, and both men looked at her. "What? He's fun. You can be our bartender, with your fun fancy arm," she added. "You can be our startender."

"Let's not get carried away," Eliot started, with visions of poorly-poured beer and badly-matched wines, but Parker waved him off.

"You can teach him, he'll be fine. And he can hit people so you don't have to bruise your knuckles," she added.

"I like hitting people," Eliot said.

"FINE, you can take turns. Then you'll know where he is," she told Rogers, "and nobody has to be upset and everyone will be happy and I'll convince him to let me gold plate his arm."

Rogers looked reluctant, but a glance at Bucky and he nodded. "That could work. I could -- make that work with SHIELD and the FBI."

"Oh, the FBI's giving you grief?" Hardison asked, head rising from his conference with Wilson. "Shit, that's no problem. Parker and I are FBI agents."

"What?" Rogers asked.

"Fake FBI agents, but our credentials are solid," Parker said. "Technically he's in FBI custody right this minute."

"Do I want to know?" Rogers asked Eliot.

"Probably not," Eliot said.

"You'd be okay staying here?" Rogers asked Bucky, who nodded, eyes darting to him and back down to his clean soup bowl.

"Hey," Eliot said, gesturing at Parker and Hardison. "Let's go upstairs."

"But -- " Hardison began, but Wilson stood too.

"You said you had the new Lords of War beta, right?" Wilson asked. He gave Hardison a significant look, then glanced at Bucky and Rogers.

"Oh -- yeah, man, let's hook you up, it's got two-player, we can go head to head, like -- " Hardison was already running for the stairs. Eliot followed them up, glancing back down at where Rogers and Bucky were now sitting close, speaking quietly together.

In the apartment, he settled in on the couch next to Parker, who was watching Hardison and Sam Wilson play through Hardison's favorite new video game beta.

"We did a good thing today," she said. He kissed her temple.

"Yeah we did. Now I gotta train a new bartender," he said, "but we did a good thing."

"And Captain America shook your hand."

"And Captain America shook my hand," he agreed. "That was awesome."

***

Despite Hardison's unilateral offer to have Steve and Sam stay the night, they left about an hour later. Being fair, they had a private quinjet, so it wasn't like they were suffering. And Sam signed an autograph for Hardison's Nana, so Hardison had to go lock it up in the safe until he could hand-deliver it.

Back when they'd moved into the apartment over the gastropub, they'd set aside one bedroom for Hardison and Parker, one for Eliot, and one to use as an office when meeting clients. At this point Eliot hadn't used his bedroom in months, and he'd moved his few possessions over to the master bedroom, but he liked the security of knowing he still could go back, if for some reason he had to. Parker and Hardison, with what was probably equal parts laziness and kind understanding, had left it as a bedroom, even though Hardison sometimes made rumblings about building a Gamer Cave. Eliot was new to all this, relatively speaking; they let him have his boltholes, for which he was grateful.

At any rate, the bed linens were dusty but the spare bedroom was still pretty much move-in ready. Barnes prowled around it, investigating, and then sat on the bed and said, "Thanks."

"Get settled in. You can eat anything in the fridge but the cheese," said Eliot, who was apparently appointed the Hospitality Committee if the way Parker and Hardison had abandoned Bucky to him was anything to go by. "Well, you can eat the cheddar."

"Preciate it," Bucky said. "You mean what you all said? About working for you?"

"Betting your paycheck'll be more about punching than pouring, but sure," Eliot said. "You see what we do. Help people who need helping. Sounds like you could use a little of that."

Bucky nodded, almost absently.

"Well, okay," Eliot said awkwardly. "See you in the morning. Be up early, you gotta help me clean up downstairs before we open for brunch and then I gotta teach you about the microbrew menu."

He left Bucky in the bedroom and made a note to dig out some more clothes for him in the morning. He crossed the living room, flicking lights out as he went, checked the lock and booby trap on the front door, checked the kitchen to make sure the lights were off, and passed down the hall into the master bedroom. Hardison and Parker were already curled up on the bed, smelling like hand cream and toothpaste respectively. He changed into his pyjamas quietly and crawled in next to Hardison, carefully making enough noise to reassure Parker nobody was sneaking around.

"How's Bucky?" Parker asked.

"Fine. He'll settle in," Eliot replied. "What'd you do with the gold?"

Parker yawned. "Under the bed."

"She's gonna gold-plate everything that can be gold-plated," Hardison mumbled sleepily.

"You stay away from my knives," Eliot warned. Parker pointedly snored by way of reply.

Eliot planted his face between Hardison's shoulderblades, which was one of his favorite ways to fall asleep, and drifted off with one ear still cocked towards the guest bedroom, just in case.

He woke an indeterminate amount of time later, and wasn't sure why. Hardison slept like the dead unless his phone rang, but Parker was a light sleeper and usually if something woke him, it woke her too. She was still curled up in Hardison's arms, though, so Eliot slipped out of the bed and went to investigate.

As soon as he put his head out of the bedroom doorway he knew what had woken him -- the quiet buzz of the screen going on.

Bucky was sitting in front of the muted wall screen; he'd apparently worked out a lot faster than Eliot had how to switch it over to TV and browse the cable. He turned, knife already out, when Eliot closed the bedroom door -- then relaxed, the knife vanishing as fast as it had appeared.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he mouthed.

"It's all right," Eliot said quietly, joining him in the living room. "They won't wake up if they know I'm out here."

He let the Couldn't sleep? go unsaid, because it was obvious and he didn't get the sense Bucky was a guy who liked to be prompted to share.

"Science channel almost always has birds on, this time'a night," he said instead, going to the kitchen. Bucky watched him, still a little on edge. "Or Cinemax has softcore porn."

He heard a snort, and smiled. The buttons on the universal remote clicked softly, and then David Attenborough's voice emerged from the speakers, muffled down to low volume.

Eliot took salami, cheese, and some prosciutto out of the fridge, chopping the cheese into cubes and slicing the salami, throwing some more crackers onto the plate before carrying it into the living room and plopping it onto Bucky's lap. He sat down next to him and stretched out, leaning back into the cushions, arms casually draped over the back of the couch.

"You always feed your strays?" Bucky asked.

"Didn't used to. Getting to enjoy it," Eliot said. Bucky tried some of the salami on a cracker, and then with a sidelong glance at Eliot, poked one of the cheese cubes. Eliot picked one up at random and popped it into his mouth. Sure enough, Bucky waited until he'd swallowed before eating one. There sat a man who'd had his food drugged more than once. Getting the history of Bucky Barnes was going to be interesting.

"So what's the story with the other two?" Bucky asked. Eliot glanced at him. "You and them."

"You met them," Eliot said. "Someone's gotta look out for 'em."

"That what you do?"

"Among other things."

Bucky made a small, wondering noise and ate a slice of prosciutto. Eliot watched the television and waited patiently.

"I only remember 'bout half the life I lived," Bucky said eventually. "It starts comin' back in dreams. Sometimes it's all right, you know. Sometimes I don't wanna remember what I do, so I don't sleep."

"I did some bad things, in my past," Eliot said thoughtfully. "Made some dumb choices."

"It bother you?"

"Not anymore. I make better choices now."

"I didn't always have a choice."

"Well," Eliot said, "then you don't gotta atone for it, if it wasn't your choice. And every one of those is one more reason to hit back."

Bucky ate another bite of cheese. On the screen, David Attenborough expounded on the skeletal structure of emus.

"How long you and them been a thing?" he asked finally.

"Officially? Bout a year, little over. They were together first."

"Unofficially?"

Eliot snorted. "I know they were gonna be the end of me the day we met. Took a couple years to admit it, that's all."

"Yeah?" Bucky asked. "What do you know about me?"

Eliot glanced over at him. "You? Trouble, probably."

"Oh."

"Bet you're gonna be our favorite kind of trouble," Eliot added.

"What kind is that?"

"Never boring," Eliot said with a grin.

Bucky grinned back, then turned to the television again, absently eating. He was about halfway through the plate of food when his eyelids started to droop; Eliot gently reached over and took the plate out of his hands, setting it aside before leaning back in to tug Bucky's head down onto his shoulder. A minute later he was out like a light, breathing soft and even, a dreamless kind of sleep Eliot knew you only got in their line of work when you felt safe.

The kid could use someone to look out for him, someone he didn't have a history with. Eliot had kind of got in the habit of that now, anyhow.

Besides, he did help them find an awful lot of gold.

END

comments

God Save The Queen (Avengers)

2016-02-28T12:32:55Z

Title: God Save The Queen
Rating: Teen and Up
Warnings: None
Summary: Bucky was having a great time with Lizbet, until her dad got involved.
Notes: Happy birthday, Jean. :D Based on a post that got slightly out of hand.

Also available at AO3.

***

"Get in!"

The transport truck had roared up to the gully where Steve and the Commandos were hiding, looking like an angel from heaven and smelling like a diesel fire. For a second Steve did a double-take, because the driver yelling at them looked a little like Peggy and sounded like her too, but Peggy was huddled up between Buck and Gabe, holding a clean(ish) cloth to the wound in Bucky's shoulder.

"We haven't much time," the woman at the wheel yelled. Bullets whizzed past.

"Lizbet?" Peggy yelled.

"Peg!" the woman yelled back, cheerily. "Come on, I'd prefer not to be shot!"

Peggy started to move, which was all it took for the rest of them to go too. Steve helped Gabe and Morita get Bucky into the back, then dove into the cab next to Peggy, who was wiping her face with a handkerchief. The driver -- Lizbet, apparently -- threw the truck into gear and took off, bouncing down the road and away from the burning factory that had been....more well-stocked with Hydra soldiers than intel had led them to believe.

"Lizbet, what on Earth are you doing here?" Peggy asked, sounding delighted. "You know you're not meant to be near combat."

"Oh, I wasn't! The truck's full of C-rations, you know," Lizbet said. "But I was at the tail end of the convoy, and I saw the fire. I thought I'd take a detour to see what it was all about. What a lark, isn't it?" she said, baring her teeth in a thrilled smile.

"We're very grateful, ma'am," Steve said, because Peggy looked like she wanted to scold.

"My pleasure, I'm sure," Lizbet said.

"Lizbet, this is Captain Steve Rogers, seconded to the SSR," Peggy said. "Steve, this is Lizbet Windham, she's a subaltern in the ATS."

"Junior commander now," Lizbet said. "You're the big bluff American fellow they put in all the film reels, aren't you?"

"Guilty," Steve said, feeling oddly charmed by the woman's easy manner. "Your timing's nice. Pleasure to meet you, Windham."

