Fic Dump
Here's to my resolution to cross-post. We shall see how it goes. *Already feeling daunted*
I wrote a bunch of tiny fics/drabbles between snowflake_challenge and fandom_stocking. They're not really worth separating out or posting to archives, so I'm going to stick them here/DW if anyone wants to read through.
Bourne Legacy, for Shadowcat's stocking
Aaron wakes at the feel of a particularly rough wave hitting the ship. The movement pitches him to the side just slightly-just enough to have him gritting his teeth and curling into himself. The shakiness from viraling out, which disappeared in a flood of adrenaline during the chase, is back. Or perhaps it's a new shakiness, from blood loss. Either way, between the waves and the way his body can't seem to still itself, the throbbing ache at the center of the bullet wound is radiating out, making every muscle and tendon scream at him. He makes himself breathe.
He can hear people moving up on deck. He knows he should move: figure out what time it is, figure out where Marta is, if she is even still on this boat. He forces down the part of him that hopes she is. It would be best for her if she were not. She should have left when he told her to.
He shouldn't have gotten her involved in the first place.
Aaron locks away the sense memory of her touch, gentle at his temples, sweeping across his hair. He can't remember the last time someone touched him with a gentleness that wasn't clinical. When he has made sure she is safe, he will take those memories out again, play them over and over.
As if she has heard him thinking about her, Marta slips into the cabin, the sounds of her entrance soft, except to his overly sensitive ears. He makes himself open his eyes. He wants to see her. The room spins for a moment when he manages, but then she comes into focus, her smile concerned. It is real concern, as opposed to the concern of a doctor over a specimen. Aaron knows the difference, now.
She whispers, "Good morning."
"Is it?" he croaks. "Morning?"
Her smile widens and she shakes her head. "No, not at all. Here."
He does his best to help as she guides him to a sitting position, gives him the cup that was in her hands. It is full of water, not too cold, and so very soothing to his dry throat and mouth. "Thank you."
"How are you feeling?"
He laughs a little. "Like I got shot."
She laughs, too. He finds himself saying, "Will you-" before he even realizes he's opened his mouth.
She tilts her head. "Aaron?"
He tries shaking his head, but she puts her hand to his cheek, arresting the movement. She repeats, "Aaron."
"Just, if you haven't got somewhere else you'd like to be, could you maybe-" He pulls his face to the side, away from her hand.
"Stay?" she asks softly. He manages to nod, but only just. He feels the dip of the bedding first, and then she is there, surrounding him despite her smaller size. She says, "Any time."
He doesn't believe, he can't, but she's here now, and Aaron is very, very good at living in the moment.
Alias/WW for Chaila's stocking
The first time CJ meets her, she is still Laura Bristow. She is someone's wife, someone's mother, and the only reason CJ even remembers the meeting at all is because she'd spent a terrible afternoon cozening up donors and Laura was the first person to speak to CJ with any real humor. CJ doesn't even remember the joke-something about the garden décor-but she remembers laughing, and spending a few moments getting to know Mrs. Bristow, mostly because she didn't seem to want anything from CJ.
But then, CJ hadn't known much at that time.
*
The second time CJ meets her, CJ is lost in CIA HQ, and Irina is being taken down a hallway in cuffs. CJ's had the world's most frustrating hour dealing with the CIA liaison and is not on top of her game, so she blinks and says, "Laura?"
The other woman's smile is sharp and sad and layered. She says, "I was."
*
The third time they meet is coincidence, pure and simple. It is also the first time CJ learns her real name.
They are both at a bar. The place is a dive, but CJ loves it because nobody gives her a second glance when she goes in. There are plenty of booths and the wings are spicy enough to cause tears and CJ does not require much from her watering holes.
She's minding her own business in one of those booths, trying to make herself stop thinking about that evening's press conference-she'll be back at the office soon enough, lord knows-when someone drops into the booth seat across from her. She blinks.
After a moment, she says, "Hello, Not-Laura."
The other woman smiles, this time amused, if still possessing an edge. "Irina, please, Ms. Cregg."
"We're sitting in a bar that's probably eluded health and safety inspection for the better part of a decade, and you're some kind of maybe-cold war era spy chatting up the White House press secretary, so what say you we stick with first names?"
The smile widens. "CJ, then."
"Just as a forewarned is forearmed sort of thing, are you on the run from any major law enforcement agencies currently?"
"For the moment," Irina says, "I am too useful to them for that."
It's a mark of how long CJ has been in DC that she doesn't even feel a twinge of surprise. She considers the woman in front of her, and says, "Well then, let me buy you a drink."
*
Laura-Irina is still funny and different, and if she could, CJ would take her home for the night. As it is, she pays their tab and says, "Be careful."
Irina quirks an eyebrow. "And play for the right team?"
CJ thinks about that day Toby came to get her, about standing wet in the pool, unable to see two feet in front of her. She says, "Make the right choices. Whatever that means."
Irina's eyes are warm when she nods. "Take care of yourself."
CJ smiles. "Until we meet again."
Avengers for Nestra
Clint abhors formal functions. He probably has his whole life, but he's never been forced to attend any before becoming an Avenger and living with Tony Stark. He files the necessary charity balls and public relations events under the theory that everything good in life has a price, but it doesn't really make them suck any less.
Part of it is simply that no matter how good tuxes make him look-and judging by the slight smolder in Phil's gaze every time Clint puts one on, he's smoking in them-they're restrictive and uncomfortable and remind him weirdly of being forced to go to church on Sunday mornings back in Waverly, act like he was the youngest son of a happy family, and everything was okay. Part of it is that Clint's no good at small talk. He can be witty and smart and fun given the right topic, but that topic is never politics, weather or current events, at least not in a glancing manner. He's much more likely to offend than to open pockets. All in all, he's just not of much use in a glittering hall or ballroom or…anywhere fancy.
Phil having recovered enough to come along and watch over them all, avert most potential disasters-Thor and Tony in one room means they simply cannot all be avoided, no matter who's there to keep watch-helps. He's good at knowing when Clint is floundering, needs rescue.
And when Clint has been good all evening, Phil is always willing to reward him in the best ways.
*
Clint usually only has the vaguest idea of what cause he's supporting or what funding endeavor he's pushing at any given event; just enough to appropriately fluff donors. The ones that are for children-at-risk or foster system kids, those he takes a little more care to know about. They're both easier to spend time at for the feeling that it's time well spent, and harder, because they call up memories Clint would rather jettison.
He's been at one for the better part of three hours, been chatting about children with visible ribs, children for whom the idea of love is an abstract, with people who have never known deprivation or desperation. He wants to scream, to run.
He's considering whether he can hold down another drink and still have the level of alertness he needs when around this many people when Phil comes up beside him, pressing his hand to Clint's back, gently guiding him to the patio. It is February. Nobody is outside.
They slip through the faux-French doors. The shock of cold is sharp and immediate. Clint generally hates the cold-too many memories of winters without proper clothing and days spent in perches, unable to move until a target was acquired-but he doesn't mind so much just now, with Phil at his side and the heavy noise of the room shut behind the doors.
No sooner are they outside than Phil pushes Clint against the wall of the building, next to the door, where they won't be immediately visible to those inside. Clint closes his eyes, soaking in the feeling of Phil's hands against his chest, under his jacket, both palms flat, the heat of his skin penetrating Clint's shirt. Clint could still break away if he had even the slightest desire, but it's the first time in a while that the strength Phil is slowly regaining has been evident.
"Status update?" Phil asks casually.
Clint laughs a little breathlessly. He knows Phil will read the exhaustion in it. Phil does. He leans in, his forehead pressing lightly against Clint's. Clint surges up the inch or so it takes to be kissing Phil. They don't have long, Clint knows. They aren't in the closet, not with anyone who matters, but both prefer their relationship not to be public knowledge for practical and security reasons.
Phil, who is usually so good about not letting Clint make foolish decisions, kisses back. The kiss is warm and sweet, even with the winter weather surrounding them, the cold brick at Clint's back. After a few moments, Phil pulls back. "To be continued. Another hour or so, that's it."
"Mm," Clint agrees, keeping the feel of the kiss with him for as long as he's able.
Phil straightens his own clothing, and then does so for Clint. Clint stands still for him, and when he heads back inside, loyally follows.
Avengers for Summerstorm's stocking
Steve walks onto his-their, he gets all kicked puppy-dog on her when she forgets-floor soaking wet and hunched into himself. Natasha supposes if she were any other girl she'd feel a flash of concern. Instead she frowns and asks, "Did you piss Fury off or something?"
He looks confused for a moment and then says, "Oh. I-I was walking to the train after the meeting. It's raining out."
Natasha just manages not to gesture at the floor to ceiling windows behind her. "Did you get lost?"
Steve shifts from one foot to another and suddenly, Natasha is a little concerned. He hasn't been this uncertain about anything with her since…since before they'd begun sleeping together. Softly, she asks, "Steve?"
"I found something that was lost," he tells her slowly.
She's losing her edge when it comes to him-maybe in general-because when she glances over him again she notices that he's not hunched into himself, he's protecting something with his body. She peers at his hands and they open slowly, revealing one very wet, very tiny kitten.
"Oh," she says.
"I-I'm sure there's a shelter I can donate to and have them take her. I just couldn't leave her in the trash." He sounds utterly miserable.
Natasha has never had a pet. She's never bothered to imagine having one. She thinks if she had ever bothered it would have been something like an iguana-self-reliant and thick skinned. This hapless creature who fits in Steve's palm would not have made the list. But Natasha, who has spent so much of her life carefully not paying attention to others' needs and desires hates Steve having even a moment of sadness. He doesn't deserve it; there's already been too much of it, and unlike her, he never did anything to call misfortune down upon himself.
