#I’m pretty damn sure I’d soberly stand by this

[shegottosayit]

Just sittin here on weed thinkin about Andrew’s mustache

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 7

When Nelly opened her eyes, she couldn’t remember what day it was, what time it was, or most of all where she was. The bed sheets smelled like a man. Buster. She sat straight up, hardly noticing the clanging in her head.

She scrambled to the edge of the bed and tried to tear off the sheets that were twisted around her middle. She saw as she swung her legs over the side of the bed that her dress and girdle had ridden up around her waist, but she was still wearing her cami knickers. Whatever had occurred last night had not apparently involved their disposal. 

A wave of nausea and dizziness seized her before she was able to stand up. Her head ached so badly that she ran her hands over it, suspecting that she’d fallen and hit it. The exterior was intact, but the interior … It was in agony. Her very brains felt hot and swollen. 

“Hello?” she said. The suite seemed empty, but she couldn’t be sure. “Hello?”

When no answer came, she reached for the half-full glass of water on the nightstand and drained it. She had a raging thirst and scanned for the bathroom so she could fill the glass again and relieve herself. She had to pee like a racehorse. She got up and was forced to hobble on her way to the en-suite. Her misadventures had led to one thing at least: a twisted ankle. She remembered a phonograph and a rolicking jazz tune that made her feel the lightest and gayest and youngest she’d ever felt in her life. She remembered Tommy now, how good-looking he’d been. She remembered dancing for what seemed like hours. She was in such a good mood that she’d even danced with the men who weren’t handsome. She groaned at the memory of the other men as she relieved herself.

There was water in the round basin at the bottom of the skeletal shower and the bathroom felt slightly humid. A towel hanging on the bar confirmed that Buster had come and gone.

At least she thought it was Buster. That part she remembered too. Vomiting her guts out and Buster Keaton squatting opposite her in his white undergarments … doing what? It was fuzzy. She vaguely recalled a desire for a pillow, but he must not have given one to her because she woke up in the bed. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten from the blind tiger to the hotel room. She tried and failed. It was a big black spot, a blight on a reel of film. Buster had not been at the blind tiger as far as she remembered. 

At the sink, she drank four glasses of water total, then rinsed her sour mouth. Her face was pale and haggard in the mirror. She looked about twenty years older. Suddenly, her heart hammered at an alarming thought. It wasn’t Sunday, it was Saturday. What had made her think it was Sunday? They were filming today! She was hours late. 

Her eyes scanned around the bedroom for a clock. She spotted one on the mantel and rushed to it. A quarter to noon. 

“Damn!” 

She ran into the adjoining salon, hoping to at least find her handbag. She did, half-spilled on one of the seemingly dozens of ornate chairs that dotted the room. The handbag held no powder or rouge, but at least it had lipstick and her tin of mascara. She dashed back to the bathroom to apply it. Her hair was another story. There was no hairbrush in the handbag, just a small backcomb that was impotent against the rat’s nest of tangles confronting her. She was out of bobby pins. Her dress was wrinkled and covered in lint, not to mention that she stank of sweat and stale booze. She would have to go back to 22nd Street unless she wanted to get fired on the spot for improper dress. Also, her stockings were nowhere to be found. She looked on the chairs in the salon, underneath the bed, on the mantel, and in the sheets and bedspread. Nothing. She even peeked, blushing, in Buster’s closet and his bureau drawers. She did find a sterling silver men’s hairbrush on the bureau. She also discovered a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and washed down four capsules without a second thought. 

As she considered the sterling silver hairbrush, she felt guilty. It was expensive and she didn’t want to get it clotted up with her long hair. Promising herself she’d use her own comb to clean it afterwards, she sat on the bed trying to get the tangles out. The hairbrush smelled like Brilliantine. It seemed important not to be seen wandering the halls of the prestigious Hotel Senator with the unbrushed hair of one of Macbeth’s witches. Maybe she could call and have some bobby pins brought up—but that would alert hotel staff to the fact that there was a Girl in Buster’s Room. From her first encounter with him in his dressing room, it was clear that he had dalliances, but she wasn’t sure how discreet they were. For all she knew, an enterprising maid might sell a story to the papers for some extra money at the first opportunity. She brushed her hair and tried not to think of how terrible her head felt. 

Her situation went from bad to worse when a doorknob rattled in the salon. Of course. The staff tidied the suite every day. She considered hiding under the bed, but it was too late. From her position, she watched an arm come through the door, shortly followed by a leg, shortly followed by Buster himself. 

Of all the things she might have expected to come out of his mouth when he saw her, it wasn’t, “You’re awake.”

Before she had a chance to do much other than stammer a response, he was in the bedroom. He took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, saying, “How do you feel? Feel like eating?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling rather weak and desperate. 

“I’ll order sandwiches and coffee. You look like you could use some coffee.”

As soon as he’d exited the room, she frantically pulled the strands of her hair out of his brush and padded to the bureau to return it. Job accomplished, she sat on the sofa rather than the bed, noticing for the first time that there was a rumpled sheet draped over the back and a pillow lying on one end. From them, she deduced that she had run Buster out of his own bed. 

“Relax,” said Buster, appearing in the doorway and startling her. 

“Am I fired?” she said, looking over at him. 

He looked surprised. “Fired?” A half-smile played on his lips as he realized what she was driving at. “Oh, for being young and silly and frivolous? No.”

“I am terribly sorry for last night,” she said soberly. “I kicked you out of your bed and you—when I threw up, you—”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it.” As if he’d peered into her mind that very second, he added, “Nothing happened between us, don’t worry about that either. Why’s your hair look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Brushed on only the one side.”

“I don’t have a hairbrush in my bag.”

He squinted, clearly confused. “How’d you get half of it brushed then?”

She flushed what she could only assume was a violent red. “I borrowed your hairbrush.”

“But you only brushed half?”

She was going to die of mortification right here in Buster Keaton’s hotel room. That’s how she was going to go, rest in peace Nelly Foster. “I didn’t want you to know I’d used it, when you came in just now. I hadn’t asked permission.”

He cocked an eyebrow. He strode over to the bureau, then to her, and dropped the hairbrush in her lap. “All yours,” he said. 

“Thank you. Do you think,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “you could have some bobby pins brought up?”

“Sure. Need anything else?”

She shook her head. “I’m just going to go back to my room to change before I head over to the set.”

He sat on the foot of the bed. “You’re not going to the set today, you’re going to rest. How far away is your room?”

She thought. “A mile, a mile-and-a-half? 1911 22nd Street. I didn’t mention it last night?” 

Buster grinned. Nelly had seen him smile, but never up close and never with full teeth. His teeth were very straight on top and he had a dimple in his right cheek. She was keenly aware in that moment of how extraordinary it was that she had ended up in the bedroom of Buster Keaton’s hotel suite, never mind that her methods were nothing short of disgraceful.

“You mentioned a lot last night, but I couldn’t get that address out of you to save my life.”

“Oh no,” she said, her stomach sinking. She shielded her face with her hand.

“You’re a lot of fun.” He stood up and squeezed her shoulder on his way out of the room. “I’m going to call for those bobby pins.”

As he used the telephone, she hastily brushed out the rest of the tangles, swiped her hair from the bristles, and set the brush on the nightstand next to the bottle of aspirin. Pretty soon there was a knock at the hotel door and she ducked into the bathroom, partly to relieve herself again, mostly to hide from whoever was delivering lunch. She looked in the mirror, tried for a moment to make her hair and her face more presentable, but gave up. The lipstick and mascara would have to do. She also gave her teeth a hasty brush with a finger and Buster’s toothpaste.

Feeling shy, she stepped into the salon where a silver tray sat on a cart. “Sit down,” said Buster. He handed her a small plate that held a chicken sandwich. “There’s soup here too. Something asparagus, I think.”

Nelly took a bite of the sandwich and found that she was ravenous. The sandwich gave her an excuse not to talk. As she ate, she considered how she would politely remove herself from Buster’s company and sneak away before he changed his mind about not canning her. Her bare legs made her self-conscious and she tucked them under her on the chair as she ate. The silence didn’t seem to bother Buster. He dipped his sandwich in his soup and ate, glancing at her once and awhile.

“I can’t find my stockings,” she said, after she’d finished her sandwich. “Do you know where I put them?”

“You threw them out the window.”

“I what?” she said, not sure she’d heard right. 

“Of my car.” Buster blinked without expression, the famous frozen face she knew so well from pictures.

She was bewildered. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were hot,” he said, with a small shrug. “By the way, I noticed the ankle.” He gestured. “You should ice it when you get back to your room.”

“I don’t remember turning it,” she confessed. 

“What do you remember?” he said, his eyes probing hers.

She told him about drinking and dancing in the blind tiger. She also told him about the gap in her memory between dancing and winding up on his bathroom floor. “I am really, terribly sorry about that,” she said again. More of the incident had come back to her and she remembered how he’d dragged her into the bathroom and held her hair back as she vomited. 

He waved her off. “I’ve seen worse. I want to talk to you about something serious for a moment, though.”

A hot-cold rush of dread ran through her insides at his words, but she kept her hands steady on her cup of coffee and tried to make her face cool and calm. 

Buster finished the rest of a second sandwich, dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and put the plate on the bottom of the cart. “You know that tall man, the one with the blonde hair?” He paused, looking at her.

“Tommy,” she said. Why she should feel so guilty about Tommy, she didn’t know, but under Buster’s gaze she somehow learned that consorting with him was a horrible mistake.

“Is that his name? Well anyway, I’ve fired him. If he ever comes around again to bother you, come straight to me.”

She must have looked as puzzled as she felt, because he went on. 

“When I walked into that speak-easy last night, they were trying to get you into a room with them. A whole gang of them, and he was the ringleader.”

She was horrified beyond words. Tears filmed her eyes, but she blinked them back. On top of the spectacle she’d made of herself the previous night, she was not going to cry in front of him.  “I don’t remember that at all,” she said, her voice feeling weak.

“I know you don’t.” He reached over and laid a hand on her knee for a moment. “They got you as drunk as possible for that very reason. Just be careful from now on, okay? Take a few girlfriends when you go out.” He withdrew his hand. “Here.” He took a red box out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was decorated in violets and labeled INVISIBLE HAIR PINS. “Do your hair up and I’ll drop you by your room before I go back to the set.”

Back in the bathroom with Buster’s brush, she saw she no longer needed rouge. Her cheeks were in a high flush now, partly from the effects of last night’s imbibing, partly from their conversation. There was no crimping iron to be found, so she made do with a hasty chignon, patting down the flyaways with Buster’s Brilliantine afterwards.

“Ready?” he said, when she returned to the salon.

She felt hot and ashamed walking through the halls of the Senator and down the stairs next to him, but he didn’t seem to care if they were spotted together. She kept her eyes on her feet as much as possible. Even though they hadn’t slept together, no one in the hotel knew that. No one in the hotel knew either that she’d almost been raped by a gang of men last night, but all the same it felt like she was wearing a scarlet letter. 

They waited in silence outside the grand hotel doors for the valet to bring Buster’s car around. He didn’t seem to have anything to say and she was too mortified to make small talk. When the green Duesenberge rolled up and the valet exited, Buster held open the passenger door for her. She assumed it must have been the car she’d ridden in last night, but her only memory of it was from the parking lot in River Junction. She sat beside Buster in silence as he took a right on J Street. When they had come to Joe and Maggie’s house, he went around to the door and helped her down from the car.

“Don't look so glum,” he said, before he let go of her hand. “Everything’s okay. And ice that ankle as soon as you get in, hear?”

[robin-oliver]

mean something | jack + robin

Robin had to force herself not to roll her eyes as the guy in front of her began droning on pretentiously about Pulp Fiction and other film classics, instead turning her gaze to her disappointingly empty cup. He’d been cute enough when the flirting began, and the thought of going back to his had been quite exciting for the first few minutes. Now though, as she took the last sip of her drink and he continued to just inflate his own ego, she was incredibly bored. Her eyes searched the room for anyone who could remedy her boredom, then rested on perhaps the best person to turn to for entertainment - Jack. They’d all shown up to the party together, as usual, dressed in what Robin had deemed their best group costume yet - Pulp Fiction (which she quickly regretted the moment this douchebag opened his mouth to discuss other Tarantino films). As they typically did, everyone had dispersed after the first round of shots at the party, already quite tipsy from a successful pregame, but it seemed Jack had found his way back into the main crowd of people. Robin turned back to - what had his name been? Eric? Andrew? It didn’t matter - and smiled in a faux apology. “Sorry, this has been a riveting conversation, but I’ve got to go make the rounds. You know how it goes.” And quickly turned to walk over to where Jack was standing, giving him a look as if to say. “For the love of god help me.” She reached into her shirt for her pack of cigarettes and held them up once she reached him.

