#i apologize dr babble i was not familiar with your game

[piscesbarnes]

Because of You [5] → Bucky Barnes au

pairing: eventual bucky x reader

warnings: n/a

prompt: training with sam goes well. up until your visit to the lab.

To say the baseball game wasn’t exciting would have been a lie. It was the first human experience you’ve had and it wasn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. Although, when the crowd would stand up and cheer, it scared the life out of you and you soon learned that it wasn’t polite to stand up abruptly with your fists up to your chest, ready to knock someone out. Only about half way through the game did you finally catch on.

“Hey, we’re about to win this game. We should leave before the exits get crowded.” Steve suggested as he leaned forward to your seats. He was the one to help you out of the crowd as Natasha and Sam went for another round of beers. He linked his arm through yours and you tensed up at the contact, giving him a side eye. It didn’t go unnoticed either, Steve was well aware of the look you gave him. “We’re meeting in the parking lot. We gotta regroup since Tony and Natasha drank.”

After about twenty minutes, Sam stumbled to the cars with Natasha, cackling about a memory they had that morning. Bucky followed closely behind; he’d never admit it, but he followed them to make sure they were safe. Clint and Wanda had hotdogs in hand, Clint holding a large Coke in the other.

“I assume Tony’s with Bruce, Parker, and Thor?” Steve questioned. When he got no answer, he nodded. “Bucky, you can drive with Nat, Angel, and Sam. I’ll take these two. Meet at the tower. If anything happens, call me.” Steve instructed as he tossed Bucky the keys Natasha had prior that evening.

You and Bucky glanced at one another with a knowing look. He looked a bit uncomfortable with the sorting and was about to retort, but Steve was already walking away, mumbling about Tony.

You and Bucky helped Sam and Natasha in the back. They giggled a lot, being more ticklish than usual when they were intoxicated.

The car ride was just as awkward, hell it would’ve been even more awkward if Natasha and Sam weren’t talking. They babbled and babbled to each other, making them laugh as you and Bucky stared straight ahead like annoyed babysitters.

“You’re Bucky right?” your voice rang in his ears as he came to a stop at a red light. He raised his eyebrows as he looked over to you in curiosity.

“Yeah, that’s right. Why?” he knew why.

“You seem a little familiar is why. I could be wrong.” you knew you weren’t though. You expected him to chirp up, explaining maybe where you’d seen him.

“Oh.” was all he said.

“Morning Angel,” Sam Wilson groaned, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to wake himself up. You looked at him, wide awake, nodding your head at him.

“Good morning. Are you ready for training?” you voiced at the hung over man. Your hands were already wrapped, you were ready, but apparently Sam was not.

“Are you training me or am I training you?” Sam joked, chuckling to himself. When he saw that your dull expression hadn’t moved, he sighed and patted your shoulder. “Come on, lighten up.” you turned your head slowly to glance at the shoulder he’d touched. “Okay. It’s obvious you’re holding in a lot of anger. Let’s take it out on training, yeah?” you ignored his comment, sitting on the ground as you began to stretch. It was like he was competing with you as well, following your set of stretches and trying to one-up you, at least from your perspective.

You helped Sam wrap his knuckles in hopes of punching him sooner. His mouth seemed to move faster than his hands.

“So, I hear you’re trained in mixed martial arts and more. You and I are gonna work on your combat skills, I’m here to report back to Tony because he’s concerned you’ve lost your way.” Sam introduced. He noticed you didn’t really talk much. You complied to whatever orders without a word. “It’s free reign, all you gotta do is get me to tap out.”

Standing on the mats, Sam held his arms up to block his face. You mirrored him almost, lowering them slightly so you could furthermore observe him.

Sam threw the first punch; you swiftly moved away. Then came a series of hits from his end, you were quick to dodge them, taking note that he always stepped before he punched. You took a jab to the neck, gasping out as you ducked under his arm, your arms extending to strike his torso. You didn’t give him time to recover, swiping your legs under his feet.

You didn’t expect him to tackle your legs. A yelp escaped your lips as you fell backwards. You swiveled your legs around his waist, twisting your bodies so he was under you. You had him pinned and yet he didn’t tap out. He somehow gathered enough strength to get you off him.

Soon, you were back on your feet, watching as Sam scrambled up to his. You were panting, puffing your white locks from your face. Sam went to tackle you, but you caught him in a headlock. He gripped your waist, hands grazing along your back. You tensed up and he noticed it. He made it his goal to for your back, it was your weakness. Your body went into defense mode. Your eyes easily calculated where his hit would go.

You avoided his advances toward you. You were able to curl your hands and slam his arms down, quickly reverting to slapping both of your hands to his chest. Sam flew back, he rolled over off the mat with a grunt. You took a step forward to see if he was okay, he then chuckled.

“You’re a feisty Angel, aren’t you?” Sam commented, getting back up on his feet. “I don’t have bad things to tell Stark, but that doesn’t mean you can’t use some improvement.” you nodded your head. You were more than accepting of feedback. “You let your guard down. I found your weakness almost instantly. If I was your enemy, I would’ve taken you down.” you nodded your head at the feedback.

“Just like how you step before you punch?” you noted. Sam blinked, shocked and confused as to how your observation never really dawned on him. Even when you pointed it out, he had a hard time believing he actually did it.

“Angel, Sam,” a voice echoed from the door of the training room. The two averted their gaze to Bruce Banner, standing at the door with a clipboard in hand. “If I could borrow Angel, that’d be nice.”

“But we still have training until...” Sam looked at the clock, reading 9 in the morning. Had they really be training for two and a half hours already? Sam was still gaping at the clock; he swore it had only been an hour.

“I’ll see you later Sam.” you waved to him, following after the scientist.

“So, Dr. Cho just came back from vacation. We would like to check your vitals once more, we’re going to continue to check your vitals everyday either during or after your training.” Bruce explained, going over some of the details he’d acquired from the previous appointment. You complied and followed after the man.

You were met with a woman in the same lab you’d waken up from. She wore a lab coat, she seemed to distracted by the vials in front of her, but nonetheless she looked up. Dr. Cho was surprised by your appearance; white hair that was usually swept over your forehead, tied back as your grey eyes speared back at her.

“Y/N, pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Dr. Cho smiled at you.

“It’s Angel,” you said sharply, trying to be polite. “No one really calls me by my name.” she nodded understandingly.

“My apologies. I’m looking at your blood transfusions, or whatever’s left of it and I’ll be needing to take a few more blood samples, is that okay?” she went on about checking your blood pressure first, as well as your heartbeat and all that jazz. To be honest, you didn’t pay much attention. You were there to just sit there and go.

“What did you mean by ‘whatever is left of my blood’?” you suddenly brought up.

“Ah,” Dr. Cho nodded her head, rolling away in her rolling chair as she finished up hooking you up to an IV. She had a feeling you’d catch on to the phrase. “The blood Bruce extracted from you days ago has interesting qualities. He tried running as many tests as he could before he used it all.”

“Used it all on what?” you questioned.

Dr. Cho didn’t say a word, moving a pot of dead flowers to you. After sucking some of your blood into a dropper, she dribbled a couple drops of your blood onto the soil the dead flowers had been bedded in. You watched in confusion, your eyes flickering back to her; her eyes had been set on the flowers. It wasn’t until life began flooding back into the rose petals, a vibrant red spreading upon its features. The plant grew to life before her, it was clear why Dr. Cho hadn’t a word to say.

You had given life to something that was once dead.

“That’s not all.” Bruce pulled up an article on the lab’s iPad. He showed you the bright screen. It was for a missing persons. It was you. With a natural colored-hair and dark eyes. “This is from five years ago.”

BECAUSE OF YOU TAGS @mannls @animegirlgeeky @averagenightterrors

[mattzerella-sticks]

Lollipop (a Dean/Cas Halloween fic, inspired by nerd!Dean in 14x04 “Mint Condition”) (ao3)

Dean Winchester isn't the most popular boy in his school. In fact, you couldn't get lower on the totem pole than him. But he's come to accept it, even if it means dealing with people like Gordon every time he tiptoes out of the status quo. Making first impressions is hard given that he's known most of his classmates since the beginning. But besides Charlie, he doesn't have anyone in his corner.

