#wc:1000to5000

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frank/grant/gerard | 2k | general audiences

Frank gets sick on tour.

[fanatolliel]

Short Story: Spilled Coffee and Singed Pillows: Marvel

Title: Spilled Coffee and Singed Pillows Fandom: Marvel Characters: Clint/Phil, cameo by Nick Fury Prompt: “I tried to surprise you, but I spilled your coffee on the way over…” thanks to @lukeskywalkersbutt Rating: G Genres: romance/fluff, humor Warnings: talk of guns and shooting Word Count: 1,100 Summary: Phil’s tired from a mission, Clint fails succeeds in taking care of him Notes: pre-Iron Man, story 3/∞ on this new blog

Phil tried to keep his frown from turning into a snarl as the post-mission review hit the thirty-five minute mark. It had been scheduled for ten, but everyone in the meeting who hadn't actually been on the mission kept talking about what happened and discussing different solutions. One of the new bean counters kept asking inane questions, like 'why didn't you use less bullets?" Phil was annoyed, his team was exhausted, and Fury was beginning to look murderous.

Finally, Phil put his foot down – or more literally his hand, as he smacked the table to get everyone's attention. "We didn't use <i>fewer</i> bullets, Jakobson, because that's how many it took to stop the target from firing his gun at Agents Kraig and Lu. If you think that's still too many, then you can take it up with me, privately, before you insult any member of my team further." Jakobson had at least enough sense to quail under Phil's glare. "We're done here." Phil nodded to his team. "Dismissed. Go get some sleep."

These post-mission meetings were a waste of time. Since Secretary Pierce had made them mandatory, it seemed like they had to explain in detail every tactical decision they made down to every bullet they fired. And there was always someone who didn't seem to understand that people were tired and wanted to go home. Plus the way some of them acted, it was like they were trying to make you feel bad for taking out the bad guy – be it terrorist or arms dealer or whoever. Phil always said he hated meetings he wasn't in charge of.

Phil was done for the day.

He wanted to go home, but the pullout couch in his office was much closer and calling his name. Decisively, Phil made a plan: nap in office, shower in the gym, food in the cafeteria or vending machine, then paperwork, then home. And then more sleep.

The door to his office was a few inches ajar.

Phil was not in the mood for a visitor.

Nevertheless, he pushed the door open. The sight made him groan – more in relief than exasperation.

Clint Barton straightened up in surprise from where he was leaning over Phil's desk. A pillowed dropped from Clint's hands. A singed pillow.

"You're back, babe!"

"You look surprised."

Clint laughed with a tinge of franticness. "Nope, I saw you were logged back on base, so I figured I had an hour or so after the debrief, medical check, and post-mission meeting. You took a lot longer."

"The post-mission meeting took longer. Again." Phil stepped forward, shutting the door behind him, taking a closer look at his office. Yes, that pillow was definitely singed. Apparently, by the candle that had toppled over and spilled wax on a stack of thankfully to-be-shredded papers. There were the remnants of some sort of food in the garbage can, but still plenty on the floor. The pullout had been partially pulled out. Clint smiled sheepishly. "Was there an earthquake, Clint?"

The laughter was chagrinned this time. "Sorry, babe, I tried to surprise you, but I spilled your coffee on the way over."

"Okay, but what happened in here?"

"Oh yeah, well, I tried to bring you food and coffee, but, as stated, the coffee spilled out there in the hall. I had too many things in my hands. Your couch is tricky, Phil; it's very, very sneaky. So I tried to pull it out, but pulled the wrong thing too hard and it popped and knocked me into the desk, and I knocked the food off onto the floor. And the candle. Yeah. I'll buy you a new pillow. Um… those papers weren't important, were they?"

Phil took a deep breath before stating, "Fortunately, no, or you'd already be dead."

Clint gave a dramatic "phew!" of relief. He walked over to Phil and shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry, babe. Glad you're back."

Phil shook his head and wrapped his arms around Clint. "I'm glad I'm back too."

Releasing him, Clint said, "Help me pull this darn thing out, and you rest while I finish cleaning up."

Phil showed Clint how to squeeze the bar to release the legs and the bed folded out nicely. Phil relaxed on his remaining pillows, while Clint bustled around putting his room back in order. "Here, babe, the bottled water survived." Phil smiled and drank a third of it down, before closing his eyes and listening to Clint hum a Motown song as he worked.

When Clint was finished, he asked, "What do you need first? Food, sleep, coffee, me shutting up and leaving you alone? Honestly, in spite the disaster I just caused, I am capable of taking care of you."

"Dim the lights and come lay next to me," Phil said.

Clint did, making sure he locked the door as well, cuddling up next to Phil. "Missed you, Phil."

"You're like a dog who panicked and destroyed the door because mom and dad left."