It was decided that they would finally stop dressing like geeks for Halloween, like the horrid year prior of doing Ghostbusters, now that they were in college. And Jack knew he was hot shit tonight. He had on a suit (the first time he had ever worn one) and soaked in fake blood. There was no doubt in his mind that tonight he was getting laid. However he hadn’t realised how few girls knew Pulp Fiction well enough to understand his costume choice. What didn’t help was that everyone had dispersed and he couldn’t display the whole look. “You know, Vincent? Vincent Vega? That’s a pretty good fucking milkshake?” Another girl gave him a blank stare, turning away to hide the snigger and finding an excuse to leave. “Pulp Fiction!” He called after her departing body, swigging at the remains of his disgusting vodka concoction. “Well, your outfit is sh-,” He was cut off by Robin surprising him.

“Fancy a smoke, Carter?” She asked, nodding her head toward the back door.

He followed her nod towards the door and shrugged, following her out. “Yeah, it’s fucking shit in here anyway.”

Robin laughed and nodded as they walked out to the garden. “So shit. You’ve just saved me from a thirty minute conversation about which of Tarantino’s films is the best. Do you remember that guy in our French class who always quotes that movie Amelie? Well it turns out he has a hidden love for violent 90s films, too. What a dick.”

“Yeah, what a dick for him to actually possess movie knowledge.” He rolled his eyes, his mind still unable to shake off the rejection after rejection he had suffered tonight.

Two people dressed as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum held the door open for them as they crossed paths. There was one small group from the year above stood around the door, so he walked towards the back of the garden to stand with Robin. As he lit his own cigarette, he passed one to Robin, knowing she would be wanting to bum off him. “Where the fuck are Matt and Leo? They’re ruining the night for me.”

She gratefully accepted the cigarette, letting out a scoff and shrugging at his question as she leaned over for him to light it. Her eyes searched the garden as she took a long drag, moving to sit on the short stone wall behind them as she did so. “If I had to guess, Matt’s probably found that girl Evie and is bothering the shit out of her... And Leo’s probably become quite friendly with the night’s weed supplier by now.” Robin looked over at Jack with a teasing smile, nudging him with her free arm. “What’s got you so down, Jacky? It’s not like you to let a night out be ruined. I’m not sure it’s fair to blame them for ruining the night, anway,” She started, taking another drag of her cigarette with a dismissive shrug. “This party’s really just kind of shit, isn’t it?”

As soon as Evie was mentioned, Jack focused on a spot in the sky. It was probably a star, not a spot. It was an attempt to not lose his shit at the fact that Robin was probably right - he was talking to Evie and getting further than Jack ever would. The irony was not lost on him though that he was looking at a star as he bubbled with irritation over Evie, because she was like a star in many ways. He could only enjoy her from afar for one. He finally refocused on the present and turned back to Robin when she prodded with more questions.

If she had been sober, then she may have noticed how quiet Jack became at the mention of Evie. Matt had been a right asshole about it to him since that first college party they’d been to, and even though Robin hadn’t been there when it happened, she knew how upset Jack had been over it. She was quite drunk at this point in the night though, especially after practically downing her last drink to get through horrific conversation, so his upturned gaze at the sky didn’t faze her at all.

“Well, if they were here then I wouldn’t have to explain my costume all the fucking time to stupid girls.” He bit on the end of his cigarette as he muddled over this. “This great suit is wasted on this shit. I thought for sure I’d get laid tonight… Why didn’t you just get with that guy? You’re rubbing it in my handsome, but pathetic face that you’ve now turned someone down, you know.”

Robin let out a snort at his complaints over the costume, thinking back to her wishes over the past thirty minutes to have a less obvious one, and simply shrugged. “Well, I’m here now, and we’re the two most iconic characters from the film. We could always ask to play a song and perform the dance for everyone, that’s sure to get you laid.” Her words dissolved into laughter as the ridiculousness of her suggestion washed over her. She rolled her eyes and looked back to Jack, lifting the cigarette to her lips once more.

“Nah, I’m not in the mood for it anymore now.” Jack answered seriously, not getting that Robin was merely joking.

“First off, you’re hardly pathetic. These girls are just assholes. Secondly, if a guy can’t even keep me entertained for ten minutes, why the fuck should I assume he’ll be a good lay? I’m not wasting my time with that shit.” She shook her head. “I have standards, and you should too.”

“I do have standards,” He argued, trying to think what those standards are. “They’re just low to the ground.”

She motioned to the opposite side of the garden where a group of girls stood in a huddle. “So what if these lame girls dressed as superheroes don’t understand your costume? That just means they have shit taste in films and in guys.” She shrugged again, letting out a puff of smoke and tilting her head to watch it trail into the sky. “You’re a catch, Jacky. And a much better conversationalist than that douchebag inside.”

This caught Jack off-guard. He wasn’t used to his friends ever building him up unless it was Matt building him up to let him fall. He didn’t know whether to believe it or not. He squinted in scepticism.

“What? Nah, you’re just messing -,” He broke off laughing, before looking at her intensely again. “You actually think I’m a catch? Please continue on complimenting on. It might be the only thing that saves tonight.”

Robin rolled her eyes at his request and turned her head back up to the sky as she laughed and shook her head, releasing another trail of smoke into the sky. “You’re such a dick.” She turned back to Jack then, putting out her cigarette out on the stone wall she was sitting on. She purposely took a few moments longer to smash it out, then offered a casual shrug. “Of course you are. You’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, you’re well dressed, and you always share your cigarettes with me.”

Eagerly awaiting for Robin to compliment him more or to reveal that it was all a joke, he stomped on his cigarette and hopped onto the wall to sit next to Robin that he had been previously just leaning against, looking up at her. Now he was better situated to smile down at her.

“Someone’s got to share their cigarettes with you, because you’ll never fucking buy your own.”

“I resent that! Even if it’s true.” Robin let out another small laugh, then looked at Jack and teasingly squeezed his cheeks with her hand. “You’re just so damn charming, Jacky. These girls don’t realize what they’re missing.”

He hit her hands off his face and one of his hands stayed playing with one of hers for an extended moment. It gave Jack a very, very stupid idea. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the fact they were both drunk, maybe it was fact that they were dressed in this couple costume (that he knew Leo was already pissed off about), maybe it was the fact that this was the only positive feedback he had received from a girl tonight, maybe it was because he thought hearing this from Robin was maybe better than getting it from one of the idiot girls he had spoken to that night or maybe it was just because Robin looked very pretty in this light.

Robin giggled as Jack swatted at her hands, a warmth spreading across her face as one of her hands stayed in his for a moment after. She soberly registered in the back of her mind that she should pull it away, but the drunken part of her, the majority in this moment, quite liked the feeling.

He got the stupid idea to look up from their hands and at her mouth and lean in ever so slightly, not daring to take it too far in case she rejected him, but just enough so she knew the thought was crossing his mind.

Sitting there, laughing together, hands touching - Robin could have kissed Jack. And then he was looking at her mouth, leaning just close enough where she could easily close the small distance between their lips, and for a moment she wondered if she had said that out loud? She hadn’t though, and here he was, with the same idea as her. Robin looked at Jack’s eyes for a second, then leaned in to kiss him.

Robin felt taken aback at how natural it felt for her to be leaning in to kiss Jack, but, as she quickly reminded herself, they were both drunk so it was obvious that it would feel natural - right? She didn’t have to question that for long as she soon heard both of their names being called from inside over the music. Matt and Leo. Jack heard their names being called too. They both quickly pulled away in time to see the two boys walk out to the garden, unaware for a moment that Jack and Robin were together, hidden near the back.

Robin smirked at them as they approached, glancing over at Jack casually. “Glad to see you’ve finally reappeared, boys. We were just talking about you two over a nice smoke, weren’t we Jacky?”

Jack was flustered and hid it by nodding a lot. “Mmmhmm yeah…”

“We were saying it’s a shit party.” Matt announced, as in it was time for them all to leave. Leo then leaned forward and began unapologetically puking.

“I need a piss, you guys can deal with this.” Jack exited, patting Leo on the back on his way.

He dared to turn back around at Robin as he waited for someone to get out of the way so he could get back inside. Suddenly he was sobering and wondering why Robin had tried to kiss him back. That’s what she was doing, right? He almost kissed Robin. What. The. Fuck? He wasn’t allowed to do that, right? And he would never do that again. He would be full of guilt in the morning.

[woofools]

Yo/Nightmaster for the ship meme. MWAHAHA

[blows kiss] You’re a gem, buddy.

Kills the Spider:

Whoever gets to it first, I’d imagine. I can’t see either being particularly bothered by spiders. 

Although come with me down this weird-ass path I just inadvertently walked: I was debating with myself whether either of these boys would be scared of spiders, I decided no. 

Unless, my brain interjected, the spider is playing a tiny, funky little horn. Then Yo would be terrified.

And before I could even get a word in edgewise, my mind had already mentally concocted a scene were the aforementioned spider is funking it up on their little horn, Yo is absolutely petrified, and the Night Master is just confused. He’s looking back and forth between the spider and the quaking mass of panda that nearly bowled him over trying to leap into his arms out of terror. He’s trying to articulate his questions (Why does the spider have a horn? Why is Yo so terrified of it? etc.) when Yang meanders over and unenthusiastically squashes the spider.

(Given the universe this is taking place in, the spider’s probably sentient and says something to the effect of “No, please! I have so many dreams!” before Yang boredly chee-hoo-wah’s it with a newspaper. It’ll turn up again like two scenes later with tiny crutches, don’t worry about it.)

The Night Master gives Yang a look that’s pure ??????????? but Yang just says “Long story dude,” and goes back to whatever he was doing.

The only thought the Night Master can force past the blaring confusion currently eating his every thought is ‘there’s something wrong with this family, what kind of trainwreck have I just involved myself with??’

Proposed:

I can’t see either one proposing, nor can I see them having a wedding. 

I can see them ending up married unintentionally through wacky hijinks, though.

This is a universe where an artifact of power is genuinely a toilet brush, right? So it’s really not too far out of the realm of possibility that there’s some off the walls, nonsensical ritual that actually counts as a legally binding marriage in some places, right? Like they end up accidentally elbowing each other in the nose while drinking smoothies and standing under a massive cedar tree and then Dave comes over like “that was a beautiful ceremony.” Turns out that’s actually how tree people get married?? The cedar was actually a justice of the peace??

So anyway as stated this whole ridiculousness is in fact legally binding, but since they got married by Tree Law they can only get divorced by Tree Law, which is basically a gauntlet for Incredibly Difficult and Ridiculous Things. 

Halfway through Yo looks over to the Night Master and just kinda goes, “Hey, d’ya wanna just… stay married?”

And after failing to think of a strong, definite reason why they absolutely shouldn’t, the Night Master goes, “Um… I guess, sure…?”

And then they both dip for like a month for the honeymoon. Hey might as well take the opportunities you’re granted, right?

Kissed the Other First:

If we mean “who pressed their lips together” -first, the Night Master. He was likely trying to play some mind-game, or maybe he meant it as a sort of “Take that!” deal. 

If we mean “who kissed as a display of affection and love” -first, then Yo.

Initiates Things:

The Night Master, by virtue of him being naturally more aggressive than Yo.

Would Leave the Other:

Honey these two have been trying to leave each other since the relationship started. This whole thing is so wrong in so many ways and they refuse to admit the other could ever be good for them, so whenever they separate for the day they try to drop hints that they likely won’t be coming back. Or they imply that if they do see each other again, it’ll be in some sort of death match. 

(And then the next time they meet up, they go out for ice cream or see a movie, or some other hopelessly embarrassing or reputation-crushing thing that neither one of them should ever be seen doing with an enemy.)

Is More Jealous:

The Night Master are you kidding. He’s not the least bit subtle about it either, all denials aside. If he’s jealous it is literally a 3, 2, 1 countdown from the moment he realizes someone’s encroaching on “his” space to the moment he’ll have seemingly teleported over to Yo, “casually” hooked his wings around his shoulders, and started passive-aggressively (or just aggressively, depends on the sitch) tearing down whatever’s invoking his jealousy. 

He’ll defend it as a matter of principle; defending what belongs to him, he doesn’t like other people messing with his things, really anything that sounds villainously appropriate. The truth is that he knows him and Yo are kind of a bizarre match up. He knows that in terms of how “good people” define relationships, he leaves a lot to be desired.