"Likewise, Rogers."

"Captain," a voice came from behind them, and Pinky put his head through the small gap where a window divided the cab from the canvas-covered truck bed. "Barnes says -- good lord!" he interrupted himself, staring at their rescue driver with bulging eyes.

"Pinkie," Peggy said, an odd note in her voice. "This is our rescuer, Lizbet Windham. She's a junior commander in the ATS."

Pinky looked at Peggy, eyes still wide, then back at Lizbet.

"Well," he said after a stunned second. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Erm. Cap," he added, turning back to Steve, who felt he was missing a subtext somewhere. "Barnes said he got the paperwork you asked for," he said, handing over a bloodstained packet of papers. "And Morita says Barnes is only pretending he's dying, he's really fine."

"I AM DYING," Bucky's voice drifted out indignantly.

"WELL, TRY TO DO IT QUIETLY," Steve called back, handing the documents to Peggy. Lizbet laughed.

"We aren't far from the road the convoy was on, I should be able to catch them up," she said. "Have you snug in one of those dreadful military tents in no time, Captain."

"Hey," Gabe said, leaning through the window Pinky had used a few minutes before. "Can we open some'a these rations up?"

"Up to Windham," Steve said, nodding at Lizbet. "It's her haul."

"Of course, I'm sure your men are starving. Do hand up something edible for the Captain and Peg," Lizbet said. "Thanks ever so, private...?"

"Gabe Jones, ma'am. Much obliged," Gabe said, and a few minutes later he handed up a package of crackers, a block of "fortified chocolate", and a tin of chicken. Steve opened the can of chicken and scooped some onto a cracker, passing it to Peggy, who ate it neatly and split the fortified chocolate block with Lizbet.

They caught up to the convoy soon enough, and Steve heard Bucky wheeze thank God as they got back onto a solid road. Steve savored his share of the chicken and crackers, listening to Peggy and Lizbet discuss mutual acquaintances. He gathered that they must have met in training, and he wasn't entirely sure Lizbet knew that Peggy was a spy. She very carefully wasn't asking what Peggy was doing in a ditch with a gang of mostly-American soldiers, however, so who knew. Steve left the espionage up to Peggy, who was more suited to it, and just kept quiet and ate his ration.

It was another long hour before he could see the shadowed bulk of a military camp up ahead, mostly dark but with the telltale red-ember bob of men smoking cigarettes at the walls. The convoy passed through easily enough, and Lizbet was out of the truck as soon as it was parked, rounding the back to peer inside.

"Aren't you lot jolly filthy," she said cheerfully, lowering the gate and reaching up to help them ease Bucky down. Steve caught him by the shoulders, checking to see if he was steady enough on his feet to walk, and considered scooping him into a carry.

"I'm fine, lunkhead," Bucky said, but then he caught sight of Lizbet, and Steve sighed internally. "Well, I wouldn't mind a shoulder to lean on," he added, and turned his big baby blues on her. "Think you could be a soldier's guardian angel for another few minutes, ma'am?" he asked.

Behind Lizbet, Peggy rolled her eyes. Lizbet gave Steve the most knowing look a woman had ever bestowed on him, and tucked her shoulder gently under Bucky's armpit.

"We'll have you right as rain in no time," she said, as he hobbled with an exaggerated limp away from camp. As he passed, Steve hissed You were shot in the shoulder, not the kneecap and Bucky gave him a dirty grin.

Peggy hitched herself up onto the open gate of the truck, legs swinging, and partook of the rest of the rations the boys had opened, demanding some wafer sweets from Dum Dum and sharing cold chipped beef and steamed canned bread with Morita.

"I hope Bucky minds his manners," she said to Steve, as he leaned against the truck next to her and swiped some of her wafer sweets.

"You know Buck, he's all bluster," he said. "He wouldn't take advantage."

"Glad to hear it," Pinky told him. "That Windham -- "

He whuffed as Peggy's elbow landed in his solar plexus.

"Something one of you wants to tell me?" Steve asked, eyebrows rising.

"It's not really of any consequence," Peggy said. "Lizbet's father is quite high up in the Royal Navy, that's all. Bucky could cause something of an international incident."

"Fortunately all she has to do is poke him in the shoulder and he'll probably go down for the count," Steve said drily. "But if you want me to go play chaperone, it's not like I ain't used to it."

"Dear me, no," Peggy said, patting his cheek. "Finish your tea like a good soldier and then we'll go find whoever's in charge and report in."

"I outrank you, you know," Steve said.

"Shall we test that?" Peggy asked. Steve smiled, aware he looked like a schoolboy with his first crush, and stuffed some crackers in his mouth rather than answering.

***

The next morning, Steve walked into the mess tent to see Lizbet and Peggy sitting together with their breakfasts, chatting amiably. They exchanged a look when he approached with a tin mug of coffee, and Peggy patted the seat next to hers.

"Managed to detach yourself from my sergeant?" Steve asked, and Lizbet smiled sweetly.

"He's a dear. Quite deranged and unsubtle, but very sweet," she said. "Right before he fell asleep from the massive cocktail of painkillers I put in his tea, he asked me to go dancing with him when we're back in London."

"I like her," Steve said to Peggy.

"Just as well; I have our orders," Peggy said, holding up an envelope. "Lizbet's to drive us as far as the Channel, and then we're off to London. You're wanted for a short propaganda film -- "

Steve groaned. "Peggy, nooooo."

"Oh, poor lamb," Peggy said, patting the back of his head as he bent over his coffee. "And I have intel to deliver. Lizbet's coming along too, so Bucky will no doubt get his dance."

"Peggy tells me if I play my cards right and shoot enough Nazis, I may qualify for the Howling Commandos," Lizbet said, the droll note in her voice suggesting this was an unsought honor. "I'm sure father will be thrilled."

"Yeah, Peggy said something about your dad being a Navy man," Steve said. Lizbet nodded, smiling. "Holding up the family name, huh?"

"Well, someone must, and I'm the eldest, so it falls to me," Lizbet said. "Anyway, I must go look over the transport vehicles before we depart. I shall see you again soon, Captain, I'm sure."

She left, throwing a wave to Bucky as he lurked into the tent; Bucky turned and watched her go for so long he nearly ran into the nearest table. He corrected, grimaced, and sat down next to Steve, leaning into him and taking his coffee.

"Hung over?" Peggy asked sympathetically. "Lizbet drugged you."

"Figured that," Bucky mumbled. "Not hung over, just can't quite get awake."

"Take your time, we're being shipped back to HQ," Steve said. "No briefings today."

"Aww -- " Bucky sounded heartbroken.

Peggy grinned. "Lizbet's driving us," she said, around sips of coffee. Bucky perked up a little, as much as he could.

"Great! We can get a pass and go dancing," he said. Steve took his coffee back while Bucky beamed and buried his face in Steve's shoulder sleepily. Steve let him, still thrilled that Bucky could lean on him as hard as he used to lean on Bucky when he was a little fella.

***

Their transport turned out to be a slightly more well-appointed truck than last time, but they still had to haul cargo as well as men, and they weren't always going to be in entirely friendly territory. Steve had planned to ride with Peggy and Lizbet again, but he decided it would be smarter to ride point on his motorcycle. Peggy was going to drive a jeep with Jones and Dum Dum in it as rear guard, which left Lizbet to drive the truck -- and Bucky to pull rank and ride with her in the cab. Every time Steve looked over his shoulder on the long drive to the airstrip, the pair of them were chatting amiably, Bucky occasionally gesturing for emphasis.

God knew, Bucky could turn on the charm when he wanted, but he was usually something of a fly-by-night -- he'd meet a girl, take her dancing, maybe steal a kiss or a little more, and then move on. He wasn't really a making-conversation kind of a fella. At least, not usually. Steve wondered if Bucky was turning over a new leaf.

From France they took a small transport plane across the Channel, a nerve-wracking and unsteady flight. By the time they actually arrived in London, all of them were exhausted and Steve settled the men into the barracks through a sleepy haze before falling into the bed they assigned him in officers' quarters, trusting Peggy and Lizbet to sort themselves out without his hovering. He woke, almost ten hours later, to find that the rest of the Commandos had taken 24-hour passes and gone. The local ranking Army officer had apparently blocked anyone from coming to wake him up, and he grumpily sat through two pointless briefings and then got trapped in small talk for another half an hour before Howard rescued him.

"Steve! I heard you were back in London," Howard called, throwing an arm around his shoulders and steering him away from the colonel who'd been monopolizing Steve's time. "Sorry sir, I've got orders to take Rogers here for materials testing. Chop chop, been waitin' on you..."

"I have to be somewhere else now?" Steve sighed, aware he sounded petulant.

"What? No, hell no," Howard replied with a laugh, steering him down a corridor. "I came to save you, that guy'll talk your ear off. Materials testing is a code."

"A code for what?" Steve asked, mystified.

"Well, let's just say the materials we're testing will be high-proof or wearin' lipstick. The fellas said to convey their regrets they couldn't wait for ya, and Barnes left a pass at the front desk."

"Oh!" Steve brightened. "I don't even know what time it is."

"These gaw-damn bunkers, right? It's fine, I know where they're bound to be. Say, Barnes is keeping elevated company, isn't he? Glad Peg went along as chaperone."

"Hm?" Steve asked, as Howard handed him the sign-out book and his pass paper.

"The ATS girl he's got on his arm tonight."

"Ah yes," Steve said. "Well, you know Bucky."

"Not as well as she will," Howard laughed, leading the way up the stairs and out of the bunker, into the blue light of London just past sunset. Nowhere in the world smelled quite like Brooklyn, but Steve inhaled deeply, because London came close. "Off we go!"

***

It was a nice night, once he and Howard found the Commandos in a little dance hall full of soldiers. Full of girls, too, but Steve was content to sit at a table on the edge of the dance floor and chat with Peggy while the others danced. He had to keep one eye on the fellas to make sure none of them got rowdy ("Well, that's irony for you," Bucky drawled) so he and Peggy didn't get too deep into anything, but he told her a little about art school before the war, and she promised him a tour of the British Museum once everything was back where it ought to be after the war.

The Commandos, being mostly young men in the prime of life, always thought it was a shame to sleep through any portion of a 24-hour pass; when the bar shut down, the fellas wanted to go get into mischief of some other kind, but Steve would rather not witness whatever they were going to do, and anyway Peggy and Lizbet had reputations to maintain, unfair as it was.

"Come on," Steve said to Bucky, as the dance hall began to empty. "Let's walk 'em home."

