cap drabble: Civil (Star) War(s)
Civil (Star) War(s)
1k words | PG | Sam Wilson, Scott Lang, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, various Avengers
also at : ao3 | tumblr
(You can consider this an outtake of Status Quo Ante, but reading that is not required)
Chapter Text
“Look, I’m a scientist, sort of. I get why he went for a biological explanation,” Lang sighs. “But coming after twenty years of an established mysticism angle, it just seems reactionary. Like he was doing it just to screw with people who were coming up with better ideas for the expanded universe than he had.”
There are only so many conversations you can have when there is no privacy and everyone who is listening in is possibly willing to kill you. Which is why, after telling various war stories and embarrassing childhood episodes, Sam has accepted that midichlorians are fair game. He and Clint and Lang are close enough in age that they have the same cultural references despite vastly different upbringings. Wanda’s understanding of what they’re talking about waxes and wanes - and not just because she’s got that damned collar on her that seems to be acting like a dog whistle only powered people can hear.
“Steve thinks he’s Han Solo,” Wanda says in that sort-of distracted voice she’s got since Natasha put that thing on her. Sam’s done what he could as far as care and treatment, but he can do a lot less from a prison cell strategically placed to make it next to impossible to see her, let alone offer the physical contact that she said made it easier to focus. It’s tearing Clint up - Sam can see him when they’re both wedged into corners at the front of their cells. Lang, who’s got a daughter back home, is remarkably good at giving her the not-creepy kind of attention that keeps her engaged and is the only one who can make her laugh.
“Steve thinks he’s Han Solo?” Clint repeats, voice rising in disbelief. “In no version, even in the crappy edits where Han doesn’t shoot first, is Steve him.”
“Steve is many things, but a scoundrel and a rogue is not either of them,” Sam adds in agreement, less surprised than Clint because he better knows that Steve has no sense of scale when it comes to his own selective willingness to follow rules. “And there is no goddamned way I am Chewbacca. I am Lando in this scenario. I look damned fine in a cape.”
He has been Lando for thirty years - Billy Dee Williams is a god among black boys his age, which is pretty much the only reason Colt 45 is still in business - and he is not getting recast because of Steve’s lack of self-awareness.
“All guys think they’re Han Solo,” Lang says. “Nobody wants to be Luke.”
“Well, Steve Rogers is Luke,” Clint responds firmly. “He is the actual scrawny kid whining that he can’t go hang out with his friends at Tosche Station and winds up being the chosen one with the special powers who takes out the freaky-looking bad guy. Except Tosche Station in this scenario is the Western Front and he’s got a shield instead of a light saber.”
Which is the truth and it’s a funny truth and they all get a good laugh out of it, even Lang, who has more than gotten over his fanboying. And, thankfully, also Wanda, which means she’s feeling strong enough to keep paying attention.
“So who is Han Solo?” she asks.
“Natasha,” Clint responds with a promptness that indicates that he’s thought about this. “Good person still trying to pretend they’re not.”
Which was probably a lot more accurate before the fight at the airport, but nobody here is going to argue with Clint about her. They were all witness to the vicious argument the two had on the flight over here, a heavyweight battle no less bloody for no actual punches thrown.
“So who’s Leia?” Sam asks, entirely to keep the resulting silence from becoming meaningful.
Clint blows a raspberry, scoffing at the very notion that that’s a real question. “Me.”
Sam’ll admit it makes a lot of sense even without the Natasha connection. Guy working within the system and then going full rebel… and winding up in a jail cell waiting for Luke and/or Han to bail him out. If Steve’s not going to be Leia, then Clint’s not a bad fallback.
“I can see you rocking the cinnamon buns,” Lang offers with admiration. “Less so the gold bikini, but you’ve possibly got the pecs for it.”
“Moobs,” Wanda says and there is a three-count before the others react by busting out into laughter. Well, Sam and Lang are laughing, he’s not sure what Clint is doing.
“Where did you learn that word?” Clint asks, pained. “Please tell me it wasn’t the kids.”
“Stark,” Wanda answers. “He calls - called - Steve ‘Captain Moobs’ when he’s wearing a t-shirt.”
And this, here, is the truest expression of how surreal and fucked-up everything is right now. That they are sitting around in an undisclosed location in a secret prison without an arraignment and that their captors are the people they’ve shared jokes with and can cast as Star Wars heroes.
“If Cap is Luke, does that make Sergeant Barnes R2D2 or C3PO?” Lang asks. Apart from Steve, only Wanda calls Barnes by his first name.
“Oh, R2, definitely,” Sam replies before anyone else can. He has opinions about this. “Useful, metal-armed wiseass with wonky programming? That’s R2.”
By the time Steve shows up - with Barnes in tow - to break them out, they’ve had time to argue whether Stark is Boba Fett or General Hux or Kylo Ren, to no agreement. They do more or less agree that T'Challa is Chewbacca, not because of the Black Panther and fur thing, but because nobody can figure out what the hell his story is and nobody can understand him. Wanda wants to be Jyn Erso and Clint refuses to let her, telling her she can be Rey instead. Lang pleads for some timeline continuity.
Sam unrepentantly calls Barnes “R2” and Lang and Clint make trash compactor jokes. Steve and Barnes look at each other like they’re worried about drugs, but then they get Wanda out of her cell and nobody’s laughing anymore.