And the thought that Yo might find someone who’s a better match, who he might actually grow to love if he spends enough time with them… really, really scares him.

Is Lazier:

YO. The Night Master has a pretty good record of ragging him into actually getting up and doing something, though. Which Yo’s always initially very grumpy about, but hey turns out moving around helps a little with the depression (that I’m convinced he has). Endorphins, or something. So he can’t stay too mad.

Sends Weird Texts at 3am:

The Night Master again, but it’s not “shitposting” -weird texts. He’s a bat, so he’s actually perfectly awake and functional at 3am. But he knows Yo is not, so he takes the opportunity to have some fun. He’ll send him things like “so if we’re controlled by our brains, and our brains operate solely through sending chemical signals, are our feelings even real? Are we all just an assortment of chemical processes that have deluded ourselves into thinking our existences can be meaningful?” and it’ll fuck Yo up for the rest of the night and he won’t sleep.

If they see each other the next day, Yo will spend nearly the entire meeting glaring, and the Night Master will just beam.

Is More Experienced:

I’d say they’re both the same? Yo dated a lot back in the day, and the Night Master was… well, the friggin Night Master, which I can only presume was a status that would’ve both drawn evil peeps to him and helped bolster any passes he might have made. So yeah I’d say they’re about equal.

…with girls. 

I will die on the hill of Yo being a very repressed gay, so all his past experience is with women. I headcanon the Night Master as a painfully oblivious pan (for no reason other than I can), so ditto the above. NM has a little experience with guys (two or three times, about?) but for the most part those were just sloppy, drunken make-out sessions with people he didn’t soberly care enough about to talk it over with afterwards.

So essentially you have two old dorks who don’t actually know what their doing, trying to gauge what things are different in this scenario vs. what’s the same to what they’re used to. They both end up being awkward a lot, which makes them snicker like kids, because it’s awkward and what are they supposed to do? They don’t actually start getting a handle on things until about six months into the relationship, and by that point they’re too comfortable with just doing whatever awkwardness be damned, to start trying to be “romantic.” So guess what they don’t ever really end up doing?

Said I Love You First:

Yo’s really the only option for this one. The Night Master doesn’t take it well. Evil and Love don’t exactly mix, y’know? This has to be some kind of trap, right? Some foolhardy attempt to make him drop his guard? But Yo wouldn’t do that. Yo likes him, at least, and he wouldn’t do that to people he likes. Or… or would he? Was this whole thing really just a long-game to exploit him, and he fell for it? Except he didn’t- he didn’t fall for it, but spending time with Yo had been… nice… M-maybe Yo was just confused…?

He ends up barking something scathing and hurtful, and when Yo eventually manages to scrape the pieces of his heart up off the floor, he tracks him down to find out just what the fuck that was all about. By the time everything comes out the Night Master is in tears and trying not to hyperventilate, and since he’s not accustomed to being comforted in moments of “weakness” he won’t let Yo get close enough to hold him or help calm him down.

[believerindaydreams]

tomorrow, the deluge

the continuing story of a Baker who’s gone to the dogs

probably literally, now I come to think of it. 

"Tomorrow, partner, we're off to the races."

"Shouldn't we be getting some sleep, then?" Can't stand Baker calling me partner, it's more like dealing with a juvenile delinquent. He'll be charming one minute, sulky the next, always way too touchy where his pride's concerned. It's one thing to sleep in your car, because you're too nervous or broke or whatever it is to stay at a hotel. To kick out your passenger at night to fend for himself so he won't see you doing it, that's something else.

Baker says it's all for my own good, naturally. Field training. (Guess he wasn't quite wrong; I have learned considerable, how to trail someone unobtrusively.) God above, I never put Tuco through this kind of nonsense- hope I didn't. He kept me honest more ways than one.

Certainly, Tuco wouldn't linger for hours liquoring up at a dive, when he could be somewhere more comfortable. Apparently there's a safehouse in this neighbourhood, clean sheets and a hot dinner, and if Baker would just tell me the damn address I'd have been there hours ago. It's getting on for midnight by now.

"I want to tell you something," Baker says, tipping back another martini. Stirred. And he says I'm the James Bond fanatic. "About Angel Eyes."

I'll give it to him, he sure knows how to dole out information. Drips and drabs. "Oh?"

"Can't tell you in here, mind. Too quiet. Someone might overhear." He catches the bartender's eye, with a bleary wave; pays up for his cocktails and the glass of red wine I've been nursing all evening. Haven't cared to test, whether his notion of charity will stretch so far as two drinks.

Damn good thing Tuco didn't let himself be frightened into this. Since it had to be one of us, glad it was me; he'd resent this to the core, get worked up and say something indiscreet. Which wouldn't be a smart move, when dealing with a man who packs as much as Baker- anyway, I never did drink as much as Tuco does.

Out on the street, the air's still hot but less musty than that basement bar. Wish I had something better to smoke than the cigarette I've swiped from Baker's glove box- turns out, he only uses the pipe when he's with Angel. Figures. Still, tobacco's tobacco.

"He trusts me, you know," Baker says. Cheerful, obnoxiously so: if ever a man could get high off alcohol alone that's him. "More than anybody else, even you- let's face it, you love your ambiguity and Angel's too much a creature of habit to appreciate that. But he knows exactly where he stands with me."

Baiting me, to see if I'll mention Tuco. Can't fall for that trap. "How about Susan?"

"Who?"

"Susan. You know, his cook."

"...oh!" Too big smile. "That's not what we call her professionally. She goes by her surname, then."

"So what is it?"

"I am," he hiccups, "I am telling a story. Pay attention, Blondie, it's not something I do for free very often. But I think you're the only man- the only man in all of creation," Baker says, just barely missing a lamppost, "to appreciate just what it was Angel said to me that night."

If he was hoping to lose attention by leaving the bar, it's not working; this part of the city's still populated enough for us to be attracting stinkeye. "Baker, I think we'd better find somewhere quieter for this. Out of earshot."

"Right. We'll take the car."

"I'll drive."

"You will not," Baker informs me. "It's my car. You don't get to drive it, you- nameless hayseed you."

Tomorrow, the noodling around comes to a head when I meet Rose. Worth hanging on to that thought. "Is it a long way we're going? Be pretty ironic if we were busted for drunk driving tonight."

"Stop asking me things out of order," Baker says irritably, patting down his pockets for the key. Takes him all of six minutes to find it, while I smoke a cigarette down to my fingers.

Least he doesn't speak until we're inside, windows rolled up. "It was a night that Angel was just as drunk as I am now- you know, that's very unusual for him-"

"I'll say-"

"Quit interrupting. He'd been with this shameless- shameless- I don't remember if it it was a woman or not, that time. The last one he had before you turned up. This was years back, you understand...see as deft as he is, it shook even our implacable Angel Eyes some, when he got stabbed in bed."

"Literally?" Enough scars on him, for sure...

"I was never quite sure of that," Baker says, slumping against the steering wheel. "He'll only let vulnerability go so far. But for all I know, part of the blood we were cleaning up was his."

Tuco would be better at this, be admiring in a way calculated to draw out the story while rifling through the glove box. Only three cigarettes left. Maybe I shouldn't take any more.

"He'd called me over, to help. Me, Blondie. Not that he needed help from the technical side of things, he could handle that- it's just that he needed a friend. When a night goes from champagne buckets to knives, you need a good friend. I was- I was-"

"You were that friend?" I prompt. Hell, might as well take the rest of the pack. I'll be needing it tomorrow.

"Yes. So he called me over, and I helped him, and he was drunk as a lord, still- amazing he wasn't dead, but you know what marvelous dexterity Angel has." A salacious looks appears, as Baker pries himself off upright with difficulty. "You do, don't you?"

"You were telling me a story." 

"That's - that's right. Never heard him so talkative. About how it wasn't much of a life, this business, when a man couldn't have a thoughtless fuck without wondering if he'd die over it, and why the hell hadn't his father gotten out while the war had made going straight a choice- let me tell you, his father certainly came in for a share of the flak that night. Even if the man was still alive, I don't think they'd ever have reconciled. Not that he deserved it."

"Angel or his father?"

"Both of them, I suppose. Both of them...he's never forgiven himself," Baker mumbles. "I mean, he's never seen that he had any other choice, but he's never forgiven himself. Poor wingless Angel. We should take up a collection."

If a man's your partner, you can whack him upside sometimes and tell him he's blathering. Can't do that to Baker. "Uh."

"Too much of a coward...that's what made me hopeful. Hopeful that maybe I'd been wrong all this time, maybe there was some common ground between us- you know what I mean, Blondie?"

Tuco would be kind and tell him yes; or tell him yes, in the hopes of being pleasing. Myself, I can't see the resemblance. "You still want to get him back?"

"Always," Baker says promptly, the picture of confused sincerity. "You should apologise to me, breaking in a great romance like ours."

He really does mean it sometimes, and I don't know if that's more or less irritating. "Didn't know I was intruding on your turf."

"Say sorry."

"Is that the whole story?" I ask. There must be some point to it, some reason he's told me this. Angel getting drunk and calling in Baker to help mop up a body, that's a narrative all right but one I can't fathom why he's mentioning. Takes more than a plot, to tell a story; it lives and dies on the details, the audience appeal, a purpose for the story to be told at all, not just barebone facts. Any half-decent hustler could enlighten him on that. 

"It was the most important thing that's ever happened to me in my entire life," Baker hisses. Through his teeth, like a bad screen villain. "You think that’s funny."

"Tuco would think it's funny," I say. Out loud, unfortunately. Baker gives me a foul look and leans forward on his horn, hard as it can go.

A lot of yelling and abuse in our wake, as he finally gets the engine going and speeds off at too many miles an hour. Lucky thing I've got used to buckling this seatbelt as soon as I get in, or I'd be flat against his windshield now.

"See, tomorrow- tomorrow I'm gonna prove that I'm the man for Angel Eyes, and you're gonna help me."

"You seem pretty worried for a man who has it all worked out."

"Flipside's that we both die if it goes wrong," Baker returns, staring at nothing. Wish he'd look at the road instead. "But hell, I've had enough skulking for a lifetime. Angel's worth a little risk, isn't he?"

"I'd swap this whole dirty business for a bowl of soup, right now. Where the hell's the safehouse you promised?"

"...I've forgot where it is."

"No way."

"Prove it. I'm drunk," Baker says, grinning. "And you never apologised."

Go on, I can all but hear Tuco say. Let him hear what he wants to hear, so you can look after yourself right.

Can't do that. Baker needs to hear I'm not his partner. "Fuck you too. How in creation are you planning to square things with Rose tomorrow, if you'll need my help to do it?"

"You'll fall in line when you met Rose," Baker says. Almost soberly, which says worlds about how terrified he is. "Believe me, Blondie, you'll be glad of any friendship then. Even mine."

Hell. I don't want this anymore. 

Let him fight it out with Rose, with Angel Eyes. I want to be comfortably resting in some crummy motel room with one bed and bad carpets and an optimistic ice bucket, my partner hogging the blankets and keeping me warm anyway. Doing what we did, which as rotten as it is was ours, never beholden to authority. If we starved maybe we starved, but we didn't go around in fear of anybody else.

For that matter, I never would admit how much keeping Tuco happy meant looking after myself, too; and the faultline between what I've been asking for and what I'm wanting now is downright cavernous. Might take all three of those cigarettes, before this empty feeling eases up for me to sleep.

Guess I'd better get started.  

[pingou7]

A car, two cops and a stardust — a RebelCaptain road trip fic

by @pingou7 pingou  for @thestarbirdfromtheashesStarbird

(aka the Road trip fic Diego Luna’s filmography made me write)

Read and enjoy, and please consider leaving me a few words.

Summary:

As the dusty roads criss under Kes Dameron’s old car, Cassian Andor lets the wind mess with his hair through the open window. Dust, sunshine, laughter, its easy to recapture the taste of days long gone.

(…)

At a gas station near Corpus Chirsti, when they climb back after taking a piss, both jump out of their skins as a random brunette, eyes thunderous, hisses dangerously from the backseat:

“Just pretend I’m not here.”

Update: Part 7 is published, give it a chance !

Read more on AO3 (or under the cut)

Part 7 — From Delicias, Chihuahua to Fresnillo, Zacatecas — Day 5.

Cassian, barely up to consciousness, realizes that five days in, they’re nowhere close to Bernal, way behind on their usual schedule. He gets up groggily and searches for the only pair of clean pants he has left in his suitcase, realizing that keeping him respectably clean before Bernal is soon going to cause further delay. Echoing his thoughts, Kes mutters sleepily about how he really needs to find a Laundromat today — apparently his married state left him spoiled in the domestic department.