Except for Castiel, the school's quarterback who transferred to their school last year. But he'd never go for someone like Dean...

           Halloween was Dean’s favorite day of the year, no matter what Sammy thought. Dressing up in fun costumes, watching scary movies – not to mention all the candy! It might have been a few years since he stopped trick-or-treating, but the magic of the holiday still captures him. And even though Dean is in school, he still managed to add a little flair to his outfit. Right now he pulls at his already-loose tie, trying (and failing) to show the rainbow-colored S-symbol on his shirt that’s peeking out from behind his unbuttoned button-down. Luckily he’s not too absorbed in his wardrobe, able to spot the blur of red before it pounces on his back.

           “Happy Halloween!” Charlie shrieks, arms tugging tight on his neck. He chokes out a “Charlie” while he pries her off of him. She doesn’t budge at first, but lets go after a few more seconds of his choking. Dean whirls to face her, red as a bloody corpse.

           “Were you trying to kill me?”

           “Pfft what? Why?” she giggles, “If you died I’d have no friends!”

           He pouts, but accepts her answer. “So, if murder wasn’t your main goal, then why the strangling?”

           “It’s Halloween!” Charlie shouts, oblivious to the stares of the other children, “I thought you might like a good scare to get the day started.”

           Dean rolls his eyes. “I already got that when Sammy forgot to lock the bathroom door.” It was the one time he regretted remembering his glasses on the way to the shower. Seeing Sam reminded him of that one scene from Sleepaway Camp, and Dean wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Anyway, where’s your costume?”

           “I’m wearing it,” she says, pulling the pointy-eared mask down and tugging her red-and-black cape out to match her wingspan. “I’m committing more than you, Clark.”

           “Shut up,” he mumbles, pushing her lightly, “Ma said I couldn’t wear my Batman costume to school. Said something ‘bout it bein’ too distracting.” She didn’t say that. When Dean told her his plans for his last Halloween as a high schooler, Mary sighed and forbade him from wearing it. Dean argued with her, but she laid the law in their house. “I just don’t want people to say anything about you,” she told him after Dean stormed into his room, pillow held tight against his chest. “Your costume is so nice, but it’d be too… much for a classroom. And you wouldn’t want something bad said about it after you put so much money into it, now would you?”

           She had a point, but he still wanted to dress up as something. His day-costume earned him a sigh and a long hug when she saw it, but that’s all Mary said on the matter.

           “Mary,” Charlie groans, falling against the row of lockers next to Dean’s, “Why must you break up the Bat-Duo?!?”

           Dean smiles at her. “Hey, ease up alright? I’m still DC – and I even managed to add a touch of gay.” He pulls at his shirt in a classic Superman pose, cocking his hip the extra inch to Charlie’s delight. Dean lets her laugh wash over him, happy to bring joy to his friend.

           It’s short-lived.

           He’s shoved into the lockers, knocking his head against the metal. His glasses fly off his face from the force, and he bites down the pain.

           “Well, looks like I found Superfag’s kryptonite – locker!” The grating laughter clued him in on who caused stars to dance around his vision.

           “Gordon,” Dean hisses, squinting at the blurry shapes in front of him, “What do you want?”

           “Just stopping by to say how much we love your costume,” Alistair tells him, the voice coming from his left, “Really captures the whole lonely, gay nerd vibe you send out.”

           “Although if you’re gonna be trick-or-treating, you’ll need something better,” Brady jeers, “No one’ll let you touch their Twizzlers looking like that?”

           Charlie huffs from next to him. “Why don’t you jerks leave us alone, all right?”

           Gordon mocks her with a pity laugh. “No one asked you Bat bitch, so why don’t you step off, huh?”

           “Leave her out of it,” Dean says, drawing the focus back to him, “Just because you can’t deal with your massive crush on me doesn’t mean you get to take it out on her.” He knows he hit a nerve by how the air shifts, the energy tensing and pricking his skin. Gordon grabs his collar and slams his head back against the locker once more, then leans in close.

           “What’d you say to me, Winchester?”

           Dean doesn’t back down. “You heard me. Get any closer and you’ll regret it.”

           “Oh, right – because I’m so scared of the gay kid with the dead dad.” Dean flinches – because of Gordon’s words and the fist that smashes next to his head. Charlie gasps, and he notices more than sees how silent the hallway has become. A fuzzy wall surrounds them, an indecipherable sea of colors and features – as if the blow to the head sent him into a Picasso painting.

           “Now,” Gordon continues, his hushed voice cutting across the silence, “You wanna apologize while you still can?”

           Dean knows he’s not walking away from this without a bruise, and only hopes it’s not bad enough that Mary has to call off work, again, to pick him up. That being said, he chooses to not make it easy for himself. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes, smirking, “Sorry I won’t let you suck my dick.”

           “That’s it,” Gordon rears back another fist, “I hope you like jawbreakers.”

           He braces for impact – only it never comes. Dean opens an eye, letting the air whoosh out of him when he sees Gordon’s fist inches from his face. Something stopped him before his punch could land, and even with his poor eyesight he can tell his savior has dark hair and broad shoulders.

           It’s when he hears a familiar rumble that he realizes who saved him.

           “Walker,” Castiel says with his cool, ‘I-gargle-rocks-for-breakfast’ voice, “what do you think you’re doing?”

           “Back off Novak,” Gordan snaps at the other kid, “Just teaching this nerd here his place.”

           “You seem to be doing a shitty job, then,” Castiel tells him, “Because his place is as far from you and your neanderthal friends as possible.” The chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘burns’ is nice.

           ‘But where were they before Cas stepped in?’

           Gordon doesn’t let go. “What’s it to you if we rough up Winchester here?”

           Castiel takes a step back. “Go ahead, then. Do it. But you wouldn’t like the consequences.”

           “You think you scare me?” Gordon chuckles. He puts up a brave front, but even Dean can hear the warble in his response. “What’s a tight ass like you gonna do?”

           “It’s funny,” Castiel says, “how easy it is people write off the things they see on Halloween. They might see a bunch of bruises and blood and think it’s a costume. Would you like to test this phenomena?”

           Gordon doesn’t waste any time dropping Dean. He steps back into his cluster; enough that his features start to soften into indecipherableness. But he can sense the hatred in his words. “You’re lucky Winchester,” he spits, “But not that lucky.” He and his friends break through the crowd, dispersing them and forcing them on their way.

           “Dean,” Charlie comes to his side, rubbing his back, “Are you okay?”

           He musters up a false smile. “Yeah… nothing I’m not used to.”

           “Excuse me, these are yours… right?”

           Dean turns to see Castiel standing a little too close. He’s holding his forgotten glasses in his tan blobs. Getting tired of looking through wax paper, Dean takes his glasses back with a small ‘thanks’. Although not seeing Castiel in crisp definition might have made the following conversation easier.

           The blur takes clear form now. Castiel’s once soft jaw hardens, and Dean can make out the small cracks on his dry lips. Notice how the blue in his eyes seems to match the color of his varsity jacket. And his hair, as always, looks as neat and tidy as the storylines on Dr. Sexy. Dean swallows around his heart, and hopes he isn’t blushing too bad. The other boy has been an object of his desires for some time, now, ever since Charlie convinced him to attend one of their school’s football games last year. He didn’t get a good look at him on the field, but after the game was another story.

           Dean was waiting for Charlie, shivering in his dad’s old leather jacket. “Damn Charlie and her tiny bladder,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together, “Why she couldn’t hold it ‘til we got to the pizzeria…”

           “You look cold.”

           He rolled his eyes, and had a smart retort on his tongue. It died there when he got a good look at who said it. “Huh? Oh… yeah. I’m just… waiting for my friend.”

           “Have you been waiting long?” Castiel asked, bundled in a puffy jacket and fuzz-ball hat. Dean realized he had only played football when he did a full-body scan and noticed the grass on his knees.

