Posts tagged WIP
Posts tagged WIP
((I know. It’s so overdue that it’s embarrassing. I’m TRYING, okay? Previous parts are linked here: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/fic ))
“You do realize that we live in the most exciting city in the Western world,” Phil said. “New York. The Big Apple. The city of cities.” He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, a faint half smile on his face. “I love my city. Best city in the world.”
“I don’t know,” Shirley said, her lips pursed. “I’ve always liked Paris.”
“I like Paris,” Clint said. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of his legs, his body canted forward. “I really like Paris.”
“Phil speaks French,” Shirley said.
“Fluently,” Clint agreed. “Why do you think I like Paris?”
Phil glanced in their direction just in time to see them exchange a smile. “Yes, well,” he said, not sure just how worried he should be about this new partnership, “we live in New York. People all over the world flock to New York. Culture, history, entertainment, everything you could want.”
“Is there a point to this, Phil?” his mother asked.
“Why are we in the basement playing with the vacuum cleaner?” Phil glared at Mr. Fantastic, who was hovering in what he considered a threatening manner directly in front of him.
“We might be overreacting,” Steve said, reluctant to say it, but knowing it had to be said. “We have to acknowledge that there is a possibility that we are overreacting.”
“Probably.” Natasha tossed her bag to the side and slid into place next to him. “But we are very, very good at that. Professionals, even.”
“Professional overreactors?” Bruce asked, ducking into his seat. He reached for his seat belt, checking the straps with his usual care. “I don’t really think that’s something you should admit to.”
“Admit to? It’s on my damn resume. Featured prominently.” Clint grinned as he started the checks. “Besides, it’s not really like we can hide the fact, Doc. We’re stealing the Quinjet to fly to China to make sure that Tony Stark isn’t up to no good. When we’re all pretty much sure that he’s up to no good.”
“In that this is his natural state, yes.” Natasha stowed a couple of silver cases beneath the seats. “And we aren’t stealing it. Technically, we left Tony a note.”
“I like falling on the right side of ‘technically,’” Clint said. “It’s so comforting.”
((Okay, here’s the thing. Boston is my spiritual home, and I am a Massachusetts girl. Because I am in need of a love letter to my home, I’m going to put up the first chapter of my College AU. It is AU, Tony is underage, as I will be following the canon that he graduated MIT at 17. If this bothers you, this story is not going to be for you. It may be a long time before you see the next part of this. But I need some Boston, so bear with me.
For more info about this fic, see this post: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/29335275218/i-make-such-frickin-poor-choices ))
The last train was the last hope, and it was the last place that he wanted to be.
Steve Rogers hadn’t been in Boston for very long, but he’d quickly learned that particular inescapable truth: the last train of the night was to be avoided. And the last train running on the MBTA’s Green Line was the one he’d do anything to avoid. The Green Line trolleys were small and cramped, too hot in summer and too cold in the winter, every stop cracking the doors to circulate the stale air, never letting the passengers cool off or warm up, and every stop made things worse. There were a lot of stops on the Green Line, especially on the B line, the one that ran through Boston University.
The one he took to get back to his small, empty apartment.
Usually, the problem was that it was filled to overflowing, too many people in a too small space, boisterous college students and drunks with something to prove and exhausted workers scrambling to catch the T before the service ended and they were left with an expensive cab ride home. Steve, who took up entirely too much space at the best of times and the last train was never the best of times, hated the last train, hated how obvious and clumsy and out of place he felt as the trolley rattled through the city streets.
Tonight, he as he fought his way through the crowd at the front of the train, heading for the back, he was shocked to find himself mostly alone on the rear trolley car.
((For my Christmas present, the esteemed Kara drew me the Avengers’ mug shots. I am tasked with coming up with a story for each one. The art is hers, the interpretation is mine. The “read more” does not work on this, if you are seeing this on my blog, please click through to read the entire story))
Mug Shots: Bruce
Maybe someday he’d get used to waking up naked in a hole, covered in debris. Maybe someday it would be something he could cope with, without flinching, without a creeping sense of horror. Maybe someday he could open his eyes and know that whatever happened, it was for the better.
Today was not that day.
Bruce struggled toward consciousness, acutely aware of the wail of sirens, and the sound of screams, the taste of blood and iron in the back of his throat, the jagged edges of stone beneath his bare skin. He tried to push himself up, and it hurt, everything hurt, bits of stone and metal and glass digging into his palms. He sucked in a breath and coughed, gagged, there was smoke in the air, smoke and dust and-
A little girl was blinking up at him.