"And then get into some kind of trouble without us, no doubt," Peggy said, a little bit of bite to her tone.

"Nah. It's not long until breakfast; we'll go see some nighttime sights and then get ourselves a meal," Steve replied. Bucky was helping Lizbet on with her uniform coat; once she had it done up, he wrapped an arm around her waist. Steve glanced at Peggy, wondering if he could do the same; she gave him an amused look and then sidled close enough that he put his arm over her shoulder instead, which was probably more comfortable. He still wasn't always used to being so tall.

They strolled along the street that way, Lizbet leaning her head on Bucky's shoulder, Peggy warm under Steve's arm, moving slowly enough that they didn't have to dodge the soldiers and women who were coming out of other dance halls and bars and the USO. The closer they got to the bunker where the womens' barracks was, the quieter the streets got, until it was just the four of them.

And then --

A fella stepped out of the alley with a kind of calm, assured air, and two cars pulled up next to them with a quiet rumble. For a second Steve thought they were being robbed, because he saw the man's hands in his pockets, and he stepped away from Peggy, wishing he'd brought his shield. Not that he and Bucky couldn't take one man like this with their fists, but the front car was unloading men in dark suits with intent faces, and Peggy could hold her own but he didn't know if Lizbet could --

"Brinton, dear lord," Lizbet said, as Steve started forward to block the others with his body. Steve hesitated, twisting, and Lizbet pulled away from Bucky, putting up her hand. "It's all right, Captain, he's not here to rob us."

"Miss," the man -- apparently Brinton -- said calmly. The other fellas in dark suits were gathering around him.

"Well, this is a parade," Lizbet sighed. "What is it, Brinton? You know I have a superior officer who usually knows where I am."

"I'm afraid there's been a fracas at home regarding your pass this evening," Brinton replied. His eyes drifted to Steve, then to Bucky. "Barnes, I presume?"

Lizbet looked annoyed. "I was on a pass, I told my CO where I was -- "

"And you will note I did not interrupt your evening out," Brinton replied.

"What's this about, please?" Steve started to ask. Peggy poked him. "What?" he asked her.

"I believe these men are with the King's Guard," she said.

"What's that when it's at home?" Bucky asked.

"Personal security to the royal house of Windsor," Peggy replied.

"Just so, ma'am," Brinton said. "Miss, you'll need to come with us," he said to Lizbet. "Captain, Sergeant, in the second car if you please. Ma'am, you're free to return to quarters," he said to Peggy.

"I'm sure I'm also free to -- " Peggy began, but broke off when Steve shook his head. "Steve!"

"You go on, Peg," he said, leaning in close, pretending a kiss. "I don't know what's going on," he whispered in her ear, "but someone needs to tell the base where we are. Maybe call the Commandos for a jailbreak?"

Peggy nodded, then turned and did kiss him on the cheek. "Good thinking," she agreed.

Steve gave Bucky a please go quietly look; Bucky rolled his eyes but followed as Steve was herded into the second car. They watched Lizbet slide gracefully into the car in front of them, and then the convoy was off.

"I don't suppose we get an explanation," Steve said to the driver.

"Sorry, sir. My job's just to fetch and carry," the man replied.

They drove through the darkened streets for what felt like a long time, but probably wasn't; eventually they pulled onto a long drive through a park, and Steve started to get concerned.

"Where are we going?" he asked the driver.

"Buckingham Palace," the man replied.

"Why?" Bucky blurted.

"Search me," the man said, as the cars pulled to a stop. "I drive the car, I don't ask the questions."

"Lizbet, are you all right?" Bucky called, as she got out of the car in front of them.

"I'm fine, Jim, there's nothing to worry about!" she called back. "Just keep mum!"

"Jim?" Steve asked. Lizbet was being guided up a set of stairs; he and Bucky were diverted to another set leading down.

"Bucky's a kid's name," Bucky said. "Jim's classier, you gotta be classy to impress a lady like Lizbet."

"Whatever you say, Jim," Steve replied, ducking through a door held open for him by a servant in real actual livery. "Is this...are we being thrown in a dungeon?" he asked.

"If you would wait here, Captain, Sergeant," Brinton said from behind them, crowding them into what seemed like a disused medieval kitchen. "You'll be sent for directly we have need. If you would like food or some tea perhaps, just tell one of the guards."

"Do we...?" Steve asked Bucky in a whisper.

"I'm not drinking anything being brought to me by some grand vizier who seems very mad at us," Bucky whispered back.

"We're fine, thanks," Steve said to Brinton, who nodded and withdrew. Bucky kicked out a chair, sat down, and took a pack of cards out of his pocket. He always carried one; you never knew when you'd meet a sucker who couldn't recognize a poker hustle.

The two fellas guarding them wouldn't be pulled into a game, so Steve and Bucky played Goofspiel to pass the time. Steve was down, but not by much (he couldn't bluff at all, but Bucky couldn't bluff him), when Brinton returned.

"Come with me, please," he said, as Bucky tidied the cards away. They followed him through a network of hallways and up two flights of stairs; he stopped halfway down another hallway and turned to regard them keenly.

"Well, you don't look too disreputable," he sighed, and Steve was about to take offense when he turned and opened a pair of double-doors, gesturing them inside.

There was a fire going in a large room, which was full of decorative furniture and hung with blackout curtains over the windows. Lizbet was standing near the fireplace, looking extremely angry; there was a middle-aged man sitting in a chair across a wide expanse of carpet from the fireplace. He had a long, narrow face with arching eyebrows and vivid blue eyes; there was an unmistakable familial resemblance.

Brinton shut the doors behind himself. Bucky went to cross the carpet to Lizbet; Brinton slid around quickly and blocked him.

"Getting kinda tired of you, pal," Bucky growled.

"Brinton," the man in the chair said. Steve stared at him, eyes narrowed. He looked familiar. Brinton stood aside, and Bucky joined Lizbet in front of the fire, clearly checking to be sure she was okay.

"Well, nice to know your priorities are correct," the man in the chair said, standing. He was wearing the fanciest pyjamas Steve had ever seen, under a quilted dressing gown.

The penny, finally dropped.

"Captain," the man said.

"Your...majesty," Steve replied.

"Very good. It's sire thereafter. Awkward, I'm aware," King George said, giving him a mirthless smile. "This is my daughter Elizabeth. More properly Her Royal Highness Elizabeth, Princess of York."

"I'm so terribly sorry," Lizbet said, mostly to Bucky. "This is all a dreadful mistake."

"I see we agree on something," the king said drily.

"Father, this is absolutely -- "

"Necessary, Elizabeth," the king interrupted. "I'm sure once they understand, the Captain and Sergeant Barnes will agree."

"Princess," Bucky repeated. Steve understood how he felt.

"It's just utterly mortifying," Lizbet complained. Steve felt this was maybe understating things, but then she hadn't been the one put on house arrest in a medieval kitchen.

"You see, gentlemen, Elizabeth is my daughter," the king continued, looking almost indulgent in the face of her wrath. "She is my eldest and at the same time my baby. She is one heartbeat away from monarchy. When I die she will ascend th -- th -- th -- "

He closed his eyes, mouthed something to himself, and continued.

"Ascend the throne," he said. "I allowed her to join the service corps on the very strict condition that she keep herself far from combat, which I understand she has not done," he continued, a little temper starting to show through. "And that she comport herself with the utmost of decency and discretion, which remains to be seen."

"It was one dance -- !" Lizbet protested.

"I will not see you end up like your uncle!" the king retorted, wheeling on her. Bucky stepped in front of her. "Oh, don't bother with your chivalry!"

"I don't know what you call chivalry, in America we call it common decency," Bucky shot back. Steve readied himself to be the guy who let James Barnes take a swing at the King of England.

"Common decency! Taking my daughter to a dance hall! Keeping her out at all hours!"

"Hey, buster, nobody took Lizbet anywhere, she agreed all on her own!" Bucky retorted. "Just because I ain't got a title -- "

"You couldn't spell a title -- "

"Enough," Steve said, and to his shock, all three of them turned to him, startled. Well, he had a little more...boom in his voice than he used to, he supposed. "There's no call to say that kind of thing," he said to the king. "And you, keep your yap shut, you know you'd do the same if some fella you didn't know was stepping out with Becca," he added to Bucky, who looked taken aback. "And both'a'you better stop yelling over Lizbet's head as I think she knows her own mind well enough," he finished. Lizbet -- the princess, he supposed -- looked grateful.

"I'm not accustomed to that kind of address by Americans," the king observed.

"Well, no, I imagine not, but then most Americans aren't accustomed to bein' taken off the street for showing a lady a nice time," Steve replied. "I know you don't know us from Adam, but I'm not above trading on my reputation. And I think you know Captain America's got a condition where he doesn't like to lie."

The king narrowed his eyes. "True enough," he acknowledged.

"Then you won't mind me vouching for this one," Steve said, nodding at Bucky. "He might not be the most refined fella ever, but he wouldn't do wrong by a woman. If he wants to take a lady out for a dance, a dance is all he expects. And that's a promise from Captain America, on our honor as soldiers."

The king ran a hand over his face. "I'd rather have your honor as men; I've met soldiers," he said, a wry tilt to his mouth.

"That too," Steve replied. "Isn't that right, Buck?"

"Right," Bucky agreed, to Steve's relief. "Well, he is Navy, course he doesn't trust Army," he said to Lizbet in an undertone.

"You can understand my apprehension," the king said. "My family has not had the best luck with A -- A -- A -- "

Steve glanced at Lizbet, who looked agonized on her father's behalf.

"Americans," the king finished.

"Uncle Edward," Lizbet murmured to Bucky.

"Oh," Bucky said. "Yeah, that'd set a fella off, I guess."

"So I had to understand what your intentions were," the king continued hurriedly. "She is my daughter, Captain."

"Every lady's someone's daughter," Steve said. "We know that, sir. Sire," he corrected, wondering if Captain America really ought to address a king so respectfully. After all, about a hundred and fifty years ago they'd bucked all this nonsense back home.

"I'm glad you do. And my daughter has reminded me quite forcibly that while our lives are forefeit to the people, we do have a right to some decisions on our own," the king finished, sighing.

"Jim was a complete gentleman," Lizbet put in. Bucky gestured at her, a see? motion.

"I'm certain he was, my dear," the king replied. "But one mustn't take chances. Now, Elizabeth must stay at the palace tonight, and we can arrange -- " he began, but he was interrupted by the doors opening. A servant leaned through and whispered to Brinton, who Steve had totally forgotten was there.