           “I’m not sure,” Dean said, “But… shouldn’t you be with your team?”

           “Pardon?”

           “I just always thought,” Dean babbled, teeth chattering, “After games a team always stayed together or… something.”

           Castiel cracked a smile at that. “Then I must not have gotten the memo,” he said, “But maybe that’s because I’m still getting used to how things are done here at Carver Edlund?”

           “Oh, you’re new?”

           “Transferred in this year,” he nodded, holding a hand out, “Castiel Novak.”

           “Dean Winchester.” Dean shook his hand, and felt the other boy leave something in it. “Oh, look buddy – I’m the wrong guy to give drugs, too.”

           “What?” Castiel gaped, eyes wide, “No, no – you misunderstood – it’s a Hot Hands.” Dean opens his hand to look at the orange packet Castiel dropped into it. “My mom always seems to give me more than I’ll need and… you looked like you could use it.”

           “Oh, um… thanks.”

           “It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Castiel said, stepping away, “I’ll see you around.”

           “…Yeah.”

           They’ve shared a few more conversations after that, but tend to stick to their social circles. Not from lack of trying. Dean thought about going up to Castiel one day in the cafeteria, but he had took to long and was scared off after Bart called him on ‘staring’.

           “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Castiel says, shocking him back to the present, “Gordon shouldn’t be allowed to walk the halls without a muzzle.”

           “It’s fine, Cas, really,” Dean tells him, “Gordon’s like a big teddy bear… with teeth and claws and anger management issues.” Neither Castiel nor Charlie laughed at his joke. “I could have handled it?”

           “Before or after he broke your nose, Dean?” Charlie scoffs. Dean casts a wry glance in her direction.

           Dean curls in on himself, pocketing his hands, “Nothing I wouldn’t have dealt with before…”

           He feels Castiel’s fingers tilting his chin up, putting the other boy in his line of sight. “Even so,” he whispers, “Doesn’t mean you should be okay with how they treat you.” Dean’s throat goes dry at that; unable to come up with anything that won’t make the situation even more embarrassing.

           The silence drags on, and soon enough Castiel takes a step back. He scratches at his neck, and now has trouble meeting Dean’s eyes. “By the way,” he continues, mumbling his words, “I – uh… really like your shirt.”

           “What?”

           “Superman?” Castiel points out, “Not my favorite hero but… he’s really cool, too.”

           “Oh.”

           He’s saved by any more awkwardness by the first bell’s ring. Castiel puts even more distance between them. “I should,” he nods his head to the left, “I should get to class. Stay safe, Dean!” Castiel darts away before he could say goodbye.

           Dean barely moves, even when Charlie takes Castiel’s spot. “Well if that didn’t flash me back to Love, Simon…”

           He blinks at her. “What?”

           “Oh don’t ‘what’ me you disaster gay,” Charlie chuckles, “He’s got a thing for you.”

           Dean blushes at the notion. “That – that’s crazy,” he stammers, “How could you – he’s not – it can’t be –“

           “Dean, why do you think he doesn’t?”

           “Because!” He glances around and leans close to her, whispering. “Because… he wouldn’t be interested in me.”

           Charlie sighs, and then tosses her arm over his shoulders. “We gotta get your confidence up one day, otherwise we’ll never conquer the seven kingdoms of Moondoor, my dear Handmaiden.”

           “Charlie…”

           “Let’s just get to class.”

           He lets Castiel and his haunting, blue eyes drift towards the back of his mind.

           “No! But we…we killed you!!!”

           Dean laughs as the girl screams her head off and rushes down the hallway from Hatchet Man – albeit not far in those heels. He sticks his hand into candy bowl and pulls out a bite-size piece of chocolate, unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth. Dean smiles around his as Hatchet Man’s victim trips over nothing in her haste. “God,” he chuckles, “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

           Just as she starts to make her way towards the elevator, the doorbell rings outside. Dean sighs and looks towards the door in annoyance.

           He knows he’ll have to answer it. There’s no one else but him at home. Sam had been invited out with a few friends, and Mary was dropping him off before going to a costume party at the Mills’.

           “Are you sure you don’t have to go anywhere?” Mary asked him before she left, pulling her coat tight around her cowgirl outfit, “No special plans with friends?”

           “Charlie said she had to finish a project for her Coding class, so she’s too busy to hang.”

           “And there’s… no one else?”

           “Ma, it’s okay – I mean, someone has to hand out the candy, right?”

           “We can leave the bucket out with a sign if you’d rather be doing something else?” Mary tries one last time, “Maybe if Sam asks his friends…”

           Dean winces. “I don’t wanna crimp my baby bro’s style. Besides, if I show up they might kick him out because he’s the less awesome Winchester.”

           Sam walks into the room at that comment, and levels Dean with a flat look. “Yeah, because I’m the one in the replica superhero suit.” Dean crosses his arms, or as best he could in his Batman costume.

           After the rough day at school, which only felt worse since everybody stared at him and whispered behind his back more than usual, he traded in his button-down for the Kevlar and spandex. It’s a special costume – hand-made for him by a person down in Texas. The cost wasn’t thatmuch – in fact, he managed to pay Mary back after a full summer down at Singer’s Auto Repair Shop. It was worth it, since stepping into Batman’s boots made him feel cooler, more badass, and most importantly – safe.

           Although there’s probably nothing cool about a teenager in a Batman costume lounging on a sofa.

           The doorbell rings again.

           “Alright, alright, I’m coming!” he grouses, pulling himself up. He tosses his glasses off and tugs the cowl over his face before opening the door.

           On the other side of the door is a little boy dressed as Luke Skywalker, gaping up at him, with his bag’s straps loose in his little fingers. Dean fights back a grin, not wanting to ruin the act. The other reason Dean had wanted to stay home was because the suit always got him compliments. Little kids figured he was the real deal, and their guardians always flashed him a smile or nodded as he played along with the children. He’s even recognized a few kids from school give him compliments.

           Dean’s not sure they knew it was him under the mask, however. If they did, they might not have said anything nice.

           “Hello, Luke,” Dean starts in a low growl, “Are you here because you sensed something in the Force?”

           The question snaps the boy back into focus, and he remembers what he came here for. He giggles, and holds out his bag. “No Batman,” he says, smiling with three-fourths a smile, “It’s Halloween!”

           “Halloween? Ah yes… that makes sense,” Dean smirks, looking away, “And you want me to go out and stop criminals! It’s about time I start patrol…”

           “Noooo…”

           Dean bends down as much as he can, to meet the kid on his level. “Then what should I do?”

           “Give candy!” the kid pushes his bag out once more, “Trick-or-treat!”

           “Candy? But candy is for good little boys and girls who uphold the law,” Dean offers the boy a stern look, “Do you promise to do just that?”

           “Yes Batman!”

           “Then here is your candy.” Dean grabs a generous amount and drops it into the boy’s almost full bag before standing to his full height. He watches the boy search his bag with a bright smile. The boy shares it with him.

           “Thank you, Mr. Batman!”

           “It’s no problem,” Dean says, “Just a hero doing his duty.” He’s about to return to his movie when a deep chuckle draws him out longer than he intended. Dean sets his sight on the bright, red blur standing a few feet away from Luke. He squints, making out a yellow lightning bolt on his chest. The symbol clues him in that the guy’s supposed to be the Flash, but it’s his next words let him in on who’s behind the mask.

           “You seem to be very good at your job… Batman.”

           ‘Holy shit,’ Dean thinks, mouth falling open slightly, ‘Is that… Cas?’

           “What can I say,” Dean grimaces, “Batman’s good with kids.”

           “As he should be,” Castiel chuckles, “To have raised four…”

           “Yeah, um…” he clears his throat, “is Luke here your brother?” The younger boy is oblivious to the conversation, chomping his way through a full-size candy bar.

           “What? Oh, no,” Castiel looks over at the boy, “Jack’s my nephew. My brother Luke is laid up with a cold so he couldn’t take him trick-or-treating so… here I am.”