((Okay, guys, it was a long day, and it didn’t go the way I’d planned, but then again, when does it? So have half of a Valentine’s Day story, while it’s still Valentine’s Day. 8) ))
“At what point does looking someone up on Facebook become stalking?”
Tony hummed into his coffee cup. “Okay,” he said at last, eyes narrowed, “that question assumes A. that I have a Facebook account that I, personally, have some interaction with, which is a false assumption, and B. that I would resort to looking at someone’s public FACEBOOK page to gain information on them.”
Bruce considered him, a half-eaten triangle of toast hanging forgotten in his hand. “You are not the proper person to ask about this,” he said at last.
“I am SO not the proper person to ask about this,” Tony agreed, grinning. “Barton? Facebook stalking seems more your speed.”
“Yeah, you take stalking to whole new levels of crazy,” Clint agreed. He leaned over, considering the oven with narrowed eyes. As Bruce watched, he punched something into the timer before he straightened up. Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he added, “How have you not gotten arrested yet?”
“I’m rich. And smarter than you,” Tony said. He pointed a finger in Clint’s direction. “Also, I would have to care about an ex enough to go stalking.”
“I’m pretty sure you have a dedicated satellite that exists only to track Steve at this point,” Clint shot back, arms crossed over his chest. He smirked in Tony’s direction.
“That is not an ex,” Tony said, trying and failing to approach dignity.
“What you have to understand, Steve, is that I have a long and colorful history with local law enforcement.”
Steve sipped his coffee and frowned down at his tablet. “Uh-huh,” he agreed, not really paying attention. Tony was on a tangent, and sometimes when that happened, the best thing he could do was just nod, smile, and wait for him to run out of steam.
Some days, it took hours.
Tony leaned over Steve’s shoulder, rubbing one hand down the plane of Steve’s arm. Steve knew Tony was only doing it to distract him, and he still leaned into the touch. Tony kept up the contact, even as he continued, “Just because I found your mug shot, Steve, is no reason to go digging into my sordid past.”
“Is it sordid?” Steve asked, eyebrows arching.
“I was young, cocky, and rich,” Tony pointed out. “And there was alcohol involved. Of course it was sordid.”
The second chapter of “Hollow Your Bones Like a Bird’s” has been posted to AO3, and can be found here:
Edit: Sorry! I cut off a number on the link, it’s fixed now! It’s late and I’m snow stupid, that’s my excuse!
((Okay, everyone! Happy Femslash February! I’m going to try to do this, and do this well, wish me luck. I apologize for my first attempt at Femslash, I doubt it will be very good, but it’ll be a chance to play with some characters who often don’t get much time on the playing field in my fic. Bear with me, please! For those of you who don’t remember her, Dr. Anna Garza is a creation of mine introduced here: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/29091412546/avengers-fic-a-singular-remedy-pt-1 She is not part of the shippy set, for those who despise OCs gettin’ it on with canon characters, have no fear. 8) ))
“So, a six inch laceration on your left arm, badly bruised shoulder, bruised tailbone, lacerations on both fists, strained wrist, mild head injury, a dandy little case of frostnip, which isn’t nearly as adorable as it sounds, exhaustion and dehydration. Did I miss anything?”
Maria Hill stared at the ceiling of medical. There was a picture of a grumpy looking cat taped there, with a word bubble that read, “For God’s sake, stop getting hurt!” It was far more amusing than it should’ve been.
“I think,” she said after a moment of careful consideration, “that I need to get laid.”
Dr. Anna Garza paused, one dark eyebrow arching. “Okay,” she said at last. “I will admit, I missed that one. In my defense, we haven’t yet come up with a definitive medical test for that particular ailment, so, I’m not feeling too bad about it. I can add it to your chart, if you’d like, but it’ll be for informational purposes only.”
First Mugshot pic of the awesome collab I’m doing with Scifigrl47!
“You know it doesn’t exist.”
Tony Stark arched his eyebrows. “Actually, no, I know just the opposite. I’ve seen it. Held it. Hell, I own it, Agent Coulson, so I can say, with all sincerity, that it exists.”
Phil gave him a look. “It’s a fake.”
“Well, of course it’s a fake, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. “Depending on which one it is, it’s going to range from a horrific fake to a hysterical fake to a half-way plausible fake.” He spread his hands wide, nearly knocking his coffee cup over with the pure expansiveness of the gesture. “Of COURSE it’s a fake. But it exists.”