Clint snorted, belying his affronted words, "I'm offended!"

"I'm not surprised. When did you get back in from Ashgabat? You're probably as worn out as I am."

"No, I got in early this morning, so I got a few hours kip. But another nap would be great."

Phil's voice was soft as he drifted, but Clint managed to catch it. "I sleep better next to you."

Gently, Clint kissed Phil's forehead. Phil was back in his arms and all was right in the world. He was going to talk to Fury about those post-mission meetings though. Honestly, what did those pencil pushers think they were accomplishing? Big waste of time. Read the debrief like everyone used to do, and ask questions if you need to.

Phil shifted and suddenly asked, "Why a candle?"

"It was eucalyptus and lavender – supposed to be relaxing."

Phil settled down again. "Sounds nice."

"I bought two."

"Don't you dare move; I'm too comfortable. We'll bring it home."

Clint smiled and kissed Phil again. "Sounds like we could use it while we take a nice, relaxing bath. With bubbles and maybe one of those bath bombs Natasha tries to keep secret."

"You have sensitive skin – you'd itch."

"Probably. Still, think you'd look hot all glittered up."

Phil chuckled and poked Clint in the ribs. "I was halfway asleep. Don't make me laugh, and I'm too tired to think about baths with you."

"Just think of the warm water, the scent of eucalyptus and lavender, and my arms around you and drift right off to sleep."

Phil sighed deeply. "That sounds nice, sweetheart."

Clint tightened his arms around Phil. "Goodnight, babe." All was indeed right in the world, despite the subtle burnt smell wafting around the room.

[fanatolliel]

short story: Locked Away My Memories: Marvel

Title: Locked Away My Memories Fandom: Marvel Characters: Clint/Natasha/Phil, cameos by Melina May and Dr. Goodman Prompt: “I locked away my memories for a good reason.” (via. @colormayfade ’s prompt generator.) Rating: PG Genres: romance/fluff, humor Warnings: mild language, talk of blood and swollen faces and violence Word Count: 1,900 Summary: a mission goes wrong, the team deals with feelings and wounds Notes: pre-Iron Man, story 2/∞ on this new blog

Natasha Romanoff was shaking.

No, that couldn't be right – the infamous Black Widow, international assassin, deadliest woman alive didn't shake.

Clint risked another stare. No, there it was, a slight tremble to Natasha's hands every few seconds. Her hands didn't shake when she exhaled, so it wasn't pain or adrenaline – probably. Clint wasn't the medic for crying out loud; he was the sharpshooter, and so he noticed things like that – a tremble in normally rock steady, sure hands.

The medic had already checked Natasha over, and she’d given Natasha the all clear. It had been a nasty mission, but everyone had come through remarkable unscathed.

Honestly, you'd think you could count on the bad guys to show up on time for an arms deal. But no, bad guy group one had been late and when they did show, they were more on edge than was normal for a arms deal. Bad guy group two was even later, which made bad guy group two suspicious. Agent May, undercover, had to turn to Plan C to keep everybody happy. Of course, once May had mostly calmed everyone’s nerves that was when bad guy group two's lieutenant's cousin (the intel was still coming in) had suddenly shown up, it threw an even bigger wrench into the plan. Phil had immediately called for Plan M.

Clint didn't even know Plan M existed.

Fortunately, Phil did.

Apparently (according to Phil’s hasty commands), Plan M was Clint shooting a Stunner into the crowd, Natasha tackling May so she missed getting shocked, and Coulson leaving the van, running in, and taking out the few bad guys that weren't unconscious.

Which was badass, and would have worked, if May hadn't halfway dodged Natasha's tackle, causing both of them to get hit. And if the bad guy group two's lieutenant's cousin hadn't been some sort of enhanced. Apparently, the dude had some sort of warning system that made him really hard to punch.

And hard to shoot. Which was just plain rude.

All in all, the mission had been a disaster, but a success from an objective standpoint, nonetheless. All the bad guys were subdued. The guns and grenades had been confiscated. The secrets had been spilled. Natasha and May had been annoyed with each other, but after a few minutes of glares and the silent treatment, the both had gotten over it.

While the mission itself would be written up as a success, it was Phil the medic was fussing over as the quinjet flew back to HQ. He was conscious, but woozy with a concussion. Fighting an enhanced who had a warning of your next move and had a preference for punching the head would do that to you.

It had taken a well-timed team effort to put the little bastard down. At Phil's glance and nod, Clint had fired an arrow just shy of the back of the enhanced’s head forcing him to jerk forward right into Phil's fist.

Even bleeding out of every hole in his head, Coulson still had that knockout punch. Badass.

But not fun.

Clint wasn't worried. Despite the anxious hurry of the medic once they got on the jet, Coulson smiled at Clint. Clint knew he'd be all right.

Natasha though.