           “Ah.”

           “You know, you’re the first person to guess brother?” Castiel continues, “People kept asking me if he was my son…”

           “Yeah, well… you don’t look old enough to have a kid,” Dean chuckles, “but you do sound like you would.”

           “That might be true,” Castiel says, “My brother says I have the voice of a chain smoker.”

           “Luke?”

           “No, Gabriel.” He pauses. “What about you?”

           “What about me?”

           “No other plans besides manning the door.”

           Dean bristles at that. “It’s not glamorous, but somebody has to do it. I’m sure there’s probably tons of parties you could be at right now, too.”

           He doesn’t see the look on Castiel’s face, but Dean notices the red get closer. “I… I didn’t mean to offend,” Castiel says, “It’s a good thing you were here… the past few houses were just bowls of candies and signs. You, answering the door… it’s brings a human element back to Halloween.” The words send a chill up Dean’s spine no horror movie could ever accomplish.

           “Yeah, well…” Dean fumbles, holding the bowl up high, “thanks. Want some candy?”

           Castiel reaches forward and rustles through the candy before pulling out a lollipop as red as his costume. He takes his time unwrapping it, slowly pushing it past his lips. Dean’s suit, made to fit him perfectly, feels uncomfortable.

           “Cherry,” he says, “My favorite. Thank you, Dean.”

           It takes a few seconds for Castiel’s words to register. He almost drops the bowl. “Cas you – you recognized me?”

           “Of course,” Castiel grins, “There’s not that many boys our age who would invest a lot of money in a suit like ours.”

           “Like ours?”

           “Oh – you aren’t wearing contacts?” Castiel asks, “I figured with the suit…”

           “I mean, I don’t wear the mask indoors,” Dean explains, “And I don’t usually get into conversations with the people I’m handing candy, too.”

           “That’s fair…” Dean squirms, unsure what the next step in the conversation is. He’s not good at this, and doesn’t want to say something that would be like walking into quicksand. Castiel takes the decision from him.

           “You know, I like this costume better than your earlier one.”

           “You do?”

           Castiel hums. “Indeed. Batman is one of my favorites.”

           Dean cocks his head to the side. “Then why’re you dressed as the Flash?”

           “I said he was one of my favorites, not my favorite.”

           “Oh,” Dean says, rubbing at his neck, “Yeah… Flash is pretty cool, too.”

           “Yes…” Castiel pulls his lollipop out and takes a step closer. “Hey, Dean, have you ever heard of Batflash?”

           “I… I don’t think I have?”

           “It’s the romantic coupling between Batman,” he gestures to Dean with his lollipop, “and Flash,” he points back to himself. “Some people like to think that the relationship is strictly platonic but… well, I would say otherwise.”

           “You would…” Castiel’s intention strikes Dean in the back of the head as if it were a baseball bat. “Oh.”

           The other boy leans fully into his space, enough that he can see Castiel’s pink-tinged smirk. Castiel pushes the lollipop into Dean's mouth, and moves towards his ear. “I’ll be bringing Jack back home soon, and after that I don’t have anything else planned.”

           “No… no parties?”

           “None that’d make me want to be anywhere but here.” Dean softly moans around the candy. “So, if you’d like… I could come by and teach you the finer points of the ship?”

           He nods.

           “Very well,” he says, stepping back, “Keep that safe for me. Jack?” The smaller boy looks up with chocolate-stained cheeks, and offers another goodbye to Dean.

           Dean watches them fade into the fog of the night as he tries to process what happened.

           The house is dark and quiet, the television screen long since muted. Now teens from generations ago silently scream as they face down their doom. Mary opens the door slowly, stepping into the darkness, boots in hand. “Dean? Dean, I’m sorry I’m late but Donna wouldn’t let me leave without showing off her pictures from her trip to Aruba last spring.” She turns on the light. “Dean – oh!”

           Mary can barely contain her grin at the sight on her couch. Dean, still in his Batman costume, has fallen asleep, nestled in the arms of another boy. She thinks he’s dressed as the Flash, but she’s never been as good at the superhero names like John was. The other boy has his nose pressed firmly into the crown of Dean’s hair, and there are candy wrappers scattered between them.

           “Oh thank you all that is great and merciful,” she sighs, tearing up at the sight of her boy’s contented smile.

           The warm feeling fades, replaced with a more mischievous thought. She takes out her phone and snaps a quick picture. “Sam’s going to be so pissed he missed this.”

           Mary forwards it to her youngest son before heading off to bed.

           ‘A great Halloween indeed.’

[indigoforiver]

I wrote a fic for @garashirweek day 7 (AUs)! You can find it here on ao3, or read down below! Apologies in advance for the uh liberties I’ve taken with canon, but it had to be done for the human AU to work.

Title: Anyone Who Knew Anything

Rating: Gen

Summary: Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- their regular literature debates are the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day. The hidden truths of their relationship, too, are well-known to those who watch them.

i. a most interesting new friend

Though he’d only been practicing medicine in the area for four months, anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir. He came in for lunch there nearly every day of the week, unless a pressing medical emergency barred him, and everyone had the dubious pleasure of talking with him at least once. The man was gregarious, with a sunny smile and awkward charm, but he was plagued by an inability to ever, ever shut up that was amusing at best and mildly abrasive at worst. Despite that, Dr. Bashir was cautiously well-liked by Fontaine’s lunch crowd. That was why, when Elim Garak stepped into the cafe, glanced around briefly, and then made a beeline for the doctor, a startled and rather concerned hush fell over all assembled.

Anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s also knew of Elim Garak. He was a tailor, owned a shop across the road, and his wares were top-notch. But nobody trusted him. His movements were just a little too smooth and his mind was a little too clever for him to just be a tailor like he always insisted, and conversation with him felt like a battle that he always won. Rumor had it the man was from Cardassia, though his accent would never give it away, and if you caught the barkeep at just the right time she’d tell you that rumor also had it that he couldn’t go back. Everyone in the know gave him a wide berth, just in case, though nobody had bothered to warn the doctor to do the same. Sometimes talking to the doctor was difficult, as politeness seemed to fly completely over his head, and nobody wanted to be caught gossiping about the tailor, just in case. Garak never visited Fontaine’s during the lunch hour, anyway, so why bother?

The restaurant watched, near silent, as the tailor approached the doctor. On his part, Bashir was completely unaware, engrossed in a massive old book with a faded cover that nobody in Fontaine’s could recognize from a hole in the wall. The doctor’s literature habit was the only thing that could ever get him to stop talking, and the lunch crowd usually was grateful to see the doctor arrive with a book tucked under his arm. His favorites weren’t always in the mood for conversation, but saying no to him was difficult. “Like kicking a puppy,” everyone agreed.

Garak stopped next to the doctor’s table and stared down at him. He seemed to have forgotten his food in favor of reading- Bashir’s customary sandwich, ham and cheddar on wheat, sat on a plate pushed off to the side with only one bite missing, and his glass of iced tea was untouched and sweating condensation across the table.

He read on, oblivious, and Garak quirked a brow. “Excuse me,” he said, mild, and the doctor damn near jumped out of his skin.

All around the restaurant, patrons stifled their amusement as the doctor blinked in confusion and swung his gaze around to Garak, whose smirk could be mistaken for a smile. “Oh dear me. I do hope I’m not disturbing you overmuch.”

The doctor searched uselessly for something to say and, after a long moment of opening and closing his mouth, gave up. It was the first time anyone in Fontaine’s had ever seen him lost for words.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” the tailor continued, politely ignoring the doctor’s floundering, “that you enjoy classic literature, much like myself.” Then he paused for a moment and gasped, eyes comically wide. “Where are my manners? I am-”

“Mr. Garak,” Dr. Bashir interrupted, eager to finally get a word in. “I’ve heard of you- your clothes are quite good, if anyone trusts you enough to step foot in your shop.”

