I write fanfic again, but sometimes I get some things that just don't work out
Also I am now employed. !!! Be excited, because I am. Very much so, I am so excited.
So I've written some new fanfic. I have a small ongoing series of crack fics that revolve around Steve/Captain America and the toaster that stalks him (The Toaster Who Shot Me), and I'm writing a Clint/Coulson long fic revolving around soul mate dynamics and high school (high school AUs are such a guilty pleassure of mine), and I'm also writing a Steve/Tony fic about Tony going undercover and being horrible at it that is just not going well. I'm going to completely rewrite it, I think, but I wanna put it up here so I can see where not to go. lol. (It's under the spoiler tag).
[To be rewritten]
Meetings suck. Scratch that. Meetings Suck, capital S for emphasis. Tony’s sure they would should suck more if he actually paid attention to what they were discussing, but he takes the Barton route and ignores them. Instead he draws on napkins and loudly interrupts with his coffee order when it looks like they’re close to making a decision. Occasionally he’ll look up and see what they’ve got on the monitors, then go back to doodling stars when it’s always another underground bunker overrun with crazies with leather fetishes. Or whatever. He’s not sure what the deal is with leather, but Barton wears it, and he’s pretty sure Natasha wears it (he tried to get a close look once, but she is incredibly fast and made of pointy things), and he’s not sure where that thought was supposed to go because now there’s a picture of the president and an invitation to some White House event, and like hell is he letting Barton traipse in there to mix up the spoons and completely blow his… cover? Something.
“I’m taking this one,” Tony says loudly, and he finds it slightly rude that the room just falls silent and everyone stares at him. Even Barton, who was definitely sleeping not five seconds ago. And Barton, eloquent as he is, is the one to break the silence with a flat, “What.” Emphasis on the period, because not a question, and there’s the silence again.
“Stark, this may not be something you’re capable of,” Coulson says, which in human-speak is, “No. Hell no. Fuck no.” Tony knows this. He’s researched it, he has a Coulson-to-English dictionary on his personal server that Barton has contributed to extensively.
“I’ll take Steve,” Tony says when he finally reads the top line of the letter. And one guest, the letter says, and he’s pretty sure it’s a date thing. Some fancy dinner for the rich old white guys to show off their tail and rub shoulders with whichever politician they’re paying off to get fancy benefits and lenient laws. “It’s just a fancy dinner for rich old white guys to show off their tail,” Tony says, and he can see Steve mouthing tail beside him, with that pinched look like he just sucked on a lemon and found a lime. Whatever. “Me and Steve go in, rub shoulders with politicians to pay off, whatever, who cares. It’ll be great.”
“This is an undercover assignment,” Coulson says, and isn’t he just adorable?
“We can put Steve in a suit, no one’ll recognize him outside the uniform.” Tony pauses, because oh. “Well, you’ll recognize him, but you’re just…” Coulson’s mimicking that look that Steve has and his fingers are twitching a lot like that time he tased Barton in the hallway at the tower, so Tony changes the topic. “Is this the gay thing? Because the gay thing’ll get us extra cred. Do they still call it that? But a gay couple shows up to the dinner and BOOM. President is suddenly in the social good books, we’re the life of the human rights related-party, everyone’s happy, everyone’s begging to get in on the right side of history, yadda yadda, let’s do this.”
It’s completely silent again. Steve has his eyes shut, Natasha isn’t blinking, and Barton’s leaning forward looking completely serious.
“Sir,” Barton says, and Tony’s pretty sure Coulson has a finger on his taser, “I fully support this plan and want to see it in action.”
“No,” Coulson says.
“Why are we sitting at the kids’ table?” Tony asks. His voice carries and Steve bites his bottom lip in a vain effort to keep from turning red. People are turning and staring, and instead of being shamed and falling back into his role as a humble something or other, Tony’s voice rises. “Is this the gay thing again? Because I swear to god you guys are all talk, no walk, and it’s seriously hindering progress in this country!”
Steve looks over his shoulder and watches as the closest onlookers start talking amongst themselves, pulling out smartphones and squinting at Tony. A man that is undeniably secret service strides towards them calmly but with purpose, and Tony straightens his back and puffs out his chest.
“Mr. Stark,” the secret service member starts, and Tony gasps theatrically.
“Do you not know who I am?” Tony demands. “I can’t believe this. I finally snag an invite to a presidential dinner and nobody knows who the hell I am.” He looks at Steve and scowls. “Stev-anie,” he corrects himself at the last moment, and Steve feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, “do you believe this shit?”
“Michael,” Steve says slowly, and Tony taps his foot against the tile. “Maybe you should lay off the champagne for a while.”
“Stephanie, honey,” Tony says, and god damn it he’s going with the screw-up, “I got this.”
