So what am I writing tonight, brain? Identity porn, weirdass royal AU, teenage intern Dummy attempts to flirt, Phil and Clint make bad life choices, post Captain America 2 SHIELDhusbands, Avengers make Bad Fashion Choices, or Plot v. 7? Answer some things from my inbox?
Or are we just going to write bad dialog and giggle again?
My grandmother once said to me, in that dignified, calm way of hers, “I love truck nuts.”
And I was like, “Wha- Excuse me?”
"I love those little plastic testicles that people can buy and put on their truck hitches," she said. "Because I can tell at a glance that the person is a horrible, offensive moron, and save myself from having to find this out via a conversation. It’s a wonderful time saver when you belong to a motor home club, dear."
She is right. Every time some idiot comes up with a t-shirt that says “Go make me a sandwich” or “No fat chix,” that is a kindness on their part. They are doing women, right thinking men, and society in general a great public service.
So that we can tell the douchebags at a glance. So we can determine, without a single word, that this person:
A. thought that this shirt was funny
B. no, seriously, they found that funny enough to SPEND MONEY ON IT
C. and has no one in their life to tell them that wearing it out in public is unacceptable
And is therefore not likely to be someone anyone wants to interact with. Turns out Gramma was right; it’s a great time saver in fan circles, too.
Hi! I was just rereading one of my faves from you and saw this line "Unless that employment contract you had me sign when I was bleeding out from the bullet you put in me had a couple of not quite legal clauses.” Did we ever get to see exactly what happened here? If not, will we get to see it?
Clint held onto that employment contract afterwards.
It’s what he threw into the funeral pyre during “Hollow Your Bones Like a Bird’s.” So it needed to be rewritten when Phil came back.
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Phil opened his eyes, and it hurt more than it should have. Gritting his teeth against a spike of pain behind his temples, he struggled to get his eyes to focus. He regretted it immediately.
Phil did a quick recalculation. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and he had no idea where he was. Or why there was what appeared to be a very small foot tucked under his chin. He stared at it, trying to force his eyes to focus on the little foot and the kid attached to it, who was mostly a purplish blur.
“Good morning, Agent Coulson. How are you feeling?”
“Well, that answers one question,” Phil said, putting a hand over his eyes and squeezing, trying to keep his eyeballs in place. “I’m in the Tower. And DJ is wearing Hawkeye pajamas. I’ve been better, Jarvis. Where, exactly, in the tower, am I?”
“In the net in DJ’s playroom. Do you have any memory of the past twenty-four hours?”
Phil stopped. Thought about that. Tilted his head to the side to consider the floor of the playroom, a long way below them. “You mean, do I have any memory of how I ended up asleep in DJ’s playroom? No. No, I do not.”
I’ve had some people comment that Harris has been, well, pushed into corners and manipulated. That he’s went from being trapped in a HYDRA facility, to being forced into working for SHIELD. That he’s really been
It’s true that Harris has been manipulated. Which is unfair. But the Phil Coulson of my world is not a man given to cruelty or malice. He is, at his heart, a protector. He seeks to be a shield, for those who have none. And at the end of “Four (Or Five) Reasons,” Harris has no where to go. He has no one. He is lost, and adrift, and traumatized. He has no family, no friends, very few connections. He is injured, he is in a bad mental state, and he is facing government inquiries that he is not really prepared for, or capable of handling.
By forcing him into the SHIELD ranks, Phil gives him, in one fell swoop, a place to live, a purpose, and access to the medical and psychiatric care that he needs to heal. If Harris was the sort of person who would be happy kicking back for a month with a book, then that’s what would’ve happened to him. But he needs work. He needs to be useful. That’s his psychological profile. Phil made sure he got what he needed. And if in three months, after he’d gotten his feet under him and after the legal issues had been resolved, he’d showed up for his review and said, “I want out,” then he’d be out.
Harris is not working for Tony. Because he doesn’t want to. Harris is working at SHIELD. Because he grumbles, and he makes faces and he gives looks, but in the end? He is safe there. He is protected. He has a therapist and friends and a purpose. He LIKES Phil. He really likes Darcy and Tony and Shawn and Drew.
When he thought something bad was happening, when he truly believed that they were in danger, his first action was to warn everyone. The second was to protect Darcy. He pulled her down, made sure she stayed down, and he covered her mouth and nose, not his own. His instinct was to protect her. Not because he thinks she can’t protect herself, but because he will not let anything happen to her, if he can help it. Because she is his friend.
And this is not the life he was expecting, but right now? He likes his life.
Honestly, it’s quite astonishing how much misery this movie manages to pack into two hours of mostly action sequences and espionage subplots, particularly since Captain America is supposedly one of the “lighter” superheroes, compared to the unending grimdarkness of Batman. I guess this is the difference between “manpain” and “a man in legitimate emotional pain.”
Is it just me, or is Phil slowly, reluctantly starting to approach something that almost resembles affection for Mr. Fantastic? (I, for one, thought he was cute in this last part, regardless of what Phil thinks or says)
Part of being in a relationship is realizing that you’re stuck with your loved one’s pet.
Because killing it will likely not go over well.
Phil is learning to appreciate the little mechanical horror, and is no longer trying to sign it up for bomb detection duty.
Summary: Tony Stark spent his childhood making weapons, filling the hole his father left in the world when he succumbed to alcohol, grief, and his own demons. At the age of fifteen, he ran away from home, and made it as far as MIT before all of his responsibilities caught up to him. Now seventeen, he just wants to finish his degree and escape from everything connected to the Stark name.
Steve Rogers crashed into the icy North Atlantic in the 1940’s, sacrificing himself to save the world. He never expected to wake up, and now that he has, he’s not sure he’s glad. The US Army has other plans for him, but for now, Steve is slowly learning to live life in the 21st century, and taking classes at Boston College. He’s beginning to suspect that there is no escape.
Boston College is on the T’s Green Line. MIT is on the Red. The two lines meet at the Park Street Station, and so will Steve and Tony.
Phil kept his eyes tightly closed, and tried not to feel the unfamiliar weight of this place pressing down on him.
He could feel his eyes burning, and he didn’t know why, because he absolutely was not going to cry. He was not. Going. To. Cry.
And when that ended up being a lie, too, he scrubbed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands until his cheeks were burning, but dry. Then he took a deep breath, and got out of bed. He was tired, exhausted, so exhausted that he felt sick, but he couldn’t sleep. No matter how long he lay there, how much he tried, every time he thought he might be falling asleep, he’d end up bolt upright, his heart pounding, something like a sob or a scream caught in his throat.
In the bathroom, he washed his face, and ran a glass of water. He took his time drinking it, his feet cold on the bathroom tile. He ignored it, anything to avoid going back to bed. The too big, too strange bed that definitely was not his.
Instead of returning to it, he picked his way across the carpet, making his way in the dim reflected light that spilled from the bathroom. He wished that there were windows, or any way to relieve the sensation of being trapped. He paused, considering the door. He glanced around, and immediately felt stupid. Still, he was breathing a little too hard, a little too fast, as he reached for the doorknob.
There was a soft beep, and Phil’s fingers jerked away from the door.
"I am sorry to startle you, Philip, but you are not supposed to leave this room without supervision."