Sharp inhales and murmurs of dismay echoed around the restaurant, though nobody groaned louder at the tactless statement than the doctor himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, immediately apologetic, and everyone could see him flushing behind his hands. Luckily, the tailor didn’t appear to be offended, as he simply chuckled and took a seat in the chair across the table from the doctor. The contrast between them was striking- the doctor, wearing rumpled scrubs and sprawled over his chair, and the prim and proper tailor, sitting neatly upright.

“I see my reputation precedes me. But I am a simple tailor, nothing more.” Then Garak gestured to the book that sat open on the table. “Tell me, doctor, what is your opinion of the narrator’s preference for the color blue?”

Dr. Bashir, and indeed everyone in Fontaine’s, blinked in confusion. But the doctor rallied, rambling for nearly five minutes about the book that nobody else in the restaurant had ever heard of.

Then Garak raised a brow and demolished the doctor’s analysis in three neat sentences.

The doctor’s jaw dropped, face the absolute image of outrage. “Now you see here, Mr. Garak!” he protested, and they spent the next three quarters of an hour embroiled in a passionate argument over the book on the table as the rest of the cafe looked on in a potent mixture of abject confusion and extreme interest. The two of them left together, still bickering, and as soon as the doors swung shut behind them the restaurant burst into a flurry of conversation.

ii. waiting games

Before anyone knew it, the doctor and the tailor had established a pattern. Once a week they met for lunch and discussed literature, though their discussions really were mostly arguments. The rest of the usual crowd at Fontaine’s established a pattern too- one of observation. Something in the tailor seemed to loosen, just a little, when he was with the doctor, and somehow the doctor’s roughest edges were blunted by the tailor. They sat at their favorite table, in the warm glow of the sun, and argued, blind to the watchful eyes and ears of the restaurant. Occasionally Bashir was detained by his patients and arrived late or not at all, interrupting his own routine, and the tailor’s analysis was particularly cutting those days, displeasure plain to those accustomed to looking.

Rumors spread, like always, but nobody knew anything conclusive. Despite the emotions that flitted constantly across the doctor’s face, he was remarkably difficult to read properly, and it seemed nobody but the doctor himself could even begin to comprehend Mr. Garak.

Someone suggested that maybe that was evidence enough, but he was quickly shushed by the rest of the lunch crowd. They would all know it when they saw it, but not a second before then.

iii. sunshine

Dr. Bashir was a perpetual optimist, always seeing the best in characters and their motives and arguing doggedly for happy, or at least hopeful, endings. Mr. Garak, by contrast, was only ever able to see gloom and doom in the novels he and his lunch companion read.

“My dear doctor,” he would say, and the barkeep would add a mark to the official tally. “You are entirely too generous.”

“My dear Mr. Garak,” Bashir would rebut, smile shining in the summer sun, and up crept the tally again. “You’re far too much a miser. But don’t worry- I can change that.”

iv. close encounters

“I must confess,” said Garak, like the words were being pulled from him beyond his control, “I find myself agreeing- this tale does, indeed, end well for the leading lady and her suitor.”

Bashir beamed and reached across the table for Garak’s hand, and to everyone’s shock, the tailor actually allowed it.

v. shadows

The next week, Garak waited nearly three hours for Bashir to arrive, and the furrow between his brows grew deeper and deeper as each minute passed. The light of the sun, which usually fell evenly over their regular table, had completely abandoned Garak by the time he gave up and stormed back to his tailoring shop.

He left his book behind.

vi. dashed

The barkeep scooped up the book for safekeeping in the lost and found behind the bar. Curious, she flipped through the novel, just to see if she could understand or even enjoy the dense literature the doctor and tailor argued over so passionately.

“Oh no,” she breathed. Page after page was annotated in Garak’s spidery hand, pointing out symbols of hope. The final annotation, a particularly long paragraph at the end of the last page of the novel, was scribbled out with dark black ink, as if it had personally offended the tailor with its mere existence, and the barkeep couldn’t help but wonder at the dashed possibilities.

vii. do no harm

Rumor at Fontaine’s had it that Dr. Bashir had lost a patient that day, and that was what kept him from meeting Garak. The barkeep shook her head sadly. When questioned why, she said, “He may have lost far more than that.”

viii. a matter of time

It was a long, long time before either the doctor or the tailor came back to the restaurant.

Fortunately for business, and for each other, they did come back. Eventually.

ix. last call

The lunch crowd had to grudgingly admit they liked Doctor Bashir more than anticipated when his presence during the midday meal was actually missed. Fontaine’s seemed too empty and quiet without the doctor’s perpetual babbling, and of course, some of the appeal of lunch was gone now that his arguments with the tailor had ceased. Everyone was worried about him, and none moreso than the doctor’s favorites. Gradually, slowly, they hatched a plan to coax the man back.

When Bashir returned to Fontaine’s, it was nighttime, and for the first time in the restaurant’s memory, the man wasn’t wearing scrubs or a white doctor’s coat. His off-duty clothes were well-worn and several years out of style, and the brittle expression on his usually smiling face didn’t vanish until he’d played three rounds of darts and drank two brightly-colored cocktails. Even then, everyone could tell that his good mood wouldn’t last. When his favorites- his friends- eventually had to return home to their families and happiness, the doctor remained behind until last call, sitting beneath a flickering hanging light at the bar with his head in his hands.

x. bashir, alone

After that, the doctor drifted back to lunches, like his presence in Fontaine’s was inevitable. Nobody dared ask about the tailor, for risk of offending him or upsetting him, and he was quieter and more rumpled than usual, sad lines worn around the corners of his mouth when he thought nobody was looking and a wistful quality to his voice in quieter moments. He begun haunting a different table, hidden away out of sight from where he used to sit with Garak, but his new corner seat was still illuminated by the sun.

xi. concerning garak

The restaurant had been able to convince Bashir to return, but they couldn’t say the same for Mr. Garak. Nobody even knew if the tailor was still in town until the barkeep bravely ventured to the man’s shop and caught sight of him sewing in front of a window. He wasn’t trusted, not really, but his friendship with the doctor had improved his standing with the lunch crowd enough that even his harshest critics couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. After all, Bashir had been the man’s only friend, and if he really was an exile, as rumor suggested, then he’d lost everything a second time. So when he finally emerged from hiding and came to Fontaine’s one midmorning, ordering a tea drink no one remembered him ordering before, well, was it any surprise that everyone had something to say about it? It was eventually agreed that Garak came back more polished, sharper than he’d ever been, dark hair slicked back and pale blue eyes filled with vicious mockery whenever anyone so much as thought of approaching him, and he gave lunch and therefore Doctor Bashir a wide berth. But Bashir kept odd hours, and avoiding lunch was no real guarantee of also avoiding the doctor.

The usual easy flow of conversation stuttered to a momentary stop when the door opened on one overcast fall day to reveal the doctor, scrambling in later than usual. Garak, sitting at the bar and poking at a garden salad, stiffened ever so slightly, and otherwise gave no indication of acknowledging the doctor’s presence. Bashir ordered the first thing off the lunch menu and spent his whole meal staring at Garak’s back with big wounded eyes, completely oblivious to the rest of the restaurant.

Once the doctor and the tailor had gone, the cafe burst into speculative conversation. Surely, the consensus went, the tailor would never come back, now that he’d encountered the doctor.

The lunch crowd had never been more wrong, or more glad to be.

xii. fall

Though Doctor Bashir and Mr. Garak had returned to their old table and literature discussions, it was obvious to everyone in the know that things were not the same. The doctor stammered more, backpedaling and giving in far too easily when Garak pushed him, and the tailor was far too cutting and cruel to truly enjoy discussion for its own sake. The changing fall weather didn’t help either. Cloudy days cast long and heavy shadows across the table, adding weight to every awkward and frosty silence that would’ve before been filled by easy conversation.

Behind the bar, the tally board was dusty and neglected from lack of use, and every bet over the date of the next appearance of the elusive endearment ‘my dear’ fell through without success. The patrons, discontent, looked helplessly to the bartender for some plan of action, but she shook her head. They’d done all they could. The rest, now, was up to the doctor and the tailor.

xiii. handle with care

“I think the flocks of birds the author describes in the last third of the novel represent faith,” Dr. Bashir argued.