She takes a few steps toward him, watching as the kitten tries to crawl its way up his arm. "Let's get it cleaned up, yes?"
He blinks at her and she can't decide whether this is one of those moments where she's pleased to have surprised him or if she wishes he'd had enough faith in her to believe she would consider his feelings. She's not sure it matters.
*
The kitten cleans up awfully nice, even if it is less-than-thrilled about the process. Shampooed and dried, she's a tiny ginger cat, with a few deep orange lines and a white star on her chest. Her fur is soft, and strangely, she likes Natasha. Usually animals are at best wary of Natasha, at worst outright hostile, as if they sense they are dealing with a predator.
But this kitten just gambols over Natasha's legs and rolls over in her lap as much as she does to Steve when they are all sitting on the sofa. Natasha extends a finger and strokes the kitten's belly. "What'd you name her?"
Steve starts to say, "I didn't-" but Natasha throws him a look and he grins, open and easy for the first time since he walked in the door. "Rembrandt. But I figure Remi, for short."
Rembrandt is Natasha's favorite artist. Steve prefers Seurat or Turner or Titian. Natasha leans in to kiss him, quick and sweet. "I like it."
"Nat-"
Natasha ignores him, picking Remi up and asking, "What do you think, girl? Remi?"
The kitten nips at Natasha's closest finger. Natasha laughs. "We'll take unprompted aggression as a yes. She'll fit in just fine."
Softly, he says, "I love you."
She's not ready to say it back, not yet, but it no longer terrifies her to hear it. She kisses him again, a little more deeply this time. She pulls back and says, "JARVIS?"
"I will put in an order for the necessary kitten supplies, Ms. Romanoff."
"Still my favorite, JARVIS."
"I try, Ms. Romanoff."
Steve makes a slightly offended noise. Natasha kisses it away. Remi falls off the perch she'd managed to make on his shoulder. All is as it should be.
ST: AOS for unbidden_truth's stocking
The first time Jim sees Gaila, his immediate thought is, way out of your league, Kirk. Of course, Jim thinks that in relation to just about everyone he ends up sleeping with, so it's not particularly unusual. What is strange is that he considers not going for it, unsure about how he feels about rejection in this instance.
Rejection, for Jim, is simply an expectation, an inevitability. It's grown, well, not comforting, exactly, but familiar. The point is to keep pursuing until someone takes him up on his offers.
But he wants Gaila, with her red curls that remind Kirk of the Chinese dragons he wanted to see in person so badly as a child, and her wide smile, filled with sharp teeth. It makes him wary, and in the end, he isn't brave enough.
He takes home a pretty girl from Manitoba who speaks with rounded vowels and is brilliant at cartography. They have a good time. Jim doesn't think he's what she wants, which, really, is only fair.
*
He doesn't try for Gaila the second or the third time he sees her either. In fact, he's semi-certain he never would have, if not for needing her to pass the Kobayashi Maru. That, though, that makes it easy. Because he thinks she should reject him, hopes she does.
Of course, this is Jim's life, so she takes him up with that delightful smile and the observation, "Ready to stop being shy?"
Nobody has ever called Jim shy, ever. It startles a laugh from him, and for a moment, he's just a boy who's been noticed by the most interesting girl in the room. He keeps that moment for later.
*
When Earth has been saved and Jim wakes from being forcibly sedated by Bones only to fall out of the bed someone found for him, he stumbles to the nearest computer console and says, "List of cadets killed in most recent action."
He reads and reads and reads. Somehow, her name isn't there. He checks the list twice, and then a third time. It strikes Jim that, for once in his life, he might have a chance to apologize, to mean it.
He doesn't expect forgiveness, thinks that maybe apologizing is selfish. But Jim has always known he is selfish. He wouldn't even know how to change that now.
*
It takes him a couple of days, but when he finds her in the mass of cadets that are dumped back onto the grounds of the Academy, he pulls himself up to his full height and goes to approach her. Before he can go three steps, she's run to him, is surrounding him in a hug. He falters, not really knowing how to handle that response. He's considered so many possibilities. This is not one of them.
She pulls back and says, "You're a dick of the highest magnitude, Jim Kirk. But you get a pass for saving a planet I really like."
Kirk blinks at that. "I-it was my crew."
She rolls her eyes, smile wide but muted, the way all of theirs are these days. "Nobody saves the world alone, Jim. But the guy who gets the idea for how to do it? That's the kind of guy who'll do what's necessary to step outside the lines, to win at games with no victor."
Not for the first time, but this is perhaps the first moment he's had to feel it, Jim realizes that trait is as much a blessing as a curse-and vice versa. "I'm still sorry."
Her eyes darken a bit and she says, "Good. Makes me feel a little better about what you'll do with that kind of power."
She starts to walk away, and he knows he should let her, but he finds himself calling, "Gaila?"
She turns back, one eyebrow raised. He says, "Let me buy you a drink. Between friends. Because we've lost enough of them."
She doesn't hesitate before nodding. "That we have."
The rest of these are from the OTP meme I did as part of snowflake. Being lazy and just giving you the pairing/question, not who requested it.
Why does Hermione keep trying when others would give up? What makes the difference to Severus?
It is a fluke that Severus finds out at all. He's grading essays late into the night when he calls for one of the house elves and asks for the Gui Fei Oolong. He's never before drank it outside of his Tuesday conferences with Granger, but it provides a kick and he's not in the mood for Irish breakfast or the superior red he sometimes takes after dinner. The house elves promptly fall into abject abasement and disarray upon informing him that they do not stock that particular tea leaf.
Severus frowns. "Of course you do. You serve it every Tuesday in my office."
Roughly three thousand apologies later, Severus begins to understand that for the past nineteen months, Granger has brought the rare blend of tea with her-presumably because she brought it the first time, and he commented vaguely upon its pleasantness.
Severus finds himself unable to un-know this particular fact. Nor can he change the fact that it begins to shape his other observations.
It is three days before he sees her again, and in that time he manages to pry from Minerva that Granger was not the only voice to recommend he be hired at the continent's test-fly of a wizarding university, as well as learn that the proper potions experts were brought into Mungo's purely at her behest. By the time she walks into his office for their weekly meeting, he is incensed. "Did you think I would owe you, Ms. Granger?"
To her credit, she pauses at the question and thinks. She does not pretend ignorance. "My title is doctor, Professor, which you well know, and no."
She does not continue.
"That is not an answer."
"It is to the question you asked," she tells him.
He swallows. "Doc-Hermione." He does not permit a smile when she blinks, although it is close. "Why?"
Her smile is sad, wise, but not defeated. "We all have a little bit of a hopeless romantic in us, I suppose."
Severus does not remember when he last felt hope, or when he ever thought she might know what hopelessness was. He asks, "Did you bring the tea?"
She has. Of course she has.
Mary/Buck/Vin/Chris/Ezra: what would they do in a case, of, say, ambush?
In a moment of surprising tact-or, perhaps, Nathan and Josiah's quiet guidance-JT had agreed the three of them could keep watch over things in Four Corners while the other four took Mary up to Defiance for a story she was desperate to report on. Or, well, Buck, Chris and Vin could make sure Mary didn't stir up too much trouble for her own good and Ezra could stretch his legs for a bit, like he tended to need to do after a few months of not much excitement.
Chris should have known word would get ahead of them. Vin was the first to feel the approach, slowing down ever so slightly in that way where he was clearly trying not to assume anything. Ezra took one look at him, though and said, "Gentleman, may I presume we have a plan of which I was not informed?"
Chris didn't have to look to his sides or behind him to know that the four of them were flanking her, surrounding her. Mary just said, "You're in my line of sight, Larabee," and Chris could hear her cocking Stephen's old rifle.
"We need better cover," Buck said, almost like he was discussing the weather. Vin was already on the problem, which meant they managed to find an outcrop that would, well, make things better than no outcrop, with seconds left before the party was on them.
Mary took the first shot. She could be bad at anticipation, but the way she stood her ground even as the rifle kicked made Chris well aware they were all going to be sneaking somewhere to be together that night, kissing at the bruise on her shoulder, seeing that each of them was still whole.
When it was clear they were being pressed in upon, Chris tried to catch Buck's eye, but before he could, he noticed that Buck and Ezra had already taken it into their heads to handle the problem by providing distraction.
When Vin and he had taken advantage of the help and shot everyone dead, Chris glared at the two of them, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he was checking for wounds. Buck smiled his most irritating smile and said, "Think Defiance has herself a nice bath house?"
Vin shakes his head with a half-curl of his lips and checks on Mary for a third time under his lashes. Ezra helps her back onto her horse and Chris gets on his, moving out in front, where Buck rides to his side. If Chris checks behind him to make sure the others are fine a few more times than normal, well, that's nobody's business but his own.
What are the things Holmes admires most in Mary Watson? And what are the things she loves in him?
Holmes does what is only right and proper and gives a bit of chase himself to give Mary and John some time together. They are married and it's best, really, that absence make the heart grow fonder, rather than them waking one morning to realize they've accidentally given him a key.
He does not plan on stumbling home with a cut cheek, sprained wrist and nascent cough, but Holmes' plans are always going just a bit awry. It's other people he can predict, not necessarily events as they come together.
He tries to go back to Baker Street, first, but he's forgotten his key at…well, at home. And so it is that he tries to sneak in, but Mary Watson is too sharp for that by half and Holmes isn't at all surprised to be caught out by her. She says, "Oh good, we'd begun to worry," and rather than lecturing, simply leads him to the kitchen, where she has learned to keep bandages and other useful tools of patching her menfolk up. John will usually do it for Holmes, but Holmes secretly revels in these moments, when John is sleeping or otherwise indisposed, and Mary is forced to put him back to rights. It feels less like stealing when her touch is that of a nurse, a caretaker.
