#i get way too precious with my sketches sometimes - gotta let em go!

[anonabelle]

futureverse!Mikey thoughts

[thiswasinevitableid]

Taste of Home (Indruck)

Prompt for the 13th was: strange harvest

Most days, Duck isn’t too worried about the dirt on his hands or the bits of leaves that stick to his clothes. Most days, he’s not about to meet with a reclusive, wealthy donor to the Kepler Botanical Gardens who has specifically requested Duck be present. 

When he enters the meeting room, Thacker is waiting for him along with a tall, pale-haired man sporting red glasses.

“Ah, here’s Duck now.” Thacker smiles. 

“Sorry, uh, thought we weren’t meeting until-”

“-One. You’re correct, I have a habit of getting a bit, ah, ahead of things t times.” The man offers a wide smile that’s polite but also gives Duck the heebie-jeebies.

“Duck, this here is Mr. Cold. He’s one of the garden’s longest standin supporters. He’s got a project for us, and asked that you be the one in charge of it.”

“I was quite impressed with your work on the native plant section, and I’m told you headed the transplant and maintenance of the tree specimens in the New Zealand section, which is no mean feat.”

“Thanks, I’m real proud of both. What do you have in mind? Is it an exhibit?”

“A private collection. Come, let me show you.” Mr. Cold unrolls a set of plans as Duck shoots a glance at Thacker.

“Didn’t know we did that sort thing.”

“We do for Mr.Cold. Whelp, I gotta go lead a tour. Mr. Cold, I leave you in Duck’s capable hands.”

He joins the taller man in front of the plans; they’re for a garden within a greenhouse, the structure as angular and distinct as the man requesting it. He knows the greenhouse hs Cold’s name above it, is usually used as a teaching space

“I imagine you think me rather selfish for requesting to use your space in such a way.” Mr. Cold doesn’t look up from where he’s making final notes on the paper, as if the answer is a foregone conclusion. 

“Think it’s kinda strange, but I ain’t about to rule on it bein selfish until you tell me what I’m actually doin.”

“I have several species of trees, flowers, and shrubs that I need grown. They are, ah, rather difficult to cultivate anywhere other than their native home, and I am not a skilled gardener at the best of times. Hence my seeking out someone who, I presume, has not killed multiple succulents in the last two months.” The man looks a little ashamed, then clears his throat, “the plants I am asking you to grow are the only specimens of their kind on earth.”

“How’d you get them, then?” Duck tries to keep the suspicion out of his voice, but this feels more and more like some rich guy made an impulse purchase of something that should be in a seed bank or species ark somewhere.

“I brought small specimens over from my home, which is where they grow. But I couldn’t keep them alive, and they were already rare. Last I heard they were all wiped out by an, ah, an illness. I stored seeds from my specimens in hopes of one day regrowing them.”

Duck looks at the diagram closely; the plant’s are actually sketched in, not just noted by name and the number of eraser marks suggest Mr. Cold spent a long time planning out exactly where each one went.

“You’re askin us to do all this because you’re homesick?”

“Yes. I have been away from home for a long, long time. The Kepler gardens have been a refuge for me. Lately I’ve been drawn to the woodland and prairie type sections.”

“I helped with a lot of those.”

Mr. Cold turns to him with a smile, “I know. That is another reason I requested you. But, before we go any further, I must make something clear; these specimens they mean...they are so, so precious to me. And secrecy is a must, for reasons I can only half explain. They would be solely under your care and protection. If that is not a responsibility you wish to take, I understand entirely.”

Behind the red glasses, Duck can just see a glint of hope. 

“Think I’m up to the challenge.”

“Wonderful” Mr. Cold claps his hands together, “in that case, there is not a moment to lose. Here, this is everything you need.” He produces a briefcase, inside which sits ten packets of seeds and three pits, bout the size of an avocado pit.”

“All the information I have on ideal growing conditions is in the attached notebook, and the seeds are labeled. If you have any questions, ny at all, my phone number is in there s well.”

 He pauses, smiles, and murmurs to himself, “it's been awhile since I gave anyone my phone number.”

Duck opts to ignore the stealthy glance at his arms and carefully takes the case, “Thanks, this’ll all be real helpful. 

------------

He doesn’t see his new patron (as Juno calls Mr. Cold) for a week. When he does, he’s on his belly, checking for any sign of sprouts in the greenhouse. 

“How goes the growing?” Mr. Cold asks from the direction of Duck’s feet. 

The gardener rolls over and sits up, “Not much to report, just trying to keep an eye on ‘em so I don’t miss anythin important.”

Mr. Cold offers his hand, helping Duck up, “I appreciate the care you’re taking, Duck. I hope it isn’t cutting into your other work too badly.”

“Had to move somethings around, but that's just the nature of this kind of work.”

Mr. Cold chuckles, “Pun intended?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“Oh. Your, h, your lunch time is coming up right? I was wondering if you would let me take you to lunch as an, ah, extra thank you?” He’s spinning a small ring on his finger, the shyness almost charming, and Duck felt neutral at best about the sandwich he brought today.

“Sure, thanks.”