“I’m so sorry,” Steve says as he wraps his arm around Tony’s shoulders and forcibly turns him away. “Michael is not having a good day. One of his contracts went under, and it’s just been stressful for everyone involved.” He waved his arm. “We’re going to just take our seats now.”
The secret service member raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. “Can I see your passes, please?”
“Discrimination!” Tony barks when he breaks from Steve’s grip and yanks his invitation from his breast pocket. He holds it aloft and waves it a little. “Does my lifestyle make you uncomfortable, bucko?”
“No, but your access to weapons and shouting angrily in front of the president does,” the agent says, and Tony pauses.
“Oh,” Tony says, and the agent snags the pass. “I’m sorry about that. Like dear ol’ Steph said, stressful day, contracts being dicks, you know. So and so.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark,” the agent says, and Tony laughs.
“Again with the whole “Mr. Stark” thing! That’s actually quite a compliment, isn’t that a compliment, Stevanie?” Tony turns to look at Steve, and Steve just smiles blankly in return.
“A lot of people make that mistake,” Steve nods while he speaks and carefully takes the invite back. “Michael definitely dresses to…” he glances at Tony, “imitate.”
Tony shrugs and Steve slides the invitation in his pocket.
“Let’s go sit down.”
The secret service agent watches them walk back to the table, Steve shoving Tony when he tries to break away, and the agent presses the button in his cuff. “I don’t know what just happened, sir.”
The president isn’t entirely sure what happened since he left his rooms in the afternoon. After leaving a meeting with his vice president and trying to help his daughters with their science homework, he’d retreated to his room to prepare for the night while telling his wife that he preferred the blue dress, if she would be so inclined.
After a brief talk with the secret service, he found himself standing at the end of the ballroom wondering why a man who was obviously Tony Stark was asking who he had to sleep with to get financial assistance for his home business, all while dragging around a man who was obviously Captain America.
The secret service had to be fucking with him.
He said as much and ended up with Jim standing behind him and looking hopelessly lost.
“His ID checks out. Both do.” Jim shakes his head and flashes a tablet at him. The president leans back slightly to see that, yes, Michael Clark and his husband Stephanie are indeed in the system. Their licenses show that they hail from Minnesota, and are heavily involved in their local politics.
“Is gay marriage even legal in Minnesota?” the president asks.
“As of last year, yes, sir.”
“When were they married?”
“Three years ago.”
“Right.”
“I’m not sure what to do about this.” Jim shrugs and tucks the tablet in his suit. “The paperwork checks out. I don’t believe the paperwork.”
“I don’t think anyone believes the paperwork.”
Steve doesn’t know how, or why, but people are calling him Stephanie. They’re also calling Tony “Michael,” completely seriously, and no one is saying anything about it. After he’d gotten Tony to his seat and offered him a flute of champagne and some Adderall (not really, but the thought was there), Tony had fallen into the role of Michael Clark. Steve wasn’t sure where Tony had come up with his cover story, since Coulson had simply told them to sit pretty and praise the president’s efforts to move forward with human rights while ignoring anything else that may come up, but Tony was flirting his way into the hearts of everyone else’s wives with his stories of starting his business with hard work and a little elbow grease, and how he’d fought to provide for his workers before the president’s whatever requirements.
From noises he can hear in the tiny comm in his ear, Coulson is also trying to figure out where Tony came up with his cover story, while Barton is mysteriously silent.
“Your husband is very accomplished,” a woman says when she sits beside Steve, and he shrugs.
“He’s something.”
“Oh for sure.” She leans on the table and smiles. “You must tell me how you met.”
Steve waves a hand. “It’s all very embarrassing, you don’t want to know.”
She laughs and claps his shoulder. “All the best stories are.”
Dinner happens, tony tells everyone he’s going to shag his husband, they leave, tony’s like “why the hell were we even there?”
“I am so sorry,” Steve starts when he climbs into the Quinjet. “I tried. I really, really tried, but I lost control of the situation.”
“Implying you ever had control of it in the first place,” Barton snorts. “Grade A undercover work, Captain. I was so inspired by that performance that I’ve adopted it into my folder of interrogation techniques.”
“No, he did not,” Coulson interrupts. He points at Barton. “You did not.” He points at Steve. “This is not your fault.” He points at Tony. “This is completely your fault.”
“We didn’t get the information.” Steve looks despondent, and Tony looks betrayed.
“You didn’t, we did.”
Steve jumps when Natasha walks past him, dressed in an evening gown that’s as stunning as it is subtle. It’s a weird and confusing combination, and Barton gives her a high five.
“Excuse me, were you even in there?” Tony demands, and Natasha raises an eyebrow at her.
Barton shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the “p.” “I waited for the target to come outside and hung him from a balcony.”
Coulson turns to look at Barton. “That is also not in your folder of techniques.”
