FF->PP: Post 7: FIC: Stars, Marvelverse, genderflip AU, gen
Okay, I admit, I'm pulling this scene out of stuff I've already written. Because we'll be breaking for lunch after this post, and I probably will just have a few one-liners for the next few posts because, y'know, food. Haven't had enough yet. And writing up more fic, then. But first, food.
When the fic is compiled--this is one of those montages of scenes jumping about in time fics--this will be the first good look we get at Andrea. The first chapter starts with that first scene I posted, with Stella visiting her old home, and then it's like twenty-zillion flashbacks to give us all of her backstory, and the war and so forth, and then at the end there's this. Leading into the next chapter, which will be mostly Andrea at various points. And that's the sort of thing I'll be writing at five this morning when I'm incoherent and dealing with her ANGST.
Because, y'know, Iron Man. "Torture me" is spray-painted on the shiny metal ass. And Andrea's fucked up in ways that aren't even on Tony Stark's map.
Unrelated: How You Know You're a Mac User: When you pull out a tangle of cords, they're all white.
Big thanks to new sponsors quigonejinn and jadasc!
*****
New York City, the Lower East Side, summer of 1973
On the steps of number twelve, Andrea squints in the sunlight and works through page after page of figures, hums along absently to the radio trickling out the windows above, utterly ignores the passers-by who stare too long, as if wondering what a well-dressed woman is doing sitting on stonework with a slide rule.
She stops, bored, flips pages, slowly starts drawing out a hand, filling in details of articulated metal, perfectly cast joints, notes a change in angle. Indicates a power line, a pressurized feed to the magnetized disk in the palm, scribbles equations, coefficients. An elegant, armored gauntlet. Arrow to the thumb, diagram of a control circuit.
She stops that, too, stares into space for a moment, then whispers, "Oh, damn," and looks about, as if worried somebody might be standing too close. Unbuttons the top of her wide-collared jacket, very stealthily pulls down the sleek knit top underneath.
There's metal hidden under layers of fabric, chunks of it wedged against her chest, between her breasts, under her brassiere, strapped clumsy and chafing over her shoulders. A great ridged disk half-buried in her sternum, jerry-rigged under her skin, lined round with scar tissue.
She only bares the very edge of it, so worried that someone might see. Just the top, where a sleek, miniaturized timer is built into one edge. A minute turns as she watches, thin plates of metal sliding by under the glass. One hour and thirty-seven, now thirty-six.
She looks back up at the apartment above her and hopes Stella isn't going to take too long. One hour and thirty-six minutes for her to get to a well-wired wall outlet, in private, and plug the heavy cord in her bag into the socket over her solar plexus. Or the device will fail, the stray bits of metal in her chest will slice her heart open, and she'll die.
Andrea Stark has gotten used to having hours left to live. Almost a year, it's been, living on borrowed time. A year to get used to swallowing panic as the minutes turn back, the perpetual fear that the thing will fail on her. Marking the time when she falls asleep to make sure she'll wake up again. A year to get blasé about it.
She checks her watch, writes herself a note, and turns back to her equations.
Seven minutes later, seven minutes closer to her death, she hears the door open behind her, the tiny old Russian lady saying goodbye in her thick accent, and Stella's tall shadow falls over her. Andrea frantically takes down a few last figures, closes her notebook, and looks up.
Stella's a bit red about the eyes, but she's smiling.
"Let's go," she says.
Andrea smiles up at her, packs away her things, and stands. "You okay?"
"Sure." Stella tucks her free hand in her pocket and ducks her head a little. It's an oddly boyish gesture. Andrea notices that she's wearing a necklace, a little white star, chipped and dented. So much like the star on her shield, Captain America's shield, when she looks at it. She guesses it must usually be tucked into her shirt--her dogtag's hanging out too--and shoulders her bag and heads on down the street.
"What were you working on?" Stella asks. "Iron Man?"
Andrea grins wryly. "Yeah. My bodyguard's always pestering me for upgrades. Not that I mind. Keeps me safer."
"And the rest of us, too," says Stella warmly. "Since you're so kind to lend him to the Avengers."
"Least I could do," says Andrea. "I think he'd get bored if he was just following me around all day. Should we head back to the mansion?"
"Sure. At least until I can find my own place." Stella stops for a moment, switches her portfolio to her left hand, and holds out her right, broad and strong. "Thank you, Ms. Stark."
"For what?"
"All your help this past week. You didn't have to show me around. It's only been thirty years, after all."
"Nonsense," says Andrea, but shakes anyway. Stella's hand is large as a man's, rough and callused and very warm. "Any Avenger is a friend of mine. Shall we head on, though? I have an appointment soon."