When he can't hold his thoughts in any longer, she lets him spew words, picking one out here and there, just as John would, helping to slow his thoughts that necessary tiny bit, enough to have things click into place. She implacably waits as he drinks the tea she's set down, firmly re-settling him every time he tries to leave it to cool.
In a moment when he's distracted by thoughts of the case, he admits, "I forgot my Baker Street key here."
"Did you need it, dear?" she asks.
It occurs to him that it is not so obvious to her as it is to him that he should stay there, sometimes, to give them space. Like John, she strangely never seems to want to be rid of him. She might find him exasperating and even tiring, but not so much as to turn from him. He wants to kiss her, always, but is never quite sure he has the right.
*
She should not find these moments when Sherlock is tired and yet so alive with his own thoughts, desperate for and yet scared of her touch, to be so perfect, but Mary cannot help herself. When John had had to pay a house call, both of them had been pretending not to be waiting, watching the door. She'd said, "Go, I'll take care of him," and John had trusted her to do as she said, which in and of itself was a heady rush.
Sherlock's warming under her hands now, some of the chill of the air being leached by the kitchen fire and her ministrations. He stills for her, as though he's trying his best to be what she wants. She has tried to tell him he needn't work so hard, but for all that Sherlock sees and notices and knows, his ability to believe that she and John are his to keep is absolutely none. She should not love him for that reason, either, but she has given up thinking about what she should and should not do. She is in love with two men, one of them brilliant and wild and broken and there are no rules any longer.
His thoughts are pouring out of him, a whirlwind of intellect and puzzle pieces and Sherlock. She wonders if, when he looks at her, really looks, he sees this way. Not the way of their first meeting, with him driving home his observations to repel, but in the way where everything is vibrant and connected and meaningful.
He looks at her, then, his gaze catching hers, maybe even by mistake, but catching all the same. His eyes flicker and Mary knows, deep down, that yes, this amazing, one-of-a-kind man, sees something secret and special and perfect when he looks at her. He lifts a hand and then blinks at it, as if it had moved without his permission. She takes it, presses it to her lips, enjoys the way he doesn't pull from her grasp.
What does Brendon think when Ryan shows up cold and wet with his new kitten?
For a moment, Brendon just stands there, in his doorway, wondering if he's experiencing sleep-deprivation induced hallucinations. Then he realizes no, his brain would probably come up with something less ridiculous.
Ryan says, "Hi."
Brendon purses his lips, but says, "Come in. I'll get a towel."
When Brendon returns with the towel, Ryan says, "I meant to call."
Brendon raises an eyebrow. "And by that, you mean any time in the last six months?"
Ryan's drying the kitten off before himself, of course, despite the fact that he's standing in Brendon's hallway, shivering. He nods. "E-every d-day of th-them."
"Jesus-just. Stay there." Brendon goes and gets more towels and some pajamas. He works on drying Ryan off. When he and the kitten are as dry as they're going to get and Ryan has changed, Brendon says, "Coffee."
Ryan perks up at this. Brendon looks down at the cat. "I don't have any cat food. If you'd called-"
"He was hiding in that gatehouse at the front of your neighborhood. Saw him in my headlights. Took a while to get him, hence the wetness."
"Oh." Brendon nods after a second and decides making coffee is the safest approach to this moment.
When Brendon's back is turned to him, Ryan says, "Brendon."
"We live like five miles from each other, Ry."
Things are quiet as Brendon measures the coffee, pours in the water. Eventually, Ryan says, "When have I ever been brave enough to do the right thing?"
The problem, Brendon thinks, is that the answer to that question is actually, lots of times. But only when it doesn't require Ryan having faith in himself. He turns back to Ryan and says, "You might as well stay the night, it's gross out there."
"I live five miles away." Ryan's eyes are huge and Brendon knows he hasn't been sleeping.
"Evidently, that's a little too far."
Steve/Natasha, ways in which Steve comforts Natasha when she's hurting
It took Steve a while to get used to the fact that Natasha has a hard time with what he considers to be basic human kindnesses. It comes out in all sorts of ways, but it is worst when she's injured. Not the little injuries, because Steve remembers being fragile, thank you, he knows that sometimes it's easiest to ignore the stuff you can. But the big ones, those are the kinds they have to come to a compromise on.
The whole situation comes to a head when she's hit by some kind of fire weapon and ends up on medical leave for at least a month with burns down the better part of her back. SHIELD has done everything they can for her, both as far as healing measures and pain management go, but she's still clearly in a lot of discomfort.
She tells him, "Look, I'm just going to sleep for a few days, so you should go and…do things."
He says, "You should definitely sleep."
She seems suspicious of this response, but also too tired to argue. Steve allows himself a few hours of sketching when she drops off, content just to be near, feel certain she's safe and not needing anything. When he starts to feel restless he goes into her kitchen and takes stock.
He steeps a few cups of her favorite tea so as to have it on hand to warm up when she wakes. He doesn't know how to make any of her comfort foods, but Clint will know where they can be ordered. Steve texts Clint, who tells him he'll put in the orders.
She wakes in the afternoon and he brings her tea and cranberry almond muffins in the bed. She laughs, but it's uneasy. She says, "My legs work fine."
"I know," he tells her. "But I would really appreciate you letting me feel useful right now."
The injury wasn't his fault and they both know it. He can see her getting ready to tell him. Instead she says, "In that case, read to me, for a bit?"
Steve tucks a curl behind her ear. "As long as you want."
Tony/Pepper, Pepper's favorite thing to do with Tony (sexual, non-sexual, either one)
Sometimes, she does things to see if he'll notice. It's not a test. Pepper's long learned to take Tony-and love Tony-as he is, and a lot of times, that means he misses little things, things he perhaps shouldn't. But then sometimes he catches on, and, well, those moments are worth all the times he doesn’t.
For instance, sometimes she has JARVIS insert messages like "I miss you," into Tony's work notes while she's gone for long periods of time, or has his kitchen re-stocked with the stuff he always runs out of first.
She just likes surprising him, really. Making him remember someone loves him. He forgets too easily.
She brings home old-fashioned cheesecake from Carnegies one evening, topped with blueberries, because he likes them, and she can share them. It's a little out of the way between the office and the Tower, but cheesecake always makes his eyes light up for a moment, excited in a little-boy way.
She gets that moment of delight from him before he asks, "What, trying to fatten me up for the kill?"
"Maybe I just think you're going to need a lot of energy, Mr. Stark."
His grin is a little too soft and pleased and desperate-to-hold-on to be as feral as he probably wishes. She steals the first bite of cheesecake.
What allows Clint to trust Coulson after all he's been through?
Clint has woken up in hospitals four times in his life that he remembers. There was the time his dad used the buckle-end of the belt and Barney wasn't home to stop him. There was the time he got the flu in the orphanage and his temperature started going above 103. There was the time after the Swordsman beat the crap out of him. And now, there's this time, with a bullet in his outer thigh and evidently some malnutrition and sleep deprivation problems.
Of the four, this is the only time someone has been there when he awoke. And sure, it's the guy who shot him, but the man also took him to the hospital-or whatever medical facility he's in-which is more than he can say for the last two people who caused him hospital-worthy injuries.
The man, who is reading what appears to be an InStyle magazine, immediately reaches for the cup at Clint's bedside and feeds him an ice chip. Clint takes it, blinking.
"I'm guessing you don't remember much about our conversation?" the man asks.
Clint sucks on the ice and thinks. When he's swallowed the last of the moisture, he says, "Agent Coulson of SHIELD."
"I have an employment contract all ready for you to sign."
Clint can't say he's surprised: Coulson seems like the type to come prepared. He thinks about arguing undue influence or something else fancy-sounding, but he doesn't like to renege on his word, which he vaguely remembers giving. Clint nods. "'Kay."
Coulson squeezes his shoulder, a bizarrely kind, strangely comforting move, and says, "When you've slept some more."
***
Four months into Clint's probationary period, Coulson finds him. He hasn't seen the senior agent in probably five or six weeks, had kind of figured the guy had unloaded him onto someone else. But Coulson says, "Sorry for the radio silence, unexpected mission."
Clint doesn't ask. He knows it's above his paygrade.
"Have a moment?" Coulson asks.
Clint is just logging extra time on the range, so he nods and follows when Coulson tells him to. They walk to a part of HQ Clint has never seen, into a set of rooms much like a studio apartment. There's a double bed beneath a window and a small kitchen off to the side. There are photos on the wall of people who look similar to Coulson, and covers from old jazz 45s. Nothing fancy, but the place isn't just somewhere to sleep, either.
"Y-you live on base?" The second he's asked the question Clint regrets it. It's none of his business.
"No, but I spend enough time here that I'd prefer it not feel like a barrack."
Clint turns the words over in his mind. He's been here four months, he intends to stay, but there's not one personal item in his space. He can't remember the last time somewhere felt like a home, like a place he had the right to make his own.
Coulson points to the kitchen counter, where there is a box. "Open it."
Inside are four different desserts. Clint looks over at Coulson who shrugs. "I know you eat candy bars, and I figured sweets were traditional. I could have done cake, but I wasn't sure what flavor you liked, so I thought variety was the key."
Clint frowns. Traditional? Then it comes to him. "What day is it?"
Coulson doesn't laugh at him, just says softly, "January 27th. Happy birthday."
Clint's pretty sure the last person who remembered his birthday without Clint mentioning it was Clint's mom. Over the past six or so years, he hasn't even bothered marking the date. Clint takes a breath. "I, uh. This all looks good, but I've got no idea what it is."
Coulson approaches. "Let me educate you in the ways of my favorite bakery."
Clint is ready to learn.
What are some ways that Coulson and Clint cheer each other up after a particularly hard day?