Mr. Cold grins, “Oh good. Where would you like to go? I hear the crystal palace has a lovely lunch.”

“The fancy Japanese place? Pretty sure they got a dress code.”

“Brush off the dirt and you look completely respectable.”

Duck raises an eyebrow, “I was talkin about you.”

They both stare down at the classy but still very clear pajama pants Mr. Cold is wearing. 

“Fair point. How do you feel about Indian food?”

---------------------------------

Duck’s stepped into some sort of painting. And here he thought he was just wandering into the birch grove. 

Indrid (“”I really prefer that name”) is laying on his back on a bench. Sun streams between the branches, falling across his face, making it all angle and shadow in ways Duck wants to sit and study. His silver hair is ruffling in the breeze, and his glasses are pushed up his forehead. Eyes shut and hands folded on his stomach, he reminds Duck of the paintings in fairytales of someone waiting for true loves kiss. 

He’s worried he might be the one to give it.

They’re having lunch once a week at least now, the awkwardness of the first time melting away as Duck got going on a tangent about dandelions only to find Indrid, elbows on the table and chin in his hands, listening to him so intently he blushed on reflex. Then he was giggling as Indrid pulled a custom-made curly straw out of a small tin in order to drink his Mango lassi. And then Indrid had laughed at his laugh and it all fell into place, the conversation so easy it’s as if they’d know each other for years. 

Then there were the frequent visits by Indrid to the greenhouse to check on the progress. Which, if Duck does say so himself, if pretty fucking good. The plants are thriving, reaching for the light, and the trees are already flowering in deep blue stars, the speed with which they reached adulthood fascinating to him. Sometimes Indrid just comes to see the gardens, but always seeks Duck out to say hello and smile that increasingly charming smile at him. 

But the biggest change has come with Indrid asking if Duck would be interested in designing a small garden for him 

“Something very simple and manageable. Hardy too.”

“Any plant preferences?”

“No, I trust your judgement entirely, though you may have to help me with their maintenance the first few weeks, if that is alright.”

Duck would have done it even if Indrid wasn't paying him. He liked sitting in the living room, surrounded by strange art and  crumpled papers, showing Indrid how to tend houseplants. And when they sit on the back porch, each dirt-smudged and grass stained, Indrid sipping soda while Duck nursed a single beer, the other man kept beaming at the new, small patch of garden, Duck’s heart wanted to burst from his chest and flutter around. 

Last night, he stayed late for dinner, and as he was checking over the houseplants…

“I’m fond of this one. It’s sturdy and makes me smile, much like you.” Indrid murmurs as he steps beside him. 

Duck slides a smile his way “Dunno, partial to this snake plant we chose; unique and kinda tall, just like you.”

It’s the worlds weakest flirtation, but as Indrid steps away his fingers tease Duck’s lower back, “I wonder if they can cross-pollinate.”

All of this is why Duck decides to leave Indrid be. Because playing prince charming to one of the gardens donors could backfire and shatter his whole career if he reads things wrong. 

The path takes him past Indrid, and he steps lightly. But just as he passes Indrid's head, cool fingers find his own. 

“How is my favorite flora expert today?” Indrid purrs, eyes still shut.

“Good. Uh. Yeah, good. How’d you know-”

“It was you? I have my ways.” Indrid grins, squeezing his hand once before letting go, “are we still on for lunch tomorrow? I can bring you that soup you like.”

“That’d be great.” Duck hesitates, reaches down and ruffles Indrid’s hair. The other man sighs, rubs his face against Ducks palm. 

“I can't wait.”

------------------------------------------

It takes him until ten pm to remember he left his phone in the greenhouse. Which would not be a problem, except he’s supposed to take a call early tomorrow from Jane, the first time in months they’ve been able to talk.

Plus, he’s been having an excellent text conversation with Indrid until his last rounds, sending him pictures of the plants in the greenhouse, which all look ready to bloom in the next day, and the strange fruit on the trees; speckled gold and white, and smelling faintly of marshmallow. Indrid’s reply texts were filled with excitement (and a great deal of praise, which Duck is thoroughly enjoying).  He wants to keep that going as soon as he can.

He finds his phone on the workbench, looks up just in time to see glowing red eyes reflected in the glass. 

Something’s in the greenhouse with him. Which should be impossible, because only two people have the keys. 

Turning, he scans the plants and spots a large, dark shape holding very still behind the trees. Which would work better if said trees were not so thin.

“I am aware this is not a good hiding place.”

Duck gasps, not expecting it to talk, then steps back when the creature emerges. It towers over him, antennae twitching and wings rustling slightly. His mind puts all the pieces together, and he understands only half of them. 

“Why the fuck is the mothman breakin into my greenhouse.”

The antenna flatten slightly, “I am not breaking in. Do you see any broken glass?”

“No, but I got one key, and the only other person with one ain’t here. And put those down, they ain’t yours.” Duck reaches for the two fruits, each clasped between a pair of clawed hands, only for Mothman to raise his arms. 

“They are, in fact, mine. If you would stop trying to knock me over I can explain.”

“Uh uh, first you gotta put down Indrid’s things, then you can explain.”