"Of course." Stella tucks her hand back in her pocket and leads the way. "Don't wait up for me.
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $215 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!
When the fic is compiled--this is one of those montages of scenes jumping about in time fics--this will be the first good look we get at Andrea. The first chapter starts with that first scene I posted, with Stella visiting her old home, and then it's like twenty-zillion flashbacks to give us all of her backstory, and the war and so forth, and then at the end there's this. Leading into the next chapter, which will be mostly Andrea at various points. And that's the sort of thing I'll be writing at five this morning when I'm incoherent and dealing with her ANGST.
Because, y'know, Iron Man. "Torture me" is spray-painted on the shiny metal ass. And Andrea's fucked up in ways that aren't even on Tony Stark's map.
Unrelated: How You Know You're a Mac User: When you pull out a tangle of cords, they're all white.
Big thanks to new sponsors quigonejinn and jadasc!
*****
New York City, the Lower East Side, summer of 1973
On the steps of number twelve, Andrea squints in the sunlight and works through page after page of figures, hums along absently to the radio trickling out the windows above, utterly ignores the passers-by who stare too long, as if wondering what a well-dressed woman is doing sitting on stonework with a slide rule.
She stops, bored, flips pages, slowly starts drawing out a hand, filling in details of articulated metal, perfectly cast joints, notes a change in angle. Indicates a power line, a pressurized feed to the magnetized disk in the palm, scribbles equations, coefficients. An elegant, armored gauntlet. Arrow to the thumb, diagram of a control circuit.
She stops that, too, stares into space for a moment, then whispers, "Oh, damn," and looks about, as if worried somebody might be standing too close. Unbuttons the top of her wide-collared jacket, very stealthily pulls down the sleek knit top underneath.
There's metal hidden under layers of fabric, chunks of it wedged against her chest, between her breasts, under her brassiere, strapped clumsy and chafing over her shoulders. A great ridged disk half-buried in her sternum, jerry-rigged under her skin, lined round with scar tissue.
She only bares the very edge of it, so worried that someone might see. Just the top, where a sleek, miniaturized timer is built into one edge. A minute turns as she watches, thin plates of metal sliding by under the glass. One hour and thirty-seven, now thirty-six.
She looks back up at the apartment above her and hopes Stella isn't going to take too long. One hour and thirty-six minutes for her to get to a well-wired wall outlet, in private, and plug the heavy cord in her bag into the socket over her solar plexus. Or the device will fail, the stray bits of metal in her chest will slice her heart open, and she'll die.
Andrea Stark has gotten used to having hours left to live. Almost a year, it's been, living on borrowed time. A year to get used to swallowing panic as the minutes turn back, the perpetual fear that the thing will fail on her. Marking the time when she falls asleep to make sure she'll wake up again. A year to get blasé about it.
She checks her watch, writes herself a note, and turns back to her equations.
Seven minutes later, seven minutes closer to her death, she hears the door open behind her, the tiny old Russian lady saying goodbye in her thick accent, and Stella's tall shadow falls over her. Andrea frantically takes down a few last figures, closes her notebook, and looks up.
Stella's a bit red about the eyes, but she's smiling.
"Let's go," she says.
Andrea smiles up at her, packs away her things, and stands. "You okay?"
"Sure." Stella tucks her free hand in her pocket and ducks her head a little. It's an oddly boyish gesture. Andrea notices that she's wearing a necklace, a little white star, chipped and dented. So much like the star on her shield, Captain America's shield, when she looks at it. She guesses it must usually be tucked into her shirt--her dogtag's hanging out too--and shoulders her bag and heads on down the street.
"What were you working on?" Stella asks. "Iron Man?"
Andrea grins wryly. "Yeah. My bodyguard's always pestering me for upgrades. Not that I mind. Keeps me safer."
"And the rest of us, too," says Stella warmly. "Since you're so kind to lend him to the Avengers."
"Least I could do," says Andrea. "I think he'd get bored if he was just following me around all day. Should we head back to the mansion?"
"Sure. At least until I can find my own place." Stella stops for a moment, switches her portfolio to her left hand, and holds out her right, broad and strong. "Thank you, Ms. Stark."
"For what?"
"All your help this past week. You didn't have to show me around. It's only been thirty years, after all."
"Nonsense," says Andrea, but shakes anyway. Stella's hand is large as a man's, rough and callused and very warm. "Any Avenger is a friend of mine. Shall we head on, though? I have an appointment soon."
"Of course." Stella tucks her hand back in her pocket and leads the way. "Don't wait up for me.
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $215 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!