Barton sticks his tongue out. “Says you.”
So I've written some new fanfic. I have a small ongoing series of crack fics that revolve around Steve/Captain America and the toaster that stalks him (The Toaster Who Shot Me), and I'm writing a Clint/Coulson long fic revolving around soul mate dynamics and high school (high school AUs are such a guilty pleassure of mine), and I'm also writing a Steve/Tony fic about Tony going undercover and being horrible at it that is just not going well. I'm going to completely rewrite it, I think, but I wanna put it up here so I can see where not to go. lol. (It's under the spoiler tag).
[To be rewritten]
Meetings suck. Scratch that. Meetings Suck, capital S for emphasis. Tony’s sure they would should suck more if he actually paid attention to what they were discussing, but he takes the Barton route and ignores them. Instead he draws on napkins and loudly interrupts with his coffee order when it looks like they’re close to making a decision. Occasionally he’ll look up and see what they’ve got on the monitors, then go back to doodling stars when it’s always another underground bunker overrun with crazies with leather fetishes. Or whatever. He’s not sure what the deal is with leather, but Barton wears it, and he’s pretty sure Natasha wears it (he tried to get a close look once, but she is incredibly fast and made of pointy things), and he’s not sure where that thought was supposed to go because now there’s a picture of the president and an invitation to some White House event, and like hell is he letting Barton traipse in there to mix up the spoons and completely blow his… cover? Something.
“I’m taking this one,” Tony says loudly, and he finds it slightly rude that the room just falls silent and everyone stares at him. Even Barton, who was definitely sleeping not five seconds ago. And Barton, eloquent as he is, is the one to break the silence with a flat, “What.” Emphasis on the period, because not a question, and there’s the silence again.
“Stark, this may not be something you’re capable of,” Coulson says, which in human-speak is, “No. Hell no. Fuck no.” Tony knows this. He’s researched it, he has a Coulson-to-English dictionary on his personal server that Barton has contributed to extensively.
“I’ll take Steve,” Tony says when he finally reads the top line of the letter. And one guest, the letter says, and he’s pretty sure it’s a date thing. Some fancy dinner for the rich old white guys to show off their tail and rub shoulders with whichever politician they’re paying off to get fancy benefits and lenient laws. “It’s just a fancy dinner for rich old white guys to show off their tail,” Tony says, and he can see Steve mouthing tail beside him, with that pinched look like he just sucked on a lemon and found a lime. Whatever. “Me and Steve go in, rub shoulders with politicians to pay off, whatever, who cares. It’ll be great.”
“This is an undercover assignment,” Coulson says, and isn’t he just adorable?
“We can put Steve in a suit, no one’ll recognize him outside the uniform.” Tony pauses, because oh. “Well, you’ll recognize him, but you’re just…” Coulson’s mimicking that look that Steve has and his fingers are twitching a lot like that time he tased Barton in the hallway at the tower, so Tony changes the topic. “Is this the gay thing? Because the gay thing’ll get us extra cred. Do they still call it that? But a gay couple shows up to the dinner and BOOM. President is suddenly in the social good books, we’re the life of the human rights related-party, everyone’s happy, everyone’s begging to get in on the right side of history, yadda yadda, let’s do this.”
It’s completely silent again. Steve has his eyes shut, Natasha isn’t blinking, and Barton’s leaning forward looking completely serious.
“Sir,” Barton says, and Tony’s pretty sure Coulson has a finger on his taser, “I fully support this plan and want to see it in action.”
“No,” Coulson says.
“Why are we sitting at the kids’ table?” Tony asks. His voice carries and Steve bites his bottom lip in a vain effort to keep from turning red. People are turning and staring, and instead of being shamed and falling back into his role as a humble something or other, Tony’s voice rises. “Is this the gay thing again? Because I swear to god you guys are all talk, no walk, and it’s seriously hindering progress in this country!”
Steve looks over his shoulder and watches as the closest onlookers start talking amongst themselves, pulling out smartphones and squinting at Tony. A man that is undeniably secret service strides towards them calmly but with purpose, and Tony straightens his back and puffs out his chest.
“Mr. Stark,” the secret service member starts, and Tony gasps theatrically.
“Do you not know who I am?” Tony demands. “I can’t believe this. I finally snag an invite to a presidential dinner and nobody knows who the hell I am.” He looks at Steve and scowls. “Stev-anie,” he corrects himself at the last moment, and Steve feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, “do you believe this shit?”
“Michael,” Steve says slowly, and Tony taps his foot against the tile. “Maybe you should lay off the champagne for a while.”
“Stephanie, honey,” Tony says, and god damn it he’s going with the screw-up, “I got this.”