The creature chirrs, annoyed, and points at its neck, “His things? Such as this key perhaps?”

Duck stops moving, staring at the key before rising his gaze to the mothmans face and meeting his eyes for the first time. 

“What the fuck? Indrid, what the fuck?”

A sheepish chirp, “There was not a good way to tell you I am a famous cryptid. At least, I did not feel there was one. I was worried you would be afraid of me if you knew.”

“Feelin a little too confused to be afraid. Did, did I just grow a mothman garden instead of a butterfly garden?”

The laugh is unmistakably Indrid, “In a way. I was telling the truth when I said these were from my home, but my need for them went beyond homesickness. Every twenty five years, my kind are compelled to eat these. It is not fatal if we don’t, but we suffer a very unpleasant illness for several weeks if we do not. I resigned myself to that sickness until I began visiting these gardens, and saw there were people who might be able to help me. My own powers, including foresight, cannot replace a green thumb. Your green thumb went beyond anything I could ever have hoped for. This” he gestures to the trees with their glittering fruit, the flowers blooming in a  rainbow of glowing star-shapes, “Duck I, I haven't seen a sight like this in close to a  hundred years.”

Duck holds his breath as Indrid steps towards him, bending to rest his downy forehead against Ducks.

“Thank you, Duck Newton. Thank you for giving me a taste of home.”

The human reaches up to touch a black, fuzzy cheek, “Does this mean you gotta leave or somethin, now that I know your secret identity?”

“Not unless you are planning to tell everyone you’ve been acting as the Mothman’s personal gardener.”

“Nah, rather tell ‘em about the cute fella I’m takin to dinner tomorrow.”

Indrid blinks, “You...you do not find this alarming?”

“I mean, you’re big and a little terrifyin, but you’re still Indrid. And it means a lot that you actually stayed and told me who you were, instead of just flyin off.”

There’s a deep purr as Indrid says, “In that case, may I invite you to dinner at my house, Duck Newton? I can even share some of this strange harvest with you.”

Duck grins, drawing his fingers long Indrids arm, “That your way of tellin me they’re an aphrodisiac?”

Indrid nuzzles his cheek and pulls him close, “I guess we’ll find out.”

[grandthorkiday]

Mob AU “Playthings” Part 19

[Link to mob!au anon’s “Playthings" fic tag]

[Start at Part 1]*

(*Note: Link is editable for other parts, just change the number. For mobile users, tag is “playthings part1”)

~2011~

Ashley was a sweet girl, if a tad annoying. She had a laugh that was a little too high and made her sound like she was going down a bumpy road. She wore too much jewelry, make up, and perfume, and when she talked in her thick Jersey accent she had tendency to smack her lips and talk with exaggerated gestures. But Mario didn’t keep her around for her conversational skills, as he was fond of saying when he smacked her large bottom as she walked by. Of the frequent hanger ons who came and went from the penthouse, she was Thor’s favorite.

“I brought yah something!” She called as he returned from working out in the hotel gym.

“You really didn’t have to,” he said, but was still excited to see what it was. He looked around. “Where’s Loki?”

“Oh he went with Gast somewhere. Focus!” She snapped her fingers and her rings clanged together. She tossed her overly large purse on the table and pulled out two large books. “Told yah my cousin went to college for this crap. Never finished, and tell him, Jay if you don’t finish sell yah books. Nah, Ash, I’m gonna finish. My ass he’s going to finish. He’s making enough doing the rackets. But here, you take ‘em!”

Thor took the books like they were precious treasure. ‘Medieval European History: An Introduction’ and 'The Viking and Their Legacy on the Early Modern World’ were heavy volumes. But there was art within the pages and most of all, it had nothing to with his current circumstances. He opened the page of one of the books to a picture of a war hammer and spear being laid out on a table by an anthropologist, showing the ceremonial markings and and decoration on both.

“This has some examples of actual art, right?” he asked, feeling a twinge of guilt at being so greedy with his desire.

Ashley didn’t seen to care. “'Course it does! You know, you can go to a bookstore and get a book on that! You already go and get your art stuff there.”

“I-I don’t want to ask,” he said, placing the book down. Asking was not the right word. Gast would want him to beg, for every cent and dollar. To leave the penthouse and get a book from the chain store two blocks away. He would have to debase himself. He already did that for art supplies, he didn’t think he could do it for a book. Maybe, if he was good, he could simply ask for a few books. If he was really good, Grandmaster would just shower him with whatever he asked for. He had to be good.

[read more cut]

“You draw anything new?”

He blinked a few times before answering. “Oh, uh, yeah. One moment.” He never left his sketchbook too far away from him. The penthouse crew had a 'habit’ of going through it and doodling over some of his sketches if he left it out of field of vision. Sometimes, Gast would have them punished if he caught them. Sometimes he would ask for a pen and make his own drawings. Thor really didn’t want to risk it.

He handed the sketchbook to Ashley who greedily snapped it up and opened it. She squealed in delight. “These are amazing!! Seriously, this hand and flower! I would totally get this done! Well, if Max let me get a new tattoo. But,” she turned the page and sighed, “oh this is just fucking gorgeous. You drew a cat and it looks so cute I wanna eat it up!”