For a few hazy minutes, neither take Jyn into account until she snorts and Cassian’s world is thrown out of its axis in a blink again. By contrast, she doesn’t seem perturbed by their presence nor bothered by her own lack of fashion choice. She has even cleaned her clothes in the sink with a bit of soap. Kes mocks her for it, but the obvious resourcefulness it shows, as slight as it is, doesn’t go unnoticed by either men.

She sends them a withering glare, but it’s not as if they’d ask her to do their laundry! The sight’s familiar that’s all: Dolores had a really big stone tank like this one, outside of her house. Before that, Mama Dameron and his had liked to use it to clean laundry too, or the boys when they were young enough to do so. His hazy impression of it was deep, and cool, and he remembers splashing around gleefully.

A vision from another time comes unbidden then, his brother in his place, giggling while himself stood guard. He’d wished for Cass to join him... but at six he had felt too old. He’d refused and Marco pouted, sulking. His stomach plummets violently at the recollection and Kes has to snap his fingers in front of him to pull him back to the present.

“Cassian? You look green, you’re not gonna be sick, are you?”

Oh, he’s sick all right, he’s alive, and the sight of a soapy sink is enough to make him lose it. Previous travels to Mexico weren’t as bad, so why is he so vulnerable, all of sudden? His weak emotional state darkens his mood and he does his best to shrug his best friend's concern away.

After all, the reason for his anxiousness rests squarely on Jyn's shoulders, he assures himself. Truth be told, it’s better pondering on her current family issues than his former ones. Kay would say it’s a pathetic attempt at avoiding his own problems, but he’s not here to shake some sense into him and Kes’ pretty indulgent that way.

She doesn't ask what prompted them to stop here, even come morning and as Cassian locks the door behind them a few minutes later, neither men fill her in. It wouldn't be important to her anyway. The vacancy of the house is obvious, yet Cassian puts the key back exactly where he found it, just in case. Someone might have use of that in the year separating them from their next stop? It'd be so nice if people were to finally fill that dormant sad place with laughter and life. All has been gone for a decade, now...

"Cass, c'mon, are you driving or shall I?"

He opts for getting behind the wheel and smacks his brother's hand away from the radio. No more sappy songs, for they have more than seven hours of driving ahead — and at that Jyn groans, declaring them insane:

"It's nonsense. You could have just bought a plane ticket and we would have gotten to your destination faster."

"Right, actually that's the plan for the return home. You're pretty judgmental for someone who imposed herself on us, girl."

"You're not imposing yourself, Jyn," Cassian denies quickly. "It's just the farewell trip of this piece of junk, and Kes wanted to dispose of it where he first got it. We wanted to enjoy the last ride."

"Well, do you?" Jyn asks with a smirk in their direction.

Kes looks at Cassian with a gleam in his eyes but he feigns innocence as he declares her company to be enjoyable in his most neutral voice. For a second here he thinks Dameron will strangle himself with laughter but he keeps his trap shut. Instead, it's Jyn who speaks again.

“For the record guys, I'm relieved to have ended up with you, despite the long driving and corny music, hitchhiking sucks.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope, I didn’t expect to tag along, at first, you know? Besides I can be traced back to some extent. People talk. I can be found.”

“Right, because traveling with cops on vacation makes so much sense when you're fleeing...”

“Less work for you in case it turns bad, but meanwhile I stay relatively safe, that’s a win-win in my book.”

"Why would things turn bad, Jyn?"

“Why wouldn't they," she bites back instantly, "everything has always soured where my father's concerned. I'm just enjoying the reprieve I get."

Her resignation ignites Cassian's fury, because she can't be so fatalistic yet, without giving herself a chance. She can’t surrender without trying to turn the odds in her favor, without a fight.

"Everyone doesn't have the luxury of having such a determined mindset. Generally I prefer to be left alone, Cassian."

"If you're so convinced your situation will explode, why bother at all then? Just hide yourself away until you're an old frightened woman."

"I've got moderate chance to reach that point if I don't hide, so keep your condescension to yourself!"

"Everyone lost something, is struggling day by day. Some just decided to do something about it."

"Hey, don't have a spat in my car," Kes intervenes in his Dad voice, rubbing his temples, "besides, Stardust, you're not alone, you've got us in your corner."

Her look is still dubious and okay, maybe Cassian handled this the wrong way, but she cannot be passive and defiant all at once. One way or another, she will have to take a stand and he doesn't mind pushing her until she does. Power above made them cross paths for a reason, and he'll be damned before he lets her go away unchanged.

She has already changed him, but how he cannot define yet.

The remaining four hours of travel pass without the sound of her voice. The Charolastras don’t feel obliged to fill the silence however so Cassian tries to shut his mind off the memories progressively leaking in his head, as the scenery passes around them. Nothing to distract him, not even their silent fugitive or Kes absently humming an ABBA song of all things...

“You’re dreadful, you know that cabrón? With the amount of stupid songs you got memorized, it’s a wonder you can function at all.”

“You like ABBA rudo.”

“Yeah right, sorry to disappoint but it’s getting on my nerves. The only time i enjoy their repertoire is when I’m drunk and you know it.”

He prays Kes won’t disclose the drunken rendition he made of Super Trooper with Alexsandr Kallus and Ahsoka Tano but he keeps his vows and stays mercifully quiet. Jyn isn’t likely bound to ensure his wellbeing however and starts to belt out “Waterloo” pretty loudly and off-key just to mess with him. Kes sniggers and joins in, like the false brother he is. Sab’s house in Fresnillo suddenly seems absurdly further away but he can’t bring himself to stay mad. When Jyn sends him an impish look in the mirror as Kes switches to “Take a chance on me” he lets a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

By the time they reach Sandro Saba’s house, the air within the car is almost cracking with restlessness. Jyn has switched places twice and stares at their smartphones with a mixture of longing and apprehension. They have already told her she could call anybody she wanted but she refused.

They park and amazingly their friend is on the porch, ready to greet them as warmly as ever. His bloodshot eyes and vacant smile, not to mention the smell that comes heavily from his clothes are obvious clues but only Jyn feels the need to point it out:

"Is he...?"

"Yep, stoned."

"And you're okay with that?"

"One, we're not working for the DEA, two we're on vacation, and three his usual recreational use does no harm to anyone. In fact, you're welcome to have some, I'm sure Saba wouldn't mind sharing. You seem a bit stressed out," Kes leers, inexplicably amused by the glare she bestows upon him.

"I'd rather stay an uptight bitch, thanks Dameron," she snaps, making Cassian snort into his beer and his brother guffaw for the whole neighborhood to hear.

"Jyn," Cassian adds more soberly, "you can relax a bit without the magic herbs, make your call and if you worry about Sab, you don’t need to fear him flapping his jaw to anyone. He has the attention span of a goldfish. I swear Poe’s more of a risk. He won’t remember you tomorrow."

“If you say so.”

“I’m sure of it. We had a pretty wild teens.”

“For cops, maybe," Jyn retorts wryly, smirking, “but I can say without a doubt that it was tame next to mine.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it,” Kes replies with the ghost of the little punks they were audible in his voice.

Cassian wouldn’t bet either, as the bygone tastes of weed and cheap tequila invade his memory. The aftermath of Soccer matches and bar brawls tingles under his skin, too. If he squints, he could call back visions of tables with too many boisterous guests for the food prepared that day. It was a hard yet a simpler life than the solitary one he leads now.

“Do you want to go out? It’s Friday, so... I wouldn’t mind unwinding after spending hours and hours in the car.”

“I know a guy...” Sandro starts slowly, because some people never change, and somehow after mandatory calls, the three tourists end up at a party nearby.

“Want to dance,” Cassian asks Jyn a good while later, because the beat of the song currently playing calls to him.

“I’d rather not, I don’t really know how to dance Cassian. Not sober that is.”

Kes snorts at her honesty, rising his own glass in a mock salute, yet he assures: “Don’t worry, rudo here dances well enough for the two of you.”

“Indulge me,” Cassian drawls, as low and deep as he can.

He revels inwardly in Jyn’s catch of breath. Kes clearly seems to enjoy the sight as well, for he discreetly gives him a thumb up behind her. He feels like the man for a second, and the corners of Cassian’s mouth quirk into a wicked grin. He wants to give her a nudge already, but she remains self-conscious, scanning the crowd of strangers. Maybe he should retract his offer, considering how uncomfortable she is, but he really wants to dance with her.

After a few seconds of pondering, she lets him lead her to the dance floor awkwardly, but his grip is reassuring enough for her to sway to the music. She’s tense at first but he’d seen her move swiftly before and he knows she can be graceful. He gets closer still, his hand finding a proper grip on her hip — perhaps a bit lower than strictly necessary — but as he sends her a reassuring smile she relaxes in his grasp. This is no different than the intimacy they have come to share during the nights, and whether it’s the liquid courage, the music or his proximity, Jyn lets herself be led completely.

She doesn’t know the steps, but she mirrors him at the best of her ability. She’s light on her feet too, so pretty soon both enjoy themselves and she ends up giggling as he makes her spin and fall back into his arms. When the third song ends, she pleads for a break, all pink cheeks and short of breath.

“Come on Captain, you owe me a drink.”

However, when they reach the table, Kes is nowhere to be seen and he even had the decency to pay the tab. Scribbled on the receipt is a rowdy advice in Spanish and the long forgotten emblem of the Charolastras they had invented as kids.

Sometimes, cursí could really be the nicest bloke.

[theartofbeinganerd]

So...I was hoping to have another prompt finished by today, but I only have a lot of half-started ones. However! I was going back through some older fics the other day, and happened across this one, which was written roughly two years ago (and is also the first time I ever wrote about Evelyn!), so I figured I’d share this instead.

(Ao3)

-

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Fitz,” Jemma hissed under her breath, sending an apologetic look toward Coulson, who had paused in his briefing to turn toward them with an arched eyebrow.

Fitz shot an incredulous look at her, then glanced back toward Coulson with sharply narrowed eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. “Jemma’s been out of the field for months, sir. You can’t possibly want to send her out now, of all times!” To complete his statement, he gestured harshly toward Jemma’s bulging stomach, just nine days out from her due date now.

“Fitz,” Jemma repeated, though her tone was now soothing as she laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Shh, it’s alright.”

“Simmons will be perfectly safe on the Zephyr,” Coulson reminded him, his voice calm in the face of Fitz’s anger, though his eyebrow was still raised at the outburst. “No harm will come to her, or your daughter, I promise. But, we need Simmons out in the field; I’m afraid that it’s necessary at this time.”

Fitz opened his mouth, seemingly about to argue their orders yet again, but then May stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t let her out of my sight,” she promised him solemnly.

Frowning, Fitz glanced between May’s unwavering expression and Jemma’s comforting smile. After a moment, he let out a long sigh and gave a sharp nod. “Alright. Alright, fine. But you will stay on the Zephyr, Jem, okay?”

Jemma rolled her eyes at that, heaving a sigh at her husband’s chronic over-protectiveness. “Yes, alright.” With that settled, she turned back to Coulson, who looked vaguely amused but was clearly more than ready to finish the briefing. “Sorry sir, continue.”

“Thank you.” Coulson cleared his throat, then turned back to the large screen in his office, on which there was an infrared map of the warehouse suspected to contain the tech and weapons of all kinds that had been stolen from various labs and agencies around the globe and then stashed by AIM. There wasn’t much they could tell by the map, other than that there was something inside it giving off a lot of heat. “We’re unclear as to the security surrounding the warehouse and what to expect once we’re inside. That’s what we need Fitz for, taking point with Daisy on the entry, leading the rest of the team inside, while Simmons runs back-end from the Zephyr.” He paused then, glancing around at the gathered team soberly. “This is our chance to deal a crushing blow to AIM, so let’s not waste it.”

After the briefing finished, it was little time before they were on the Zephyr and departing for the site of the warehouse. Fitz was quiet for most of the trip, obviously brooding, and it was a few minutes before touchdown that Jemma finally pulled him aside, lowering her voice to assure him, “I’ll be fine, Fitz. I’m quite capable of protecting myself, and I’ll have May with me. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Fitz still didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either, and Jemma accepted that as the closest thing she’d get to an agreement. “Just…be careful, okay?”

“I could say the same thing,” Jemma shot back, finding both of his hands with hers and linking their fingers together. “You will be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to have to defy science and find a way to resurrect you only to kill you myself for leaving me to raise your grumpy Scottish spawn alone.”