Garak rolled his eyes and scoffed. He was particularly prickly these days, and needed careful handling that not even the kind doctor could always provide. “Doctor, you are an optimist. Those birds represent faith disappearing- they do fly away, do they not?”

The restaurant, breath bated, froze in anticipation of the doctor’s response.

Bashir was undeterred by his companion’s bad attitude, and he offered the tailor a regretful smile. “Just because we don’t see faith doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Garak had a lot to say about that, but the doctor could not be swayed.

xiv. found

“I believe,” said Garak to the barkeep, during one of his early morning visits, “I left a book here, quite a while ago. Could you check for it?”

The barkeep nodded and headed into the back office, lingering a moment to pretend to search for the book she knew sat in a place of honor in the cafe’s lost and found, before picking the novel up reverently and returning it to the man waiting patiently at the bar.

The tailor gave her a peculiar little nod of his head and set off for his shop, book clutched tightly to his chest.

xv. know it when you see it

Anyone who was at all familiar with Fontaine’s Cafe recognized Doctor Julian Bashir and his lunch companion, Mr. Elim Garak- they had been a fixture of the cafe’s lunch hour for ages, and were indeed perhaps the main draw of business to Fontaine’s over the middle of the day.

“- really now, you can’t possibly be saying the ships symbolize the end of the world!” Dr. Bashir protested, hands waving wildly. Mr. Garak, in contrast, was perfectly cool and collected as usual, observing his lunch companion with the faintest hint of a smirk.

“My dear doctor,” Garak started, and all of the restaurant inhaled. Under tables, coins and bills and IOUs changed hands, and the barkeep incremented the official tally, but Dr. Bashir and Mr. Garak continued their discussion, oblivious. They always were. “If you would simply place your antiquated notions of literature aside and take advantage of a broader perspective, you would easily see the true meaning of those ships as simply apocalyptic.”

Dr. Bashir scowled, though the almighty mess he made of his fluffy hair ruined the effect. “My perspective is plenty broad, although I couldn’t say the same of yours.” He settled back in his seat, taking an aggressive bite of his sandwich- turkey and swiss on rye.

Garak quirked a brow and leaned forward. “Oh?” he challenged.

Bashir swallowed hard and slammed his sandwich down. Turkey spilled out between slices of bread as the doctor mirrored his companion’s posture, save for his elbows on the table. “Yes,” he insisted, meeting Garak’s eyes without blinking.

A hush fell over the cafe. At the bar, the barkeep quickly and efficiently took bets. She had her routine down to a science by now, after much practice.

“Do enlighten me.”

Bashir grinned, hazel eyes sparking with fire. “From the very first chapter,” he began, and he proceeded to lose every spectator in the cafe. None of them, of course, had read the book that was being discussed- that wasn’t the draw. The draw was the life present in the youthful doctor, the thrill of the collected and private tailor Garak losing any of his poise and mystique, and, of course, the illicit bets. It was rumored that one of Dr. Bashir’s friends had made thousands of dollars from predicting the outcome of the literary arguments, though of course the honorable barkeep would never confirm or deny such a thing.

At his table, the doctor reached the final pitch of his argument. “So you see, my dear Mr. Garak-” again, money exchanged hands under tables all around the restaurant, and the official tally was updated- “those ships don’t represent the end of the world. They represent a beginning.” The doctor searched for any hint of emotion in the tailor’s face, but he seemed to be unmoved. Bashir’s eyes squeezed closed, and when he finally opened them again they glimmered with tears in the tentative rays of unseasonable sunshine. “Elim, those ships represent hope.”

Never before had the cafe been so silent. Nobody who knew anything so much as dared to breathe out of turn as slowly, ever so slowly, the tailor brought his hand forward to rest atop the doctor’s. “Julian,” he murmured, with the faintest hint of a genuine smile, and when the doctor sighed in relief and victory, the rest of the cafe sighed with him.

Gradually, the soft clinking of dishes and the hum of conversation returned to the restaurant. Bashir and Garak continued their lunch as Julian and Elim, and anyone who knew anything about Fontaine’s could tell you exactly why.

[starkprotocol]

Getting Ahead vs Getting Along: a Balancing Act || Stark, Banner & Hill

TONY:     You’re going to want to see this.

[that had been Tony’s opening gambit, the inventor having spent several minutes excitably babbling on one end of the line to leave a lengthy voicemail in his wake on the scientist’s end - facts, figures and suspicions of Ultron’s previous actions all delved into within the short space of time. Pacing back and forth within the same room as the Cradle, he was especially aware of SHIELD’s surveillance aimed his way, jittery hands alternating between sinking into his pockets and folding across his chest. The large coffin-like feature had been the focus of the man’s attention since coming across it with Hill, a fervent enthusiasm broiling within the pit of his stomach, the sheer anticipation of unique research whetting his appetite. Eyes frequently casting down towards the timepiece upon his wrist, the engineer audibly mutters to himself as the seconds tick by, minutes transpiring and subsequently pushing towards an hour]

          Take your time, Banner…

BRUCE:     [ Bruce was still stepping into his pants when he dialed into voicemail, hoping the message wouldn’t bring any bad news ( not tonight, with Maria coming back from what felt like an extended trip to D.C. - ); the first slew of information mostly gets missed as he tries to catch up with the enthusiasm in Tony’s voice, pausing with a shirt in his hand and a slight frown on his face. A replay of the message isn’t needed though, and Bruce looks at the beef chunks thawing on the counter - but the prospect is too enticing, and he stows them away as he throws on a blazer, leaving the apartment and heading to the building he’d been pointedly avoiding for the past few months.

Getting into SHIELD is an uneasy juggle of protocol and side-eyes ( it still feels like Bruce shouldn’t be here ), but when he’s finally escorted to the room the presence of the large container pulls all his focus, and he forgoes even a basic greeting to Tony in favour of: ]

        This is the Cradle -- look at it, it’s like a little stasis chamber.

              Where was it? TONY:     [his agitated pacing halts as the adjacent entrance slides open, a look of enthused relief edging over the inventor’s expression, arms brought down to his sides to emphatically gesture towards the other with an amused grin swiftly curling over his lips. It feels like he’s been waiting for far too long within the spacious room, the surrounding glow of terminals dotted around the perimeter adding their own means of light. Quick steps approach the other scientist, pent up energy ready to burst from his very core as he humorously muses]

          Top secret location. But I can say it was previously being used as one of Ultron’s lairs to synthesise replicas of himself for his artificial army. Adamantium and/or steel, if I remember correctly, but this? This is different…

[the engineer grabs a hold of a nearby screen whose shimmering display reveals that an intricate scan was in process of the form within, swivelling it in Bruce’s direction for inspection. Tony practically holds his breath, expectancy etched all over his features]

BRUCE:     [ Bruce sidesteps the emphatic energy, more from the permeating awareness of where they are than anything off-putting on Tony’s part - the body is visible just beyond the musty glass, and Bruce peers from it to the screen Tony’s pushing towards him ]

           You found an Ultron body.      

[ that’s the first take away, but the significance of this particular body isn’t lost on him - the characteristic makeup of the previous Ultron body’s don’t match this readout… ]

    No, you found… 

[ the gears click and turn, and it’s barely a grind to realize the superior quality and craftsmanship; it doesn’t look sculpted or manufactured, it looks born - the scan’s 67%  complete, and Bruce pulls out his glasses, approaching the screen to scan the information more closely. But the data still doesn’t make any sense unless you presume -- ]

                Tony, you found his end game -

MARIA:     [ She’s been on the ground here in the city for close to two hours and it’s already clear that the day is inching nearer and nearer to being a long one. The ride from the airport is dominated by back to back calls fielded through the car’s soundsystem- which does nothing to soften the seemingly unrelenting barrage of New York City traffic. Her phone is tucked snug into her pocket by the time she hits the sleek glass doors of their building, meeting with a lower agent who successfully catches Maria in stride and begins to fill her in on the next several hours of her schedule and the unscheduled arrival of Tony Stark, who they could never seem to accurately pin down when it comes to timetables. 

