Imprint [Avengers movie verse/Dollhouse fic]
Title: Imprint
Characters/Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG
Warnings: implied consent issues
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Uniform has twelve different imprints, by far the least number of personalities compared to the other Actives in the Dollhouse.
Note: Written for black_eyedgirl's awesome Whedon-Squared comment fic party. Go prompt/read/fill! Can also be read here on AO3.
Uniform has twelve different imprints, by far the least number of personalities compared to the other Actives in the Dollhouse. He has a wedge labeled Michael Roberts for romantic engagements, but the other eleven imprints are all various iterations of soldiers. Uniform is the one they pull up for bodyguard duty, for bounty hunting, for anything involving guns or bombs or helicopters.
Steve Rogers is a soldier, the best All-American, apple pie, for God and country imprint SHIELD could program, capped off with a sweet, disarming kind of charm that even Tony's hardened cynicism can't protect against. Tony thinks it's a ridiculous waste that the only mileage Steve gets is the stolen days that Tony dusts off the wedge and leads Uniform, blank-faced and pliant, trusting, into the imprint chair.
Steve gasps awake, sitting up quickly and sweeping the room with a trained eye until he sees Tony. "Hi, Tony," Steve says, his face relaxing into a smile.
"Hey, Steve," Tony says, grinning back. He holds up pre-releases of Red Skull and Frost Giants: Revenge. "Which one do you want to play?"
Steve's smile tips off his face. He reaches for Red Skull, runs his fingers across the smooth plastic of the cover. "You told me this one wasn't coming out for nine more months," Steve says, quiet. "Has it really been that long?"
"Eight months," Tony says. "I got it early." He wipes the dust that he had to brush off Steve's wedge on his pants leg guiltily. Tony has booted Steve up religiously every two months since he found the wedge slipped underneath Tom Marstern (Navy Seal) and Rick Harrison (USMC), coated with grime and obviously long abandoned by Darcy or Bruce or whoever programmed it.
It's just that, last time Tony plugged in Steve, ten minutes before the clock struck midnight, before Tony packed Steve away and turned Uniform over to the careful hands of X-ray and Bravo and the weird herd behavior they'd all been displaying since the time Bravo came home with three bullet holes, he'd looked at Tony like maybe he'd been programmed open-minded as well as tactically brilliant and kind and artistic and fucking perfect.
There had been some mutual leaning forward and Steve had whispered, "Tony..." his voice trembling in a way that reminded Tony how much he hated this job sometimes, why he'd filled up the stainless steel sink in his lab and submerged Michael Roberts in it, taking Steve out of the romantic engagements rotation while he pretended to fix the wedge.
"Steve," Tony sighed, "It's going to be okay."
Steve drew slightly back, smiled at Tony with eyes full of trust. "Now that you're here," he said.
"Good choice," Tony says, taking Red Skull out of Steve's hands and dragging him along by the hem of his t-shirt until they're on the battered leather couch in Tony's lab. Steve systematically decimates HYDRA and kills Red Skull by crashing a Horton IX in a way that ought to kill his character outright but instead leaves him with exactly one hit point and a victorious smirk aimed at Tony while the credits scroll.
An imprint recovery program Tony's been running in the background gives two discordant beeps and Tony sighs, opening a side drawer in his workbench and handing Steve his sketchbook and a few charcoal pencils to keep him busy while Tony checks on the error. He's just entered the adjusted code and taken two steps back toward Steve when the lab doors open and Director Fury, who's supposed to be away in DC for the next five days, enters, Coulson half a beat behind him.
"Stark," Fury says, cutting off abruptly when he sees Steve. His eye lingers on the sketchbook in Steve's hands.
Steve snaps the book closed and jumps to his feet, going straight-backed and distant, eyes focused over Fury's shoulder. "Director Fury," he says, monotone.
"Coulson, take Rogers up to the chair," Fury says, voice tight. "Stark, with me."
Tony makes an exaggerated D: expression at Steve, mouths sorry. Steve stares after him until Coulson takes him by the arm, gentle, they way he does with Bravo and X-ray when they get upset, and leads him toward the stairs.
Fury closes his office door, almost catching Tony's heel, and crowds into Tony's personal space. "You are not to imprint the dolls without my express permission," Fury grits out.
Tony rolls his eyes. "What's the big deal?" he complains. "You take X-ray out to be your personal aide all the time."
"The difference, Stark," Fury says, "is that I take X-ray out as Natalie Rushman, not as Natasha Romanoff."
Tony goes rigid. He's known X-ray for almost two years now, but he knew Natasha Romanoff for about twenty minutes, the amount of time it took for her to break into the top-secret, impenetrable underground base that is the Dollhouse, hold a knife to Tony's throat, demand the release of someone named Clint Barton, and lose a drawn-out fight to Delta, Foxtrot and Coulson's industrial strength taser.
Natasha Romanoff signed a contract that cut Bravo's time at the Dollhouse in half and retired him from romantic engagements and assassinations of anyone under the age of 30. All she had to do was spend three years as X-ray.
Natasha Romanoff is tucked away, waiting, on a wedge coated with two years' worth of gathered dust.
Tony rubs his thumb over his fingernails, remembers how hard he had to scrape until the label on Steve's wedge read more than St. He swears he can feel the arc reactor malfunctioning in his chest, running at 200% power, overheating. Oh fuck, Tony thinks.