They agreed early on after Phil convinced Clint to move off base and into his apartment, that after bad days-whatever that meant for either of them-there was no TV, no radio, no internet. No outside world, just the two of them.
When it was Phil having the bad day, Clint always made a run to the comic store before he came home. Cap was Phil's favorite, but that didn't mean he didn't read anything else. There was almost always a new run of something Phil would enjoy, that they could curl up on the couch and read together.
Of course, that was after Trivial Pursuit. Phil killed Clint at it, having a bizarre store of absolutely useless information atop all of his practical knowledge. Clint liked the way Phil would sometimes think carefully, his forehead wrinkling a bit, and sometimes just know, immediately, his fingers snapping.
On the days that were bad for Clint, they played darts, which Phil was passable at, but, well, Hawkeye. Phil would read Clint Hardy Boys books, because Clint liked how simple they were, how everything resolved itself at the end. Because it felt a little bit like stealing back time for himself.
No matter which one of them-or if it was both-was being pampered, they always went to bed early on those nights. Sometimes, if they weren’t injured, if it was what they both wanted, they would have slow, almost lazy sex. Most of the time, they just curled up in each other's space, touching, cuddling. Even on the nights with sex, it ended like that, the pure comfort of the other's body heat, the sound of his breath.
Phil and Clint are at an upscale restaurant. What do they order?
Clint says, "This is not going to end well."
Phil smiles behind his menu. "It's food, Clint. If you chew it, it digests the same way as any other comestible."
"Now you're just using fancy words to freak me out," Clint accuses. He's not entirely wrong, so Phil lets it go.
"You want me to order?"
Clint peers around his menu. "Really?"
"Yes."
Phil sees Clint consider all the questions he could ask, waits for something, a will I like it? or don't get anything too freaky, but all Clint does is fold his menu up and say, "Yes, please."
Phil has a brief fantasy involving the fact that the tablecloth would completely shield him were he to crawl under the table and service his boyfriend. Then he signals the waiter and orders the guinea hen and the seafood risotto. He'll let Clint decide which he likes best.
Or, what do they fix for each other at home?
Clint Barton was mostly just able to get by when it came to cooking, but he could make most staples and certainly cook enough to take care of himself. What he excelled at, though, was the art of the grilled cheese sandwich. Phil hadn't really thought much about the artistry involved in such a food, but evidently it had been a favorite-and rarely received-when Clint was growing up. When he'd begun making money, he'd experimented and now he made all kinds. The one Phil liked best-after two years of Clint making them when it seemed like Phil might need some comfort food-was the granny smith, gouda, bacon combo on thick, crusty bread. He thought of it as The Hawkeye Special.
Phil was equally competent in the kitchen, if less reassured by its presence. Clint took their kitchen as a sign he had a home. Phil…had always had a home. Because of that, he liked to make the things that had been regular weeknight foods growing up, the stuff Clint probably had never had. This was confirmed when Clint took one bite of the Coulson family shepherd pie and said, "Marry me. No, seriously. You can keep everything and all, but I-"
Phil laughed, and put another spoonful on Clint's plate.
When and how do Josh and Sam come out? How big a role does CJ play?
The third time they have the fight-this time with Josh leaving and going fuck only knows where-Sam calls CJ. She picks up with the reminder, "Three hours ahead of you, Samuel. And I have a newborn."
"Ceej," Sam says softly, because he's tired of fighting, tired of feeling like they're both right and this is going to tear them apart anyway, after everything.
"Okay, getting my robe on, going to the kitchen." There's the sound of movement, and then she says, "Shoot."
"He's convinced it's career suicide and meaningless."
"The first, probably. The second, no, and he doesn't think that, he's just saying that because he's a protective bastard and he loves you."
Sam runs a hand over his face. "I'm pretty sure he's driving aimlessly around the city."
"Yeah, until he finds an all-night donut joint." She pauses. "Sam, when you guys fight about it, do you tell him you want to come out because you believe in visibility or do you say it's because you're tired of hiding him?
"Both. Sometimes neither, I just say I think it's the right thing to do."
"And what does he say?"
"That things that are confidential are no less real and I owe the public good governance, nothing more."
"Both valid points."
Sam swallows and admits, "I know. But they're also excuses to hide me. Us."
"Is that what you think?"
Sam drops the phone, not having heard Josh come back in the house. He picks it back up, "Ceej, I've gotta-"
"Yeah, yeah, call me back when you need someone to do all your press for you."
"Talk in the morning."
"Earlier than my kid wakes me and I will kill you with the power of my mind."
"Noted." Sam hangs up and looks at Josh, who, sure enough, has a bag of donuts in his hand.
Josh raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm ashamed of you? Of us?"
Same doesn’t want to fight again, he really doesn't. "No. But I think you're so worried I'll get branded the 'gay senate candidate' that you forget I have other reasons for wanting to go public, beyond just identity politics. That if we do this, we get to live our lives, at least in this one aspect, and not always have to fear cameras and spite and…whatever it is we fear."
"Right now, Sam, you are mine. And there's nothing dirty or salacious or scandalous about that. Once you give them that part of yourself-"
"I will still be yours. Trust a speech writer, Josh. Words are just that. People give them power, but we have the choice not to."
"We can't just close our ears to the things we don't like. That's not how this works and you know it."
"That's not how the job works," Sam agrees. "It is how we, how this works."
Josh stares at him for a long time. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
"And tomorrow?"
"You should take me down to the courthouse and make an honest man of me. If we're gonna go on record, might as well be official all the way."
Sam blinks. "Josh." Then he grins. "That was the most amazingly unromantic proposal in the history of proposals. And yes."
Josh laughs, and walks off toward their bedroom.
Steve/Tasha/Tony/Pepper: I'm curious about what their favorite domestic things are to do together.
Steve insisted on having the Sunday Times in the paper version, despite Tony's repeated assertions that he was, "Killing the trees. Why do you hate the Earth, Captain America?"
But even Tony would join on Sunday mornings, when the four of them stayed in bed, or maybe made it as far as the kitchen table, each taking sections, sharing or switching. Pepper liked to sometimes snuggle in next to Natasha, or slip into her lap and look at the advertisements, read the Fashion section with her.
Tony had learned to pay attention to what seemed to interest them, as it almost always made a good gift. Steve had more than once drawn them on Sunday mornings. Pepper had a box for his drawings, he knew, she collected and kept all of them.
Steve was good at nail painting, patient and with the correct amount of stillness, and Pepper loved the feel of him holding her hand with one of his, painting the nails with the other. Natasha taught her the secrets of pressure point massage and Pepper would return the favor with foot massages.
Tony bought Natasha things-hair clips and jewelry and warm blankets and books and whatever he thought might make her smile-until she kissed him and said, "Stop, stop acting like I stay with you for your money."
Tony wasn't sure why she did stay if it wasn't for that, but he stopped all the same.
In the spring Tony set up a baseball diamond atop the Tower-and a force field for any stray balls-and the four of them played ridiculous, two-on-two games that involved more laughter than anything. In the evenings, they'd let Steve pick the game he wanted to watch and stay with him, even if they weren't really watching.
By fall, Tony would allow each of them to drag him out of the lab in their own way. That was perhaps Pepper's favorite thing about the four of them.
What do Ryan and Mikey Way talk about when they unexpectedly run in to each other the stands after a Kings game?
The thing is, Ryan's a full-grown adult, for most values of the word. He owns a house and a car and makes payments on both of them. He even cleans said house and car when it becomes absolutely necessary. He knows how to make four or five meals and can live off of them if need be. He hasn't had a utility get shut off on him in over two years.
Seeing Mikey Way at a Kings game vaults him right back to thirteen. He's actually kind of surprised-if grateful-his voice doesn't crack. Mikey's the one to say hi, of course, because Ryan probably would have been good with an awkward wave and en evening with his hand, but Mikey's, well, one of the nicest guys in the scene, straight up, so he says, "Hey, long time. You enjoy the game?"
Mikey's as soft spoken as Ryan remembers; it's a little hard to hear over all the din of fans thinning out. Ryan smiles. "I always do. You?"
"Same," Mikey nods.
There's an awkward pause for a moment, and then, knowing he should probably just say 'nice seeing you,' and move on, Ryan asks, "How're your pets?"
Mikey lights up and launches into a full tale of Bunny's newest nemesis: the roomba, and Edgar's sincere confusion over the situation. Ryan barely notices when they're outside the stadium, since he's busy telling Mikey about the Adventures of Cap-always in capital letters in his head.
It's warm outside, but they've been standing, talking, for an hour when Mikey says, "Coffee?"
Ryan's stomach might do a little flip. "I like coffee."
Bob/spencer wnb - one of their early 'dates' before spencer was sure they were real actual dates. How it was from bob's pov?
Bob was pretty sure he shouldn't feel like some bumbling high schooler around Spencer, who was clearly still in his teens, a little too skinny for it to be healthy, and with hair that was forever falling in his eyes. But there was something so composed about Spencer, something that told you he knew how to take care of himself-and anyone else who needed him-and was fine without you. Without Bob.
Spencer's smile could come quicksilver fast and be gone just as soon as it came, or it could stay, spreading over his whole face, showing a flash of someone with more dreams than his world really had room for. He was curious in a way that made Bob think more carefully, funny in a way that sometimes hurt.
Bob had been in love before. He'd been wrapped up in it and enthralled and eventually let free of it. He'd never, ever, wanted something the way he wanted to hear Spencer's laugh, be sure Spencer would say yes when Bob asked him to meet up next.
He ignored the part of him that wanted to take Spencer away, that shook insde when the marks were evident or Spencer walked more slowly than normal. It wasn't his business. Spencer wasn't his, no matter what Bob might want.
Bob always found himself lingering, even though he knew he should let Spencer sleep, found himself asking, "You have some time, later?" and praying that Spencer would find some.