The addition of Bruce to the personnel manifest in the building goes unnoticed- the alert pinging her phone while she’s caught in the riptide of the main corridor, from which she barely manages to extricate herself in favor of the wing currently housing the project Stark’s here to see. Her assistant produces something that needs her signature so she’s taking the door in reverse, turning while speaking- ]

     Stark, I know you know how to work a shared calendar. Cut my agent a little slack--

[ That’s a familiar posture over near one of the screens- Tony’s reminiscent enough, but she immediately clocks the curved shoulders, curled hair pattern against the glowing display. If there’s a hitch in her step it’s smoothed over in the next half second, the tightening at the corners of her mouth imperceptible at best. ]

     Dr. Banner [a cool acknowledgement, only a moment of attention before she’s turned her head to Stark ] Didn’t realize we were bringing in outside opinions on this.

TONY:     [Bruce doesn’t require additional prodding or a prolonged means of explanation - the scientist simply understands before the engineer has the opportunity to ascertain and formulate the required explanation, the two of them in sync where matters are concerned, the barest hint of an ember igniting with shared cognition. Tony taps the outer edge of the Cradle with the tip of his index finger, a rhythmic pattern that denotes his amplifying interest as his stance shifts to join and gain a better view of the screen]

          You got it. Of all the specimens that we came across after Ultron’s last endeavours, every resource imaginable that he had available to him at the time all lies within Sleeping Beauty over here. It’s one thing when man creates a machine, but when artificial intelligence does? You know you’re onto something extraordinar---

[the doors are opening from the other side of the inventor, animated voice instinctively hushing with the disturbance out of sheer habit, a quick glance aimed in the sound’s direction as the familiarly stern voice filters across ( that was quick, go figure ). There’s a low huff emitted, head tipping back a fraction with the roll of his dark eyes, as if a nonsensical question had been aimed his way out of sheer habit as opposed to in depth thought. As far as the man could see, there were no inclinations for suspicion, head tilting to one side with undercurrents of a darker sense of humour weaving into this speech]

         What can I say, I’m eager. The more the merrier, right? All hands on deck etc. In all honesty, in terms of additional consultancy it was either Banner or Richards, considering their respective fields… but the latter seems a little preoccupied - locked away in the Baxter Building with this research these days. You averse to a little additional help, Hill?

BRUCE:     [ Artificial Intelligence doesn’t ding Bruce’s bell the same way it clearly does Tony’s - but even Bruce can’t deny that there’s a certain kind of elegance and cohesion that goes with the streamline, mathematical marvel in front of them --

          scientific fascination takes a nosedive as he freezes, the sound of Maria’s voice such a surprise he doesn’t even turn around; did he miss the part where she was already back? The sound of his name is such a far cry from the norm that he wonders why - which brings about the recognition of what’s at stake, and what they’ve inadvertently stumbled into: Tony doesn’t know and that’s how it’s supposed to stay. 

Bruce clears his throat, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them on the edge of his shirt as he turns -- he can’t even look at her, not without giving something away, so he heads to the cradle instead ]

          I haven’t seen anything like this before. And without going extraterrestrial - I doubt anyone else has either.

MARIA:     [ An email is hastily being finished, strides slowed now that she’s emerged from the brisk clip of the hallway outside- by comparison the room is serene, almost like a mausoleum, the image secured by the glass case sitting center stage. Fingertips press the device back into her pocket, attention lifting back to the task at hand. Banner’s shift catches her eye, the motions read anxious against the catalogue of familiar tics, and in an effort to aid she puts a foot out, turns toward Tony with her head tilted. ]

           Not at all.

[ --and there’s a latent comment at the tip of her tongue, something about how nice it is to see them working together again, the sarcasm backing it directed toward Stark as though a lighthearted tease, but Maria’s well aware of the sore spot this might touch in the party’s other half. Instead, her brows twitch, inching upward above hooded lids that do little to hide her apparent bemusement. The Director stops at the head of the Cradle, carefully avoiding Bruce without trying to seem as though she’s ignoring him ( even if she does want to apologize for the change in plans that’s brought her back into town ahead of schedule ). She is, however, interested in what the scientists have to say, and her gaze once again falls to Bruce when he speaks. ]

           I agree, I think what we have here is incredibly unique. Stark? What have you found out about the asset?

TONY:     [he doesn’t notice the cause of the tension that burdens itself within the confined atmosphere, naturally attributing the heavier resonance within the room to the subject matter at hand coupled with Hill’s ability to bring a heightened means of strain with her icy presence ( some would call it a hidden talent ). ]

          What we have here is a good specimen of a sapient construct - a seamless hybrid between organic and inorganic materials, specifically organ tissue that’s been intrinsically bonded with vibranium. Ultron specifically chose to utilise this element to create a means of invulnerability - can’t say that I blame him. However, this composition is unique - while there are obvious capabilities of computer interfacing that one would expect of an android-like being, other features have been flagged up. What’s concerning, or exciting dependent on your point of view, is the potential to manipulate its atoms to shapeshift.

[digits swipe across the screen that he and the other scientist were sharing, data shifting to a series of usefully visual infographics. The inventor veers the pane of glass in the Director’s direction, tapping on a segment in the corner to bring up a schematic that he was able to extrapolate based on the cranial design]

          Considering the grooves that are present within the centre of its forehead and based on my previous research and retrieval of part of the set, it’s my belief that Ultron had the intention of attaching an Infinity Gem to it. My thought is that he was considering using it as an unlimited source of power.

BRUCE:     [ with the screen angled towards Maria, it prevents him from being able to see - and supplement - the data; he hesitates for a moment before taking a chance and coming around the side, stepping up behind Maria, nodding along at Tony’s explanations before stating the outstanding implications of it all - ]

          It’s already exponentially more advanced than any sort of robotic body we’ve seen before - but it looks like, right next to an unlimited source of power, it’s also been constructed for unlimited potential. See, typical cellular biology dictates a very rigid organic structure; but these preliminary readings -

  [ - he steps up behind Maria’s shoulder, reaching around her to point out the reading that supports his theory - ]

     - make it seem like its cells are on stand-by. Slight discrepancies in cellular makeup are normal, and we can accept fluctuations to a certain degree in these circumstance --  but the speed at which these are happening are barely quantifiable.

      I’d say the cells were some kind of mutation, but it goes beyond a genetic anomaly… 

[ all of which could mean a dozen different things, and he’s too taken by the implications and potential to realize how close he’s drifted to Maria, the proximity not registering on any level as indecorous ( though his focus on the screen and problem at hand might account for the lapse in his typically stringent personal bubble ) ]

MARIA:     [ Maria settles, arms drifting to fold across her chest. The expression on her face is partly amused, partly impatient. The two of them are prattling on, ricocheting off of each other so quickly she feels as though they might continue on to some far reaching thread, and in an effort to redirect the conversation ( act as a grounding wire to a pair of live currents ), she attempts to translate: ]

          So, it’s a cyborg. Essentially.

[ One brow arcs, Bruce comes in close and she sees it out of her peripheral- any movement now might call attention to the casual action so she remains at rest until he finishes speaking, at which point she angles out, adjusting just enough so that there’s several more inches between them. ]

                    In stasis.

[ It’s not hard to grasp, it just requires a bit of untangling before she gets there, and it’s not as though the pair of scientists made it easy for her. Maria exhales, turning her attention from Bruce- who she hasn’t seen this excited about the prospect of any sort of scientific problem since the question of Agent Morse’s research came up. There’s a split second where she might smile, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, which she hides by turning her head back to Tony, an expression indicative of her endurance regarding this whole situation. Her eyebrows pinch at the center of her forehead.

At the risk of sounding stupid, she considers her next question- 

        Whatever, she’s already outplayed here anyway. At least she can admit it. Inwardly. ]

     You’re telling me you haven’t tried all other means of energy sources for this… thing? Plain electricity isn’t enough?