Clint was worried about her.

Clint unbuckled and sat down beside Natasha. She didn't glance at him, but since her hands didn't tighten, he supposed she didn't mind that he knew.

Well, if she wanted to talk, he'd have to start the conversation. "Coulson’s going to be fine."

"I know." Natasha's voice was stiff, and Clint had to lean closer to hear her clearly.

"May isn't mad at you."

Natasha snorted.

"You didn't mess up the mission–" finally Natasha looked at him with a glare. Clint scrambled, "I mean, that should be obvious, it was that enhanced. He's the real party crasher. No way we could have predicted an enhanced who could predict that his cousin was in danger and also be super dodgy."

"Coulson did," Natasha said with the smallest of smiles.

"Of course, he did. Guy's a mission simulator. Sure, maybe he didn't know the specifics, but you can be sure he had a plan if one of the bad guys got twitched or if sirens had driven by and spooked them or if a wayward skydiver had parachuted through the warehouse."

"I think those are Plans C, G, and U."

"Right? Coulson's awesome." Clint leaned back, tried and failed to stretch his legs out in the small space. Time to be blunt. "So what's with the shakes? You got some sort of alcohol addiction I'm just finding out about? You got the DTs?"

"No."

"Level with me, Nat? I know you don't get scared and you're too used to the adrenaline to get jumpy, and we just went through the whole not worried about the mission or Coulson or May. So spill."

Natasha pursed her lips and turned to the window.

Clint waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

In fact, they were five minutes out when Natasha said, "It's Coulson."

Clint blinked. "Come on, Nat. I know everyone has a crush on him, but this is a bit much."

Natasha glared. "It's not him in particular, but what happened." She paused a minute before continuing. "It's been a long time since I've seen someone get hit in the face that many times with that much blood."

"Head injuries bleed a lot, Nat."

"I know, Clint," Natasha said sharply. "I've knocked out more people than anyone's fair share. But so many times, so unrelenting – it's been a long time since I've seen that." Her voice was small as she continued, "The things they made us do – when we were training – they were horrible, Clint. I've tried to forget. I've locked away my memories for good reasons. I've tried to forget, but all his blood, his face, he reminded me of the other girls, and what I did."

Cautiously, Clint wrapped his arm around Natasha’s shoulders. Slowly she leaned against him. They said nothing for the rest of the trip back to base, but when they got up Natasha squeezed his arm.

Four days later Clint and Natasha were visiting Phil. Again. They visited him multiple times each day, staying for as long as the doctors would let them, leaving only until they could sneak back in. 

"The swelling's gone down, sir," said Clint cheekily as he dropped package of bear claws on Coulson's lap and plopped down onto the chair next to the bed. "You're as handsome as ever."

"Get your feet off the bed," commanded Natasha with a swat. She ignored herself as she sat cross legged on the foot of Phil's bed. "And don't bump him; doc says he's still concussed."

Phil smiled at the pair as he broke into the treat. His eyes closed in bliss as he bit into the sugary sweet pastry. Clint unabashedly watch with a smile on his face. After he swallowed, Phil said, rapturously, "I doubt I'd be healing at all without you two bringing me goodies. It must be some sort of law that every hospital has to have bad food." He passed two of the bear claws to Clint and Natasha.

"The pasta isn't bad," said Clint.

"Like you'd know," teased Natasha. "You never stick around long enough to be served dinner."

"I've had it a few times," Clint protested.

"Yes, I think that mainly would be due to the fact that you were strapped down and I was watching you. You'd never imagine a man could complain so much; it's like we were torturing him instead of healing him," Phil said with a laugh.

Clint shrugged, unashamed.

"How much longer do the doctors say?" asked Natasha, her voice light, but both men could see the tension around her eyes.

"'Soon' is the word they keep throwing around. 'Soon' and 'it was a bad concussion, agent; it could take weeks,'" Phil quoted. "But, honestly, I do feel better and better. Fury pulled rank and demanded they give me my phone and tablet yesterday, so I don't get behind."

"And go crazy," added Natasha.

"And try to escape," continued Clint.

"Neither of you has any room to talk," Phil scolded playfully.

After finishing the bear claw, Phil wiped his hands off on a mournfully small wipe. "How are you doing, Natasha?"

Clint was surprised – Natasha didn't freeze or glare – she only said, "Better, sir." Apparently, Clint wasn't the only one with hawk eyes on the team. Though Coulson's face had been so swollen, there should be no way that he could have seen anything, let alone a tiny tremble–

Phil interrupted Clint's confusion, "Natasha came to visit me by herself a couple of days ago."

"We talked through it," said Natasha firmly.

"And we agreed that as long as you were talking through it with Clint or myself, you didn't have to visit Psych," continued Phil.