"Sire," Brinton said, poker-faced. "Apparently there is a small platoon of soldiers attempting to infiltrate the east wing of the palace."

Bucky rubbed his eyes. Steve sighed.

"That'll be our ride," he said.

"The infamous Howling Commandos?" the king asked.

"Well, you let Peggy get away," Steve said to Brinton.

"A mistake I will not make again, Captain," Brinton said impertubably.

"Fine, fine. Brinton, deal with them; tell them their comrades will be released shortly," the king said irritably. "You had better go with him," he said to Steve. "And you," he added to Bucky.

"Go on," Lizbet said to Bucky quietly. "It'll all be fine, I promise. Father's really a dear when he's not being utterly old fashioned and horrible," she added, giving the king a significant look.

"She'll be back at her post tomorrow," the king said. "I expect you will comport yourselves like gentlemen."

"Father!"

"You'll understand when you have children of your own and they give you grey hair," the king replied. "Off with you, all three of you; to bed, Elizabeth."

Steve let Bucky and Elizabeth go first, following them out; in the hallway he and Brinton both pretended not to watch Bucky say goodbye, and then they were being hustled along towards the sound of shouting, which turned out to be Dum Dum having a furious fistfight with one of the palace guards while Peggy held off two more with the business end of a bayonet.

"Our heroes," Bucky remarked.

"Let's go keep them from being arrested for treason," Steve sighed.

***

My dear Captain,

I had meant to write to you before now, but I wasn't certain I ought; I know you must have had a great deal to adjust to, and those of us who took "the long road" from the war to the present day may be an uncomfortable reminder of your loss. I am so sorry for what you have suffered in sacrifice to your country, and yet I was so terribly pleased to hear you had been restored to us.

I write because I understand you have recovered Sergeant Barnes as well, and I simply could not let the occasion pass. I have such dear and fond memories of both of you as young men; young gods in my eyes, to be sure. Running about Europe with the Howling Commandos was the jolliest time any princess ever had, and I treasure those memories to this day. I am ever grateful to Jim for being such a gentleman and to yourself for smoothing over that incident with my father, which I'm sure you must remember. His heart was in the right place, old dear; as a mother, I understand that now.

Please do convey to Jim my condolences on his recent misfortunes and my happy memories of our brief time together during the war. If there is anything it is in my power to provide, don't hesitate to ask. Dear Brinton has passed on but his granddaughter currently fills the role and will be happy to act in your interests should you require. And, when you feel the time is right, you must come to visit. I should greatly enjoy reliving old times with both of you. If you write to me at this address the letter will arrive directly.

In my memories of you both I remain,

Junior Commander Lizbet Windham, Women's Auxiliary Territorial Service

Her Majesty Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith

***

Steve set the letter aside, folding it carefully up again, fingering the wax seal that had held it shut. It was very ornate. Bucky, on the other end of the couch, looked thoughtful.

"I remember that," he said.

"It was pretty memorable," Steve agreed.

"This is some next-level TMZ shit is what this is," Sam put in from the nearby chair, where he'd been listening to Steve tell the story with rapt attention. "You had a hot affair with the Queen of England," he said to Bucky, who gave him a small smile.

"She wasn't the queen then," Steve pointed out.

"She was going to be! And don't give me that you-didn't-know line, you knew, you fully knew after her dad the king hauled you in for the shovel talk," Sam said.

"She'd like you," Bucky said.

"Everyone likes me. I'm very likeable," Sam replied. "You're gonna take me along, right? I want to have tea with the Queen. I want a selfie with her. Think of my instagram," he told Steve, who grinned.

"She would like him," he said to Bucky. "I'll write her back. Should I tell her you say hi?"

"Yeah. Tell her I remember her," Bucky said. What he remembered and didn't remember was important to him, Steve knew. "Tell her she's still the classiest lady I know."

END

comments

Light Show (Avengers)

2016-02-23T18:37:26Z

Title: Light Show
Rating: Teen and Up
Summary: DJ is really excited about Tony's birthday, and at first nobody's really sure why.
Notes: Based in Scifigrl47's "Tales of the Bots" universe. Happy birthday, Sci. I remember tormenting you with this idea ages ago so I figured this would be a good time to actually write it. Look, you can have DJ back now, he's only a little sticky...

Also available at AO3.

***

"Does he seem...weirdly excited to you?"

Steve's tone was cautious, voice so low Tony almost didn't pick it up over the cheery, kid-friendly music that was playing in the workshop. (He and JARVIS had once spent a long afternoon debating what music was appropriate to play around a small child; Tony thought that Dummy had heard so much Nine Inch Nails as a bot that he was probably immune to any and all variations on the word "fuck", but JARVIS insisted that as an actual child, DJ should probably be learning his vocabulary from someone with less carnal intent.)

"Weirdly excited?" Tony asked, turning his head to look up from where he was slumped under one of Steve's arms on the couch. "Have you met the kid? Excited is his default state."

Steve's gaze drifted back over to DJ, who was dancing around the workshop with a sheet of HAPPY BIRTHDAY stickers, randomly sticking them to things.

"I mean, it's not his birthday," Steve said. "It's yours. He knows you're the one getting presents."

"Of course he's excited for my birthday, because I'm awesome," Tony said. "And he knows there's cake after dinner."

"He knows there's cake any time he makes big enough, sad enough eyes at Clint," Steve pointed out.

"Are you calling my kid weird?" Tony asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes. You and your child are both excessively weird," Steve said gravely.

"I take exception to that, excessively. We are exactly as weird as we're supposed to be," Tony said. "DJ! Stop laminating the workshop, come here."

DJ gave him a momentary pout, but put the sticker sheet down and came running over, clambering up on the couch.

"Happy day!" he chirped, spreading his arms wide.

"Thank you, yes, I am old," Tony said. DJ collapsed forward across Tony's lap and half of Steve's, heaving a satisfied sigh. "And you are heavy."

DJ rolled without warning, but both men had encountered this before; they lifted their legs in unison, and DJ zoomed down their legs to the floor, tumbling off their toes and giggling.

"Are you excited about dinner?" Tony asked, as DJ picked himself up and leaned on Tony's thighs. DJ shook his head. "Oh, you think you get to share my presents?"

DJ shook his head again, fingers flexing and releasing on Tony's knees.

"Good, because they're all mine, I'm greedy," Tony said. "Everything for Tony, nothing for DJ."

"After dinner," DJ said.

"Oh? You want cake?"

DJ shook his head more vigorously. "After," he insisted. "Rooftop!"

"For a tiny little agoraphobe, you sure seem excited about getting onto the roof," Tony said, lifting DJ by the armpits and floating him over his head. DJ kicked his legs like he was swimming. "You want to have dinner on the roof? We can have a picnic."

"YES!" DJ yelled.

"Okay, picnic it is. JARVIS, when is dinner?"

"Dr. Banner and Agent Barton inform me that the meal is ready," JARVIS said. "I have asked Thor to fetch some blankets for the picnic and the external heaters have been lit."

"Come on, then," Tony said, tossing DJ to Steve, who tucked him under one arm. "Picnic it is. Happy birthday to me..." he sang, as he led the way out.

"Bless," Steve said fondly, kissing DJ's hair. "Your enthusiasm is a powerful weapon. It's the first time I've seen him happy on his birthday."

"Days great," DJ informed him. He spread his arms and made a puffing noise, like a small explosion.

"You're great," Steve said.

"No you."

"No YOU."

"Come on, slackers," Tony called from down the hall. "Food time!"

Steve set DJ down and he bounced his way towards the penthouse, where the Avengers were carrying plates laden with food out onto the blanket-covered rooftop.

***

Dinner was a success, not that Avengers ever really turned down food. DJ spent much of it plonked in Rhodey's lap, in part because Rhodey had brought a large gift for Tony and a small gift for DJ, "So he won't feel left out." Tony had given DJ a nod and DJ had torn into the gift, eyes growing huge when it turned out to be an intricate cast-aluminum War Machine action figure.

"He'll have motorized it by breakfast," Tony said, finishing his cake as DJ explored every joint of the action figure systematically. "You didn't have to, Toast Crunch."

"I have to make sure I stay his favorite," Rhodey said. DJ deftly popped War Machine's left hand off, studied it, then popped the head off and put it on his arm, holding up for Rhodey's approval. Carol, leaning on his shoulder, took the hand from DJ and popped it in where his head should be.

"Facepalm," she said. DJ cracked up laughing.

"Well, this has been great," Tony said, setting his plate aside and adjusting the hideous hat Natasha had given him. She had an excellent sense of what to give the man who had everything, and Clint had given him matching hideous socks. "But it's getting chilly up here and I think it's time to go inside for the after-party."

"No," DJ said, alarmed. Tony frowned at him, perplexed.

"It's not bedtime, we just have to go inside," he said.

"Nooooo," DJ groaned, flopping back against Rhodey.

"What, you want to be carried?" Rhodey asked. DJ, looking genuinely upset, scrambled off his lap and darted towards the rail of the balcony.

"Oh, no, DJ, we talked about this -- " Steve caught him around the waist before he got very far. "No railing unless someone's holding onto you."

DJ wailed, startling everyone; Steve adjusted his hold to make sure he wasn't hurting him, but DJ didn't even seem to be aware of him.

"Nooooooo," DJ yelled. "Not inside!"

Steve gave Tony a hapless look; Tony dusted off his hands and stood, taking him from Steve's arms with difficulty.

"Are you tired?" he asked DJ, who shook his head and kept squirming. "Deej, come on, stop this. Hey!" he said sharply, and DJ did stop moving, but he gave him such a betrayed look. "Are you hurting? Did you have too much cake?"

"No," DJ said rebelliously.

"Are you still hungry? We have food inside, Deej."

"Not inside!" DJ insisted, and then pointed over the edge of the balcony's railing. "It."

Tony looked over his shoulder at the empty air over the Manhattan skyline. "What?" he asked. DJ made a frustrated noise. "Okay, hey, it's okay, find your words, take your time. We won't go inside until you explain. Deep breath, kiddo."

DJ inhaled, a gulping little half-sob. Tony shifted him to rest more comfortably in his arms.

"What's 'it'?" he asked.

DJ spread his arms and made a puffing noise.

"Did you see something?" Tony asked. DJ shook his head. "Are you waiting to see something?"

DJ nodded and made the gesture again. Behind him, Steve said, "Oh," as if he understood. Tony raised an eyebrow at him over DJ's shoulder.