“It’s Paul’s cat.”

“I know! And you should show him! He loves that thing. You never considered going into making tattoo art?”

Thor shook his head, trying not to laugh. Before he and Loki were kidnapped, he was an Econ major, desperately wanting to change his major to Medieval History. His Father would never expect anything less than him, though. Sketching and drawing was a hobby done behind closed doors, never encouraged except by his brother. He couldn’t even tell his mother that most of his drawings were tattoo inspired.

After they were taken, his education had stopped. Gast had floated the idea of letting them take online courses, but that was snatched away during one of their 'bad’ periods. Drawing became an escape. Grandmaster was his gentlest when he found him drawing and most people in the penthouse wanted a sketch, either for a tattoo or to just keep. Mario even turned one sketch into a shirt that he wore fondly during football season. Thor doubted Gast, however, would see the use or have the desire to put him through the training needed to be an artist.

As though summoned by the mere thought of him, Gast appeared with Mario at his side. Mario had a strange look of barely contained rage. Thor shrank instantly onto himself, gathering his new books closer to him. Suddenly Ashley having his sketchbook felt dangerous and he wanted to reach out and snatch it back. But he didn’t dare do that. That would bring attention to himself, and he wasn’t the one Mario was angry at.

“Hey, Ash!” the thug in question barked out, flexing his muscles as he crossed his arms. “Gotta sec to talk about the 'girl’?” They talked like this, even in the safety of the penthouse, most often. This vague way of speaking about their dealings. There were times, late in the evening and the dead of night when they would be specific. Old superstition someone once explained to him: the dark remains in the dark.

Ashley barely glanced up at him. “What about her?”

“She didn’t make it to the 'drop’. She and her 'merchandise’ are fucking gone.”

“Well she was on her way when I put her and the baby in the cab this morning.”

Mario rolled his neck in irritation and Gast chuckled darkly. “You didn’t go with her?”

The woman frowned and finally passed back the sketchbook who Thor nearly all but hugged when it was returned. “I ain’t going to see a kid sell a baby! I got betta things to do!”

“Like what?!”

“My hair for one!” She flicked her fire red curls over her shoulder. “And my nails! You want me pretty don’t yah baby?”

“I WANNA BE PAID TOO SWEET FUCKING HEART!”

“What you got there, Sparkles?” Gast asked. Naturally, this was directed at Thor and was said conversationally. Like there wasn’t a feeling of apprehension in the air.

Thor nervously showed his new books and sketchbook. Grandmaster waved him over and plucked them from his arms to examine them from his arms. He thumbed through one book before return them with a hum of mild interest. “You like this stuff?”

“Y-yeah,” he waited to see what happened. He ignored Ashley and Mario having a stare off.

“You know, there’s going to be a Medieval exhibit at one of the museums uptown. Forget which ones, but they want me to come by and throw some razzle dazzle on it. Maybe if you’re good, we’ll go.”

“Really?”

“Sure! Hey, sugar,” Gast leaned over and spoke to him like he was speaking to a child, trying to distract him, “how about you go to my bedroom and hang out with Lo Lo. I bet he could use the company.”

Maybe it was the idea that Thor was leaving that finally made it click in Ashley’s mind that she was in trouble. “Hey, he and I were talkin’!”

Thor was slowly already moving to the bedroom, however. There was still a morbid curiosity that made him want to turn back as Ashley called after him and Mario shouted her down. There was a human emotion to turn around and take one last solid look at what had been a friend and occasional ally. But if he looked back, would he still be good? No, it was better to be good and do as Grandmaster suggested.

The bedroom was large with a king sized bed and huge television built into the wall. Loki was laying on the bed in one of Gast’s robes, watching a period piece half-heartedly. He brightened though when Thor entered.

“Hey, how long have you been back?”

“Fifteen minutes. I got caught up talking to….someone.”

There was a sound of two people shouting from out in the living room.

“O-oh.”

“Hey, I got something.” He sat down on the bed and handed the books over to Loki. The younger man took them and began to thumb through them, smiling more with each page that turned. “I already got some ideas for sketches, but the information also looks really interesting.”

“Yeah,” the other replied, having to tear his eyes away from a sub chapter on the order of succession.

Thor took one of the books again and thumbed to the page with the hammer and spear. “I was thinking of sketching these two first. Make it look like heraldry.”

“Heraldry! Already talking like a professor!” Loki giggled.

“I was thinking of designing it as a tattoo…for you.”

The younger man blinked at him, taken aback. “For me? A tattoo? I don’t…”

He uncovered Loki’s left thigh. There were faded pink lines and crosshatches. One still looked red and recent. He reached out and touched the cut before the robe was yanked back into place. “I doubt it hasn’t crossed his mind the reason why you-”

“I don’t want to hear about-”

“I understand. I know. I know. Trust me…I can still feel where he touched me on the back the first time… in the shower….. But this,” he waved a hand to the scars under the robe, “This will not help.”

Loki laughed bitterly, “And a tattoo will?”