Comments are loved.
Characters/Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG
Warnings: implied consent issues
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Uniform has twelve different imprints, by far the least number of personalities compared to the other Actives in the Dollhouse.
Note: Written for black_eyedgirl's awesome Whedon-Squared comment fic party. Go prompt/read/fill! Can also be read here on AO3.
Uniform has twelve different imprints, by far the least number of personalities compared to the other Actives in the Dollhouse. He has a wedge labeled Michael Roberts for romantic engagements, but the other eleven imprints are all various iterations of soldiers. Uniform is the one they pull up for bodyguard duty, for bounty hunting, for anything involving guns or bombs or helicopters.
Steve Rogers is a soldier, the best All-American, apple pie, for God and country imprint SHIELD could program, capped off with a sweet, disarming kind of charm that even Tony's hardened cynicism can't protect against. Tony thinks it's a ridiculous waste that the only mileage Steve gets is the stolen days that Tony dusts off the wedge and leads Uniform, blank-faced and pliant, trusting, into the imprint chair.
Steve gasps awake, sitting up quickly and sweeping the room with a trained eye until he sees Tony. "Hi, Tony," Steve says, his face relaxing into a smile.
"Hey, Steve," Tony says, grinning back. He holds up pre-releases of Red Skull and Frost Giants: Revenge. "Which one do you want to play?"
Steve's smile tips off his face. He reaches for Red Skull, runs his fingers across the smooth plastic of the cover. "You told me this one wasn't coming out for nine more months," Steve says, quiet. "Has it really been that long?"
"Eight months," Tony says. "I got it early." He wipes the dust that he had to brush off Steve's wedge on his pants leg guiltily. Tony has booted Steve up religiously every two months since he found the wedge slipped underneath Tom Marstern (Navy Seal) and Rick Harrison (USMC), coated with grime and obviously long abandoned by Darcy or Bruce or whoever programmed it.
It's just that, last time Tony plugged in Steve, ten minutes before the clock struck midnight, before Tony packed Steve away and turned Uniform over to the careful hands of X-ray and Bravo and the weird herd behavior they'd all been displaying since the time Bravo came home with three bullet holes, he'd looked at Tony like maybe he'd been programmed open-minded as well as tactically brilliant and kind and artistic and fucking perfect.
There had been some mutual leaning forward and Steve had whispered, "Tony..." his voice trembling in a way that reminded Tony how much he hated this job sometimes, why he'd filled up the stainless steel sink in his lab and submerged Michael Roberts in it, taking Steve out of the romantic engagements rotation while he pretended to fix the wedge.
"Steve," Tony sighed, "It's going to be okay."
Steve drew slightly back, smiled at Tony with eyes full of trust. "Now that you're here," he said.
"Good choice," Tony says, taking Red Skull out of Steve's hands and dragging him along by the hem of his t-shirt until they're on the battered leather couch in Tony's lab. Steve systematically decimates HYDRA and kills Red Skull by crashing a Horton IX in a way that ought to kill his character outright but instead leaves him with exactly one hit point and a victorious smirk aimed at Tony while the credits scroll.
An imprint recovery program Tony's been running in the background gives two discordant beeps and Tony sighs, opening a side drawer in his workbench and handing Steve his sketchbook and a few charcoal pencils to keep him busy while Tony checks on the error. He's just entered the adjusted code and taken two steps back toward Steve when the lab doors open and Director Fury, who's supposed to be away in DC for the next five days, enters, Coulson half a beat behind him.
"Stark," Fury says, cutting off abruptly when he sees Steve. His eye lingers on the sketchbook in Steve's hands.
Steve snaps the book closed and jumps to his feet, going straight-backed and distant, eyes focused over Fury's shoulder. "Director Fury," he says, monotone.
"Coulson, take Rogers up to the chair," Fury says, voice tight. "Stark, with me."
Tony makes an exaggerated D: expression at Steve, mouths sorry. Steve stares after him until Coulson takes him by the arm, gentle, they way he does with Bravo and X-ray when they get upset, and leads him toward the stairs.
Fury closes his office door, almost catching Tony's heel, and crowds into Tony's personal space. "You are not to imprint the dolls without my express permission," Fury grits out.
Tony rolls his eyes. "What's the big deal?" he complains. "You take X-ray out to be your personal aide all the time."
"The difference, Stark," Fury says, "is that I take X-ray out as Natalie Rushman, not as Natasha Romanoff."
Tony goes rigid. He's known X-ray for almost two years now, but he knew Natasha Romanoff for about twenty minutes, the amount of time it took for her to break into the top-secret, impenetrable underground base that is the Dollhouse, hold a knife to Tony's throat, demand the release of someone named Clint Barton, and lose a drawn-out fight to Delta, Foxtrot and Coulson's industrial strength taser.
Natasha Romanoff signed a contract that cut Bravo's time at the Dollhouse in half and retired him from romantic engagements and assassinations of anyone under the age of 30. All she had to do was spend three years as X-ray.
Natasha Romanoff is tucked away, waiting, on a wedge coated with two years' worth of gathered dust.
Tony rubs his thumb over his fingernails, remembers how hard he had to scrape until the label on Steve's wedge read more than St. He swears he can feel the arc reactor malfunctioning in his chest, running at 200% power, overheating. Oh fuck, Tony thinks.
Comments are loved.