“I’m not sure why we’re concerned that a fake exists, when everyone knows it’s a fake.” Phil went back to his coffee, and his paperwork.
“It’s the Holy Grail.” Tony leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table. “This is the fucking Holy Grail, Phil, you know it is. You’ve heard the rumors, read the stories, I know you have. But I can confirm, these things exist.”
“Everyone knows they are fake.” Coulson shook his head. “It’s a waste of money, Stark.”
Tony’s teeth flashed. “Most things I do are a waste of money. This? This is not a waste of money. This is not a waste of time, effort or money. But I will admit, I’ll give you, that if I show up to pick this thing up, the price is going to triple, and at that point? It’s a waste of money.” He stood, heading for the coffee pot. “Which is where you come in!” He snagged the pot and headed back to the table. “You show up and make the buy, and no one blinks twice. I get another one of these things off the market, you get to SEE one, some idiot who’s selling some fake his grandfather bought in 1973 gets a bit of cash.”
He tossed himself back into his chair. “Everyone wins! Why do you have such hatred for universal victory, Phil?”
((Warning: This story will contain sexual situations involving individuals under the influence of alcohol, and thus are not capable of full informed consent. All sexual situations will involve established partners who would likely be getting it on with or without the alcohol, but please use caution with respect to your own comfort level. Also, this story will be very silly. I need silly right now.
The first part can be found here: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/39391191226/avengers-fic-the-best-of-life-and-asgard-pt-1 ))
“Okay, the important thing is that we all remain calm,” Tony said. He paused. “Mostly me. It’s important that I remain calm.”
There was a moment of silence. “Your attempts appear to be less than successful,” Thor pointed out.
“I would like you to not call attention to that.” Tony choked on a yelp as Steve’s arms closed tight around his waist, lifting him bodily from the floor. “Or this. Don’t call attention to this, either.”
“As you wish,” Thor said, grinning at him. “It is hard to miss, however.”
Tony tried to glare at him, but it wasn’t particularly effective. It was hard to be intimidating when he couldn’t quite manage to get his feet back on the ground. Or when he was pretty damn sure that Steve was sniffing his hair. When Steve sobered up, the two of them were going to have a discussion about this.
“Have we a plan?” Lady Sif asked, because she was a practical sort of lady. Practical and cheerful and with a core of steel that Tony respected. It was she who had made their excuses to their hosts while Thor collected the Warriors Three and gathered everyone here.
She hadn’t so much as blinked at the tableau they’d presented. Tony was impressed by that. Between Clint and Phil canoodling on the couch, Hulk snoring away on the floor, Jane and Darcy doing a cancan style dance with Natasha singing in off-key French, and Steve attempting to get what remained of Tony’s clothes off, it was clear that the situation was completely out of control. Sif had merely arched an eyebrow and hiked up her skirt with one hand, stepping delicately over Hulk’s limp arm and catching a vase that Darcy had decided to throw across the room.
Tony liked Sif. A lot.
((A new quick piece for New Years! It is going to be silly. This is going to be RIDICULOUSLY SILLY. I don’t want to hear it if you think it’s just that. 8)
Further warnings: There is some alcohol use here! This will result in some impaired judgement and potentially sexy times! All sexy times will be between established partners who would likely have been participating in sexy times with or without the alcohol (shut up, Clint, you would so), but this is impaired judgement. Please use caution if such things bother you!))
“Is this sparkling cider?”
Tony Stark stared suspiciously at his glass, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. The glass had no answers to bestow, so he switched his gaze to Thor, who gave him a shrug. He seemed apologetic, but there was amusement glinting in his eyes. “Of a sort,” he said. “Tis tasty.”
“Tis non-alcoholic,” Tony said. “Tasty is one thing. Non-alcoholic is the anti-tasty. Let’s, let’s not do this.” He held the crystal goblet towards Thor, the stem pinched between his thumb and his forefinger. “You spend about half of your waking hours bragging about Asgardian booze, and you give me apple juice with bubbles? Why would you give me the kiddie drink?”
“It is not a drink for children,” Thor said, his brows drawing tight together as he took the glass..
“Well, I should-”
“Our children drink wine,” Thor said, and Tony decided that he was done with this conversation.
The Ghost of Christmas Present:
The safe house was an old, battered building. It was rough and it was drafty, the heavy dark drapes perpetually closed to hold back the worst of the winter winds. The heat was inadequate, the water pipes knocked with brutal force, and the corners were dusty and the wallpapers horrific beneath their faded colors.