“Maybe. Think about it like this…he touches us now. It’s okay now, we’re used to it. We’re good. We…enjoy it now.” Admitting it out loud made him want vomit out every last trace of bile. But his brother was showing understanding and sympathy, so he pressed on. “But that first time. That first time was awful. Wouldn’t be easier to….edit what happened?”

“Edit?”

“He didn’t touch you here, Loki.” He gripped the other’s thigh. Green eyes began to tear up and he realized a little belatedly he had gripped too hard. He hoped the cut hadn’t opened and was bleeding in the Grandmaster’s bed.

“But he di-”

“No. Don’t think like that. Thinking like that makes it harder, doesn’t it? He touched your tattoo.”

“My-”

“Yes, your tattoo. I designed you an amazing tattoo and you have it and that’s what he touched.”

Loki looked at him for a moment with doubt before there was a female scream from the living room. He recoiled, his face looking full of terror. Thor gathered him in his arms and laid them back onto the bed, shushing his noises of distress. He found the remote and switched the television to something else, a random cartoon show. He turned the volume up and rocked the younger gently.

A few hours later, when Grandmaster would return, he would find his boys with the television still on to cartoons. Loki would be asleep using the robe as part blanket part teddy bear and Thor would be drawing the first draft of Loki’s new tattoo.

~2019~

“I know it’s stupid, and I never realized how much he took it to heart, but he was happy when I finally got it done. We saved so much money to get it,” Thor looked nostalgic for a moment.

“What happened to Ashley?” Tony asked, writing down a few things on his notepad.

“Well, once her hair grew back and her fingers healed, I think Mario sent her to one of the brotels. I mean,” he shrugged, “it was either that or she’s fish food.”

It was the casualness of how it was said that haunted Val for days after that.

[tisfan]

Ad-vengers in Babysitting

for @ifdragonscouldtalk ‘s challenge, Avenging comes in Small Packages.

“Hey, platypus,” Tony said, mock cheerfully. “You busy? I could use some backup here.”

Rhodey could always tell when Tony was fronting. It was a skill that Rhodey had developed out of sheer self-defense. “I’m not currently on duty,” he said, carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong, sour patch? Why would anything be wrong?”

“Aside from the use of the word backup, and also, the alarmingly there’s-nothing-wrong-here voice you’re using. Don’t bullshit me, Tones, just tell me what it is.”

“I… might need you to track down a bad guy for me and smack him around a little until he gives you his magic hourglass.”

“Uh… you might want to start at the beginning? And like, should I be taking notes, and where the hell is the rest of your actual team?”

“Right here, sugarlump,” Tony said. “They’re… uh… All about four to seven years old.”

“Okay, on my way,” Rhodey said. He shook his head and twisted the grey chased black bracelet that he wore all the time, even though it was against a dozen uniform violations. His suit was not -- and would never be -- as cool and responsive as the Iron Man armor, but that was because he couldn’t afford to be down on Tony’s lab every single day and letting Tony fuck with it. (Also, Rhodey had no intentions of going through the nanobot injections, he’d seen the scars Tony had from that, and no thank you.)

But the bracelet would notify his armor that he was on the way -- even with the prosthetics that Tony had rigged up for him, Rhodey just wasn’t as fast as he used to be -- and get everything ready.

“Stay in the suit,” Tony cautioned him. “This de-aging dust is pernicious.”

“Yeah? So how old are you right now?”

“‘Bout thirty, ish. Hard to tell, really,” Tony said. “I’m in the suit, which doesn’t exactly come with a rear-view mirror for me to admire my makeup in.”

“You put the suit on and it kept this from happening?”

“Well, I popped the faceplate and he got me with a little bit of the dust, so I think the sealed environment keeps it out.” Tony said. “I’m leaving the suit on because Bruce has temper tantrums and a five year old Hulk is destructive as shit. Just sayin’, kid’s got some anger management issues. And let me tell you, I need serious therapy for smacking a five year old around, even if he was a Hulk. Well, mostly I just sat on him, but still. This is not enhancing my calm at all.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what they mean by babysitting, Tony,” Rhodey said. He stripped out of his jacket, tie, and regulation shoes before letting War Machine close up around him. Ah, he loved being in the armor. Even after the fall, he still felt safe inside… like, if he died in the armor, it would be the best possible death.

“Boot me up, baby,” he told the suit as he stepped in.

“Good morning, Colonel Rhodes,” ROXY said, her voice fond. She was still a little stiff, not quite as expressive as Friday, or as JARVIS had been, but Rhodey loved her, too.

(more below the cut)

“Okay,” he said as soon as he kicked off from the ground. “Give me the sitrep.” He got a brief look at Tony in the HUD, face at least a decade younger, the lines eased around his eyes. Then someone -- probably FRIDAY, because Tony’s girl just had that sort of sense of humor -- gave Rhodey a pulled back shot from a security camera.

Iron Man was sitting awkwardly, metal legs in a criss-cross pattern, holding a tiny little tea cup in one enormous metal gauntlet. A princess tiara was perched precariously on top of the helmet and a fluttery, purple glitter cloak was thrown around his neck.