"Are you waiting for the fireworks, DJ?" Steve asked.

"Fireworks?" Tony asked, startled. DJ was nodding in his arms and pointing over the rail.

"He doesn't want to go inside because he'll miss the fireworks," Steve said.

"Are there fireworks?" Tony said, voice rising in bewilderment.

"Well, the last birthday was mine," Steve said.

"Oh," Natasha said. Tony felt understanding dawn.

"And there were fireworks because it was the Fourth," he said.

"But it's the first birthday DJ ever came to," Steve continued. He leaned in and brushed DJ's disarrayed hair off his forehead. "You think that's how it goes, huh? Cake, presents, then fireworks?"

DJ nodded, but the expression on his face said he was realizing his mistake.

"None?" he asked forlornly.

Steve smiled. "He was excited because he thought Manhattan would have fireworks for your birthday, like we did for mine," he said to Tony.

"None," DJ confirmed to himself, and faceplanted into Tony's chest sadly.

Tony gave Steve a tiny eyeroll, amusement tugging at his lips, but he made sure DJ couldn't see.

"Fireworks are only for Steve's birthday, because he's Captain America," Tony said. DJ sighed heavily. "Oh, my God, I'm about to be That Dad. JARVIS?"

"Sir?" JARVIS answered over the balcony's speaker system.

"How many of the new tower defense drones do we have fabricated?"

JARVIS sounded like he knew what was coming. "I imagine just enough, Sir."

"Okay. Run simulation twelve, the combat optical test."

"Shall I throw in some color filters, Sir?"

"Yeah," Tony said, settling down again on one of the blankets. There was the sound of a door sliding open, somewhere below their feet. "Oh, and notify the cops and put a tweet out, would you? I don't need the neighbors freaking out that we're being attacked."

Steve sat next to him, head tilted his way curiously, and the others joined them on the blanket. Rhodey, who was probably the only one who knew what was coming, sat on Tony's other side and opened a beer.

"Dry eyes," Tony whispered to DJ, turning him in his arms. "Come on, look up, you're gonna miss it."

DJ wiped a hand across his face and turned it up to the sky just in time to see a bevy of Stark next-generation drones fly across the shadow of the moon, splitting into two formations over their heads. There was a crackle, and then an opening volley of shots, and drones began darting around each other, occasionally exploding spectacularly, flashes of light going off all around them. Colored smoke drifted around them, sucked into gaps by drone engines or dissipated by their propellers. One went off with an especially loud noise, flaming debris falling through the sky; two more darted after it, caught fire, and also exploded. DJ cheered.

"Bloodthirsty pup," Tony murmured, grinning. DJ pointed at a drone that was spewing green smoke and chasing another with a constantly flashing pattern of lights. Steve leaned into Tony's side, draping an arm around his shoulders, as entranced as DJ was by the battle raging over their heads.

"Oh!" Carol said, looking suddenly excited. "Hey, I got this," she added, and lifted off the balcony, diving into the middle of the fight, light bursting from her fists occasionally as she joined in. Rhodey whistled and applauded.

The light show lasted about twenty-five minutes; DJ didn't look away from it once, though about halfway through Tony started studying the realtime readings from the surviving drones on his phone. Carol touched back down once most of them had been wrecked, and at last there were only two left. Then, with a wheezing rattle, one of them rammed into the other, which exploded in bright crimson smoke.

The champion drone, making a worrying clicking noise, beeped briefly as JARVIS took control of it, lowering it to the rooftop balcony and into DJ's lap. DJ patted it, then promptly popped the housing off and adjusted something inside. The clicking stopped, and a little blue light came on. The drone lifted off and wove its way towards the door to the penthouse, knocking into it a few times before DJ got to his feet and ran for the door, pushing it open and following it inside. Everyone else, folding up blankets and gathering up plates and leftovers from dinner, began to trail after.

"He thought all those fireworks were for me," Steve said, sliding his arm down to wrap around Tony's waist as they made their way inside. "I wonder if he thought the Fourth of July parade was, too."

"Well, he loves you," Tony said. "Of course you should have a big fireworks show and a parade on your birthday."

Steve hummed thoughtfully. "Probably cheaper than blowing up half a million dollars in Stark technology."

"Ehh, I was going to do it anyway, this just stepped up the timeline. I got a lot of really good data from it, actually, especially once Carol joined in -- "

"Mmhm," Steve said indulgently. "You keep telling yourself that."

"I did!" Tony looked indignant. "Are you questioning my dedication to engineering?"

"Perish the thought," Steve replied, watching Rhodey lift DJ up so he could try catching the drone, which darted out of his grasp. "I'm definitely not questioning your dedication to DJ."

Tony shrugged awkwardly. "He asks for so little," he said after a moment. "Really, in the grand scheme of things, he doesn't want very much. I'm not good at giving presents anyway, so it's hard to...give him things. And when he does really want something, it's always a surprise, sometimes I can't just snap my fingers and make it happen. So when I can..." he held up his hand and snapped his fingers. The drone drifted over and hovered over his hand, so Tony spread his palm out and let it land. DJ came running over and Tony passed it to him.

"Go put it up in the workshop, we'll tinker with it tomorrow," he told DJ, who took off running. "That kid never walks anywhere, it makes me tired just looking at him."

"Says the man who put rollerskates on his armor."

"ONE armor, and they're called electrostatic gliders, thank you very much."

"They're rollerskates, they have wheels you took off a pair of Wheelies. Hey, JARVIS, whose birthday is next, anyway?" Steve asked, so as to get the last word before Tony could respond.

"I believe Agent Coulson's," JARVIS said. "Shall I lay in a supply of rockets and begin obtaining the necessary permits, Sir?"

"I like Brocades," Coulson told them, passing on his way to the elevators. "They're the symmetrical sphere kind."

"You would," Tony said, as if it were an insult.

"We're planning to go to Coney Island," Coulson continued. "I'm sure they'd love to have Stark Industries sponsor a fireworks show."

Tony planted his forehead against Steve's shoulder. "JARVIS, don't bother buying supplies, just find some small factory with a good safety record and buy it. I anticipate a lot of birthday fireworks in our future."

"Look at it this way, all that time you spent making explosives, you're going to be great at fireworks," Steve said, patting the back of his head consolingly.

"And as usual, my main competition is China," Tony groaned. Steve laughed. "It's not funny, they have a thousand year head start."

"Go on, go put DJ to bed. I have one more present for you when you're done," Steve said. Tony lifted his head.

"But you already gave me a present," he said.

"Yeah, but this one you have to unwrap in private," Steve said meaningfully. One of his hands squeezed Tony's butt gently, and a band of red formed across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

"Oh," Tony said. "Right. Kid to bed, bonus present."

"Happy birthday," Steve told him, kissing him before letting him go.

"Yes," Tony agreed, with a smile on his face that Steve privately categorized as adorably goofy. "It was."

END

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Promptfest Short Fics

2016-01-15T17:48:18Z

Title: Promptfest Short Fics
Rating: Teen
Summary: Several short fics written for a promptfest, primarily Avengers but also in White Collar, Discworld, and a number of AUs.
Notes: This was meant to be a "five sentence" prompt fest -- someone sends me a sentence, I write the next five. It got a little out of hand.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

Prompt from Anon: "Sit still," Sam insisted, swatting the back of Steve's head.

"Sorry," Steve muttered, stilling in the movie theatre seat. He stopped fidgeting for a good five minutes, but then he started restlessly moving again, leg jerking, shoulders twitching.

"Seriously," Sam said, turning to him, but he timed it poorly enough that Steve was feigning a yawn-and-stretch right as he turned. Steve's arm settled over his shoulders casually, but Steve's face looked utterly guilty.

"Oh," Sam said, startled. "Okay."

Prompt from disastermychild: Steve knew that it was hopeless, but he's always been one to buck the odds no matter what.

He stared down at the mess in front of him, hands on his hips. There had perhaps been some tactical errors, but he felt this was still a battle he could win.

"Okay," he said to the Avengers crowded on the other side of the table. "I can fix this, but I need to know something first."

He picked up the uncooked but by now oddly-colored goose by its neck and held it up, inspecting it. "Who let Tony volunteer to cook Christmas dinner?"

Prompt from Anon: "In hindsight, drowning himself in alcohol and large breasted blonde women was probably not the brightest idea he had ever had." It's a Steve/Tony fic

On the other hand, it appeared to have worked, so, well done him.

"You think I didn't notice what you were doing, but I had an idea," Steve said, letting go of his shoulders and leaning back enough that Tony could breathe. The kiss had been a little...asphyxiational.

"How'd you guess?" Tony asked.

"Tony, do you really not notice that I can see you when you stare at my pecs?" Steve asked, and dove back in before Tony could do more than draw breath for a second round.

Prompt from cjk1701: "In all fairness, it had been a rather good idea to begin with."

It was just that Avengers were larger-than-life and any idea originating with them tended to get out of hand very quickly.

"I thought I was just commissioning a portrait from you," Tony said as he adjusted his posture on the stool, helmet settled on his knees, armor whirring into position. The other Avengers, surrounding him, struck various dramatic poses.

"Well, it snowballed after Clint wanted to be in it -- "

"Photobomb it," Clint said.

"You can't photobomb an oil painting," Tony pointed out.

"Well apparently I DID, so I guess I CAN," Clint replied. Hulk, sitting behind Tony, rumbled a laugh; Natasha almost fell off his shoulder, and Sam tried not to change position as he grinned, wings spread wide. Steve snapped more reference photos from different angles.

"It'll be a nice mural when it's done," Steve said. "And I can still do one just of you if you really want, Tony."

"Okay, but I demand to be nude," Tony said.

"I am definitely photobombing that one," Clint declared.

Prompt from hopenight: Sam Wilson could name twenty better things to do with his time then bail Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and Clint Barton out of jail with Tony Stark's money.

On the other hand, it wasn't his own money, and Tony had given him a Black AmEx with which to pay, which meant after this he was going to buy himself an extremely nice dinner. And anyway it was his week on Avengers Disaster Control, so it was only fair.

The three men weren't even in the drunk tank; Clint was joking with two homicide detectives and Steve appeared to be demonstrating how many beat cops he could pick up to a group of very impressed-looking off-duty dispatch operators.

"Big misunderstanding," Bucky said, when Sam gave him a Look.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. See, the neo-Nazis thought they were going to be able to stand on the steps of a synagogue and deny the Holocaust, and Steve misunderstood them as wanting to be punched in the face," Bucky said. "Being fair, Clint and I totally also misunderstood them."

"Should I bring up free speech, or..."