“Ah, quite a bother that would be, hmm?” Fitz gave a low chuckle, leaning in to press a loving kiss to her forehead. “I wouldn’t dream of causing you such an inconvenience.”

“Good.” Jemma tilted her chin up to catch his lips with her own, murmuring into their kiss, “I love you.”

Fitz gave her hands a squeeze, dropping a few more pecks on her lips before he replied, “I love you, Jemma.” Gently releasing her hands, he then placed his own on her stomach, dropping to his knees before her so that he could plant an affectionate kiss to where she housed their daughter. “And I love you, sweetheart.”

“Awww.”

They both glanced up at Daisy’s coo, finding her standing nearby with her hands clasped beneath her chin.

“You guys are too adorable for words,” she added with a beaming grin. She reached out, grasping Fitz’s arm and tugging him up to his feet. “Come on Daddy, we’ve got to get going.”

“Don’t ever call me that,” Fitz replied with a grimace, shaking off Daisy’s grip on his arm. He turned back to Jemma, giving her a warm smile as he told her, “I’ll see you soon, Jem.” And with that, he, Daisy, and Mack headed off of the cloaked Zephyr and to the nearby warehouse.

As Jemma watched him leave, she felt her stomach seem to twist itself up in knots, and she fought down the sudden and desperate desire to get him to stay. She shook it off, trying to get her heart rate back to a normal rhythm as she took her seat at the center console, running a cursory glance over it to make sure everything was turned on and working. She felt a presence behind her, just over her shoulder, and glanced back to find May standing behind her with her arms crossed, her gaze trained on the screen. Flicking on the comms, Jemma asked the team, “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Simmons!” Daisy chirped in confirmation.

“We can hear you, Jemma,” Fitz added, and even though it had been mere moments since they’d parted, the sound of his voice sent a wash of calm over her.

“So,” Daisy started, her tone entirely too casual, “Have you decided to name your daughter after me yet? Because I mean it’s a pretty obvious choice, if you ask me.”

“We’re not naming her after you,” Fitz replied in exasperation, “You’re already her godmother, Daisy.”

“We’re going to name her after Fitz’s grandmother,” Jemma put in helpfully as she kept an eye on their heat signatures, getting closer and closer to the warehouse. They’d only come to the decision recently, but it had made the most sense; other than his mum, Fitz’s beloved grandmother had been his only family, and they’d always been quite close. Unfortunately, she’d died not long before Fitz had left for the Academy, so Jemma had never gotten the chance to meet her, but every time he told a story about her, it was easy to see how dearly he’d loved her.

“What’s –” Daisy started, but was cut off abruptly by May.

“Cut the chatter,” she said sharply, and Jemma winced a bit guiltily, shooting a worried glance over her shoulder, but May wasn’t looking at her. “You’re approaching the target.”

It was quiet for a moment, then Fitz said lowly, “We’re going in,” and Jemma’s heart leapt into her throat.

Things were calm and simple at first, with Fitz easily bypassing security, with some help from Daisy, and Mack’s familiar rumble could be heard over the comms, sharing his suspicions about it being “too damn quiet”. The team had just reached the main room of the warehouse when Fitz prompted lowly, “Jemma?”

“Yes?” Jemma replied quickly, leaning closer to the screen, as though that would somehow bring them closer.

“Are we seeing what I think we’re seeing?” Just then, the feed from Fitz’s phone went live on the screen, and Jemma squinted through the dark to see –

“You need to get out of there,” she said hurriedly, her eyes growing wider the longer she stared in horror at the very dangerous chemical bomb that had gone missing from a research and development lab the previous week – and the blinking light that told her it was armed.

“Shit,” Fitz mumbled under his breath. “Are they tryin’ to blow this place to kingdom come?”

“We have to shut it down!” Daisy hissed into the comm, and in Fitz’s video feed, Jemma could see her getting closer.

“No!” Jemma cried, struggling up out of her seat, but there wasn’t anything she could do from the Zephyr.

“It’s still gonna go off, Jemma, and people could get hurt,” Fitz reminded her reasonably, but Jemma didn’t want to be reasonable while her husband was in very real danger. “I need your help to talk me through shutting it down.”

“No!” she repeated, shaking her head. She didn’t want him any closer to it; she just wanted him back on the Zephyr and in her arms, where she knew that he was safe and whole and not in any danger of getting blown to pieces.

“Simmons,” May murmured from behind her, placing a placating hand on her shoulder. “The sooner Fitz shuts it down, the sooner they can get the hell out.”

Jemma darted a desperate glance at May, but her expression was firm and unwavering, and it helped to soothe Jemma’s emotions, thrown completely out-of-whack by her pregnancy hormones. “Right. Right.” Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the image of the bomb on the screen. “Okay Fitz, here’s what you do first.”

She was nearly finished helping him to disarm it when Mack could be heard shouting, “Take cover!” followed by the sound of guns going off and bullets pinging off of metal.

Much to her disconcertion, Fitz didn’t listen, and continued to work on the bomb, although his hands did begin to move more quickly. “Fitz!” Daisy cried at him, “Get the hell down!”

“Almost done,” Fitz mumbled, and had Jemma been able to find her breath, let alone her voice, in that moment, she’d have shouted at her incredibly foolish husband herself. When the armed light went off, they both breathed simultaneous sighs of relief, and Jemma calmed down a bit.

Then, it all went to hell.

Fitz could be heard crying out in pain over the comms, just before they cut out at the same moment that his video feed did, and they were blind.

Frantically, Jemma tapped at the controls, desperately trying to get it back up and working. “Fitz? Fitz?!” But, there was nothing except static, and it was getting hard to breathe. They’d walked right into a trap. They’d walked right into a trap, and Fitz was hurt god knew how badly, and she had no clue what was going on or how to help. Unless…

Quickly, she whirled to face May, who was gazing at the blank screen in an expression that was as close to fear as she got, though her brows were lowered in fierce anger.

“May,” she begged, grasping the older woman’s arm and bringing her eyes to her pleading face, “Please, you need to go help them, you need to help him.”

For a moment, May looked tempted, glancing toward the exit of the Zephyr, but then she shook her head. “No. No, I’m not leaving you unprotected, Simmons.”

“They’re the ones that need protection!” Jemma reminded her, and at any other time she would’ve winced at how shrill her voice came out, but it was the least of her worries at the moment.

“No,” May repeated, her tone final and quite terrifying. “Simmons –”

She was cut off by the crack of gun being fired, and Jemma gasped when the screen behind her shattered. She whipped around to find a few AIM agents that must’ve snuck onto the Zephyr firing at them from around the corner, and she quickly raised her arms to wrap around her stomach, a meager attempt to protect her baby.

May pulled a gun from the back of her waistband, and despite the situation, Jemma felt a flash of surprise to find that she was already carrying a gun, given her constant mantra of, “if I need a gun, I’ll take one”. “Get down, Simmons!” she snapped, raising the gun with one hand and shoving Jemma down and behind her with the other. She returned the gunfire, and Jemma heard a shout of pain or two from the men before she was being yanked back to her feet and led by May further into the Zephyr, where they’d have more cover.

They ended up in the medical supply room, where May (quite politely, all things considered) shoved Jemma behind a desk and following behind to give herself cover. Jemma curled up around her stomach, wincing at the tumultuous feeling in it making her quite nauseated. “It’s alright, love,” she whispered to her baby, rubbing a hand over her rounded belly soothingly. “Calm down, it’s alright.”

May shot her a concerned look, and seemed about to ask something, but then a glass container on the counter in front of them shattered, and she forgot all about it, leaning around the desk to return the fire. Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the pain now flaring out from her stomach to her back, as she listened to the battle raging around her.

Some indefinable amount of time later, May rose from her spot beside her, and Jemma’s eyes sprung open. She watched as May carefully scanned the room, peering out into the hall before stepping out of the room. A moment later, she returned, tucking her gun back into her waistband. “All clear,” she declared as she squatted back down beside Jemma. “Are you alright, Simmons?”

The pain had receded from her lower body, only to return a few moments later, and Jemma could feel sweat breaking along her hairline as she leaned back heavily against the desk. “No,” she moaned, cupping her stomach and shaking her head. “Fitz is… I need Fitz. I need my husband.”

“Jemma, come on, stay with me,” May commanded, gripping Jemma’s shoulder tightly enough to force her gaze back to her. “Are you in labor?”

A sob built in her throat, and Jemma pressed her lips tight together as she nodded her head rapidly. When the contraction she’d been experiencing ended, she let out a gust of air, sagging a bit in relief. But, it was short-lived, as a moment later she told May, verging on hyperventilating, “I need Fitz, I can’t…I won’t do this without him and he…he could be hurt or…or worse and I…I can’t, May, I can’t –”

“Shhh,” May interrupted, lifting her hand from Jemma’s shoulder to brush her hair back from her sweaty forehead. “Fitz is fine, Jemma. He’ll be here. You’ve got time.” With a frown, she lifted her head, glancing around, then reached down to help Jemma up. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

With May’s support, Jemma made it to the containment pod, which held the only vaguely comfortable bed on the plane. Even as she talked Jemma through the (thank god, still quite far apart) contractions slowly increasing in pain, she kept an eye through the window of the pod, ever vigilant for anyone else intending to kill them.

It’d been roughly an hour, just as Jemma was descending into an all-out panic, when May stiffened and hurried out of the pod, calling out over her shoulder for Jemma to, “Stay calm, Simmons”, which did anything but make her feel calm.

If she hadn’t currently been feeling as though her entire lower body was being torn in half, Jemma would’ve sat up to glance through the window to find whatever it was that had May on alert. As it was, though, all she could do was grip the mattress and clench her teeth tight together as she breathed through the pain.

Mid-contraction, she heard footsteps moving toward the open door of the pod, and she forced her eyes open to make sure that it was May and not another armed AIM agent – not that she could do much to protect herself at the moment.

However, it was neither.

Jemma sucked in a surprised breath when she saw Fitz, being half-carried by Mack, who gestured to her and said pointedly, “See Fitz, she’s alright.”

“Jemma,” Fitz sighed in relief, looking more than a little exhausted as he leaned heavily on Mack. His face was dirt-streaked and covered in blood and sweat, and he was pressing his free hand to a spot low on his abdomen that seemed to be leaking blood out through his fingers.

“What –” Jemma’s demand to know what the hell had happened was cut off by an intense flare of pain in her back, and she let out a pained moan as she curled in on herself in a vain attempt to protect herself from the sharp ache in her womb.

“Whoa Turbo –” As Mack’s surprised exclamation was reaching her ears, she felt someone sit down heavily beside her on the bed, followed by clumsy fingers brushing back the strands of hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks.

Cracking open her eyes, she found Fitz gazing down at her in worry through his own pain bowing his mouth. “Fitz,” she groaned, trying for a fierce glare, but it never quite finished forming. At least, it didn’t until the contraction had finally ended and she could focus her full attention on it. “You absolute, self-sacrificing fool, you need medical!”

“No, I need to be with you,” Fitz argued, shaking his head fiercely, though he grimaced and pressed his hand a bit tighter to his wound. “You need me –”

“What I need is for you to not be bleeding out when I give birth to our daughter, Fitz,” Jemma shot back, though she softened it by reaching up to caress his cheek. “The sooner you get yourself fixed up, the sooner you can glue yourself to my side, alright?” When Fitz grudgingly nodded in response, she went on, “Was it a graze, a clean in and out, or is it still inside you?”

Fitz made a face, glaring down at his side, but it was Mack that spoke up from the doorway, “No exit wound, and the angle was off for a graze.”

Jemma’s brow furrowed in worry, and she mentally ran over their options before nodding sharply. “Alright, we’re going to need a med-kit, some towels, and a bowl of clean water.” Turning to Mack, who had been about to dart off to retrieve said items, she asked, “Mack, how squeamish are you?”

He paused, half-turning back to glance at Jemma in confusion. But, when he seemed to understand, he groaned, “Oh hell no.”

“Sorry,” she replied, though her tone was a bit sharper than she’d been intending as she shifted to try and sit up, only to cause a brief but sharp ache in her lower body. Through the pain and swatting away Fitz’s attempts to aid her, she hissed out, “I’d do it myself if my body wasn’t preparing to eject a small human being from it.”

Mack grimaced at her description, but nodded in acknowledgement, then rushed off to get the requested supplies. He’d been gone only a moment when May returned, looking quite unhappy. “Where’s Mack? They did something to cut the power in the Zephyr, and I can’t get flight systems online.”