“Aren’t you precious?” Rhodey chirped, delighted. “Oh my god, I totally want like full-color photos of this. I might even get one of those life-sized cardboard cutouts, Mrs. Nesbit.”

“God, you’re an asshole,” Tony said.

“You need me,” Rhodey sing-songed. “So, tell me about this villain.”

“Um, totally cliche bullshit type of guy,” Tony said, and the HUD threw up several pictures of a skinny dude in a yellow spandex suit that looked homemade, along with a blue, shimmery cloak. He was carrying an hourglass that was almost two feet tall and probably weighed at least fifty pounds, based on the way Mr. Skinny was bowed over. “Calls himself Chronos.”

“Like the greek god of Time?”

“Linear time, at least,” Tony said. “Could be. He looked more like he was going for the Piers Anthony novel character. Anyway, he threw a handful of this dust out of that hourglass at Cap. We didn’t even realize anything was wrong for a while. Cap delivered the beat down on the guy’s minions--”

“He has minions?”

“Well, he did,” Tony said. “Cap busted ‘em up pretty good.”

“And you guys are all safe?”

“Relatively,” Tony said. “As long as I keep drinking tea, Nat’s happy, and if she’s happy, then Bruce is staying mostly not-green. I haven’t seen Clint in a while, and that’s worrisome even when he’s a grown up. Steve’s drawing pictures on the walls, that’s probably permanent marker -- oh, no, Cap, come on, can we keep the sketches to the walls and not on Thor?”

“Thor’s a baby, too?”

“Yeah, it’s both adorable and weirdly concerning,” Tony reported, “because he can still lift that stupid hammer of his. I swear, it’s a fingerprint, or DNA coded or something, because there is no way in the world that some three year old with a questionable vocabulary and the drinking habits of Howard Stark is worthy.”

“Baby Thor is swearing?”

“No, he’s threatening to wreak havoc,” Tony said. “Blood-thirsty little tyrant. I’ve got him snipe-hunting, at the moment, to prove his prowess.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, you bet your shiny metal ass I did,” Tony said. “Also, Wanda and Viz are missing, also worrisome, so, reinforcements on the babysitting end would be good, too.”

“Yeah, gonna give the baby avenger nanny job a miss. So, uh, what do you want me to do about the villain?” Rhodey asked. He checked his surroundings; damn he loved being able to just leave the driving to his AI, that was so handy. He knew Tony had sometimes used travel time to actually sleep, which was a little more than Rhodey wanted to do, but it was convenient to not have to worry about deployment.

“Find him, take the hourglass away from him, and go badger Strange into doing the bibbity bobbity boo schtick,” Tony said. “Wait, Nat, honey, can you get down from there, sweetie? Come on, just… yeah, there we go. What did I say about climbing on the furniture?”

“You think this is magic?”

“It sure as fuck isn’t science,” Tony said.

“Mis’er Tony,” a piping voice said, and the kids were all so young that Rhodey had no chance of identifying which one it was, “waz fuck mean?”

“Better wash your mouth out, Mr. Tony,” Rhodey said, in all seriousness. “You’ve got impressionable children around you.”

“Bite me, sugarbear,” Tony said. “Fuck is a bad word, and you shouldn’t say it where your Uncle Rhodey can hear you.”

“All right, Tones,” Rhodey reported. “I’m eleven minutes out. Don’t let the Spy Kids get you down.”

“Just hurry up,” Tony pleaded. “My rates for babysitting go up if I have to feed them.”

“Look at it this way,” Rhodey said, “at least none of them are in diapers, still.”

“Remind me when all this is over and I’ll tell you about Captain America and the Winter Soldier flooding the bathroom by trying to rescue one of the toys they ‘accidentally’ flushed down the toilet,” Tony grumbled.

Rhodey laughed. “You can’t say you don’t deserve this,” he said.

“I absolutely do not deserve-- stop laughing at me, honeybear,” Tony complained. “Ack, gotta run, Clint’s climbing up shit again.”

Rhodey grinned. “Record all this for me, Friday, you sweet thing, you,” he said.

“Already on it,” Friday reported.

“Good girl.”

“It’s not very often that the B-listers get to save the day,” Sam said. He’d been doing his thing down at the VA when the assemble call came in and decided that the team could handle it. Sometimes, comforting vets who were suffering from PTSD was way more important than busting up some third-rate knock off villain.

Apparently this had not been that time.

“I hardly consider myself a B-lister,” Dr. Strange said. He was doing that annoying, floating thing again, the damn showoff.

“It’s okay, man,” Sam told him, nudging Strange with his shoulder. “You’ll get your time to shine. I mean, you’re not quite as handsome as me, but you’ll make a really cute doll.”

The cloak that Strange always wore shoved Sam away. Sam had never been able to figure out if that cloak responded to Strange’s thoughts or if it had some sort of agenda of its own, but it hovered around the man like a velvet attack dog, and Sam had seen it do some pretty nifty tricks that a fancy bit of flannel should not manage.

“Your thinly disguised jealousy is an ugly thing, Mr. Wilson,” Strange said.

