It's me. The person who has posted nothing but Avengers/Marvel fic since... Well, for more than a decade.
I have posted a fic. It is not Marvel.
But in my usual way, I have looked around a canon, I have picked up a bunch of background characters, and gone, "You deserved better" and then went off to write them being horribly traumatized by the circumstances of the story.
As one does? (as one does)
Anyway, if you're one of the 1 6 people left on Tumblr who enjoyed "The Martian" and its story of a man left behind on an alien planet due to circumstances, please be aware that guy won't be showing up til chapter 3.
Literally no one is going to read this and I'm okay with that but man. I wrote a really good nightmare sequence here.
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(Steve/Tony, Toasterverse. All of these can be found under Sci's Fluffuary)
“You know, you don’t have to eat oatmeal anymore.”
Steve set his bowl on the table before he slid into his seat. “When did they repeal that law?” he asked, the faintest hint of a smile hovering around his lips.
“When the Oat Farmers of America were finally defeated in the war of 1983,” Clint said, stabbing his spoon in Steve’s direction. “Seriously. I know you didn’t have a choice in the thirties, but we have options now. Things that don’t taste like wallpaper paste mixed with a sprinkling of dirt.”
“Clint, you’re eating Cocoa Puffs,” Natasha said from her spot at the counter. She took a bite of her whole wheat toast and honey as the blender whirred away merrily next to her. “At least what’s in Steve’s bowl counts as food.”
“Legally?” Clint held up his bowl. “This is a food product.”
“Safe for human consumption in limited quantities," Phil said, sipping his coffee.
“Exactly.” Clint dropped it back to the tabletop. “At least it’s not cardboard on step 3 of 5 of the recycling process. Damp and slightly slimy.”
“I don’t always eat oatmeal,” Steve said, giving his bowl a quick stir. “But I do like the stuff.” He considered his spoon, eyebrows arched. “It’s comforting. And filling.”
“Yes, but you can put things on it now,” Clint said, around a mouthful of cereal. “Like, y’know, brown sugar. Or chocolate chips.”
“Or fruit?” Nat suggested.
“Insanity,” Phil said, his voice utterly deadpan.
“I put cinnamon on there,” Steve said. “And walnuts. Extra crunch.”
“You should try overnight oats,” Nat told him. The blender clicked off, and she reached for her cup. “It’s a game changer.”
“I don’t know how I feel about cold oatmeal,” Steve said. He made a face. “No, actually, I do. Cold oatmeal is a punishment, not a meal. At least not a voluntary one.”
Nat smiled. “Point taken.” She set the blender pitcher back on the base and headed for the table.
Phil gestured at her toast. “There’s peach ginger jelly in the fridge.”
“Strongly considering that for lunch.” She sat down with a ghost of a wince. “If I live that long.”
“No dying,” Clint told her, trying to sound stern.
She flipped him off. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Barton.” Still, she was smiling as she put a foot up on an empty chair. “I wasn’t the one who ended up in medical.”
“Again,” Phil mumbled into his coffee cup.
Clint threw up a double V-for-victory sign, leaning back in his chair. “Busted myself right back out again, too.”
Steve’s eyes bounced between the two of them. “Do we need to go back to medical?” he asked, and his tone made it clear this was not a joke.
“No, Cap,” Nat said. She took a long sip from her smoothie. “I just need about 48 hours where we don’t have to deal with-” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Anything.”
“Let’s just take the phone off the hook, let the X-Men deal with everything for a couple of days,” Clint suggested.
“No, Clint,” Steve said, his lips twitching.
Clint groaned, his head falling back. “Why is it always ‘no, Clint’ and ‘you’ll die, Clint’ and ‘stop jumping off of stuff, Clint.’ Why is it never ‘good idea, Clint,’ or ‘I totally want to help you blow up that bridge, Clint’ or-”
Steve stared at him as he took a bite of oatmeal. “Clint.”
Clint straightened up. “Yes?”
“No.”
Clint grinned at him. “Doc! Tell me yes!”
“Did I, uh, hear something about a bridge?” Bruce asked from the kitchen doorway. He squinted at them, running his fingers through his hair. Judging by the state of it, this wasn’t the first time.