"Hate speech!" Steve called. "Free speech doesn't protect hate speech!"

"You know he's thinking of going to law school," Bucky said solemnly.

"Maybe I should leave him here," Sam said.

"Sorry, buddy, it's all or nothing. You got Tony's credit card? We'll buy you dinner on it," Bucky said, taking the card and heading for the Sergeant's desk. "Come on, Steve, time to have a post-Nazi-punchin' feast!"

Prompt from screaming-towards-apotheosis: "This is not what it looks like," Clint said as he tried to hold onto the wriggling goat.

"It looks like there's livestock in my tower," Tony said, sliding the sunglasses down his nose. "Why is there livestock in my tower?"

"Someone was giving away free goats," Clint replied.

"This is New York, not Amish country, and I don't think even the Amish just give goats away."

"He was the last one and he was cold and tiny and filthy! Speaking of, don't look in your bathroom," Clint said.

"Did you bathe your pet goat in my bathtub?"

"No," Clint said, but he nodded yes.

Tony rubbed his forehead. "Is this goat for eating or because you're desperate for anything that will love you to love you?"

Clint stared up at him.

"Desperation, right. Well, I'll go see about installing some kind of...paddock."

"We don't pay him enough," Clint said to Natasha, as Tony wandered off, muttering.

"We don't pay him at all, we just call him Mom, speaking of desperation," Natasha said. "Let's name it Captain Feta."

this fanfic was continued by fellow tumblrian twangcat here.

Prompt from ellonwheelz: "If we live through this, it could be fun. if we don't live through this, for once, it'll be YOUR fault."

Steve turned to Tony. "How is this my fault?"

"Well, it's not mine!" Tony said, throwing his hands up. "When I go to science fiction conventions it's as an honored guest."

Steve pulled his Storm Trooper helmet on and cocked it. "This'll be a lot more fun!"

"Says you," Tony replied sourly, pulling the Spider-man cowl down over his face. "I'm already feeling a draft."

Prompt from iphysnikephoros: Natasha sprinted around the corner and flattened herself against the wall, eyes dancing with laughter.

"ROMANOFF!" Steve roared from down the hallway. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY UNIFORM?"

"SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID I LOOKED SO GOOD IN MY CATSUIT!" she yelled back, careful not to give her position away.

Steve stomped down the hallway, uniform (such as it was) hanging off his huge frame. She'd cut the trousers down to hot pants and removed the midriff from his shirt; she really felt it was only fair. After all, she knew he hadn't really meant to come off like a jerk, that he was just terribly socially awkward around women, but this would repay him for saying what she had about her uniform.

"Hey, Cap," Tony said, intercepting him with a sidelong wink for Natasha. "Nice catsuit."

"I didn't mean it, Natasha!" Steve said forlornly. "I mean, I didn't mean it like THAT."

"You know she won't be happy until you're seen in public like that," Tony said. "Come on, let's go spar somewhere highly visible, I'm sure she'll forgive you sooner or later."

Prompt from kshandra: "I don't know about this, English..."

"Nonsense," Peggy said, adjusting her necktie slightly. "Men's clothing is so convenient," she added, patting the pockets on her trousers, "if rather slim in the hips."

"What if someone makes you?" Angie asked, beautifully made up and in her best dress.

"Then I shall shoot them if they try anything. Look at how this coat hides my revolver," Peggy said delightedly. Angie chewed her lip.

Peggy leaned in and kissed her gently. "I'd like to take my best girl out on the town," she said. "And if I have to wear trousers and tuck my hair up, so be it. Besides, I quite like this look for me. Come along, darling, your man for the evening is waiting on you."

Angie's face softened. "Well, when you put it like that," she said, and put her hand on Peggy's extended elbow. "Show me a good time, fella."

Prompt from Anon: There was a reason why Steve had turned off his Twitter notifications; it usually took someone (several someones) texting him to realise that he had become a trending topic again.

"What've I done this time?" he asked Sam, when he arrived in the kitchen on an urgent "social media" related summons.

"Is this your butt?" Sam asked, holding up his phone. Steve squinted at it.

"Yes, that's me, I think, I wore that jogging this morning. Why?" he asked.

"And is this," Sam asked, zooming the picture in, "a tattoo of which I was unaware?"

Steve blushed crimson. The little falcon just above his hip on the left had been a spur of the moment decision, something he thought he might surprise Sam with, but between travel and a couple of battles there hadn't really been any...any naked time in a while.

Sam slapped his butt. Steve jumped, the barely-healed tattoo stinging.

"Oh my god," Sam said, covering his eyes with one hand. "It is your tattoo. You have a tattoo of a falcon on your ass."

"Hip, technically," Steve said.

"Technically you better let me take you to bed right now so I can ignore the twitter gossip," Sam replied pointedly.

"Well, I think I've pretty much proven I'm all yours," Steve pointed out.

Prompt from Chromatographic: "Where did all these scarves come from?" Tony demanded, looking around the room.

"Jan van Dyne," Pepper said, trying on a particularly large and vividly-decorated one. "The fashion designer? The Avengers saved her life last week during the thing with the -- grr, rowr," she said, making claw-shapes with her fingers.

"Ohh, those things, those were brutal. I know Jan, a little, she's nice. Did she say...why scarves?" Tony asked, picking up a sheer silk one. "Sexy, I'm taking this one."

"You can't, they're for Steve," Pepper told him.

"Why Steve?"

"She said his neck looked cold," Pepper said with a grin.

Tony beamed. "Ah, young love. Well, as courting gifts go it's strange, but -- "

"Hey, look at all the scarves!" Steve said, walking into the living room. "I could use a scarf! Can I have one?"

Pepper gave Tony a look. He returned it, still beaming.

"You absolutely can, Steve," Pepper said. "Here you go, take this one. It has a business card attached..."

Prompt from Anon: I don't know if this counts, but the story behind the Avengers' favourite Christmas ornaments? I got Anon's other ask apologizing for this prompt and offering an actual First Sentence, but I really liked this prompt better so I'm doing it instead :D

Clint and Natasha share everything in a way that would be creepy, so Tony claims, if it didn't seem so organic. The ornament is a pysanky egg, which Natasha every year points out is really not a Christmas thing but which Clint gave her the first year she was with SHIELD and Clint insists on hanging in the most prominent possible place on the tree. Steve draws endless studies of it, fascinated by its geometry.

It's not like any of Steve's belongings really survived, not his personal stuff, and he never had a tree anyway, but it turns out Bucky's family got some of his effects, and Bucky's little sister's granddaughter popped up at Stark Tower one day with a shoebox full of Christmas ornaments. Steve just about broke down, but he told her they were her family's now, their heirlooms, and all he wanted was the wooden soldier his parents had brought with them from Ireland. It hangs in his window the rest of the year.

Thor really gets into Christmas, like, really into, in a way that nobody expected an alien from another dimension to get into. The tree groans with all the ornaments he buys, his favorites being the really creepy naked Santas that the local craft market sells as novelties. They have like twelve of them. For PR photos, Pepper has her assistant very carefully wrap each one in a festive piece of red cloth to obscure the fact that the Avengers Christmas tree is covered in naked old men.

Bruce doesn't really care about Christmas one way or another, but Hulk shows up after a battle one time carefully cradling the tiniest, daintiest glass snowflake in one giant hand. Nobody knows where it came from, but Hulk wouldn't change back until Tony solemnly promised to hang it on the tree.

Tony isn't into Christmas but it's a pretty important time of year for big business, so for him it's a commercial concern, and it's not like he has anything against it, he just never really celebrated it. Besides, all that family stuff is for people who, you know, have families. Rhodey's usually deployed somewhere, and until she started dating him Pepper was an employee who should get a day off because he's not a Scrooge, thanks.

But then he comes in from his last meeting on Christmas eve and there's the tree all lit up and dangling with weird Russian things and fragile wooden ornaments and creepy naked Santas and with a spotlight on Hulk's glass snowflake because Bruce gets upset if he can't find it, and everyone's sitting around getting drunk on eggnog and Irish coffee, and that's okay, that's pretty nice. In typical Tony Stark fashion, he's just going to claim the whole tree from now on.

Prompt from lexrhetoricae: Neal Caffrey did not mean to open a bookstore that catered to paroled ex-cons; it just sort of *happened*.

"Most of them used to be Mozzie's; he has the most extensive library of crime in the Western Hemisphere. Possibly the world, if you don't count that one weirdo in Siberia," Neal said. "He asked me to sell them."

"So this whole side," Peter said, waving an arm at the southern end of the shop, "is how to commit any crime you can think of, and this whole side," he continued, waving at the northern end of the shop, "is how to get a job and live a sane and moral life after a felony conviction."

"Yeah, that end's all me, Mozzie doesn't acknowledge it exists," Neal said, a trifle sadly.

"So I'm just gonna hang out on this end and hit my end-of-month arrest quota," Peter said, cheerfully wandering into the How To Crime section.

Prompt from Elucreh: "My god, Natasha," Neal said into the stunned silence. "I didn't know you could actually kill men with your thighs."

"He's not dead, he's just sleeping really soundly," she said, as Neal wound up the zipline and began unpacking the lockpicks. "Besides, he's a Nazi."

"Why is it always Nazis," Neal sighed. "I suppose if I'm going to rob people it might as well be Nazis, but it just seems like a very niche occupation."

"Relax, you're stealing for the government, that's practically a mitzvah," she said.

"Don't remind me. If you make me an Avenger I might cry," Neal said, and got to work picking Hydra's best locks.

Continued with this prompt from Anon: "It's Nazi gold. Even people like me draw a line at Nazis."

Steve glanced at Natasha, eyebrow raised. "You know, I assumed 'even you' would draw the line at Nazis, yes."

"I like to maintain an air of moral ambiguity," she said loftily, unzipping the bag while Neal Caffrey, somewhat overawed at being in the presence of Steve Rogers, fidgeted nervously nearby.

"We were supposed to be liberating some paintings but there was all this gold," Neal blurted.

"Huh." Steve picked up one of the blocks of gold and turned it over, examining it. "Well, it looks like a couple of Jewish aid organizations and some local Synagogues are going to have a very nice Purim indeed."

Prompt from Anon: The Watch were determined to give Vimes an uninterrupted Hogswatchnight with Young Sam and Sybil...

They'd had a quiet word with the Thieves' guild, who were taking care of unlicensed thieving for the night, and the Assassins' guild, who with three swift murders had ensured no troublemaking would take place. They'd even spoken to the Wizards to make sure they weren't planning any mystical magical doodahism, as Colon put it.