“What are we doing again, here, banter?” War Machine thudded across the street and dropped another one of the time-lord’s minions into the pile. “Also, they’re called action figures, Wilson,” Rhodes commented, turning his War Machine mask in Sam’s direction, which always made Sam a little nervous. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, exactly, that War Machine had taken a bad hit in the airport battle, but it kinda was, and guilt was a slippery subject.

 “Just thought you needed a new story for the parties, Colonel,” Sam said. “The one with the tank is getting old.”

“This one begins to show some signs of regaining consciousness,” Strange said, and he did that weird… thing with his hands; glowing golden runes in moving, twisting circles appeared. The minion was wrenched to his feet by invisible hands. “Will it help if I threaten you first, or would you just like to tell us where we might find your boss?”

“Oh, just turn him inside out as an example for the rest of these assholes,” Rhodes suggested. “I’m tired, I’m bored, and I didn’t get coffee this morning, before Tony rousted me to come deal with his cleanup issues.”

Sam was pretty sure that War Machine without coffee was more terrifying than Strange, but each to their own.

The minion, on the other hand, just looked stubborn.

“They’re all a bunch of stupids,” a tiny little voice said.

Sam whirled around so fast he almost got whiplash. “Oh, hell no, what… no, no, this is not… Vision, what the-- how are you even a kid?”

Vision, a tiny purple toddler, was floating nearby. He was holding hands with an equally tiny Wanda Maximoff. “A question that concerns me as well. But it has, it seems, happened, and we must deal with it. Wanda and I have located Chronos, if we might be of some assistance.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know y’all ain’t supposed to be out running around when you’re toddlers, right?”

“Hey, Tones,” War Machine was already on the communicator with Stark, which was just as well, because Sam didn’t want to deal with telling an already stressed out Iron Man that they’d found two runaway mini-vengers. “We found your runaways. Flying preschoolers are hard to keep a hold of, I get it, man, I do, but…”

“Chronos left behind a unique radiation and trans dimensional signature. Between Wanda and I, we were able to follow it.”

Strange flicked his fingers in one of those convoluted patterns; he always looked more stiff and formal than Wanda, whose magic danced from knuckle to knuckle like she was listening to her own personal rave. Sam couldn’t always tell if that was a result of Strange’s injuries, or differences in their training, or something else entirely.

Lines of shimmering blue symbols extended from Strange’s hands and circled the two children, coiling around until--

“Leashes?” Sam blurted. “You made magical mommy leashes?”

“It seemed, somehow, appropriate, given the circumstances,” Strange said. “After all, toddlers are trouble on the best of days, and magical, flying toddlers likely to be more taxing than most.” He looped the glowing runes around his wrist. “This way, we should be able to keep track of them, at least.”

The two flying kids looked like surreal helium balloons more than anything else, but working together, Wanda and Vision managed a spell that drew a brilliant yellow, crackling line between the mind stone in the middle of Vision’s forehead all the way to wherever Chronos was.

“I gotta say, that’s a neat trick,” Sam commented. He kicked off from the ground to scout ahead. “Even if if looks like something out of a damn video game.”

“It is the traces of his effects on us that Wanda’s spell is able to detect, pointing in the direction of the source,” Vision said. He was always a bit pompous, sounding like Tony’s old AI, which in turn supposedly sounded like the Stark’s old butler, but hearing that voice and those tones from a tiny little purple gummy bear of a kid was super disconcerting.

The line was as the crow -- or, in this case, the Falcon -- flies, so Sam zipped along the line, hoping the guy hadn’t done something like gotten on an airplane in the meanwhile. “I don’t suppose you can tie them up outside on the corner lamppost or something, while we bash some baddies?”

“Mr. Wilson, that would be very irresponsible,” Strange said. “Maybe we should leave them in your tender care while the colonel and I deal with the situation.”

“No, I ain’t drawing straws to see who stays the kids,” Sam said. “I got nieces and nephews and I have done just as much uncle-duty babysitting as is mandated by the state of New York--”

“Perfectly qualified, great, thank you for volunteering,” Strange said.

“Man, shut the hell up.”

But, of course, he got stuck with watching after Viz and Wanda while Strange and War Machine went inside to kick ass. Taking names was optional; he’d heard a rumor that Strange had taken one man’s name permanently -- like the dude never remembered his name again. Even nicknames. It was weird and scary and petty as hell, but it did make one a little leary about going up against the Sorcerer Supreme.

Chronos didn’t seem to have gotten that memo, so Sam was stuck outside, entertaining two highly dangerous, low on patience, kidlets. The usual things that Sam did to keep his sister’s kids out of trouble did not go over well with Viz -- being a synthoid apparently kept playing video games on Sam’s smartphone from being quality entertainment.

“A’ight now, Wanda, is that a real tiger there, or are you puttin’ a whammy on me, because I don’t appreciate no whammies,” Sam said. He was pretty sure it wasn’t an actual tiger, like escaped from the zoo sort of critter, but it was entirely possible that Wanda had gotten bored and decided to import a tiger. Or grow one from an alley cat.

“Put that thing back where it came from, or so help me--” Viz started, and then they were both singing that stupid song from Monsters, Inc.