TONY:     [the engineer periodically nods along with Bruce’s preliminary cellular analysis, restless hands slipping into his pockets and rummaging with odd items that had found their way in there - his wallet, phone, a double-ended slim line pick, a receipt from a local hole-in-the-wall diner he had stopped by earlier, a slither of metal which worked as a device to digitally exchange business cards ( who used actual cards these days, anyhow? ) which currently contained a few from some members of SHIELD’s tech security team as part of the futurist's ongoing work with the registration database. Stark catches Hill veering in his direction but doesn’t outright act upon it at first, maintaining his concentration on the data as a scarce hint of a scoff passes by his lips with her use of the term cyborg]

          Heh, that’s one way of looking at it, although this guy isn’t fictional.

[the inventor takes a deepened breath and can practically feel his patience beginning to fray at the edges, the conversation seemingly taking ten steps forwards between himself and Banner, but receding by five due to the comparatively slowed pace of Hill. His spine straightens, finally looking towards the Director pointedly with a muttered aside that’s barely whispered for her benefit]

          Talk about over-simplifying the problem… The mechanisms in place won’t allow for your typical means of power source to be broken down and processed. These bonded cells that are present complicate the entire equation exponentially, they aren’t a part of your usual everyday circuitry. It’d be like trying to plug Banner here to the mains and hoping he won’t get fried.

BRUCE:     [ sort-of not really, but it’s close enough ( they can go over it again, if she wants, later ) and he nods over Tony’s sci-fi comment with his own, less needling,]  Sure. Basically.

[ Bruce’s eyes slide to the side at Tony’s special brand of brash, ignoring it to instead pick up on his thread of example: ]

          That’s a bad analogy- I wouldn’t get fried; but…   the Other Guy would probably destroy the room so, maybe it is a good one? 

[ he looks to Maria instinctively for a second opinion, doesn’t see the arch of reaction he’s expecting - because why would he, and his eyes widen marginally as he clears his throat in what he hopes is a self-deprecating gesture, taking a step back, and heading to the Cradle ]

     Either way -   a proper assessment of the body is going to take a lot longer than those preliminary pulls, and a lot more resources than…

[ than SHIELD can likely offer at the moment, at least without pulling from Tony’s pool of resources ]

MARIA:     Clearly.

[ The word drips from her mouth, dry and unimpressed. She’s not surprised that Stark expects her to keep up even though she’s way out of her lane here. Her mouth tightens at the overly violent suggestion, an unsettled flicker of an expression flashing in the clench of her brows before it’s gone completely.

Maria shifts, body rotating to follow Bruce’s trajectory while she keeps one eye on Tony. Her arms are folded but the gesture is loose, barely defensive ( and if it is, it’s for her own benefit ). Lips roll between her teeth, she realizes her gaze has drifted to Bruce at the Cradle and it snaps back to Stark. ]

     I’m going to need more proof that you’ve tried every available option. I can’t sign off on just a ‘cool idea’.

[ Head tilted, she holds the stare with Tony for a beat before her attention is drawn by the other scientist’s voice, and if her expression softens just a touch-- Maria over-corrects to ensure it won’t read that way. ]

     How long? What’re we talking, timeline-wise?

TONY:     Let’s just say I prefer more colourful examples to convey concepts. Knock it if you will, but it’s an effective technique nonetheless. Words painting pictures, and so on.

[the futurist is aware that, despite recent untoward events, he’s in a somewhat favourable position - granted there are other individuals around the globe with a heightened degree of knowledge in the field of Artificial Intelligence with infinitely more than a soupcon of understanding in engineering and subsequently robotics, it was Tony’s sheer invested interest which made him a viable option in its development. Once a project piqued the inventor’s interest and imagination, he could move heaven and earth to see it reach a point of fruition - a trait that often bordered on obsession, compromise not being an option in the face of progress in Tony Stark’s book. It’s enough for him to cast a challenging glance towards Hill, chin haughtily raised upwards]

           I don’t think you appreciate the payoff of mastering the comprehension and implementation of this finalised prototype. The unique cellular bond with vibranium means that, in the right hands, this could potentially be an incredibly powerful asset. Fury had initially endeavoured to harness the power of the Tesseract for use by SHIELD. Are you honestly telling me that similar options are not on the cards? Seems to be a step backwards for you guys if that’s the case. Then again, what can I expect from the people who initially wanted to dismantle the components for analysis as opposed to its entirety.

[the billionaire’s voice is terse but the truth of the matter is that his demeanour could be considerably worse if not for the presence of the other scientist - as harsh as Tony could be, there was an underlying hint of consideration present due to Bruce. The two peers had been gradually mending fences after their tumultuous argument earlier in the year, the futurist willing to listen to reason if imparted from someone whom he had a significant level of respect for. His words soften a fraction, calm in the manner in which he relays across the apparently logical options]

           If it makes everyone more “comfortable”, we can approach this with smaller steps. Run a plethora of simulations of the effects of that level of energy before committing to it. It’s difficult to quantify a timeframe and, quite frankly, it’s dependent on who works on this. Your SHIELD-based “experts” - potentially more than a year, if you’re lucky. Myself, on my own, with a combination of my and SHIELD’s resources - six months plus. Add Banner to the mix - I’m thinking a few months of ardent work.

BRUCE:     [ the core of Bruce pulls in two opposite ways - precautionary wariness, as well as an eagerness to explore the scientific potential inherent in the specimen. The divide between Maria and Tony is as clear as the separation between the two opposite compulsions he feels  ( -- appropriate, perhaps, considering these two people he feels closest to, and their current attitudes towards the subject at hand ( and each other)

          And if there’s one thing he’s learnt, it’s that an excess of either predisposition could result in catastrophe -- though one of those was more likely to end with carnage ]

     Moving beyond comfortable,  [ no one’s missed the sarcastic intonation behind that word, and Bruce at least, doesn’t find it so luxurious ]  - I’d propose it’s just realistic.   There’s potentially enough power here to obliterate the Earth.

The only responsible thing to do is start at the bottom and work our way up - which means time, and a team that’s going to be able to balance caution, innovation, and creative intuition.

[ there’s no denying it - Bruce wants in on this; and he’d yet to meet a better candidate from keeping Tony from prodding too recklessly. ]

MARIA:     You’re right, I don’t.

[ How could she appreciate such a thing, standalone, just for the scientific properties? It’s all fine and well, but Maria isn’t truly invested until there’s something on the table that she can make use of. And-- there it is. The slant cast of her jaw brings her gaze back around to Stark, catching the upward tilt of his head and the haughtiness in that steel-eyed look. Of course. Shoulders roll back, blades tucking in toward her spine while she readies herself for what a careful acceptance of the project will mean. ( A risk, of course, but it means agreeing that Tony knows best- ) ]

     No need to get insulting, Stark. I’m well aware of Fury’s way of doing things. I’m not him. We go at this incrementally, like you suggested and Dr. Banner improved upon, or we don’t go at it at all.

[ She’s glad, suddenly, that Bruce is there and is able to ( ironically ) breathe a breath of fresh air between the three of them. Defensive walls are starting to come up and there’s the potential that this conversation could go downhill quickly once Tony or Maria start giving some pushback, but with Bruce mediating, they may actually be able to come to a decently fair compromise. An exhale slides free of the part in her lips and a relaxed expression begins to settle on her features. It’s not a bad thing, a compromise, especially with two so very willing participants. ]

     I’ll give you a list of people from S.H.I.E.L.D. I want on this, give you the option to have a few select subcontractors cleared by our security protocol on your side as well. That sound fair?

[ Considering Bruce’s reputation with the agency as of late, she’d prefer he approach the project from SI’s side. Plus, the pair of them already seem to have some sort of agreement they’re operating under. The set of her shoulders has softened, the hardline hold in her expression beginning to dissolve and she looks at Bruce. ]

     I can sign off on a few months of ardent work, so long as there’s something to show for it in the end. 

[ The irony doesn’t escape her, the fact that she’s essentially trusting Banner in this situation to be the one to keep Stark in check- ]