It meant a quiet night for the Watch, too, which was nice; they were just settling in with cocoa in the watch house when there was a knock on the door.

When Carrot opened it, his jaw dropped; the Commander was stood there with Young Sam on one arm, Sybil behind him dressed in a very voluminous Hogfather costume.

"PRESENTS," Young Sam said, throwing both his arms in the air. Vimes gave Carrot a long-suffering look as Sybil began distributing gifts to the officers.

"We meant to give you a nice night off," Carrot said.

"Well, Sybil bought little things for everyone," Vimes sighed. "And Young Sam was restless when I didn't come down to the watch house..."

"Chip off the old block, sir," Carrot said loyally, and Vimes, watching his son crash into furniture while wearing a Watchman's helmet, nodded forlornly.

Prompt from dignitywhatdignity: (From the Ironsides verse) For all Tony had been through, she had never in her life felt survivor's guilt until she saw how bad Agent's sister's morning sickness was.

"Is there something I can do?" she asked, wringing her hands as faint noises came from the bathroom.

"It's fine, Antonia, I swear," Joan said with a smile, emerging.

"Yes well, little Justice Patriot Billionaire will owe you a lot when he emerges," Tony declared.

"I promise you, he's going to have to apologize for the actual birth more than the morning sickness," Joan replied. "Just do me one favor."

"Anything," Tony said, clasping her hands in what she felt was an unusually sisterly show of solidarity.

"Do not name your child Justice Patriot Billionaire," Joan said firmly.

Prompt from Levynite: "So Carlos, what else is in your bag of tricks?"

"Well, there's all kinds of tests I can run," Carlos said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling, currently clad only in a lab coat and part of a sheet. "Temperature sensation, response to electrical stimulation -- it sounds painful but it's actually really fun," he said, when Cecil gave him a deeply alarmed look. "I could test fertility on each and see if there's any difference, though there really shouldn't be..."

"Or," Cecil said, as if having a brilliant idea, "OR, we could do what we just did, again, but after we've had a snack and cuddled."

Carlos grinned at him. "That works too. Sometimes science has to wait until you've had a snack."

Prompt from frenchroast007: (from the Lovelace verse) "Tony, your owl is trapped inside the stocking."

"I KNOW THAT!" Tony yelled from the other room. "IT'S HER PUNISHMENT."

"For what?" Steve asked, investigating Lovelace's legs, which were sticking out of the top of the Christmas stocking.

"TRYING TO GET INTO A STOCKING," Tony yelled, emerging with a pair of scissors. "Stand back, I have to cut her out and she's going to be pissed."

"How long did you leave her in the stocking?" Steve asked, appalled.

"Long enough for her to get pissed," Tony said, carefully cutting the stocking open. Lovelace burst free with a scream, dove for Tony's shirt, and used it to climb up to his shoulder, where she began a long, loud harangue over him leaving her in the stocking.

Steve didn't tease him about it, but he did take a picture, and Pepper declared later that the photo of Tony, scissors in one hand and shredded stocking in the other, looking berated while Lovelace screamed at him, was the best Christmas card they'd ever sent out.

Prompt from Anon: (from the Lovelace verse) "Tony, I get the owl, I even get the potoo. What I don't get is the dragon."

"The potoo's not mine," Tony said, and Rhodey rolled his eyes. "What! That's Clint's. And the dragon is Pepper's."

"Why does Pepper need a baby dragon?" Rhodey said, bending to study the little beast in the terrarium. "It's cute and all, but..."

"Watch," Tony said, and picked up the dragon. He held it out to Lovelace, who screamed bloody murder and took off for the other side of the room. "Pepper needs some kind of Lovelace repellent for when she's meeting with important people."

"And having a tiny lizard on her person is less weird than an owl?"

"She keeps it in a pocket. Some of the, you know, the older shareholders, they think it's a brooch," Tony said.

"This is some fucked up ecosystem shit you have going on here, you realize that," Rhodey said.

"Do you want an owl, Fluffy? I can get you one cheap," Tony replied.

This is Pepper's dragon.

Prompt from indigospersonalblog: (from the Mint in Box verse) "You know, I really thought Tony was joking about the whole Avengers: The Game thing."

"I never joke, I always fully commit to everything I say, and yet nobody ever believes me," Tony announced, setting out the game board. "Now get over here with the infant and help me child-test this thing."

"You realize this game says, on the box which you designed, 'For ages 6 and up'," Coulson pointed out, balancing Jack on his hip. "Jack is not age six, or up."

"I made the game pieces too big to be choking hazards," Tony said. "Just give him Cap to gnaw on. Here you go," he said, offering Jack the Cap figurine, which Jack obligingly stuck in his mouth. "There's a digital version too, for the hipsters who like to play board games on computers."

"I'm sure in fifteen years Jack will enjoy that," Coulson said gravely.

"Dibs on Secret Agent!" Clint said, sliding into one of the chairs and excitedly studying all the little game figurines. "He has all the best powers."

"Yes, babysitting and project management, great superpowers," Coulson said, sitting down.

"See, the thing is, if you have the Secret Agent figurine, all the other figurines have an extra power they wouldn't otherwise have," Clint explained.

Coulson looked up at Tony, who looked away and fiddled with the Iron Man figurine until the head accidentally popped off.

"Okay," he said finally. "Deal me in, Clint, let's see if we can break the game."

Prompt from antonomasia09: (From the Foodieverse) Tony found Bruce in a hole-in-the-wall creperie in France, cooking on a hot plate obviously stole from a lab.

"This is the best crepe I've ever eaten," Tony said, leaning on the dutch door that led into the kitchen, really more of a closet with a sink. "What did you do to it, who are you?"

"Bruce Banner. It's the chemical composition of the butter, I make it myself," Bruce said, and then peered at him. "Don't you make pizza?" he asked.

"Did. Not anymore. Tony Stark, I want another crepe, and you're American, so clearly you should come home to America with me and make crepes for me, personally, and for my restaurant," Tony said, and then winced. "Sorry, good food makes me talk a lot. Are you into molecular gastronomy at all?"

Bruce waved a hand at his closet kitchen. "I can't afford to be into molecular gastronomy at all."

"Not a problem, I'm rich off the backs of a lot of really munchy stoners. You sound like you do science."

"I can do science," Bruce said warily.

"I want you to come do science on food with me," Tony said, offering his business card. It said FREELANCE FOODIE on it, and Bruce smiled a little.

"I'll think it over," he said. "Most people don't like to work with me, I have kind of a temper."

"Do you yell at people?"

"Mostly at food."

"Bruce," Tony said with a wide smile. "Come with me and I promise you'll never use hotplates again, unless you're using them ironically."

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Audio Commentary Track With Steve Rogers

2016-01-03T22:57:18Z

Title: Audio Commentary Track With Steve Rogers
Rating: Teen
Summary: Steve didn't know you could go to college to study movies.
Notes: Written for lexrhetoricae on Tumblr, as a get-well gift.
Warnings: None.

Also available at AO3.

***

"There's a group of people who are very interested in speaking with you and in hearing what you have to say," Sam said to Steve, a few weeks after the fall of SHIELD. "And I say this as a friend, but I think it might do you good to talk to them."

"Who are they?" Steve asked warily. "Because I'm not going back into the military, Sam, I don't want anything to do with SHIELD, even new SHIELD, and the Avengers are great but they're not what I'd call therapeutic, and they have my cell number. It's not a survivor group of some kind, is it?"

"No," Sam said, grinning. "It's the academics."

***

The National Association of North American Historians conference (NA-NAH -- Steve might have laughed) actually turned out to be a great time, at least initially.

Steve didn't have a lot of experience with higher education, and this was very high education indeed, but that meant most of the people he met were either calm about being in the presence of Captain America or so distracted by other concerns that they didn't notice him. He went to the opening keynote breakfast, attended a morning session on questioning revisionist history, and had lunch with Sam and two nice historians who were experts in the revolutionary war era and thus not tht interested in him. They were interested in arguing about the Constitution, which Steve enjoyed a lot, so that was fun.

"You know, you and Sam held your own," one of them said, at the end of lunch.

"You sound surprised," he replied.

"Well, the image one gets is a little more roughneck than you turned out to be. You know, trench soldiers..." she shrugged. "Sorry I misjudged you both. Have you ever considered going back to school?"

"Not really," Steve said. "Don't know what I'd do with a college degree."

"It's not the having, it's the getting," she replied. "Though I think you'd make a good lawyer."

"I can't even imagine," Steve said, because he could, and knew she was very wrong.

"Well, if you change your mind, call me, I can get you a face-to-face with Admissions at the University of Pennsylvania."

Steve took her business card; on the front was her name and contact information. And on the back was UPenn Admissions -- or if you want to have dinner sometime and her personal phone number.

"Nice," Sam said, leaning over his shoulder as he studied the card. "Historians are wild."

"What's next on the schedule?" Steve asked, blushing.

"Well, I'm going to 19th Century Civil Disobedience," Sam said.

"Ooh," Steve managed, eyes lighting up. "Like Coxey's Army? Let's do that!"

***

The next day started off really well...

They'd asked Steve to do a TEDTalk as the breakfast entertainment, and he'd watched a lot of those in the last two years, so he knew what was expected. Besides, all the bond sales shows had turned him into a pretty decent public speaker, as it turned out. He did fifteen minutes on "The Most Surprising Thing About The 21st Century", which probably would have really messed him up a year ago, but which now he even managed to joke about, a little. It helped that Sam was in the audience, a reassuring face in the crowd.

That morning, however, he was scheduled for a two-hour Q&A, which the organizers of the conference had concieved of as "Ask Captain America, 1922-1944". It was standing room only by the time he took his seat. He would have felt more comfortable in a room full of enemy combatants, really. At least then he'd know what was coming.

He'd spent some time thinking about what people might ask, and he'd given the organizers some ground rules -- no personal questions about the men and women in his unit, no questions about anything post-1944 including his opinions of historical events he wasn't witness to, and he had the right to refuse to answer anything that was classified.

The first half went all right; it was all pre-submitted questions asked by a moderator, sometimes with follow-ups from the moderator for clarification. They'd screened them carefully, and he was able to answer most without issue. What are your recollections of this battle? What do you remember of social attitudes towards the Bund during the prewar era? How aware were you and your fellow soldiers of the realities of the concentration camps, later in the war? They were hard questions, but not difficult ones.

The second half was meant to be follow-up questions from the audience, live, a queue of earnest historians snaking up one aisle, with a microphone at the head. And that got...perilous.