“It’s a work in progress,” Sam muttered as the tiger disappeared in a puff of scarlet mist. “Why is it that you even know Sully and Mike, Viz? I didn’t think you were big into cartoons.” He pressed one hand over his chest, willing himself to calm. Down. No tigers. There were no tigers here, damn it.

“I do have access to my… former self’s memory stores,” Viz explained. “And Mr. Stark was particularly fond of showing a wide variety cinema to Captain Rogers.”

Movie nights. Sam sighed. It’d been a while since the Avengers had had movie night. “Huh. Do you like that sort of thing? Like, when you’re a full sized synthoid and not a pint sized technological terror?”

“I am fond of popcorn,” Viz said, thoughtfully. “And hearing the thoughts of my companions about the movies, although I find most cinema to be… less than engaging.”

“Popcorn, popcorn, popcorn!” Wanda bellowed. She jumped up onto Viz’s back, wrapping her arms around his throat. “Gimme a biggy pack ride!”

“I’m quite certain what you meant was a piggy back ride,” Viz corrected her, gently, which was probably just a bad move, because no one appreciated that shit. And yeah, there went Wanda sticking her tongue in his ear and blowing a loud, wet raspberry.

“I know what I said!”

“That was truly unnecessary,” Viz complained, but nonetheless, he hooked his hands under Wanda’s knees and trotted her around in a circle. Which worked great as a distraction right up until Strange’s magical leashes got all tangled up around Sam, and the three of them ended up stuck together like the world’s most awkward slinky.

On the plus side, War Machine came out a few minutes later, carrying a huge hourglass. He turned it over, opened the -- Sam assumed, bottom -- and sprinkled a little bit of dust on each of the kids, like some sort of metal Tinkerbelle.

“Hey, watch it with that stuff,” Sam protested. “Don’t need to be any older than I already am.”

“With age comes wisdom,” Rhodey said.

“Yeah, I’m good man. Wise enough, thanks.”

There was no possible way that the War Machine’s faceplate could indicate sarcasm.

It did anyway.

Tony was sleeping.

Steve, probably the oldest of the de-aged Avengers, was playing an entirely age-inappropriate video game on the playstation while the Winter Soldier was poking someone’s smart phone, looking up cheat codes and walkthroughs. Apparently kid-savvy with tech outweighed both of their “I was an adult in the 30s, don’t expect me to care about your smartphone” stubbornness. Or, as Rhodey had often thought, privately, they were both perfectly fine with tech, the two of them just liked yanking Tony’s chain. A hobby that, most of the time, Rhodey could get behind.

On one side of Tony was curled a just-barely toddler Thor, Mjolnir in his arms like a teddy bear.  

Peter Parker was the only infant, but still apparently sticky as velcro; he was clinging to the front of the Iron Man’s suit, napping, thumb shoved firmly in his mouth. There was drool dripping down his chin and onto the suit.

Black Widow was still having a tea party and had managed to talk Clint into wearing a purple princess dress and glitter flats and drink pretend tea out of little plastic cups while discussing the neighbor’s begonias. Hulk was a great, green toddler, nearly as tall as Tony was as an adult, but he was sitting, criss-cross, on the floor at Tony’s feet, petting a cat.

Where the hell had they gotten a cat from? Rhodey didn’t know if he wanted to know.

“KITTY,” Hulk bellowed, softly, as Rhodey tiptoed around the sleeping and resting avengerlettes.

“Yeah, I see that,” Rhodey said. “Hope Bruce likes cats.”

“PUNY BANNER LIKE KITTY!”

“Yeah, okay, so we have a Compound pet,” Sam said. “I’ll have Friday put in an order for litter and food. Or something.”

“Hey, Tones,” Rhodey said, shaking his shoulder gently. “Come on, wakey wakey, old man, time to give your kids back.”

Iron Man very gently wrapped one armor-clad arm around the sleeping Parker. “Shut up, sour patch. I just got them napping. ‘S everything okay?”

“Well, aside from the World War Twosome traumatizing themselves by playing Outlast 2,” Rhodey said, “we have a cure. And the baddie’s on his way to prison. And Strange is trying to figure out how to get the hourglass back to the person it belongs to, more power to him.”

“A cure,” Tony said. The facemask peeled back and a somewhat less aged Tony looked up at him. “Almost sorry to hear that. These kids are a lot of work, but--” he stared down at Peter, then smiled, a little dopey and sad. “I kinda like it.” Tony shifted a little until Thor was sleeping on the floor, still curled around his hammer.

“Yeah, thought you might,” Rhodey said. “You’ve always been Team Dad.”

Wanda was sprinkling the re-aging dust on various Avengers. Steve and Bucky suddenly growing back into their adult selves did not seem to keep them from fighting over the PS4 controller like rowdy teenagers.

“It was just… you know… nice,” Tony said.

Rhodey glanced around. “Kinda thought you might think that.” He handed Tony a pair of little ziplock baggies. “Save it for a special occasion.”

Tony’s eyebrows went way up.

“Just sayin’, Tones,” Rhodey said, “that it might be nice to spend an afternoon as kids again, don’t you think?”

Tony’s eyes softened. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely!”