I wrote a bunch of tiny fics/drabbles between snowflake_challenge and fandom_stocking. They're not really worth separating out or posting to archives, so I'm going to stick them here/DW if anyone wants to read through.
Bourne Legacy, for Shadowcat's stocking
Aaron wakes at the feel of a particularly rough wave hitting the ship. The movement pitches him to the side just slightly-just enough to have him gritting his teeth and curling into himself. The shakiness from viraling out, which disappeared in a flood of adrenaline during the chase, is back. Or perhaps it's a new shakiness, from blood loss. Either way, between the waves and the way his body can't seem to still itself, the throbbing ache at the center of the bullet wound is radiating out, making every muscle and tendon scream at him. He makes himself breathe.
He can hear people moving up on deck. He knows he should move: figure out what time it is, figure out where Marta is, if she is even still on this boat. He forces down the part of him that hopes she is. It would be best for her if she were not. She should have left when he told her to.
He shouldn't have gotten her involved in the first place.
Aaron locks away the sense memory of her touch, gentle at his temples, sweeping across his hair. He can't remember the last time someone touched him with a gentleness that wasn't clinical. When he has made sure she is safe, he will take those memories out again, play them over and over.
As if she has heard him thinking about her, Marta slips into the cabin, the sounds of her entrance soft, except to his overly sensitive ears. He makes himself open his eyes. He wants to see her. The room spins for a moment when he manages, but then she comes into focus, her smile concerned. It is real concern, as opposed to the concern of a doctor over a specimen. Aaron knows the difference, now.
She whispers, "Good morning."
"Is it?" he croaks. "Morning?"
Her smile widens and she shakes her head. "No, not at all. Here."
He does his best to help as she guides him to a sitting position, gives him the cup that was in her hands. It is full of water, not too cold, and so very soothing to his dry throat and mouth. "Thank you."
"How are you feeling?"
He laughs a little. "Like I got shot."
She laughs, too. He finds himself saying, "Will you-" before he even realizes he's opened his mouth.
She tilts her head. "Aaron?"
He tries shaking his head, but she puts her hand to his cheek, arresting the movement. She repeats, "Aaron."
"Just, if you haven't got somewhere else you'd like to be, could you maybe-" He pulls his face to the side, away from her hand.
"Stay?" she asks softly. He manages to nod, but only just. He feels the dip of the bedding first, and then she is there, surrounding him despite her smaller size. She says, "Any time."
He doesn't believe, he can't, but she's here now, and Aaron is very, very good at living in the moment.
Alias/WW for Chaila's stocking
The first time CJ meets her, she is still Laura Bristow. She is someone's wife, someone's mother, and the only reason CJ even remembers the meeting at all is because she'd spent a terrible afternoon cozening up donors and Laura was the first person to speak to CJ with any real humor. CJ doesn't even remember the joke-something about the garden décor-but she remembers laughing, and spending a few moments getting to know Mrs. Bristow, mostly because she didn't seem to want anything from CJ.
But then, CJ hadn't known much at that time.
*
The second time CJ meets her, CJ is lost in CIA HQ, and Irina is being taken down a hallway in cuffs. CJ's had the world's most frustrating hour dealing with the CIA liaison and is not on top of her game, so she blinks and says, "Laura?"
The other woman's smile is sharp and sad and layered. She says, "I was."
*
The third time they meet is coincidence, pure and simple. It is also the first time CJ learns her real name.
They are both at a bar. The place is a dive, but CJ loves it because nobody gives her a second glance when she goes in. There are plenty of booths and the wings are spicy enough to cause tears and CJ does not require much from her watering holes.
She's minding her own business in one of those booths, trying to make herself stop thinking about that evening's press conference-she'll be back at the office soon enough, lord knows-when someone drops into the booth seat across from her. She blinks.
After a moment, she says, "Hello, Not-Laura."
The other woman smiles, this time amused, if still possessing an edge. "Irina, please, Ms. Cregg."
"We're sitting in a bar that's probably eluded health and safety inspection for the better part of a decade, and you're some kind of maybe-cold war era spy chatting up the White House press secretary, so what say you we stick with first names?"
The smile widens. "CJ, then."
"Just as a forewarned is forearmed sort of thing, are you on the run from any major law enforcement agencies currently?"
"For the moment," Irina says, "I am too useful to them for that."
It's a mark of how long CJ has been in DC that she doesn't even feel a twinge of surprise. She considers the woman in front of her, and says, "Well then, let me buy you a drink."
*
Laura-Irina is still funny and different, and if she could, CJ would take her home for the night. As it is, she pays their tab and says, "Be careful."
Irina quirks an eyebrow. "And play for the right team?"
CJ thinks about that day Toby came to get her, about standing wet in the pool, unable to see two feet in front of her. She says, "Make the right choices. Whatever that means."
Irina's eyes are warm when she nods. "Take care of yourself."
CJ smiles. "Until we meet again."
Avengers for Nestra
Clint abhors formal functions. He probably has his whole life, but he's never been forced to attend any before becoming an Avenger and living with Tony Stark. He files the necessary charity balls and public relations events under the theory that everything good in life has a price, but it doesn't really make them suck any less.
Part of it is simply that no matter how good tuxes make him look-and judging by the slight smolder in Phil's gaze every time Clint puts one on, he's smoking in them-they're restrictive and uncomfortable and remind him weirdly of being forced to go to church on Sunday mornings back in Waverly, act like he was the youngest son of a happy family, and everything was okay. Part of it is that Clint's no good at small talk. He can be witty and smart and fun given the right topic, but that topic is never politics, weather or current events, at least not in a glancing manner. He's much more likely to offend than to open pockets. All in all, he's just not of much use in a glittering hall or ballroom or…anywhere fancy.
Phil having recovered enough to come along and watch over them all, avert most potential disasters-Thor and Tony in one room means they simply cannot all be avoided, no matter who's there to keep watch-helps. He's good at knowing when Clint is floundering, needs rescue.
And when Clint has been good all evening, Phil is always willing to reward him in the best ways.
*
Clint usually only has the vaguest idea of what cause he's supporting or what funding endeavor he's pushing at any given event; just enough to appropriately fluff donors. The ones that are for children-at-risk or foster system kids, those he takes a little more care to know about. They're both easier to spend time at for the feeling that it's time well spent, and harder, because they call up memories Clint would rather jettison.
He's been at one for the better part of three hours, been chatting about children with visible ribs, children for whom the idea of love is an abstract, with people who have never known deprivation or desperation. He wants to scream, to run.
He's considering whether he can hold down another drink and still have the level of alertness he needs when around this many people when Phil comes up beside him, pressing his hand to Clint's back, gently guiding him to the patio. It is February. Nobody is outside.
They slip through the faux-French doors. The shock of cold is sharp and immediate. Clint generally hates the cold-too many memories of winters without proper clothing and days spent in perches, unable to move until a target was acquired-but he doesn't mind so much just now, with Phil at his side and the heavy noise of the room shut behind the doors.
No sooner are they outside than Phil pushes Clint against the wall of the building, next to the door, where they won't be immediately visible to those inside. Clint closes his eyes, soaking in the feeling of Phil's hands against his chest, under his jacket, both palms flat, the heat of his skin penetrating Clint's shirt. Clint could still break away if he had even the slightest desire, but it's the first time in a while that the strength Phil is slowly regaining has been evident.
"Status update?" Phil asks casually.
Clint laughs a little breathlessly. He knows Phil will read the exhaustion in it. Phil does. He leans in, his forehead pressing lightly against Clint's. Clint surges up the inch or so it takes to be kissing Phil. They don't have long, Clint knows. They aren't in the closet, not with anyone who matters, but both prefer their relationship not to be public knowledge for practical and security reasons.
Phil, who is usually so good about not letting Clint make foolish decisions, kisses back. The kiss is warm and sweet, even with the winter weather surrounding them, the cold brick at Clint's back. After a few moments, Phil pulls back. "To be continued. Another hour or so, that's it."
"Mm," Clint agrees, keeping the feel of the kiss with him for as long as he's able.
Phil straightens his own clothing, and then does so for Clint. Clint stands still for him, and when he heads back inside, loyally follows.
Avengers for Summerstorm's stocking
Steve walks onto his-their, he gets all kicked puppy-dog on her when she forgets-floor soaking wet and hunched into himself. Natasha supposes if she were any other girl she'd feel a flash of concern. Instead she frowns and asks, "Did you piss Fury off or something?"
He looks confused for a moment and then says, "Oh. I-I was walking to the train after the meeting. It's raining out."
Natasha just manages not to gesture at the floor to ceiling windows behind her. "Did you get lost?"
Steve shifts from one foot to another and suddenly, Natasha is a little concerned. He hasn't been this uncertain about anything with her since…since before they'd begun sleeping together. Softly, she asks, "Steve?"
"I found something that was lost," he tells her slowly.
She's losing her edge when it comes to him-maybe in general-because when she glances over him again she notices that he's not hunched into himself, he's protecting something with his body. She peers at his hands and they open slowly, revealing one very wet, very tiny kitten.
"Oh," she says.
"I-I'm sure there's a shelter I can donate to and have them take her. I just couldn't leave her in the trash." He sounds utterly miserable.
Natasha has never had a pet. She's never bothered to imagine having one. She thinks if she had ever bothered it would have been something like an iguana-self-reliant and thick skinned. This hapless creature who fits in Steve's palm would not have made the list. But Natasha, who has spent so much of her life carefully not paying attention to others' needs and desires hates Steve having even a moment of sadness. He doesn't deserve it; there's already been too much of it, and unlike her, he never did anything to call misfortune down upon himself.
She takes a few steps toward him, watching as the kitten tries to crawl its way up his arm. "Let's get it cleaned up, yes?"