So many of the questions seemed to be sly angling, baiting even, for a controversial statement or for personal gossip or for something that might be extrapolated from history to the present. A few were genuine scholarly questions...but a lot were not. And it made him tired, and it started to make him angry, that his offered resource was being poked and prodded in tender places he hadn't agreed to reveal.

And finally, one guy in coke-bottle glasses and a ponytail said, "What do you think would have happened if Hitler had won the war?"

Steve felt his mind blank out for a second, as though those words strung together couldn't possibly be in English.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"There's been a lot of speculation about what would have happened if Hitler had won the war," the man said. "I was wondering what your thoughts were on it. What kind of world do you think you would have come back to?"

"Are you...are you seriously asking me that question?" Steve asked, and he could hear the anger in his voice but he couldn't seem to modulate it. "I fought a war to ensure that didn't happen and you want me to...play pretend about it? You want me to ignore the deaths of millions of civilians and soldiers for a, what, a thought experiment?"

The man seemed to understand he was in way over his head; he just stood at the microphone, gaping. Steve could tell people were filming him, filming both of them with a thousand tiny phone cameras, but his frustration had hit a very fine-tipped breaking point.

"I just came from uprooting a Nazi conspiracy on American soil," he said. "So let me tell you a few things about it. First, Hitler was a terrible military leader. He was lucky and he preyed on the weak and he broke treaties; he was a bully, and that's why he got as far as he did. Second, if he'd won, and I'd be interested in hearing your definition of winning because he damn sure didn't have the mental capacity to actually invade and hold America, he would have rotted his own empire from the inside out. Third, you want to hear a fairy story about evil winning? Shall we talk about US foreign policy since the war?"

There was a ripple through the audience when he said that, and it was enough to bring him back down at least far enough to bite his tongue.

"I think I'm finished for today," he said carefully. "Thank you all for coming. I'm sorry I didn't get to everyone's question."

He set the microphone on the stool and backed away, turning to shuffle behind the panels that had been set up to create a makeshift "backstage" and slipping out the door, into the network of corridors that backed onto the conference rooms. Sam was a beat behind him.

"Jesus," Steve swore, leaning back against the wall.

"Well, that's gonna make YouTube," Sam said.

"You know what's funny? That's exactly what was going through my head as I said it all," Steve said. "What if Hitler won, are you kidding me? Oh shit, I'm going viral as we speak."

"Could have been worse. Like, you could have choked a baby."

"Thanks," Steve said, and Sam smiled and offered him a water bottle. "How much time did I just take off the session?"

"It would have been over in a few minutes anyway," Sam said. "You want to go get some lunch?"

"Yes. Yes I do," Steve said. "Somewhere far away from the hotel so that when I start to feel ashamed of losing my temper, you're my only witness."

Sam was opening his mouth to reply when someone said, "Captain!" in a surprised voice.

Steve turned, automatically; there was a woman in the hallway, wearing a NA-NAH (still a little funny) convention ID lanyard, leaning lightly on a cane and looking startled to see him.

"Is the session over already?" she asked, looking disappointed.

"We had to end a little early," Steve said. "How did you -- "

"I was presenting," she said, pointing over her shoulder at another conference room's exit. "Sort of sparse attendance, hard to be up against a Q&A by someone who literally lived through world war two. But it was my first conference presenting, so..." she shrugged.

"Sorry to pull your audience -- they probably would have enjoyed yours more, in the end," Steve replied.

"I don't know, a survey of cinema in America is a little niche for this crowd anyway," she said. "I let out early myself, I was hoping to slip into the Q&A."

"Sorry we ended early," Steve mumbled, already beginning to feel regret at his outburst wash over him.

"It's all right, I just had a question or two -- "

" -- I really can't answer any more questions today -- " Steve began, but she finished before he could interrupt.

" -- about your movies," she said.

Steve had been half-turned away, ready to bolt, but he stopped. And then he turned back.

"My movies?" he asked, confused.

"Yes. Broadly, critical analysis of cinema is my field -- well, I mean, really broadly, rhetoric, but I've been focusing on the rhetoric of propaganda in film, including composition structures and...that's a whole lecture I could give, but I won't," she said. "Sorry, you must be so tired of questions -- "

"You study movies?" he asked her. She nodded. "People can study movies in college?" he asked Sam.

"It's kind of a huge thing now," Sam said.

"You can get a college degree in movies," Steve repeated.

"Well, technically English, at least in my case, but yeah, basically," she said. He could see the moment she decided to push her luck. "And I have so many questions about your films, they're such a weird little niche in American military propaganda and very poorly documented...a firsthand account of the directors and the context of the cinematography would be so fascinating. Look, if you don't want to talk right now I get that, or, um, ever, but if I can give you my card..."

Sam actually was the one to hold out his hand and block her from offering it. He glanced at Steve, who was still starry-eyed over the idea of a college degree in movies, and said, "How about you come get some lunch with us?"

***

"So, that's seriously why we never see you face-front or in left profile in the film?" Alexi asked, about forty minutes later. "He spent his entire time shooting around your left side?"

"I swear to God, he thought I had a lazy eye," Steve said. "I've never seen it but...well, they told him to make me look perfect and I guess he had issues."

"People have been theorizing about some kind of directional orientation -- right equals correct, left equals evil..."

"Nope. Guy thought I was unattractive on the left," Steve said, picking at the last of his seaweed salad.

"Wow. Can I quote you? Because nobody's going to believe me otherwise."

"Sure, I guess. People really think this kind of thing is important?" he asked.

"Don't you?" Alexi said with a smile. "You seem very interested in film studies."

"I love movies, I've always loved movies. I just never thought you could take them apart the way you do," Steve said. Sam was watching him, grinning.

"We see at least two movies in the cinema a week," Sam said. "God forbid anything get between Steve Rogers and his Thursday night double-feature at the local multiplex."

"I've been trying to catch up on all the movies I missed, too, but Sam's TIVO only holds so much," Steve added. "My Netflix queue is basically, uh, Netflix."

"Except the trashy Hitler documentaries," Sam added.

"No love for the theory that Hitler was an alien?" Alexi asked, eyes sparkling.

"Not so much," Steve agreed, but for the first time, a question about the war didn't rub him the wrong way. "It's awfully nice to be asked about something else."

"Good, because I'd love to hear more sometime," she said. "I need to get back to the conference, I'm sure you do too..."

"I think I might bail on the rest of the day," Steve said, glancing at Sam, who nodded. "It's exhausting."

"You don't need to tell me," Alexi agreed. "I'll probably go back to my room and rest, there's not much of interest for me this afternoon. Might rewatch some of your movies, actually, now that I have some notes."

"You said you never actually saw most of the movies you did," Sam said to Steve.

"I went to two of the openings, but the rest I never actually got to see, especially the ones they released after I went overseas," Steve said.

"You should come watch. I've got all of them on my computer," she said.

"Could we?" Steve asked.

"Are you kidding? Live DVD commentary by Steve Rogers? I'll buy the snacks," Alexi said.

They walked back to the hotel, Steve bubbling with enthusiasm; she gave them her room number and went upstairs to set up while Steve and Sam (insistently, over her objections) raided the hotel gift shop for candy and peanuts and bags of microwave popcorn. By the time they arrived, the sofa in the little hotel room was packed with students, and there were two historians Alexi introduced as "they promise to behave themselves" sitting on one of the beds.

Steve settled on the floor in front of the couch, microwave popcorn bag in one hand, Sam leaned up against his shoulder with a box of Whoppers.

"So, we've all seen these movies before," Alexi said, as she plugged her laptop into the television. "Steve, please feel free to talk over it as much as you like. Anyone who has questions can save them up and send them to you later."

"Oh, I -- I don't mind," Steve said. "About the movies. You can ask if you want."

Alexi started up the film, and Steve was filled with immediate nostalgia. "Oh, I remember this one," he said. "We started filming the day I got to California with the Star Spangled Show, and I had to leave set early to do the matinee show..."

Sam handed him the StarkPad he'd fetched from their rooms, and between comments and explanations, Steve quietly googled going to college on the GI bill and studying the movies in college.

"So, I could go to film school," Steve said. "Mostly for free. Do you think they'd let me into NYU? Seems like they got a pretty good program."

Everyone looked at him. Most of them incredulous.

"I think you'd have a good shot," Sam said drily.

***

A few months later, two thick packets arrived in the mail for Steve simultaneously. The first, when he opened it, was his orientation packet for Tisch, as a part-time student on the GI bill.

Steve set it aside and tore into the second one excitedly; it was from a small school in the south, and it was addressed to Captain Hollywood.

He shook the contents out of the envelope, setting the folded up letter aside for the moment and sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Whatcha get?" Sam asked, coming into the kitchen for a bottle of juice.

"Alexi finished her paper, it just got accepted for publication," he said.

Sam leaned over his shoulder. "Got Good At Throwing Fake Grenades: Contextual Interpretation Of Propaganda in War-Era Captain America Cinema" he read. "That's a mouthful."

"They're all like that," Steve said. "She's been sending me links to scholarly articles about propaganda films. I can't wait to read it."

"You want me to pop some popcorn?" Sam teased, but Steve gave him a serious, hopeful look. "Ah, man, pop your own if you're spending all afternoon buried in critical theory."

"Maybe I will," Steve said, dignified, and set the paper aside while he went to the stove to cook some up. "Maybe I'll make movies someday," he called to Sam, who was settling in the living room with a book. "Make a movie about you, maybe."

"I'll buy you a beret and a cigarette holder, so you'll look fancy while doing it," Sam called back. "I'm ready for my close-up, Captain Rogers."

Steve laughed as the popcorn began to pop. "Just you wait, Wilson. I'm gonna learn all the fancy words and symbols and make the Great American Movie, see if I don't."

"I believe you could," Sam said. "I guess NYU does too. Will you be okay looking for Barnes and going to school at the same time?"

Steve nodded. "I talked to my professors. Alexi suggested I bring a camera along when we go. Make it into a documentary for credit, to make up for when I miss class."

Sam leaned into the kitchen, frowning. "I know that voice. That's the voice you use when you're about to suggest something crazy."

"Well," Steve said guiltily.

"What'd you do, Rogers?" Sam asked.

Steve took the popcorn off the stove and poured it into a bowl, shaking salt over it.

"Would you be willing," he said, carefully not looking at Sam, "to wear a Go Pro when you're in the air?"

Sam's peals of laughter were only interrupted when Steve started throwing popcorn at him.

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