“I’m so sorry,” Steve says as he wraps his arm around Tony’s shoulders and forcibly turns him away. “Michael is not having a good day. One of his contracts went under, and it’s just been stressful for everyone involved.” He waved his arm. “We’re going to just take our seats now.”
The secret service member raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. “Can I see your passes, please?”
“Discrimination!” Tony barks when he breaks from Steve’s grip and yanks his invitation from his breast pocket. He holds it aloft and waves it a little. “Does my lifestyle make you uncomfortable, bucko?”
“No, but your access to weapons and shouting angrily in front of the president does,” the agent says, and Tony pauses.
“Oh,” Tony says, and the agent snags the pass. “I’m sorry about that. Like dear ol’ Steph said, stressful day, contracts being dicks, you know. So and so.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark,” the agent says, and Tony laughs.
“Again with the whole “Mr. Stark” thing! That’s actually quite a compliment, isn’t that a compliment, Stevanie?” Tony turns to look at Steve, and Steve just smiles blankly in return.
“A lot of people make that mistake,” Steve nods while he speaks and carefully takes the invite back. “Michael definitely dresses to…” he glances at Tony, “imitate.”
Tony shrugs and Steve slides the invitation in his pocket.
“Let’s go sit down.”
The secret service agent watches them walk back to the table, Steve shoving Tony when he tries to break away, and the agent presses the button in his cuff. “I don’t know what just happened, sir.”
The president isn’t entirely sure what happened since he left his rooms in the afternoon. After leaving a meeting with his vice president and trying to help his daughters with their science homework, he’d retreated to his room to prepare for the night while telling his wife that he preferred the blue dress, if she would be so inclined.
After a brief talk with the secret service, he found himself standing at the end of the ballroom wondering why a man who was obviously Tony Stark was asking who he had to sleep with to get financial assistance for his home business, all while dragging around a man who was obviously Captain America.
The secret service had to be fucking with him.
He said as much and ended up with Jim standing behind him and looking hopelessly lost.
“His ID checks out. Both do.” Jim shakes his head and flashes a tablet at him. The president leans back slightly to see that, yes, Michael Clark and his husband Stephanie are indeed in the system. Their licenses show that they hail from Minnesota, and are heavily involved in their local politics.
“Is gay marriage even legal in Minnesota?” the president asks.
“As of last year, yes, sir.”
“When were they married?”
“Three years ago.”
“Right.”
“I’m not sure what to do about this.” Jim shrugs and tucks the tablet in his suit. “The paperwork checks out. I don’t believe the paperwork.”
“I don’t think anyone believes the paperwork.”
Steve doesn’t know how, or why, but people are calling him Stephanie. They’re also calling Tony “Michael,” completely seriously, and no one is saying anything about it. After he’d gotten Tony to his seat and offered him a flute of champagne and some Adderall (not really, but the thought was there), Tony had fallen into the role of Michael Clark. Steve wasn’t sure where Tony had come up with his cover story, since Coulson had simply told them to sit pretty and praise the president’s efforts to move forward with human rights while ignoring anything else that may come up, but Tony was flirting his way into the hearts of everyone else’s wives with his stories of starting his business with hard work and a little elbow grease, and how he’d fought to provide for his workers before the president’s whatever requirements.
From noises he can hear in the tiny comm in his ear, Coulson is also trying to figure out where Tony came up with his cover story, while Barton is mysteriously silent.
“Your husband is very accomplished,” a woman says when she sits beside Steve, and he shrugs.
“He’s something.”
“Oh for sure.” She leans on the table and smiles. “You must tell me how you met.”
Steve waves a hand. “It’s all very embarrassing, you don’t want to know.”
She laughs and claps his shoulder. “All the best stories are.”
Dinner happens, tony tells everyone he’s going to shag his husband, they leave, tony’s like “why the hell were we even there?”
“I am so sorry,” Steve starts when he climbs into the Quinjet. “I tried. I really, really tried, but I lost control of the situation.”
“Implying you ever had control of it in the first place,” Barton snorts. “Grade A undercover work, Captain. I was so inspired by that performance that I’ve adopted it into my folder of interrogation techniques.”
“No, he did not,” Coulson interrupts. He points at Barton. “You did not.” He points at Steve. “This is not your fault.” He points at Tony. “This is completely your fault.”
“We didn’t get the information.” Steve looks despondent, and Tony looks betrayed.
“You didn’t, we did.”
Steve jumps when Natasha walks past him, dressed in an evening gown that’s as stunning as it is subtle. It’s a weird and confusing combination, and Barton gives her a high five.
“Excuse me, were you even in there?” Tony demands, and Natasha raises an eyebrow at her.
Barton shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the “p.” “I waited for the target to come outside and hung him from a balcony.”
Coulson turns to look at Barton. “That is also not in your folder of techniques.”
Barton sticks his tongue out. “Says you.”