Phil had no idea who thought it was a good idea to put the Christmas tree up in the living room, but it had been there when they arrived, a real pine, green and lush and slightly lopsided in the way that only real trees were. There weren’t many ornaments dotting the branches, but there were a few; blown glass birds with long, curled tail feathers, crocheted snowflakes, glitter dusted balls. Clint had found a string of lights in the hall closet, in a box marked simply decorations, and had wrapped the tree while both Phil and Natasha had ignored his attempts. But when he was done and searching for a broom to pick up some odd needles, Natasha had found a faded blanket to wrap around the stand, and Phil had folded a simple star from tin foil and wired it to the top.
Clint hadn’t said anything about either addition, but he had spent the majority of the mission’s down time sitting in the comfortably shabby living room with a cup of coffee in one hand and a fire in the soot covered fireplace. Phil did paperwork, and Natasha read, but Clint would just sit and relax, occasionally singing a soft, comforting run of Christmas carols.
And the three of them had waited for their cue, waited for their orders to change. Waited for the other shoe to drop.
((One of my contest runner-ups requested a Christmas fic for her friend. In three parts, over the next few days, enjoy the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Be in the relationship of Clint and Phil.
Merry Christmas, to Coulsons-hawk, from Crystallized-cake.))
The Ghost of Christmas Past:
“Six handlers in six months.”
Nick Fury didn’t even look up from his report. “Mmmm,” he hummed, one cheek braced on his broad fist, his single dark eye narrowed in concentration. “Closer to five months, if you wanna be technical about it, but I’m guessing you don’t, huh, Phil?”
Phil Coulson resisted the urge to fling the folders in his hand at his boss’ head. It wouldn’t end well, and Fury would just laugh at him. Then throw him in the brig. With a faint, sustained breath, Coulson set the files on the desk. “Six handlers in six months,” he repeated.
“Yeah, we’ve established that. Kind of a lousy track record, even for your pet project.”
“He’s not my pet project,” Phil said, dropping into the guest chair when Nick waved a hand in its general direction. He rubbed his aching forehead with stiff fingers.
(previous chapters can be found here: http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/fic )
Pepper knew she shouldn’t have gotten involved with this.
With a growing sense of doom, she considered the alert that was flashing on her screen. With a shake of her head, she reached for the phone.
“Hi, Steve,” she said, relaxing back into her chair. She reached for her coffee cup, wishing she’d gone for the extra espresso shot this morning, it looked like she was going to need it. “It’s Pepper. How’re you today, and what’re you doing in the StarkIndustries servers?”
“Just fine, thank you, Pepper, and digging for information about Tony’s latest trip,” he said without a beat of pause. “How’re you?”
Pepper choked on a laugh. “Always a straight shooter, aren’t you?”
“It cuts down on the amount of time we spend lying about a situation that you’re clearly already aware of,” he said, his voice apologetic. “Seemed prudent and efficient.”
“I’ve got a pretty busy calendar, so I do appreciate that.” She took a sip of coffee.
((There will be one more chapter after this. Bear with me. 8) ))
“So, as it turns out, having several hundred pounds of robot land on an astral projection is enough to break the caster’s control. Also possibly break the caster, if there is any justice in the universe at all,” Stephen Strange said, his voice calm. “And if you were attempting to kill a child when it happens, it turns out no one gives a damn if it does.” He smiled as a smoothie was held up in front of him. “Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.” He put it down next to the other three that he’d already been presented with. “I’ll work on…” Strange considered the greenish gray sludge. “I’ll do my best.”
“He seems to be very enthusiastic about being able to make smoothies again,” Clint said, perched on the back of the couch, a cup balanced on each knee.
Bruce sniffed his. “Here, trade, I think mine has rum in it.”
“I’ll take it, but I don’t think you want to trade. I think mine has motor oil in it,” Clint said, grinning. “It’s got a very interesting bouquet, and the aftertaste’ll strip some taste buds from your tongue.”
“You killed your sense of taste years ago,” Natasha told him, making him laugh. “Mine is delicious.”
“Mine, too. That’s my boy,” Tony said, holding up his hand. Dummy gave him a high five and then rolled past, his wheels singing against the floor. Right on his tail, Butterfingers and You bounced along in his wake, chirping and squeaking as they moved like a little pack of crazed mechanical puppies.