Fitz almost seemed to make a move to stand, but Jemma reached out and clasped the front of his shirt, yanking him back down. He looked upset, but seemed to recognize that he was no help in his current condition, and explained to May a bit guiltily, “Jemma’s enlisted him to help stitch me up.”

May’s sharp eyes darted down to his wound, covered by his hand, now dripping blood onto the once sterling white sheets of the bed. Concern flickered in her eyes for a moment, then she was bringing her gaze back up to meet Fitz’s as she replied, “I’ll send Daisy – I need Mack to get this plane in the air.” With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared.

A few minutes later, not long after Jemma’s most recent contraction had ended, Daisy arrived, carrying the items Jemma had asked of Mack. “May said I’m playing doctor’s assistant,” she explained, setting the armload down on the ground by the bed. Making a face, she asked hesitantly, “I’m not…delivering your baby, right?”

“We’ve got at least a few more hours before we have to worry about that,” Jemma assured her. “For now, you’re going to remove the bullet in Fitz’s abdomen and stitch him up.”

“I’m…what?” Daisy gaped up at them in disbelief, her wide eyes shooting from Fitz’s bloody wound to the med-kit beside her. “Jemma, you’re joking, right?”

“I can hardly do it myself, Daisy!” Jemma reminded her a bit impatiently. “I’m going to talk you through it, but we need to work fast.”

Daisy still looked terrified and unsure, but she quickly nodded, spreading out a few towels and helping Fitz down onto them, then Jemma down to kneel beside them. She looked near tears as she pulled off his jacket and shirt and he groaned and writhed with pain, constant apologies flying from her lips. Clearly trying to make light of the situation, even as she sniffled, she teased, “No wonder you got pregnant, Jem.”

“I’m bloody bleeding to death, and you’re sexually harassing me?” Fitz groused, but the heat behind his words was lost to the pain seizing his voice.

Jemma offered Daisy a small, encouraging smile and she reached out to clasp Fitz’s hand supportively, then she took a deep breath and began instructing her. Throughout the next half hour, Jemma became likely one of the only women – if not the only woman – ever to aid in performing a surgery while experiencing contractions, and she knew that once this was all over, she’d be quite proud of herself. It was certainly one for the history books, and was sure to be quite entertaining to their daughter someday – when she was old enough to hear such a story.

Once Fitz was all stitched up and mostly cleaned of the blood, covered by a fresh shirt, Daisy helped him into a chair beside Jemma’s bed, but Jemma had refused to return to bed just yet, wanting to stretch her legs a bit. She had tried to insist that he take pain medication, but he’d resisted, firmly stating that he wanted to be clear-headed and one-hundred percent present when she delivered their baby girl.

Time simultaneously seemed to speed by and slow to crawl after that, as Daisy was called to help Mack in his efforts to fix the Zephyr’s flight systems, and Jemma’s contractions drew steadily closer and closer. By her estimation, she had to be at least five to six centimeters dilated by now – it was all happening much quicker than she’d planned for in the months leading up to her due date. However, in all her planning, she hadn’t accounted for the stress of the mission and being shot at.

Luckily, she managed a bit of sleep between contractions, and felt just a bit more rested and relaxed when she woke up. However, then May was arriving at the door to the pod, her expression grim. “We’re grounded for right now, Simmons. Whatever they did, it was thorough. Coulson’s sending an extraction team, but –”

“It’ll be sometime before they arrive,” Jemma surmised with a sigh, even as she nodded in understanding. “So this is happening here.”

“I won’t let anything happen to either of you,” May promised, stepping further into the room to stand beside the bed next to Fitz’s chair. “Everything’s going to be alright, Jemma.”

Even though Jemma was quite sure that May had never delivered a baby before, she believed her, nodding gratefully and giving her a warm smile in response. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” May insisted, shaking her head, and before Jemma could correct her, she’d disappeared once more.

Sometime later, when things were really getting intense in Jemma’s uterus and Fitz had probably lost all feeling in his right hand (though she couldn’t quite tell, given that his encouraging words hadn’t ceased in the slightest), May reappeared in the pod, arms laden with gloves, scissors, and fresh towels. The clothing covering her bottom half had long since been removed, and without hesitation, May moved the blanket lying over Jemma’s legs to check her progress. “Looks as though we’re about ready,” she informed Jemma, even though she’d already guessed that she was almost there.

“Okay,” Jemma breathed, closing her eyes and dropping her head back against the pillow.

Fitz leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, murmuring against her skin, “You’re doing fantastic, Jemma. You’ve got nothing to worry about; you’re going to excel at this like you do everything else. You’re amazing, love.” With a tired smile, Jemma turned her head to nuzzle her nose against his, pressing a grateful kiss to his lips.

Once the pushing began, Jemma lost any and all track of time as her world narrowed down to getting her baby safely out and pain. She tried incredibly hard to focus on the former, while Fitz ended up getting the brunt of the latter as she squeezed his hand and crushed his fingers, but he took it all in stride. The next time that Jemma became aware of anything other than push push push, it was due to the sight of their baby, their daughter, for the first time as she entered the world, helped along by May.

Time sped up from there, and before she knew it, Jemma was holding her wailing baby girl to her chest. She was wrapped in a towel and had already had a cursory onceover by May, the umbilical cord having been snipped by a teary-eyed Fitz. With shaking hands, Jemma cradled her daughter closer, ignoring the tears rolling down her cheeks as she cooed, “Oh my darling, oh my precious baby girl, look at you. So beautiful. My darling Evelyn.” As soon as the name passed her lips, she knew that they’d chosen correctly – it fit their little girl perfectly.

“God, she’s perfect,” Fitz whispered, reaching out with a similarly trembling hand to cradle her much tinier one between his fingers. “She’s incredible.” Even though she heard him grunt in pain as he leaned over, he dropped a loving kiss to the top of Evelyn’s head.

She appeared to be calmed, and rather confused as well, by their voices, as her crying had ceased and she wiggled around a bit before blinking open her eyes. They were blue, like all other newborns, but Jemma could tell instantly that hers weren’t going to change. With a watery gasp, she glanced up from Evelyn’s blue eyes into their matching pair in her father’s face. “She has your eyes,” she murmured, feeling a fresh wave of tears spill over onto her cheeks.

“And your everything else,” Fitz pointed out teasingly, though he seemed a bit choked up as well at the sight of their daughter with his eyes. With a grin, he leaned in to meet Jemma’s lips with his, murmuring against them, “I love you, Jemma.”

“I love you,” she replied instantly, pressing another couple of kisses against his lips before pulling back to beam at him.

At some point, May had disappeared, likely to give their little family a bit of time alone together, but Jemma was just about to ask Fitz for her so that she could thank her when she felt Evelyn fussing against her.

Peering down at Evelyn in surprise, Jemma gave a disbelieving laugh at finding that she was already rooting. “Hasn’t even been in the world for a full ten minutes and she’s already hungry; she’s definitely your daughter, Fitz.”

Fitz grinned proudly, puffing out his chest as he replied, “Got all my best qualities, she did. That’s my girl.”

Jemma rolled her eyes at him, though the effect was ruined somewhat by her smile as shrugged out of her shirt and bra with a little help from Fitz. After a couple tries, Evelyn managed to latch on, and Jemma smiled triumphantly. “See, we’ve got this, haven’t we sweetheart?” Absently, she stroked Evelyn’s back as their daughter enthusiastically fed. Suddenly, something occurred to her, and she glanced up at Fitz with wide eyes. “Did someone check the time? Oh, we’ve got to know what to put on the birth certificate, and she’ll no doubt want to know someday and –”

“It was 12:19, Jem,” Fitz hastened to answer her before she could get anymore worked up. “I made sure to check, ‘cause I knew you’d freak out if I didn’t.”

“Well of course I would,” Jemma huffed in response. “It’s important.” Given the time they’d left the base, it was obviously just past midnight, rather than noon, which meant that it was the next day, and that meant… “Oh my god.” She blinked a couple times as she realized what the date was, and the fact that just yesterday morning, she’d been discussing birthday plans for Fitz for the following day with Daisy, and that could only imply one thing. “That means…”

Fitz chuckled, clearly having already come to the same conclusion. He nodded at Evelyn, still suckling away, and answered the unspoken question. “Yes Jemma, Evie and I share more than an apparent love of your breasts.”

Jemma took another moment to soak in the information, then she smiled softly at him and murmured, “Happy Birthday, Fitz.”

He returned the smile, reaching out to rest a hand over Jemma’s on Evelyn’s back as he replied quietly, “I think it’s my best one yet.”

-

It wasn’t much longer before extraction arrived with the necessary equipment to fix the Zephyr, and much to Fitz’s annoyance, he was drafted to help due to being the one to actually design the plane. During that time, Daisy came to visit Jemma and Evelyn, excited to meet her goddaughter, and she was closely followed by Coulson, who had arrived with the extraction team and tried to hide the way that he got choked up as he held Evelyn for the first time. They both eventually left to give Jemma some time alone with her daughter, though it wasn’t long before May was sticking her head in the door to let her know they’d be taking off soon.

Before May could disappear again, though, Jemma stopped her, calling out, “Wait, May!” She paused, turning back to face Jemma with an arched eyebrow. “I…I wanted to thank you for…well, for protecting us, and of course, for making sure that she arrived safely.”

“It was nothing,” May repeated, brushing off Jemma’s gratitude easily. She seemed about to leave once more, but stayed when Jemma called out to her again.

A bit hesitantly, Jemma offered, “You… Would you like to hold her?” She held the now sleeping Evelyn out slightly toward May, and saw her glance in the direction of the cockpit before she nodded, stepping further into the room and taking the offered bundle.

Effortlessly, her arms settled into the correct position to cradle Evelyn, and she gazed silently down at her for a very long moment. In the quiet, Jemma settled back into the mattress, a wave of exhaustion crashing over her now that she no longer had her newborn to distract her from it. She was about to give in to the temptation to close her aching eyes for a little bit when she heard May admit so lowly that she almost didn’t hear, “She’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a granddaughter.”

Jemma’s eyes flew open in disbelief, and even taken aback as she was by the closed-off May admitting something so personal, she still cried in indignation on May’s behalf, “You’re not old enough to be a grandmother!”

The tiniest of smiles flickered across May’s face, and it appeared to be the only response Jemma was going to receive, as a moment later, she handed Evelyn back to her and left the pod once more without a word.

With a small smile of her own, Jemma informed the oblivious Evelyn, “That’s May, my darling. You’re so very fortunate to know her, because as I’m sure you’ll learn, she’s one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. Plus, I think she has a bit of a soft spot for you, which you’ll also learn is quite rare. But, your daddy and I are lucky as well, because we’ll never have to worry about your safety as long as May’s around to keep you safe. There’s no one we’d trust more.” As an end to her statement, she dropped a little kiss onto Evelyn’s tiny forehead, her warm smile still in place.

And, little did she know, there was a similar smile forming on May’s lips just outside the containment pod as she swiftly wiped away the single tear that had escaped down her cheek. She lingered a moment longer, then allowed her smile to drop into her normal non-expression as she went to check on the progress of the repairs. However, even if no one could tell from the outside, on the inside she was still feeling warm and light and so very fortunate for the family she’d never dared to hope for after Bahrain – but that didn’t matter, because they’d found her anyway, and forced their way right into her heart no matter how high her walls and how much distance she’d tried to put between herself and them.

Now, however, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[talesfromthefade]

for dwc, from the shakespeare prompts: “The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.”

Anders x Karl Thekla, for @dadrunkwriting

They are both still trapped. Shut up in the tower, surrounded by Templars, a lake, by everyone else who fears them simply for being what they are, and yet… life is somehow more bearable now. It doesn’t feel quite so suffocating as it once did. Not when he’s with Karl, at least. When they manage to slip away, to find a quiet spot, a moment to be alone together, Anders can almost forget about everything else. And not just because of the kisses, although, those have gotten damned good, and they were pretty incredible to start with.

Karl is… he has become important to him. Precious. More so than Anders is entirely ready to admit because saying the words means making it real. It’s another cage. SOmething the Templars might be only to happy to take away from him, regardless of his good behavior and lack of any recent escape attempts.Templars are like that, probably even that green one who stares just a little too long at apprentice Amell.

He’s more careful now than ever before. Watching what he says, how he says it, whom he mouths off to just a little bit more. But Anders can’t bring himself to be resentful about it. He’s always pushed his own luck, known his limits, but he’ll do anything, everything he can to keep Karl as safe and happy, as treasured as he does for him.

