Captain America drabble: In a Pickle
Part of the Freezer Burn series, technically, but no spoilers for that whatsoever.
In a Pickle
PG | Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanova
"No. Just no."
"Why not?" Steve asked, more curious than defiant as he dumped the rest of the veggies into the sink he'd filled with water.
"Because the line between you and the hipster poseurs you are surrounded by becomes very thin indeed if you start pickling stuff you get at the farmer's market," Clint explained with exasperation. "I am speaking up for your own good here. This is a border that must stand. I will be the sniper in the guard tower if I have to be."
Steve looked over at Natasha, who sipped at her wine and shrugged her shoulders. She wasn't sure if he was looking for help or to verify that this was, in fact, what Clint was getting worked up about. Possibly both. "I think Hipster Captain America could be the hero for a new generation."
Clint glared at her. "Yes, he can lose his razor, rework his uniform with a plaid print and American Apparel pants, and have The National do a remix of 'The Star Spangled Man.'"
Steve started scrubbing kirbies and placing them in the colander in the other half of the double sink. "Just because hipsters do it doesn't mean it's a hipster thing," he said as he worked. "I'm not doing it to be cool. I'm doing it because they were three pounds for a dollar."
"Why did you do that anyway?" Clint asked. "Who needs three pounds of cucumbers? I know you lived through the Depression, but speaking as one poor boy-made-good to another, just because it's cheap doesn't make it a bargain -- or a necessity. Especially in our line of work. We could get called out any minute for some crazy mission."
Steve finished what he was doing and wiped his hands on a dish towel before picking up his beer bottle. "Preservation is the point of pickling, Clint." He took a long sip, but Natasha could see him smiling as he did so. "Well, that and tastiness."
Clint put his face down on his arms and groaned into the countertop before picking his head up. "Promise me one thing: nobody is getting a jar of homemade pickles from you for Christmas."
Steve held up his hand. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout and that's the Vulcan salute, Chorus Boy," Clint retorted, gesturing at Steve's hand with his own beer bottle.
The kitchen timer rang a moment later, before Clint could explain what he was talking about, and the matter was dropped because Steve was pulling homemade pizzas out of the oven.
A week or so later, Natasha was in Bern chasing down a (hopeless, futile) lead on the Winter Soldier when she got a email from Clint with "this is ALL YOUR FAULT" in the subject header. Inside the body was an attachment of a sketch done in colored pencils of Hipster Captain America, who in truth looked a lot more like Steve had before the serum. He had skinny legs ending in chunky boots and the uniform top's stars and stripes were transformed into a red-and-blue plaid. He had artfully mussed hair and a little bit of stubble and thick plastic-framed glasses with the shield logo on the arms. "Truth, Liberty, and Pabst Blue Ribbon!" was coming out of a speech bubble.
"I think it's adorable," Natasha emailed back.
"I am unfriending you both," Clint replied the next day because he was somewhere that might be Sudan and free time was at a premium. It would have been a bigger threat if any of them had had Facebook.
They were both at Steve's a few days later, however, testing out the first of the batches of pickles.
Also posted at DW.
In a Pickle
PG | Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanova
"No. Just no."
"Why not?" Steve asked, more curious than defiant as he dumped the rest of the veggies into the sink he'd filled with water.
"Because the line between you and the hipster poseurs you are surrounded by becomes very thin indeed if you start pickling stuff you get at the farmer's market," Clint explained with exasperation. "I am speaking up for your own good here. This is a border that must stand. I will be the sniper in the guard tower if I have to be."
Steve looked over at Natasha, who sipped at her wine and shrugged her shoulders. She wasn't sure if he was looking for help or to verify that this was, in fact, what Clint was getting worked up about. Possibly both. "I think Hipster Captain America could be the hero for a new generation."
Clint glared at her. "Yes, he can lose his razor, rework his uniform with a plaid print and American Apparel pants, and have The National do a remix of 'The Star Spangled Man.'"
Steve started scrubbing kirbies and placing them in the colander in the other half of the double sink. "Just because hipsters do it doesn't mean it's a hipster thing," he said as he worked. "I'm not doing it to be cool. I'm doing it because they were three pounds for a dollar."
"Why did you do that anyway?" Clint asked. "Who needs three pounds of cucumbers? I know you lived through the Depression, but speaking as one poor boy-made-good to another, just because it's cheap doesn't make it a bargain -- or a necessity. Especially in our line of work. We could get called out any minute for some crazy mission."
Steve finished what he was doing and wiped his hands on a dish towel before picking up his beer bottle. "Preservation is the point of pickling, Clint." He took a long sip, but Natasha could see him smiling as he did so. "Well, that and tastiness."
Clint put his face down on his arms and groaned into the countertop before picking his head up. "Promise me one thing: nobody is getting a jar of homemade pickles from you for Christmas."
Steve held up his hand. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout and that's the Vulcan salute, Chorus Boy," Clint retorted, gesturing at Steve's hand with his own beer bottle.
The kitchen timer rang a moment later, before Clint could explain what he was talking about, and the matter was dropped because Steve was pulling homemade pizzas out of the oven.
A week or so later, Natasha was in Bern chasing down a (hopeless, futile) lead on the Winter Soldier when she got a email from Clint with "this is ALL YOUR FAULT" in the subject header. Inside the body was an attachment of a sketch done in colored pencils of Hipster Captain America, who in truth looked a lot more like Steve had before the serum. He had skinny legs ending in chunky boots and the uniform top's stars and stripes were transformed into a red-and-blue plaid. He had artfully mussed hair and a little bit of stubble and thick plastic-framed glasses with the shield logo on the arms. "Truth, Liberty, and Pabst Blue Ribbon!" was coming out of a speech bubble.
"I think it's adorable," Natasha emailed back.
"I am unfriending you both," Clint replied the next day because he was somewhere that might be Sudan and free time was at a premium. It would have been a bigger threat if any of them had had Facebook.
They were both at Steve's a few days later, however, testing out the first of the batches of pickles.
Also posted at DW.