Natasha nodded, sparing Clint a glance; he smiled back at her. "Come on, Nat, even the two of us knuckleheads have got to be better than Psych."

"Even Medical's better than Psych," said Phil.

Natasha smiled. "‘Knuckleheads’ is right."

"Hey, badass and handsome and sexy are a much better fit!" Clint protested.

"You know, Natasha," said Phil with a smirk, "if we're knuckleheads than you're the person in love with knuckleheads. What does that make you?"

"A saint," deadpanned Natasha. Clint threw his wrapper at her. "No seriously, the Vatican just called and I'm getting venerated next week." Phil pushed her in the shin with his leg until she was half way off the bed.

"All right, that's enough. Both of you out!" Dr. Goodman glared with hands on her hips, as she pointed out the door. 

"Every time!" groused Clint as he stood up. "Doc, are you a ninja? How do you know we're starting trouble every single time?"

"At least you admit you're trouble," said Dr. Goodman as she ushered them to the door. "Remember, agents, I work for Shield too."

"Figures," muttered Clint as he headed down the hall until he was stopped by Phil's voice.

"Wait!"

"Sorry, doc, even ninja doctors can't stop us from saying goodbye." Clint walked back into the room with a "sorry, I forgot, sir," and gently, carefully kissed his husband on the lips. 

Natasha was close behind with another kiss. After pulling back she whispered something too soft for Clint to catch, and Phil smiled and then actually blushed.

"Woah, watch it, Nat; his heart rate just spiked! Damn girl!"

"Out now," snapped the doctor. "I will talk to Fury if you give me any more trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," said Clint with a salute, as he was shoved out into the hall.

As the pair walked away, Clint leaned over and said, "You've got to tell me what you said to Phil."

Natasha said, "Nope," with a popped p and a grin.

"Babe, come on!"

"Don't call me babe."

"Sorry, shit, sorry. Just come on, Nat! If you won't tell me then at least show me."

"Sure, I'll show you, when we get home."

"Yes!" Clint did not punch the air in excitement.

Natasha chuckled. "...When we all get home; Phil too."

"Party pooper."

"Come on, it's always better with Phil."

"Well, I mean yeah, he's a handsome badass, but remember, 'weeks?' You can't make me wait that long for whispered things that make Phil blush."

"Yes, I can."

Clint sighed, "Yes, you can."

"Love you too."

[mcrfanficsforall]

The first time Mikey brought a heater into the shower with him, Frank freaks out. He doesn't find out until after the fact, though, which means Mikey is still in one piece. That doesn't stop Frank from freaking, though.

[mcrfanficsforall]

The fact that Frank would walk around in a public place clutching a teddy bear in one hand and holding Gerard's hand with the other was one of the many reasons Gerard was completely in love with him.

[mcrfanficsforall]

Fluff, sap, a trip to Ikea, a total disregard for canonical timelines and no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

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He looks up, catching his reflection's eye in the mirror. He hasn't dyed his hair in too long and there are dusty brown roots peeking through underneath the black, and he's just as freaky-pale as ever, but his eyes look big and bright and his mouth is wet and open. Pretty, he thinks. It's kind of dark in his basement, but, he thinks, taking a step towards the mirror, it kind of... suits him. Or, the one where Gerard jerks off in front of a mirror.

[mcrfanficsforall]

The suitcase Gerard's, and it's empty. Apart from a handful of balled-up receipts and chip packets and broken pencil leads, there's nothing in it.

Which means Gerard got on a flight to Japan with nothing but the clothes on his back and a pack of smokes in his pocket. Frank sits there on the bland beige carpet, wrestling with the implications. No matter how hard he tries to chalk it up to Gerard's flakiness or a bag that went missing at some point, he can't do it. The answer is obvious and unavoidable and awful.

Gerard didn't intend to make it home.

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Domestic kidfic schmoop.

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Fluff, sap, a trip to Ikea, a total disregard for canonical timelines and no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

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Frank gets caught in a rain storm at the bus stop. A red-headed stranger lends him a poncho. AU.

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The most awesome thing, Gerard decides, about Frank is the fact that he will let Gerard have sex with him at almost any time on any surface in any way.

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Frank needs to work out a little anger.

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Gerard is totally disturbed, because he's sort of obsessed with making Frank drool.

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Gerard could have drawn from memory, obviously; Frank's form is imprinted on his mind's eye, and he's drawn it more times than he can count. Gerard just loves to have Frank pose, though. There's something amazing about having Frank all laid out in front of him, for him, unselfconscious, sprawled artlessly on the couch, legs spread, cock soft, ribs rising and falling slowly.

[mcrfanficsforall]

Written for prompt number ten of the yobrothatssick challenge: Frank and Gerard work in an office building together. One day, Frank doesn't show up for their smoke break. And then again. Where is he? What can Gerard do? What happens NEXT?