He blinks at her and she can't decide whether this is one of those moments where she's pleased to have surprised him or if she wishes he'd had enough faith in her to believe she would consider his feelings. She's not sure it matters.
*
The kitten cleans up awfully nice, even if it is less-than-thrilled about the process. Shampooed and dried, she's a tiny ginger cat, with a few deep orange lines and a white star on her chest. Her fur is soft, and strangely, she likes Natasha. Usually animals are at best wary of Natasha, at worst outright hostile, as if they sense they are dealing with a predator.
But this kitten just gambols over Natasha's legs and rolls over in her lap as much as she does to Steve when they are all sitting on the sofa. Natasha extends a finger and strokes the kitten's belly. "What'd you name her?"
Steve starts to say, "I didn't-" but Natasha throws him a look and he grins, open and easy for the first time since he walked in the door. "Rembrandt. But I figure Remi, for short."
Rembrandt is Natasha's favorite artist. Steve prefers Seurat or Turner or Titian. Natasha leans in to kiss him, quick and sweet. "I like it."
"Nat-"
Natasha ignores him, picking Remi up and asking, "What do you think, girl? Remi?"
The kitten nips at Natasha's closest finger. Natasha laughs. "We'll take unprompted aggression as a yes. She'll fit in just fine."
Softly, he says, "I love you."
She's not ready to say it back, not yet, but it no longer terrifies her to hear it. She kisses him again, a little more deeply this time. She pulls back and says, "JARVIS?"
"I will put in an order for the necessary kitten supplies, Ms. Romanoff."
"Still my favorite, JARVIS."
"I try, Ms. Romanoff."
Steve makes a slightly offended noise. Natasha kisses it away. Remi falls off the perch she'd managed to make on his shoulder. All is as it should be.
ST: AOS for unbidden_truth's stocking
The first time Jim sees Gaila, his immediate thought is, way out of your league, Kirk. Of course, Jim thinks that in relation to just about everyone he ends up sleeping with, so it's not particularly unusual. What is strange is that he considers not going for it, unsure about how he feels about rejection in this instance.
Rejection, for Jim, is simply an expectation, an inevitability. It's grown, well, not comforting, exactly, but familiar. The point is to keep pursuing until someone takes him up on his offers.
But he wants Gaila, with her red curls that remind Kirk of the Chinese dragons he wanted to see in person so badly as a child, and her wide smile, filled with sharp teeth. It makes him wary, and in the end, he isn't brave enough.
He takes home a pretty girl from Manitoba who speaks with rounded vowels and is brilliant at cartography. They have a good time. Jim doesn't think he's what she wants, which, really, is only fair.
*
He doesn't try for Gaila the second or the third time he sees her either. In fact, he's semi-certain he never would have, if not for needing her to pass the Kobayashi Maru. That, though, that makes it easy. Because he thinks she should reject him, hopes she does.
Of course, this is Jim's life, so she takes him up with that delightful smile and the observation, "Ready to stop being shy?"
Nobody has ever called Jim shy, ever. It startles a laugh from him, and for a moment, he's just a boy who's been noticed by the most interesting girl in the room. He keeps that moment for later.
*
When Earth has been saved and Jim wakes from being forcibly sedated by Bones only to fall out of the bed someone found for him, he stumbles to the nearest computer console and says, "List of cadets killed in most recent action."
He reads and reads and reads. Somehow, her name isn't there. He checks the list twice, and then a third time. It strikes Jim that, for once in his life, he might have a chance to apologize, to mean it.
He doesn't expect forgiveness, thinks that maybe apologizing is selfish. But Jim has always known he is selfish. He wouldn't even know how to change that now.
*
It takes him a couple of days, but when he finds her in the mass of cadets that are dumped back onto the grounds of the Academy, he pulls himself up to his full height and goes to approach her. Before he can go three steps, she's run to him, is surrounding him in a hug. He falters, not really knowing how to handle that response. He's considered so many possibilities. This is not one of them.
She pulls back and says, "You're a dick of the highest magnitude, Jim Kirk. But you get a pass for saving a planet I really like."
Kirk blinks at that. "I-it was my crew."
She rolls her eyes, smile wide but muted, the way all of theirs are these days. "Nobody saves the world alone, Jim. But the guy who gets the idea for how to do it? That's the kind of guy who'll do what's necessary to step outside the lines, to win at games with no victor."
Not for the first time, but this is perhaps the first moment he's had to feel it, Jim realizes that trait is as much a blessing as a curse-and vice versa. "I'm still sorry."
Her eyes darken a bit and she says, "Good. Makes me feel a little better about what you'll do with that kind of power."
She starts to walk away, and he knows he should let her, but he finds himself calling, "Gaila?"
She turns back, one eyebrow raised. He says, "Let me buy you a drink. Between friends. Because we've lost enough of them."
She doesn't hesitate before nodding. "That we have."
The rest of these are from the OTP meme I did as part of snowflake. Being lazy and just giving you the pairing/question, not who requested it.
Why does Hermione keep trying when others would give up? What makes the difference to Severus?
It is a fluke that Severus finds out at all. He's grading essays late into the night when he calls for one of the house elves and asks for the Gui Fei Oolong. He's never before drank it outside of his Tuesday conferences with Granger, but it provides a kick and he's not in the mood for Irish breakfast or the superior red he sometimes takes after dinner. The house elves promptly fall into abject abasement and disarray upon informing him that they do not stock that particular tea leaf.
Severus frowns. "Of course you do. You serve it every Tuesday in my office."
Roughly three thousand apologies later, Severus begins to understand that for the past nineteen months, Granger has brought the rare blend of tea with her-presumably because she brought it the first time, and he commented vaguely upon its pleasantness.
Severus finds himself unable to un-know this particular fact. Nor can he change the fact that it begins to shape his other observations.
It is three days before he sees her again, and in that time he manages to pry from Minerva that Granger was not the only voice to recommend he be hired at the continent's test-fly of a wizarding university, as well as learn that the proper potions experts were brought into Mungo's purely at her behest. By the time she walks into his office for their weekly meeting, he is incensed. "Did you think I would owe you, Ms. Granger?"
To her credit, she pauses at the question and thinks. She does not pretend ignorance. "My title is doctor, Professor, which you well know, and no."
She does not continue.
"That is not an answer."
"It is to the question you asked," she tells him.
He swallows. "Doc-Hermione." He does not permit a smile when she blinks, although it is close. "Why?"
Her smile is sad, wise, but not defeated. "We all have a little bit of a hopeless romantic in us, I suppose."
Severus does not remember when he last felt hope, or when he ever thought she might know what hopelessness was. He asks, "Did you bring the tea?"
She has. Of course she has.
Mary/Buck/Vin/Chris/Ezra: what would they do in a case, of, say, ambush?
In a moment of surprising tact-or, perhaps, Nathan and Josiah's quiet guidance-JT had agreed the three of them could keep watch over things in Four Corners while the other four took Mary up to Defiance for a story she was desperate to report on. Or, well, Buck, Chris and Vin could make sure Mary didn't stir up too much trouble for her own good and Ezra could stretch his legs for a bit, like he tended to need to do after a few months of not much excitement.
Chris should have known word would get ahead of them. Vin was the first to feel the approach, slowing down ever so slightly in that way where he was clearly trying not to assume anything. Ezra took one look at him, though and said, "Gentleman, may I presume we have a plan of which I was not informed?"
Chris didn't have to look to his sides or behind him to know that the four of them were flanking her, surrounding her. Mary just said, "You're in my line of sight, Larabee," and Chris could hear her cocking Stephen's old rifle.
"We need better cover," Buck said, almost like he was discussing the weather. Vin was already on the problem, which meant they managed to find an outcrop that would, well, make things better than no outcrop, with seconds left before the party was on them.
Mary took the first shot. She could be bad at anticipation, but the way she stood her ground even as the rifle kicked made Chris well aware they were all going to be sneaking somewhere to be together that night, kissing at the bruise on her shoulder, seeing that each of them was still whole.
When it was clear they were being pressed in upon, Chris tried to catch Buck's eye, but before he could, he noticed that Buck and Ezra had already taken it into their heads to handle the problem by providing distraction.
When Vin and he had taken advantage of the help and shot everyone dead, Chris glared at the two of them, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he was checking for wounds. Buck smiled his most irritating smile and said, "Think Defiance has herself a nice bath house?"
Vin shakes his head with a half-curl of his lips and checks on Mary for a third time under his lashes. Ezra helps her back onto her horse and Chris gets on his, moving out in front, where Buck rides to his side. If Chris checks behind him to make sure the others are fine a few more times than normal, well, that's nobody's business but his own.
What are the things Holmes admires most in Mary Watson? And what are the things she loves in him?
Holmes does what is only right and proper and gives a bit of chase himself to give Mary and John some time together. They are married and it's best, really, that absence make the heart grow fonder, rather than them waking one morning to realize they've accidentally given him a key.
He does not plan on stumbling home with a cut cheek, sprained wrist and nascent cough, but Holmes' plans are always going just a bit awry. It's other people he can predict, not necessarily events as they come together.
He tries to go back to Baker Street, first, but he's forgotten his key at…well, at home. And so it is that he tries to sneak in, but Mary Watson is too sharp for that by half and Holmes isn't at all surprised to be caught out by her. She says, "Oh good, we'd begun to worry," and rather than lecturing, simply leads him to the kitchen, where she has learned to keep bandages and other useful tools of patching her menfolk up. John will usually do it for Holmes, but Holmes secretly revels in these moments, when John is sleeping or otherwise indisposed, and Mary is forced to put him back to rights. It feels less like stealing when her touch is that of a nurse, a caretaker.
