#Fic prompt fest 2013
Title: #Fic prompt fest 2013
Author: miomeinmio
Fandom: The Avengers (2012); Sherlock
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not true. No Ownership. Unbeta'd.
Summary: Oh no! Loki is up to his typical tricks, and has cast a spell of routine annoyance on the team. How will they deal with this new frustration?!
Notes: Written based on prompts from TumblrUser shinkonokokoro. This is part of a kind of round of prompts that's being put on. There will be more, so I'll be updating this post. I'm also on Tumblr at BrimleyMuffins.
Exiled. Of all things! Sherlock scowled fiercely, Stupid Mycroft. What the bloody hell was he going to do in Australia of all places? Narrowing his eyes at all the stupid people milling around, Sherlock grabbed his luggage and stalked through the airport to where he might find a ride.
#Fic prompt fest 2013
It was hot and glaring. The light breeze did nothing but stir up the unwashed masses of this, his new prison. The throngs milled about him. Parents greeting children, husbands greeting wives. Disgusting. Pointless. Half of them didn’t even like each other. Just look at the way the couple in red greeted. She was over-eager, covering worry; he was distracted, closed-off. Probably thinking about the hooker from that ‘business trip’. Asia, based on the luggage tag. Indonesia, if the sweat stains were anything. Mining was important here; Indonesia had mines. Maybe. WAS mining important here? Sherlock had seen it once, in a headline, in passing, but he hadn’t bothered to read it. No need to clutter his well-organized mind with useless information. He lived in London, there was no need to know about the importance of mining to these bloody… what was the slang again? Was this the capital? What city WAS this, anyway? Damn it all to HELL, Mycroft, the sorry, useless - what in pluperfect hell did Sherlock know about Australia?!
“Stop staring.”
Sherlock registered the couple in red shooting him disgruntled looks, anger hiding concern. He looked away to gaze over the crowd, choosing not to dignify their hostility with acknowledgement. “Silly. Only these backwaters would be offended.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain in London they’d be offended.”
“Yes, well. Thanks to Dear Mycroft we’d have to travel quite a distance to test that little theory, wouldn’t we?” Sherlock sniffed. Pointless. This was getting him nowhere closer to figuring out what he was doing, or how he was getting back to London. And it wasn’t like he asked John to come along, the stupid man just inserted himself, didn’t even ask -
“Holmes,” John sighed as he slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “Just shut off for a second. Close your eyes, take a deep breath-”
“I’m not a child!” Sherlock sniped, resentful of John implying he was out of control; resentful of BEING out of control. It wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. None of them were. He was confused, hurt, angry, and… a bit scared. And as much as he would never say, grateful. Immensely grateful that John had dropped everything to come along with him. He didn’t know what to do without the man, his erstwhile companion. Unconsciously, he returned the squeeze.
“Better?” John asked, and Sherlock was surprised to find that his eyes had slipped closed as he breathed, and the chaos of sights and sound around him had dulled to a comforting roll and dip. “You know, Sherlock,” John said, leaning close. “Think of it as an... opportunity. Learn, become the master again. I know you. Soon you’ll be up, and they’ll be begging to have you back. Make them see what they’re missing.”
Sherlock opened his eyes with a glint of mischief and a smirk. The day was bright, with a sweet breeze blowing. Information flowed and ebbed around him, waiting to be dissected, studied. The game was afoot!
Steve entered the workshop with a sandwich. Catching sight of Tony, he paled, eyes going wide. And froze. “What have you done? What have you gone and done, Tony?”
#Fic prompt fest 2013
Tony shut off the blowtorch.
“What?”
The lunch Steve was prepared to fight into Tony’s mouth was forgotten as he moved forward to ogle his blackened shield. It was on the workbench, stripped and roughened.
Tony, oblivious to the shock Steve was experiencing, spoke. “I was thinking, you toss this thing around like a damn boomerang and, you know, one day you might chuck it off a cliff or into a portal to Latveria or something. I know you’ve got this routine going, but I decided, improvements. So I tried to slide a homing chip in, but it wasn’t, you know, going. Vibranium, man.”