The need to be free isn’t quite so pressing as it once was, but now and again Anders still finds his eyes or thoughts drawn to muse wistfully about the world beyond the old stone walls they’ve come to know. Karl doesn’t try to dissuade him when he talks about running away anymore. Instead, they talk about running away together. Of finding a place of their own somewhere. Of having more time, stealing all their time together, instead of fleeting moments, hearts hammering in their chests at the sound of any approaching footsteps. There is a bit of a rush, the thought of being caught together in some manner of compromising position, but not when one considers what the actual consequences might be. And it’s that thought, fleeing to a place where they can be together and without always looking over their shoulders that makes the idea of running away again so attractive. Anders has never claimed to be selfless.

Karl would be the first to admit he isn’t much a tactician, but he tries to help where he can with some of the hypotheticals Anders tosses out to him. The real trouble is their phylacteries. Karl is relatively certain his own is stored with most of the other apprentices below in the guarded bowels of the tower. Given his blemish-free reputation and respected position among their fellow mages despite the fact he’s still just an apprentice, that seems likely. Anders, after so many escape attempts from the tower, is less sure about the whereabouts of his own. He’s rather surprised, in fact, the Templars haven’t asked- or demanded- more blood of him at any point since. He’s heard some whispers about sending his vial somewhere else, out of his reach ‘in case he should get any ideas.’ Which frankly Anders finds a bit insulting, even if he absolutely has had those sorts of ideas in the many revisions he’s made to various escape plans. He’s got to be careful this time. More careful than he’s ever been. He can’t get them caught. He won’t let Karl suffer any sort of punishment for him. He won’t lose him.

They’re too careful to wake up together, however much Anders might crave it. No, Karl always holds him when they can be sure everyone else has gone to sleep, but he’s gone well before it’s light enough for anyone to spot the two of them. Anders is used to waking up alone in his little bed, even if he hates it. There’s a distinctly different feel in the air this morning, however, that he’s not sure he likes. Sitting up and getting dressed he slowly begins to register the whispers among the other apprentices, then with dread the open and emptied trunk across the row.

“Ah, Anders,” Irving greets as he rushes unannounced into the office. “I expected I might be seeing you today.”

“Where is he,” Anders asks, a quick visual sweep of the room determining the First Enchanter had not been in conference with anyone else before his interruption, and choosing to forgo any preamble or pleasantries. “Karl,” he adds, though, he’s quite sure the Enchanter doesn’t need him to clarify who he’s asking for. “Where is he?” Irving’s mouth slopes into a slight frown, eyes softening with something that looks discomfitingly like sympathy, perhaps even pity.

“My boy, would you like to take a seat,” he offers, gesturing towards one of the chairs opposite his desk. Anders shakes his head.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps you should,” Irving urges, but Anders doesn’t move from where he stands behind one of the high-back chairs. The Enchanter sighs, shaking his head. “Anders, I understand how hard this might be for you, but-” Anders shakes his head, eyes instinctively flooding with tears, his ears already echoing denials. No. No that’s not possible. Karl was a brilliant mage. There’s no way he wouldn’t have passed whatever test the Harrowing presents. “Please try not to do anything rash,” Irving continues.

“Where is Karl,” Anders repeats stubbornly.

“Kirkwall,” Irving exhales reluctantly, shaking his head.

“Kirkwall,” Anders repeats, staggering a little. Not dead, then. But certainly gone, and perhaps as good as. Leagues, an entire ocean is between them now. And for some reason known only to Irving himself and the Maker, the Enchanter has infinite patience or some kind of soft-spot for him. No other Circle would want him, however skilled he is in healing arts. They certainly wouldn’t be as lenient as Irving has been. “Why,” Anders whispers softly, voice shaking a little.

“They had need of more experienced and talented mages to help train apprentices. We have plenty enough Enchanters here to-”

“So why didn’t you send any of them,” Anders demands. Irving remains as calm and patient as always, even in the wake of his confusion and anger, just as he always does, which only serves to frustrate him more. What would it take to get a rise out of him? To see him passionate about something, even once? What does the First Enchanter care about, enough to fight for, to shout about? But the curiosity is a fleeting one. Anders has far more pressing concerns, raising an expectant eyebrow to disappear under the hair that’s fallen loose from his ponytail while he waits for the other’s response.

“I suspect you know why,” Irving replies soberly. “Karl is a talented mage, his talents will be put to good use there. And Gregior insisted upon it. He may lack proof of any indiscretion on your parts, but most of the tower is aware that you are Karl are especially close.”

“So give me my Harrowing,” Anders cuts in. “I’m ready. I am, whatever it is. If Karl could do it, then so can I. Let me prove myself. Send me to Kirkwall, I could be of use there too. Every circle should have a good healer, and you already have Wynne. And Gregior wouldn’t have to spare me another moment’s thought, I’d be some other Templar’s problem. Not that I’d be a problem. I-” Anders splutters, desperate now. “Please,” he begs, collapsing into the chair that was previously offered to him. “Enchanter Irving, please.”

“I will consider your request for your Harrowing,” Irving offers slowly with a nod. “You may indeed be ready. But,” he adds cautiously before Anders becomes to consumed with what is likely vain hopes. “I must impress upon you the likelihood of your being transferred to Kirkwall is quite doubtful.” Anders nods, biting the inside of his cheek to try and hold back the tears. He’s not sure why. Irving clearly knows more than he’s previously let on. Gregior suspects. And, in any case, if most of the tower is already whispering and Karl now gone far beyond his reach, does it really matter if anyone sees him mourn the loss? Hands clench momentarily over his knees as he steadies himself and stands to slightly shaky feet.

He’ll pass his Harrowing then. As Karl did. Prove to the Circle, to Gregior, the world that he is a strong and competent mage, able to resist the temptation of demons. He’ll secure his immunity to being made Tranquil. And then make his final escape. He’s never really thought about a specific destination before. Now it seems Kirkwall will be his first stop. And perhaps, if he’s incredibly careful and lucky, he’ll find someone that can carry a letter or two across the sea ahead of him.

[themonkeycabal]

Christmas Gift Fic #9

(technically still Christmas where I am!)

Okay, here’s another. I might get a couple more out this weekend, but I hate to promise that. 

@whyarealltheurlsarlreadytaken asked for: can you do a ‘run verse au where darcy and clint have a romantic relationship. 

I hope this is kind of what you wanted. It got away from me a little bit. ... enjoy!

***

Darcy couldn't sleep.

Well, no, that wasn't right. She did sleep, and she slept hard, for about four hours. And now she was wide awake staring into the dark.

SHIELD was gone. Weird. And freaky. It hit her every now and again, just out of nowhere. Wham.

Except, it wasn't entirely gone. It was just underground now. Like she was, here in her pitch-black room, in a bunker complex, with all that was left. That was the freaky part. How fragile it all felt. Not just the agency, but the world. Everything felt egg shell-thin.

Licking her dry lips, she reached out to turn on the lamp. It was old, part of the ancient equipment and furniture leftover from the base's early days, and it cast a sickly yellow light over the small, private quarters she'd claimed while she was lending a hand at the Playground. She would so make a shopping run at some point, when she could get away for a day. There was just so much cleanup to do, to get started on, to dig out, to glue back together. And so few hands to help.

Phil was out there now, somewhere in that shaky world, looking for his agents, trying to round up who he could. They were starting to trickle back in ones and twos, here and there. Sometimes he'd even find a whole pack of them, gone to ground in some forgotten bunker or safehouse, holding tight together while the foundations fell out from under them.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, Darcy swung her legs out of bed and let out a long breath. The clock — a regular, old-fashioned, tick-tock, with hands and everything, clock — read a quarter after 3. Ugh.

Her thoughts ticked along with the little second hand — too much to do, too much to do, too much to do. As soon as she drifted from that hard sleep, into something lighter, her mind filled up with all those too many things, and now she was wide, damned awake. Bleh. She loved her father, but sometimes it sucked to be his daughter. He'd probably never slept a whole night through in his entire life for just that reason; the tick-tock brain that never stopped.

She laughed at herself and stood . That was such a creakily retro analogy for Tony, he'd be horrified by it. So, of course, she made a mental note to share it with him at the earliest possible opportunity.

Standing, she took a moment to stretch, trying to do something positive, good for her, self care, that sort of thing. Plus, she had such a crink in her neck from being wedged under floor plates and behind cramped server racks trying to fix everything Hydra broke and trying to upgrade everything else. The stretching helped a little, and woke her body up a little more, so at least she had some of the energy her brain was demanding. And then she went out into the dim corridors, only every third bulb lit for night-time lighting and power conservation. 70-year old diesel generators and stealth power grid taps could only take them so far.  

Darcy had them on an arc reactor now, though, and Tony had been surprisingly peaceable about that suggestion — well, they argued a little, but that was them. It helped that Phil immediately promised its existence was need to know, and only he and May would know anything about it. Well, and Darcy, but she was the one who installed it and who would maintain it. When the device came in disguised as a Newegg box, Phil gave her a tired smile and tried to joke she was the electrical systems chief now. Then he begged her not to blow up what was left of SHIELD. 'Cause he was a funny guy like that.

The corridors were empty as she wandered down to the hanger. The Bus needed a little more work, though all critical systems were up and humming. Now, while it was quiet, she'd take care of her pretty flying baby.

There was an eerie stillness as she walked, her eye picking out the old SSR eagle painted on a wall, and her steps sounding particularly echoy. With the twisting halls, endless side rooms, and all, it was like a pretty sweet first person shooter where she got sucked back in time to fight an alien invasion in the fifties or something.

She wasn't sure how far the base extended, parts of it were still closed off, again, to conserve energy. And because there were only a couple dozen people knocking around the place. It was better to cluster everybody closer, it made everything feel less lonely and depressing. Except, it still felt lonely and depressing. Though, maybe that was because it was 3am, the most depressing hour of the night.

When she got to the Bus, she went up to the lounge first and started the coffee maker, then she sat at the briefing table and called up the systems. Avionics were good, flight good, servers good, nav good, some of the lab systems were still a little wonky and something was slowing transfers to the main base servers. That might be software, but it could be hardware, too. Skye was software, but so many of the systems were slagged, hardware was a real possibility still, too. She'd go over it again.

"So, according to Natasha, you're not my trainee anymore."

Darcy jerked and nearly fell out of her chair. Putting a hand to her chest, feeling the wild hammering of her heart, she turned a heated glare on the man who was leaning against the opening to the lounge.

"Damn it, Barton. What the actual hell?"

"Sorry."

"Wow, no you aren't."

He pouted and stepped into the room, walking over to the bar and the coffee maker. "I am. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, still trying to settle the surge of adrenaline.

"You're cranky."

Darcy let out a whoosh of breath and ran a hand through her hair. "It's 3:30 in the morning, I wasn't expecting anybody to be around; this place is like a post-apocalyptic horror movie at night. Forgive me for being wigged at you popping out of nowhere."

He poured them both a coffee and brought her a mug. "Okay, for real, sorry. I got in a couple hours ago, you were already asleep. May found me a bunk, but I couldn't sleep either. I'm still on Prague time. Sucks. What's your excuse?"

She wrapped her hands around the warming mug. "Stark brain? I was asleep, but then, you know that bit where you kind of wake up to like roll over or something? My brain kicked in with all the shit I've got to do, and I couldn't stop thinking and here I am."

He nodded soberly and sipped at his coffee. "Sucks," he said again.

"Yeah. Are you sticking?"

"With SHIELD?"

"Yeah. Or you gonna take my dad up on the full-time Avengers gig?"

"I don't know," he said, shrugging. "Honestly. That's why I'm here, I told Phil I'd talk to him first. I owe it to him."

"Sure."

"I guess you're all in," he said, voice mild and free of judgement one way or the other.

"I guess I am," she admitted.

"Is that what you want?"

"If it wasn't, I wouldn't be here."

"Is that true, though?"

She cocked her head and thought about it. "Yeah. I really think it is."

"Okay. Cool." He tapped his long archer's fingers on the mug. "This spooked Nat pretty good. I think she's out. Or, maybe like a contract player. If Phil needed something, she'd help, but, you know what I mean."

"I do."

"You've got options, you know? Like, you could do anything, go anywhere, work for anybody. Some of these people, SHIELD was all they had, but you've got … well, everything."

"Because I'm the spoiled rich kid, right?" She bristled a little and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't get like that. It's true and you know it." He swept an arm out over the table in a broad arc. "The world is your oyster. You could go get five doctorates like your dad, go start up a company in … whatever it is you'd want to do. What would you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"Really?"