When he can't hold his thoughts in any longer, she lets him spew words, picking one out here and there, just as John would, helping to slow his thoughts that necessary tiny bit, enough to have things click into place. She implacably waits as he drinks the tea she's set down, firmly re-settling him every time he tries to leave it to cool.
In a moment when he's distracted by thoughts of the case, he admits, "I forgot my Baker Street key here."
"Did you need it, dear?" she asks.
It occurs to him that it is not so obvious to her as it is to him that he should stay there, sometimes, to give them space. Like John, she strangely never seems to want to be rid of him. She might find him exasperating and even tiring, but not so much as to turn from him. He wants to kiss her, always, but is never quite sure he has the right.
*
She should not find these moments when Sherlock is tired and yet so alive with his own thoughts, desperate for and yet scared of her touch, to be so perfect, but Mary cannot help herself. When John had had to pay a house call, both of them had been pretending not to be waiting, watching the door. She'd said, "Go, I'll take care of him," and John had trusted her to do as she said, which in and of itself was a heady rush.
Sherlock's warming under her hands now, some of the chill of the air being leached by the kitchen fire and her ministrations. He stills for her, as though he's trying his best to be what she wants. She has tried to tell him he needn't work so hard, but for all that Sherlock sees and notices and knows, his ability to believe that she and John are his to keep is absolutely none. She should not love him for that reason, either, but she has given up thinking about what she should and should not do. She is in love with two men, one of them brilliant and wild and broken and there are no rules any longer.
His thoughts are pouring out of him, a whirlwind of intellect and puzzle pieces and Sherlock. She wonders if, when he looks at her, really looks, he sees this way. Not the way of their first meeting, with him driving home his observations to repel, but in the way where everything is vibrant and connected and meaningful.
He looks at her, then, his gaze catching hers, maybe even by mistake, but catching all the same. His eyes flicker and Mary knows, deep down, that yes, this amazing, one-of-a-kind man, sees something secret and special and perfect when he looks at her. He lifts a hand and then blinks at it, as if it had moved without his permission. She takes it, presses it to her lips, enjoys the way he doesn't pull from her grasp.
What does Brendon think when Ryan shows up cold and wet with his new kitten?
For a moment, Brendon just stands there, in his doorway, wondering if he's experiencing sleep-deprivation induced hallucinations. Then he realizes no, his brain would probably come up with something less ridiculous.
Ryan says, "Hi."
Brendon purses his lips, but says, "Come in. I'll get a towel."
When Brendon returns with the towel, Ryan says, "I meant to call."
Brendon raises an eyebrow. "And by that, you mean any time in the last six months?"
Ryan's drying the kitten off before himself, of course, despite the fact that he's standing in Brendon's hallway, shivering. He nods. "E-every d-day of th-them."
"Jesus-just. Stay there." Brendon goes and gets more towels and some pajamas. He works on drying Ryan off. When he and the kitten are as dry as they're going to get and Ryan has changed, Brendon says, "Coffee."
Ryan perks up at this. Brendon looks down at the cat. "I don't have any cat food. If you'd called-"
"He was hiding in that gatehouse at the front of your neighborhood. Saw him in my headlights. Took a while to get him, hence the wetness."
"Oh." Brendon nods after a second and decides making coffee is the safest approach to this moment.
When Brendon's back is turned to him, Ryan says, "Brendon."
"We live like five miles from each other, Ry."
Things are quiet as Brendon measures the coffee, pours in the water. Eventually, Ryan says, "When have I ever been brave enough to do the right thing?"
The problem, Brendon thinks, is that the answer to that question is actually, lots of times. But only when it doesn't require Ryan having faith in himself. He turns back to Ryan and says, "You might as well stay the night, it's gross out there."
"I live five miles away." Ryan's eyes are huge and Brendon knows he hasn't been sleeping.
"Evidently, that's a little too far."
Steve/Natasha, ways in which Steve comforts Natasha when she's hurting
It took Steve a while to get used to the fact that Natasha has a hard time with what he considers to be basic human kindnesses. It comes out in all sorts of ways, but it is worst when she's injured. Not the little injuries, because Steve remembers being fragile, thank you, he knows that sometimes it's easiest to ignore the stuff you can. But the big ones, those are the kinds they have to come to a compromise on.
The whole situation comes to a head when she's hit by some kind of fire weapon and ends up on medical leave for at least a month with burns down the better part of her back. SHIELD has done everything they can for her, both as far as healing measures and pain management go, but she's still clearly in a lot of discomfort.
She tells him, "Look, I'm just going to sleep for a few days, so you should go and…do things."
He says, "You should definitely sleep."
She seems suspicious of this response, but also too tired to argue. Steve allows himself a few hours of sketching when she drops off, content just to be near, feel certain she's safe and not needing anything. When he starts to feel restless he goes into her kitchen and takes stock.
He steeps a few cups of her favorite tea so as to have it on hand to warm up when she wakes. He doesn't know how to make any of her comfort foods, but Clint will know where they can be ordered. Steve texts Clint, who tells him he'll put in the orders.
She wakes in the afternoon and he brings her tea and cranberry almond muffins in the bed. She laughs, but it's uneasy. She says, "My legs work fine."
"I know," he tells her. "But I would really appreciate you letting me feel useful right now."
The injury wasn't his fault and they both know it. He can see her getting ready to tell him. Instead she says, "In that case, read to me, for a bit?"
Steve tucks a curl behind her ear. "As long as you want."
Tony/Pepper, Pepper's favorite thing to do with Tony (sexual, non-sexual, either one)
Sometimes, she does things to see if he'll notice. It's not a test. Pepper's long learned to take Tony-and love Tony-as he is, and a lot of times, that means he misses little things, things he perhaps shouldn't. But then sometimes he catches on, and, well, those moments are worth all the times he doesn’t.
For instance, sometimes she has JARVIS insert messages like "I miss you," into Tony's work notes while she's gone for long periods of time, or has his kitchen re-stocked with the stuff he always runs out of first.
She just likes surprising him, really. Making him remember someone loves him. He forgets too easily.
She brings home old-fashioned cheesecake from Carnegies one evening, topped with blueberries, because he likes them, and she can share them. It's a little out of the way between the office and the Tower, but cheesecake always makes his eyes light up for a moment, excited in a little-boy way.
She gets that moment of delight from him before he asks, "What, trying to fatten me up for the kill?"
"Maybe I just think you're going to need a lot of energy, Mr. Stark."
His grin is a little too soft and pleased and desperate-to-hold-on to be as feral as he probably wishes. She steals the first bite of cheesecake.
What allows Clint to trust Coulson after all he's been through?
Clint has woken up in hospitals four times in his life that he remembers. There was the time his dad used the buckle-end of the belt and Barney wasn't home to stop him. There was the time he got the flu in the orphanage and his temperature started going above 103. There was the time after the Swordsman beat the crap out of him. And now, there's this time, with a bullet in his outer thigh and evidently some malnutrition and sleep deprivation problems.
Of the four, this is the only time someone has been there when he awoke. And sure, it's the guy who shot him, but the man also took him to the hospital-or whatever medical facility he's in-which is more than he can say for the last two people who caused him hospital-worthy injuries.
The man, who is reading what appears to be an InStyle magazine, immediately reaches for the cup at Clint's bedside and feeds him an ice chip. Clint takes it, blinking.
"I'm guessing you don't remember much about our conversation?" the man asks.
Clint sucks on the ice and thinks. When he's swallowed the last of the moisture, he says, "Agent Coulson of SHIELD."
"I have an employment contract all ready for you to sign."
Clint can't say he's surprised: Coulson seems like the type to come prepared. He thinks about arguing undue influence or something else fancy-sounding, but he doesn't like to renege on his word, which he vaguely remembers giving. Clint nods. "'Kay."
Coulson squeezes his shoulder, a bizarrely kind, strangely comforting move, and says, "When you've slept some more."
***
Four months into Clint's probationary period, Coulson finds him. He hasn't seen the senior agent in probably five or six weeks, had kind of figured the guy had unloaded him onto someone else. But Coulson says, "Sorry for the radio silence, unexpected mission."
Clint doesn't ask. He knows it's above his paygrade.
"Have a moment?" Coulson asks.
Clint is just logging extra time on the range, so he nods and follows when Coulson tells him to. They walk to a part of HQ Clint has never seen, into a set of rooms much like a studio apartment. There's a double bed beneath a window and a small kitchen off to the side. There are photos on the wall of people who look similar to Coulson, and covers from old jazz 45s. Nothing fancy, but the place isn't just somewhere to sleep, either.
"Y-you live on base?" The second he's asked the question Clint regrets it. It's none of his business.
"No, but I spend enough time here that I'd prefer it not feel like a barrack."
Clint turns the words over in his mind. He's been here four months, he intends to stay, but there's not one personal item in his space. He can't remember the last time somewhere felt like a home, like a place he had the right to make his own.
Coulson points to the kitchen counter, where there is a box. "Open it."
Inside are four different desserts. Clint looks over at Coulson who shrugs. "I know you eat candy bars, and I figured sweets were traditional. I could have done cake, but I wasn't sure what flavor you liked, so I thought variety was the key."
Clint frowns. Traditional? Then it comes to him. "What day is it?"
Coulson doesn't laugh at him, just says softly, "January 27th. Happy birthday."
Clint's pretty sure the last person who remembered his birthday without Clint mentioning it was Clint's mom. Over the past six or so years, he hasn't even bothered marking the date. Clint takes a breath. "I, uh. This all looks good, but I've got no idea what it is."
Coulson approaches. "Let me educate you in the ways of my favorite bakery."
Clint is ready to learn.
What are some ways that Coulson and Clint cheer each other up after a particularly hard day?
They agreed early on after Phil convinced Clint to move off base and into his apartment, that after bad days-whatever that meant for either of them-there was no TV, no radio, no internet. No outside world, just the two of them.