Also posted at DW.
1k words | PG | Sam Wilson, Scott Lang, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, various Avengers
also at : ao3 | tumblr
(You can consider this an outtake of Status Quo Ante, but reading that is not required)
Chapter Text
“Look, I’m a scientist, sort of. I get why he went for a biological explanation,” Lang sighs. “But coming after twenty years of an established mysticism angle, it just seems reactionary. Like he was doing it just to screw with people who were coming up with better ideas for the expanded universe than he had.”
There are only so many conversations you can have when there is no privacy and everyone who is listening in is possibly willing to kill you. Which is why, after telling various war stories and embarrassing childhood episodes, Sam has accepted that midichlorians are fair game. He and Clint and Lang are close enough in age that they have the same cultural references despite vastly different upbringings. Wanda’s understanding of what they’re talking about waxes and wanes - and not just because she’s got that damned collar on her that seems to be acting like a dog whistle only powered people can hear.
“Steve thinks he’s Han Solo,” Wanda says in that sort-of distracted voice she’s got since Natasha put that thing on her. Sam’s done what he could as far as care and treatment, but he can do a lot less from a prison cell strategically placed to make it next to impossible to see her, let alone offer the physical contact that she said made it easier to focus. It’s tearing Clint up - Sam can see him when they’re both wedged into corners at the front of their cells. Lang, who’s got a daughter back home, is remarkably good at giving her the not-creepy kind of attention that keeps her engaged and is the only one who can make her laugh.
“Steve thinks he’s Han Solo?” Clint repeats, voice rising in disbelief. “In no version, even in the crappy edits where Han doesn’t shoot first, is Steve him.”
“Steve is many things, but a scoundrel and a rogue is not either of them,” Sam adds in agreement, less surprised than Clint because he better knows that Steve has no sense of scale when it comes to his own selective willingness to follow rules. “And there is no goddamned way I am Chewbacca. I am Lando in this scenario. I look damned fine in a cape.”
He has been Lando for thirty years - Billy Dee Williams is a god among black boys his age, which is pretty much the only reason Colt 45 is still in business - and he is not getting recast because of Steve’s lack of self-awareness.
“All guys think they’re Han Solo,” Lang says. “Nobody wants to be Luke.”
“Well, Steve Rogers is Luke,” Clint responds firmly. “He is the actual scrawny kid whining that he can’t go hang out with his friends at Tosche Station and winds up being the chosen one with the special powers who takes out the freaky-looking bad guy. Except Tosche Station in this scenario is the Western Front and he’s got a shield instead of a light saber.”
Which is the truth and it’s a funny truth and they all get a good laugh out of it, even Lang, who has more than gotten over his fanboying. And, thankfully, also Wanda, which means she’s feeling strong enough to keep paying attention.
“So who is Han Solo?” she asks.
“Natasha,” Clint responds with a promptness that indicates that he’s thought about this. “Good person still trying to pretend they’re not.”
Which was probably a lot more accurate before the fight at the airport, but nobody here is going to argue with Clint about her. They were all witness to the vicious argument the two had on the flight over here, a heavyweight battle no less bloody for no actual punches thrown.
“So who’s Leia?” Sam asks, entirely to keep the resulting silence from becoming meaningful.
Clint blows a raspberry, scoffing at the very notion that that’s a real question. “Me.”
Sam’ll admit it makes a lot of sense even without the Natasha connection. Guy working within the system and then going full rebel… and winding up in a jail cell waiting for Luke and/or Han to bail him out. If Steve’s not going to be Leia, then Clint’s not a bad fallback.
“I can see you rocking the cinnamon buns,” Lang offers with admiration. “Less so the gold bikini, but you’ve possibly got the pecs for it.”
“Moobs,” Wanda says and there is a three-count before the others react by busting out into laughter. Well, Sam and Lang are laughing, he’s not sure what Clint is doing.
“Where did you learn that word?” Clint asks, pained. “Please tell me it wasn’t the kids.”
“Stark,” Wanda answers. “He calls - called - Steve ‘Captain Moobs’ when he’s wearing a t-shirt.”
And this, here, is the truest expression of how surreal and fucked-up everything is right now. That they are sitting around in an undisclosed location in a secret prison without an arraignment and that their captors are the people they’ve shared jokes with and can cast as Star Wars heroes.
“If Cap is Luke, does that make Sergeant Barnes R2D2 or C3PO?” Lang asks. Apart from Steve, only Wanda calls Barnes by his first name.
“Oh, R2, definitely,” Sam replies before anyone else can. He has opinions about this. “Useful, metal-armed wiseass with wonky programming? That’s R2.”
By the time Steve shows up - with Barnes in tow - to break them out, they’ve had time to argue whether Stark is Boba Fett or General Hux or Kylo Ren, to no agreement. They do more or less agree that T'Challa is Chewbacca, not because of the Black Panther and fur thing, but because nobody can figure out what the hell his story is and nobody can understand him. Wanda wants to be Jyn Erso and Clint refuses to let her, telling her she can be Rey instead. Lang pleads for some timeline continuity.
Sam unrepentantly calls Barnes “R2” and Lang and Clint make trash compactor jokes. Steve and Barnes look at each other like they’re worried about drugs, but then they get Wanda out of her cell and nobody’s laughing anymore.
Also posted at DW.