"I never knew, Barton," she said quietly. It was true, it was her thing, it had to be all over her evals. Maybe he never really believed it, or never understood just how completely absolutely true that was. She never knew what she wanted. Never. And it wasn't something she ever felt really comfortable with. Everybody around her was so focused and she was … aimlessly drifting.

"I had vague ideas, some kid fantasies, you know, but never anything I was super into," she said, forcing the words out. "I picked political science because I've always been interested in people, in how the world works, and, of course, with a father who's a defense contractor, government was something I was tangentially familiar with. But, even that wasn't really a passion. I never had one. I always envied my friends who did, you know? Who knew exactly what they wanted. Like Rico and his computers, and Marley and design. But me? I never knew. And," she smirked over at him, "I thought you knew that."

He stared at her for a long moment. Long enough that she looked away, staring down into her mug. "I told you I never saw you. You are a mystery to me. You've been my trainee for over a year, and I don't know hardly anything about you."

"You know plenty."

"What if I wanted to know more?"

"I don't know what that means. Like, what? My favorite color?"

"Red," he said immediately. "That one I know."

She laughed and looked up at him. He smiled back.

"Purple," she said, jerking her thumb at him.

Clint raised his chin and sniffed. "It's the color of royalty, you know."

"Sure," she said with a little smile. "So, what do you want to know?"

"What would you do? If you could do anything at all … which, you know, you actually can. What would you do?"

"This."

"Come on, Darce," he whined.

She shook her head and jabbed a finger down on the table. "This. For real. This is what I want."

He chewed on that for a second and then countered with, "You were in SHIELD to help your dad, I know that."

"Yeah, and then SHIELD fell down. I know how big this is, how hard this will be, but …" she leaned towards him, intent and focused. "When we were in those tunnels and you were being an asshole—"

"Hey," he protested and frowned.

"You were," she insisted.

"I … was," he admitted contritely. "Yeah, sorry."

She waved it off and forgave him with a smile. "Anyway, when I saw those people on the platform. I knew. For the first time in my life, Clint, I knew what I wanted. I knew what I could do. Me. I could help those people. I could help the world. Phil told me I could, and you and Nat, and my dad, and Thor, and everybody. But, that moment is when I knew it for myself. I could do it, I had the resources, the training, the knowledge, the contacts, everything … I could do it. I can do it. It's what I want. I want to rebuild SHIELD."

Darcy waited for him to respond, but he just pursed his lips and stared at her thoughtfully. Again with the staring. And it was his 'watching her like a hawk' (ha ha) look. Uncomfortable. Sucking in her cheeks, she looked back at the systems readouts for something to do, for anything to distract her from the sudden super intensity.  

Her relationship with Clint had always been pretty relaxed, even when they were training. He liked team sports, and beer, and cheesy movies, and 80s action shows, and they could kick it in easy conversation. She'd tease him about being a disaster, but she admired him, too. Admired his dedication, his skill, his way of looking at the world in all its simple and complex messiness — which was basically Clint in a nutshell anyway. But, this … early morning talks where, because of exhaustion, overwork, whatever else, she let herself open up in a way she never really liked to. This was new, and sort of uncomfortable, and really with the staring already. God, Barton.

"Okay," he said at last.

"Okay."

"I'm in. I'll tell Phil when he gets back."

Darcy looked up and frowned. "Wait, what?"

"I'm in with SHIELD."

"Oh," she said and tried to think of what she ought to say to that, she wasn't expecting it. In fact, she was pretty prepared for both Nat and Clint to bail. "Well, good. Yay. Glad to have you."

"Yep," he said, his voice bright as he nodded and grinned. "I believe you."

"About what?"

"That you'll rebuild SHIELD."

"Well, I mean, Phil —"

"Yeah, you and Phil. It's called conviction." He gave her a crooked smile. "I think you're nuts, but I like it. That's my kinda crazy."

She laughed and gave his leg a little nudge with her own. "Jerk."

"Yep." He propped his chin on his hand and kept watching her. "You're not my trainee anymore. You're like … what? Like, Phil's number two or three?"

"Four or five? Or lower? I don't know. May, then maybe … I don't know. You or Hartley?"

"Oh, is she here?" he asked, looking interested and pleased. "Awesome. She's wicked with a knife."

Darcy grimaced. "We, uh, maybe don't get along so well. Maybe?"

"Oh …" He thought about it for a second then nodded. "Yeah, I can see the personality clash. Give her a chance, though, she's good people."

"Yeah, that's what May says." Darcy shrugged. She could give Hartley another chance, but would Hartley give her one? Maybe she'd have to work for it. Ugh. "Her team, though … I mean, Idaho's okay, I guess. Though, Christ, he thinks he's a world-class chef and I swear to you, he could burn water. And Hunter's just straight up obnoxious."

Clint's eyebrows rose. "Lance Hunter?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

"You know him, I guess," she said, pressing for that story. They'd be a weird combination. Probably not something anybody'd want to witness.

"I do. Sort of. It's a long story," he said with a sigh. "We have an ex in common. Way awkward."

"His hell-beast ex-wife? His words, not mine."

Clint snorted a surprised laugh and it took him a second to stop chuckling. "That's the one. Ha. Oh, yeah. I should buy him a beer. Awesome."

"Come on, she can't be that bad."

With a challenging look, Clint straightened up and started to tug off his shirt.

"What the hell are you doing?" Darcy asked, alarmed and startled and not prepared for the Barton striptease.

"I'm going to show you the scars."

Darcy laughed and lunged forward to catch the hem of his shirt before it could clear his chest. She tugged it back down. "Keep your shirt on, geez."

"No, you'll be impressed."

"I'm plenty impressed, promise. Please, keep your shirt on." She had a hard enough time not staring at his arms, she didn't need him to strip for her, too. He was a damned attractive guy, and she'd always noticed that. He was also a dozen years older than her and her SO. It was just … some things were not for thinking about too long, or else that way lay heartbreak or something. But she liked his squishy face, and his dumb boy sense of humor, and his frankly magnificent arms, and his crazy intense focus when he was being all sniper dude. Ugh, no Darcy, don't go there.

He was looking mulish and he jerked up the side of his shirt anyway, ignoring her protests and pointed to a scar low on his back. "That one."

"She stabbed you?"

"No, but I got stabbed because of her."

"Well … ouch?"

"Yeah, totally. That hurt."

"Poor baby."

"Kiss it and make it better?"

She gaped at him for a second and shook her head like she misheard. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Reflexive? Don't make it weird, Lewis."

"Screw you, Barton," she said, laughing again.

"But, you know, if you wanted to, I wouldn't stop you."

"Who's making this weird?"

"Me?"

"You." She was still laughing, though, because, really, Barton?

"But, uh …" he moved his hand from his neck to rub at his ear. "If you wanted to, maybe, go out for coffee sometime."

Her mouth went dry and there was a strange fuzzy buzzing in her head, because he couldn't have just asked what she thought he asked. Right? "We're having coffee now."

"And it's good, right? What is this?" He looked down at this mug before picking it up and draining the last. "Too good for an airplane and way too good for SHIELD."

"Phil's a coffee snob."

"Oh, right." He stood up and walked away to grab the pot. "More?"

"Sure."

He poured them both another and then sat down again, fidgeting with his mug. "I meant it, though. Like, maybe someplace with normal people. And we'd go, you know, as normal people."

"Neither of us are normal people," she said quietly.

"Normalish. You're not my trainee anymore," he said again. Then licked his lips nervously and took a big gulp of coffee. "Believe it or not, I'm usually better at this. You are damned hard to read. Also," he held up a finger to make a point, "I am not afraid of your dad."

"Noted." She rubbed at her eyes and tried to sort through the last five minutes. She didn't … no, she didn't ever expect this. "For real?"

"Yeah, I mean … uh, if you want. I'd just …"

"What about Natasha?"

He gave her an understanding smile and shook his head. "Darce, Nat is my best friend. That's like … I don't know, you and Rico."

"Oh," she said and made a face. She loved Rico, but yeah, no, she would not date Rico. That would be too weird. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, hey, if you're not into it, that's okay. No harm, but …" he trailed off and was silent for a moment before he continued. "I like you. I've always liked you, like as a person, you know? You're fun, you're weird — in a good way — you're easy to be around. I don't know. I just, I like when we watch the A-Team and drink beer and talk about whatever the hell. I like laughing with you."

"I like that, too," she said quietly, really trying to take this all in. Well, if nothing else it sure as hell shorted out her brain, wiping away that endless tick of 'too much to do'.

"We could give it a try," he suggested. "Frankly, I think we'd make a badass pair. I can really see it. You'd bring it with the high tech, I'd bring it with the sniping, then we'd go out for Coronas and tacos and be awesome. I'm liking this."

"Coronas and tacos," she echoed, still trying to work through the short in her brain.

"With lime. For both, of course, because fish tacos." He leaned towards her, his eyebrows raised and something open and hopeful on his impish face. "I like being around you, not a lot of people get me, but you do, and you make it so damned easy to just be, if that makes sense."

"It does," she agreed, because, well, it was always easy to be with Clint. Not lazy easy, but like she didn't have to think about who she was with him. She just was herself. Whatever and whoever that was. And he was way opening himself up here, so she should probably give him some of that back. It was only fair. "I think I could go for Coronas and tacos. I, uh, you know, every guy I've ever dated, it didn't always go so well, because I was keeping secrets. Which, of course, you know." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Olympic sport?"

"I wasn't wrong," he grumbled, "you're good at it. I mean, come on. I'm a spy. Hell, you even pulled one over on Nat. Crazy."

"I guess I did." She mused on that for a second. That was pretty good. "Anyway, you know my secrets now. That'll be new."

"Oh, you're still a damned mystery, for real. I'm not just saying that."

Her lips quirked up into a little smile. "I keep you on your toes, Barton."

"Please do." He reached out a hand and tapped the back of hers. "No pressure. Just, you know, tacos. See what happens."

"My dad throws you off the building."

"I'm still not afraid of him. And, I have a grappling hook arrow."

Darcy laughed. "Of course you do."

"It's awesome."

"It's 93 stories."

He thought about that and winced. "Well, uh, I'll call Thor. Teamwork, yeah!"

And finally that reserve she'd built around herself for her whole life started to crack. Maybe not entirely done away, but a little light was getting through. She reached out and touched his face. "I like your squishy face."

"It's not squishy," he said with a pout.

She poked at his cheek and laughed when he snarled. "Handsome face."

"Better."

"Yeah."

"So … tacos?"

"It's like four in the morning."

"Tonight. Tacos."

"Tacos. Tonight," she agreed.

He grinned. "Awesome."

Darcy gave his cheek a last pat and sat back. "You know, I think there are rules about agents dating."

"Then I'm out," he said easily and without hesitation. "I'll tell Phil."

"Come on, we could use you."

He thought about it for a second then shrugged. "There's like thirty agents left. What's Phil going to do? Ground us? Though, you know, I could do the independent contractor thing, too. I can still work for SHIELD, but be out of the chain. That actually might work better. With the Avengers and all."

"Sure, sure."

"SHIELD's been my world for a long time, Darce. I think I'm ready for there to be other things in my life now, you know? I'm good by that."

"You're sure?"

"I am. You had your revelation in those tunnels, and I had mine. And, I think that's part of why I got so mad at you. It wasn't the secrets, I just …"

"I was keeping them from you."

"Yeah," he admitted and bowed his head. "I want more. And, I let myself believe I had it, and then I realized I never really told you that, and you were keeping these secrets, and people were shooting at us, and I could have lost you right there. And … I didn't like that. It freaked me out, too."

She let that sink in for a minute before taking his hand. "Okay. So tacos tonight and then we see what happens."

"Awesomeness happens."

Giving his fingers a squeeze, she laughed. "High bar, Barton."

"I'll clear it," he promised with a cocky smirk.

"Just so you know, there aren't any more secrets. Okay?"

"Okay," he accepted that with a nod. "But, I want to hear about those fantasies you had as a kid about what you'd do when you grew up."

"Forklift driver."

Clint guffawed and tugged on her hand, pulling her closer to him. "Really?"

"And astronaut."

"That's a gimmie," he protested. "Every kid wants to be an astronaut."

"And an architectural mad genius who designed secret lairs."

"Okay, you're not far off of that one. You could totally pull that one off."

"I know, right? So close." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I've got to actually work on the one secret base I've got on my hands now, though, so it's time for you to take a hike."

He returned her kiss with one of his own. "Okay. Fine. I'm tired now." He stood up and pointed a finger at her. "Tonight. Tacos."

"Tacos. Tonight," she agreed again, smiling.