Tony picked up the shield and flipped it carelessly over. Scour marks and chips marred the back. He’d managed to rip the hand grip away, leaving a frayed bit of fabric and metal.
“I took a sonic hammer, got just the right vibration, but all it did was these little bastards.” Tony tapped the chunks. “Anyway, figured I’d put it in the handle, but then, I mean, massively uncomfortable, don’t know how you do it. Gonna do you a favor, make you a new one. But, if I’m already doing that, might as well go whole hog. It needed a better paint job. Not positive what they used in the forties, but: lead. Not good, even for a super soldier. Plus: seriously outdated. You NEED to modernize. So I sanded it, THEN I thought, well, haven’t heated it, maybe that’ll work. I’d really feel better about the chip IN the shield, instead -”
Tony didn’t get to finish. Steve reached over and yanked the battered old friend away. He opened his mouth to say lunch was waiting, but instead said: “God, Tony, I knew you were selfish, but you let yourself go so stir crazy you’d start destroying other people’s things?”
Tony looked thunderstruck. And then affronted. Steve turned and stalked out of the lab, unable to spend another second in his teammate’s company.
Days passed. Tony hid in his lab and Steve let him, spending his days working out, avoiding his teammates, and mourning his shield. He tried to wash away the scour marks and affix a new handle, but gave up quickly. Steve had no skill in fixing things. He knew it was ridiculous. This was an inanimate object, a tool. But he couldn’t get over the feeling that an old friend had died.
On day seven, he opened the door to his room to find Tony sat on his bed.
“Can I help you?” Steve asked, anger flaring. Tony fidgeted for a moment before standing up.
“I had to dig. In Wakanda, they made me go down into the mine. See the labor, or something. Anyway.” He stepped aside to reveal a disc-shaped object wrapped in plain brown paper. “I still think it needs a new paint job, but you’ve got this nostalgia thing going on. Whatever. Live your unfashionable life.”
Steve paused, then moved to pick up the package, holding his breath.
Author: miomeinmio
Fandom: The Avengers (2012); Sherlock
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not true. No Ownership. Unbeta'd.
Summary: Oh no! Loki is up to his typical tricks, and has cast a spell of routine annoyance on the team. How will they deal with this new frustration?!
Notes: Written based on prompts from TumblrUser shinkonokokoro. This is part of a kind of round of prompts that's being put on. There will be more, so I'll be updating this post. I'm also on Tumblr at BrimleyMuffins.
Exiled. Of all things! Sherlock scowled fiercely, Stupid Mycroft. What the bloody hell was he going to do in Australia of all places? Narrowing his eyes at all the stupid people milling around, Sherlock grabbed his luggage and stalked through the airport to where he might find a ride.
#Fic prompt fest 2013
It was hot and glaring. The light breeze did nothing but stir up the unwashed masses of this, his new prison. The throngs milled about him. Parents greeting children, husbands greeting wives. Disgusting. Pointless. Half of them didn’t even like each other. Just look at the way the couple in red greeted. She was over-eager, covering worry; he was distracted, closed-off. Probably thinking about the hooker from that ‘business trip’. Asia, based on the luggage tag. Indonesia, if the sweat stains were anything. Mining was important here; Indonesia had mines. Maybe. WAS mining important here? Sherlock had seen it once, in a headline, in passing, but he hadn’t bothered to read it. No need to clutter his well-organized mind with useless information. He lived in London, there was no need to know about the importance of mining to these bloody… what was the slang again? Was this the capital? What city WAS this, anyway? Damn it all to HELL, Mycroft, the sorry, useless - what in pluperfect hell did Sherlock know about Australia?!
“Stop staring.”
Sherlock registered the couple in red shooting him disgruntled looks, anger hiding concern. He looked away to gaze over the crowd, choosing not to dignify their hostility with acknowledgement. “Silly. Only these backwaters would be offended.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain in London they’d be offended.”