When it was Phil having the bad day, Clint always made a run to the comic store before he came home. Cap was Phil's favorite, but that didn't mean he didn't read anything else. There was almost always a new run of something Phil would enjoy, that they could curl up on the couch and read together.
Of course, that was after Trivial Pursuit. Phil killed Clint at it, having a bizarre store of absolutely useless information atop all of his practical knowledge. Clint liked the way Phil would sometimes think carefully, his forehead wrinkling a bit, and sometimes just know, immediately, his fingers snapping.
On the days that were bad for Clint, they played darts, which Phil was passable at, but, well, Hawkeye. Phil would read Clint Hardy Boys books, because Clint liked how simple they were, how everything resolved itself at the end. Because it felt a little bit like stealing back time for himself.
No matter which one of them-or if it was both-was being pampered, they always went to bed early on those nights. Sometimes, if they weren’t injured, if it was what they both wanted, they would have slow, almost lazy sex. Most of the time, they just curled up in each other's space, touching, cuddling. Even on the nights with sex, it ended like that, the pure comfort of the other's body heat, the sound of his breath.
Phil and Clint are at an upscale restaurant. What do they order?
Clint says, "This is not going to end well."
Phil smiles behind his menu. "It's food, Clint. If you chew it, it digests the same way as any other comestible."
"Now you're just using fancy words to freak me out," Clint accuses. He's not entirely wrong, so Phil lets it go.
"You want me to order?"
Clint peers around his menu. "Really?"
"Yes."
Phil sees Clint consider all the questions he could ask, waits for something, a will I like it? or don't get anything too freaky, but all Clint does is fold his menu up and say, "Yes, please."
Phil has a brief fantasy involving the fact that the tablecloth would completely shield him were he to crawl under the table and service his boyfriend. Then he signals the waiter and orders the guinea hen and the seafood risotto. He'll let Clint decide which he likes best.
Or, what do they fix for each other at home?
Clint Barton was mostly just able to get by when it came to cooking, but he could make most staples and certainly cook enough to take care of himself. What he excelled at, though, was the art of the grilled cheese sandwich. Phil hadn't really thought much about the artistry involved in such a food, but evidently it had been a favorite-and rarely received-when Clint was growing up. When he'd begun making money, he'd experimented and now he made all kinds. The one Phil liked best-after two years of Clint making them when it seemed like Phil might need some comfort food-was the granny smith, gouda, bacon combo on thick, crusty bread. He thought of it as The Hawkeye Special.
Phil was equally competent in the kitchen, if less reassured by its presence. Clint took their kitchen as a sign he had a home. Phil…had always had a home. Because of that, he liked to make the things that had been regular weeknight foods growing up, the stuff Clint probably had never had. This was confirmed when Clint took one bite of the Coulson family shepherd pie and said, "Marry me. No, seriously. You can keep everything and all, but I-"
Phil laughed, and put another spoonful on Clint's plate.
When and how do Josh and Sam come out? How big a role does CJ play?
The third time they have the fight-this time with Josh leaving and going fuck only knows where-Sam calls CJ. She picks up with the reminder, "Three hours ahead of you, Samuel. And I have a newborn."
"Ceej," Sam says softly, because he's tired of fighting, tired of feeling like they're both right and this is going to tear them apart anyway, after everything.
"Okay, getting my robe on, going to the kitchen." There's the sound of movement, and then she says, "Shoot."
"He's convinced it's career suicide and meaningless."
"The first, probably. The second, no, and he doesn't think that, he's just saying that because he's a protective bastard and he loves you."
Sam runs a hand over his face. "I'm pretty sure he's driving aimlessly around the city."
"Yeah, until he finds an all-night donut joint." She pauses. "Sam, when you guys fight about it, do you tell him you want to come out because you believe in visibility or do you say it's because you're tired of hiding him?
"Both. Sometimes neither, I just say I think it's the right thing to do."
"And what does he say?"
"That things that are confidential are no less real and I owe the public good governance, nothing more."
"Both valid points."
Sam swallows and admits, "I know. But they're also excuses to hide me. Us."
"Is that what you think?"
Sam drops the phone, not having heard Josh come back in the house. He picks it back up, "Ceej, I've gotta-"
"Yeah, yeah, call me back when you need someone to do all your press for you."
"Talk in the morning."
"Earlier than my kid wakes me and I will kill you with the power of my mind."
"Noted." Sam hangs up and looks at Josh, who, sure enough, has a bag of donuts in his hand.
Josh raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm ashamed of you? Of us?"
Same doesn’t want to fight again, he really doesn't. "No. But I think you're so worried I'll get branded the 'gay senate candidate' that you forget I have other reasons for wanting to go public, beyond just identity politics. That if we do this, we get to live our lives, at least in this one aspect, and not always have to fear cameras and spite and…whatever it is we fear."
"Right now, Sam, you are mine. And there's nothing dirty or salacious or scandalous about that. Once you give them that part of yourself-"
"I will still be yours. Trust a speech writer, Josh. Words are just that. People give them power, but we have the choice not to."
"We can't just close our ears to the things we don't like. That's not how this works and you know it."
"That's not how the job works," Sam agrees. "It is how we, how this works."
Josh stares at him for a long time. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
"And tomorrow?"
"You should take me down to the courthouse and make an honest man of me. If we're gonna go on record, might as well be official all the way."
Sam blinks. "Josh." Then he grins. "That was the most amazingly unromantic proposal in the history of proposals. And yes."
Josh laughs, and walks off toward their bedroom.
Steve/Tasha/Tony/Pepper: I'm curious about what their favorite domestic things are to do together.
Steve insisted on having the Sunday Times in the paper version, despite Tony's repeated assertions that he was, "Killing the trees. Why do you hate the Earth, Captain America?"
But even Tony would join on Sunday mornings, when the four of them stayed in bed, or maybe made it as far as the kitchen table, each taking sections, sharing or switching. Pepper liked to sometimes snuggle in next to Natasha, or slip into her lap and look at the advertisements, read the Fashion section with her.
Tony had learned to pay attention to what seemed to interest them, as it almost always made a good gift. Steve had more than once drawn them on Sunday mornings. Pepper had a box for his drawings, he knew, she collected and kept all of them.
Steve was good at nail painting, patient and with the correct amount of stillness, and Pepper loved the feel of him holding her hand with one of his, painting the nails with the other. Natasha taught her the secrets of pressure point massage and Pepper would return the favor with foot massages.
Tony bought Natasha things-hair clips and jewelry and warm blankets and books and whatever he thought might make her smile-until she kissed him and said, "Stop, stop acting like I stay with you for your money."
Tony wasn't sure why she did stay if it wasn't for that, but he stopped all the same.
In the spring Tony set up a baseball diamond atop the Tower-and a force field for any stray balls-and the four of them played ridiculous, two-on-two games that involved more laughter than anything. In the evenings, they'd let Steve pick the game he wanted to watch and stay with him, even if they weren't really watching.
By fall, Tony would allow each of them to drag him out of the lab in their own way. That was perhaps Pepper's favorite thing about the four of them.
What do Ryan and Mikey Way talk about when they unexpectedly run in to each other the stands after a Kings game?
The thing is, Ryan's a full-grown adult, for most values of the word. He owns a house and a car and makes payments on both of them. He even cleans said house and car when it becomes absolutely necessary. He knows how to make four or five meals and can live off of them if need be. He hasn't had a utility get shut off on him in over two years.
Seeing Mikey Way at a Kings game vaults him right back to thirteen. He's actually kind of surprised-if grateful-his voice doesn't crack. Mikey's the one to say hi, of course, because Ryan probably would have been good with an awkward wave and en evening with his hand, but Mikey's, well, one of the nicest guys in the scene, straight up, so he says, "Hey, long time. You enjoy the game?"
Mikey's as soft spoken as Ryan remembers; it's a little hard to hear over all the din of fans thinning out. Ryan smiles. "I always do. You?"
"Same," Mikey nods.
There's an awkward pause for a moment, and then, knowing he should probably just say 'nice seeing you,' and move on, Ryan asks, "How're your pets?"
Mikey lights up and launches into a full tale of Bunny's newest nemesis: the roomba, and Edgar's sincere confusion over the situation. Ryan barely notices when they're outside the stadium, since he's busy telling Mikey about the Adventures of Cap-always in capital letters in his head.
It's warm outside, but they've been standing, talking, for an hour when Mikey says, "Coffee?"
Ryan's stomach might do a little flip. "I like coffee."
Bob/spencer wnb - one of their early 'dates' before spencer was sure they were real actual dates. How it was from bob's pov?
Bob was pretty sure he shouldn't feel like some bumbling high schooler around Spencer, who was clearly still in his teens, a little too skinny for it to be healthy, and with hair that was forever falling in his eyes. But there was something so composed about Spencer, something that told you he knew how to take care of himself-and anyone else who needed him-and was fine without you. Without Bob.
Spencer's smile could come quicksilver fast and be gone just as soon as it came, or it could stay, spreading over his whole face, showing a flash of someone with more dreams than his world really had room for. He was curious in a way that made Bob think more carefully, funny in a way that sometimes hurt.
Bob had been in love before. He'd been wrapped up in it and enthralled and eventually let free of it. He'd never, ever, wanted something the way he wanted to hear Spencer's laugh, be sure Spencer would say yes when Bob asked him to meet up next.
He ignored the part of him that wanted to take Spencer away, that shook insde when the marks were evident or Spencer walked more slowly than normal. It wasn't his business. Spencer wasn't his, no matter what Bob might want.
Bob always found himself lingering, even though he knew he should let Spencer sleep, found himself asking, "You have some time, later?" and praying that Spencer would find some.