Bruce stared at him. Clint did his best to look trustworthy. “Uh, no.” He wandered towards the pantry. “What is this discussion?”
“Our plans for the weekend,” Nat said. “There’s smoothie in the blender if you want some.”
“Oatmeal on the stove,” Steve said.
“And coffee,” Phil said, pushing himself to his feet. “So much coffee.”
Bruce smiled. “All the usual, huh?” He scratched the back of his neck, his head rolling to the side. “I, uh, might go for the oatmeal, actually.” He pulled a container of dried fruit off the shelf. “Do we have plans?”
“I have no plans,” Clint said, going back to his cereal. It had degraded into a chocolatey sludge. Just the way he liked it. “I never have plans.”
“That’s, uh, probably for the best,” Bruce said. “I should probably go over some of my lab results.” He gave them a quick smile and a shrug. “If that’s, uh, exciting enough for everyone.”
“Tony said we were going to Netflix and chill,” Steve said. “If anyone wants to join us.”
Phil choked on his coffee. Clint opened his mouth, and Nat pointed at him. “No.”
He slumped back into his chair. “Story of my life.”
Bruce held the fruit in front of him, the bag clutched in both hands. “Uh, well, that-” His eyes darted towards Nat, desperation written on his face.
“Probably not,” Nat said, resting her chin on one hand. “Though it’s nice of you to offer.”
Steve nodded. “No idea what he wants to watch, he hasn’t been talking about anything new, but sometimes he gets this-” He waved his spoon through the air, looking amused. “This need to show me a tv show from the 90s that I ‘missed’ when I was in the ice, and that is always a trip.”
“They’re never as good as you remember,” Bruce said. The fruit bag crinkled in his grip, his fingers biting into the plastic. “Also, usually sexist.”
“And homophobic,” Clint said. He stared at Phil, who was still coughing. He grinned. “We okay over there, sir?”
Phil held up a finger. It wasn’t his middle one, so Clint took that as a win. Phil cleared his throat. “We are not,” he said, his voice rough.
Steve passed him a napkin. “I can ask him what he’s planning, if that’d help.”
“Oh, we know what he’s planning,” Clint said. Phil’s eyes pinched shut, his hand pressing the napkin against his mouth. Clint tapped his spoon against his cheek. “Phil, do you want to ask Tony what he’s-”
“I will end you,” Phil said, his voice dire.
“I mean, I’d say better men than you have tried, but that’s probably not true,” Clint mused.
Steve’s brows drew up tight. “What am I missing?”
“‘Netflix and chill’ is slang for sex,” Nat told him. One finger tip bounced against her smoothie cup.
Steve looked at her. Looked at Bruce. Bruce nodded, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah, it’s… That has nothing to do with watching, well, anything? It’s-” He stopped, his mouth working. “Sex?”
Steve put his spoon down. “What’s sex?”
“That’s what he means,” Clint said, considering the box of cereal. This conversation might take a little more energy than he had right now. He grabbed it. “When he said ‘netflix and chill,’ that’s just a booty call, Steve, and I KNOW you know what that means.”
“Yeah, because we already had that discussion.” Steve leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “Why didn’t he just say sex, then?”
“Well, he could,” Nat mused, stealing a piece of Clint’s cereal. He swiped at her knuckles with his spoon, and she grinned at him. “But that would be rather tacky.”
“Even for him,” Bruce said.
Clint pointed his spoon at Bruce. “Even for him,” he agreed.
“‘Netflix and Chill’ isn’t tacky?” Steve asked.
“Fine,” Phil said, and Clint was pretty sure that single word was forced out from between his teeth.
Clint watched at Phil buried his face behind his tented fingers. He grinned. “How’re we doing over there?”
“Really?” Clint dumped milk into his bowl. “Not taking mental damage from hearing your childhood hero use the phrase ‘Netflix and Chill’?”
Phil’s eyes cracked open just far enough to level a vicious look in Clint’s direction. Clint grinned at him, unconcerned. “I’m immune to that look,you know.”