“Yes, well. Thanks to Dear Mycroft we’d have to travel quite a distance to test that little theory, wouldn’t we?” Sherlock sniffed. Pointless. This was getting him nowhere closer to figuring out what he was doing, or how he was getting back to London. And it wasn’t like he asked John to come along, the stupid man just inserted himself, didn’t even ask -
“Holmes,” John sighed as he slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “Just shut off for a second. Close your eyes, take a deep breath-”
“I’m not a child!” Sherlock sniped, resentful of John implying he was out of control; resentful of BEING out of control. It wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. None of them were. He was confused, hurt, angry, and… a bit scared. And as much as he would never say, grateful. Immensely grateful that John had dropped everything to come along with him. He didn’t know what to do without the man, his erstwhile companion. Unconsciously, he returned the squeeze.
“Better?” John asked, and Sherlock was surprised to find that his eyes had slipped closed as he breathed, and the chaos of sights and sound around him had dulled to a comforting roll and dip. “You know, Sherlock,” John said, leaning close. “Think of it as an... opportunity. Learn, become the master again. I know you. Soon you’ll be up, and they’ll be begging to have you back. Make them see what they’re missing.”
Sherlock opened his eyes with a glint of mischief and a smirk. The day was bright, with a sweet breeze blowing. Information flowed and ebbed around him, waiting to be dissected, studied. The game was afoot!
Steve entered the workshop with a sandwich. Catching sight of Tony, he paled, eyes going wide. And froze. “What have you done? What have you gone and done, Tony?”
#Fic prompt fest 2013
Tony shut off the blowtorch.
“What?”
The lunch Steve was prepared to fight into Tony’s mouth was forgotten as he moved forward to ogle his blackened shield. It was on the workbench, stripped and roughened.
Tony, oblivious to the shock Steve was experiencing, spoke. “I was thinking, you toss this thing around like a damn boomerang and, you know, one day you might chuck it off a cliff or into a portal to Latveria or something. I know you’ve got this routine going, but I decided, improvements. So I tried to slide a homing chip in, but it wasn’t, you know, going. Vibranium, man.”
Tony picked up the shield and flipped it carelessly over. Scour marks and chips marred the back. He’d managed to rip the hand grip away, leaving a frayed bit of fabric and metal.
“I took a sonic hammer, got just the right vibration, but all it did was these little bastards.” Tony tapped the chunks. “Anyway, figured I’d put it in the handle, but then, I mean, massively uncomfortable, don’t know how you do it. Gonna do you a favor, make you a new one. But, if I’m already doing that, might as well go whole hog. It needed a better paint job. Not positive what they used in the forties, but: lead. Not good, even for a super soldier. Plus: seriously outdated. You NEED to modernize. So I sanded it, THEN I thought, well, haven’t heated it, maybe that’ll work. I’d really feel better about the chip IN the shield, instead -”
Tony didn’t get to finish. Steve reached over and yanked the battered old friend away. He opened his mouth to say lunch was waiting, but instead said: “God, Tony, I knew you were selfish, but you let yourself go so stir crazy you’d start destroying other people’s things?”
Tony looked thunderstruck. And then affronted. Steve turned and stalked out of the lab, unable to spend another second in his teammate’s company.
Days passed. Tony hid in his lab and Steve let him, spending his days working out, avoiding his teammates, and mourning his shield. He tried to wash away the scour marks and affix a new handle, but gave up quickly. Steve had no skill in fixing things. He knew it was ridiculous. This was an inanimate object, a tool. But he couldn’t get over the feeling that an old friend had died.
On day seven, he opened the door to his room to find Tony sat on his bed.
“Can I help you?” Steve asked, anger flaring. Tony fidgeted for a moment before standing up.
“I had to dig. In Wakanda, they made me go down into the mine. See the labor, or something. Anyway.” He stepped aside to reveal a disc-shaped object wrapped in plain brown paper. “I still think it needs a new paint job, but you’ve got this nostalgia thing going on. Whatever. Live your unfashionable life.”
Steve paused, then moved to pick up the package, holding his breath.