Phil arched one eyebrow, just the tiniest twitch of motion, and Clint felt a shiver run down the full length of his body. He swallowed. “That’s a new one, though.”
“I’m full of surprises,” Phil intoned, his voice as dry as the Sahara.
“Morning,” Tony said, as he walked into the kitchen, staring down at his phone. He swung his suit jacket over his other shoulder. “It’s okay if I kill say, 12% of my board of directors, right? Less than 20% seems acceptable.”
“No, Tony,” Steve said, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Tony made a face. “Fine. The things I do for love.”
“Speaking off, I invited everyone to join us,” Steve said. “In the ‘Netflix and Chill’ thing?”
Tony paused, his hand reaching for the cabinet door. He looked around the kitchen. “Everyone?”
“Well, Thor’s not up yet, so…” Natasha mused, stirring her smoothie.
“Oh, well, that’s fine, I can handle the rest of you,” Tony said. He paused, looking over at the table. “Unless Phil-”
Phil held up a hand. “Do not finish that statement, Stark, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”
“My life continues to be a series of disappointments,” Tony said, dumping an unsafe amount of coffee into his mug.
“So, sex,” Steve said.
Tony sipped his coffee. “I take it back, my life is awesome.”
“What if I wanted to watch something?” Steve asked him, his eyes dancing.
Tony brushed a kiss over his hair. “Bring the team. I can take a hint.”
“I don’t think he can, actually,” Clint said to Nat.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
As part of Fluffuary, I've returned to my tradition to writing a Foodieverse Valentine's Day story, my way of honoring the hard working warriors in the hospitality industry.
May they be recovered enough today to enjoy this one.
(Botverse, Steve/Tony All of these can be found under the tag Sci's Fluffuary)
“This is the most important task that I’ve ever given you, this is me asking you, as your father, to do something I cannot do, something that I don’t want to put on you, but I don’t see as how I have any other choice, so I’m asking you.” Tony took a deep breath, trying to release the tension in his jaw. “And I’m sorry.”
DJ straightened up, his small shoulders squared, his chin up. “Yes.”
“Okay. Right.” Tony shoved the box at him. “Hide this until Steve finishes throwing out all my stuff.”
DJ’s shoulders dropped, his mouth turning down into a sharp frown. Tony gave the box another shove in his direction, ignoring the wire that went slithering over the edge to the ground. “Box. Take. Hide.”
“Sir,” Jarvis said, and he sounded exhausted in a way that Tony was pretty sure he wasn’t programmed to sound.
“I do not need any sass from you, Jay,” he said. “You had your chance to take my side here and you failed, you have failed me, and I’ve turned to the only true ally I have in this household, the only one who understands me, the only one who loves-”
“No,” DJ said, and he went back to pulling books off of his bookshelf.
Tony stared at him. “What do you mean, ‘no?’”
DJ’s head tipped back. “Noooooooooooooooooooo,” he said, just a few decibels below a howl.
Tony sighed. “Rude, botboy.” He braced the box on one hip, walking behind DJ and across the playroom. “I’m just going to hide this in your treehouse for a few days.”
“Gonna get caught,” DJ said, holding a book in each hand. He looked from one to the other, his mouth a tight line as he considered them. Finally he set one back on the shelf and put the other into one of the boxes that were clustered on the floor next to him.
“I will never be caught, because I’m smarter than everyone else here,” Tony said. He ducked under a rope bisecting the area between the bean bag pile and DJ’s drafting table. “Were you making a fort?”
“Gonna,” DJ said.
“I wasn’t invited?” Tony asked, a little bit hurt by that.
DJ looked back at him, his eyebrows drawn up in a tight line. “Keep making WALLS.”
“Yes, walls, structurally sound. Draping blankets over ropes? Not gonna pass OSHA inspections, kiddo.”
“Like the blankets.” DJ scrambled to his feet, picking up a box of books big enough to throw him off balance. He swayed in place for a second, the books tipping inside the box. Tony took a step towards him, but before he could get any further, DJ hitched the box higher against his chest, waddling forward.
“Need help?” Tony asked.
“Nope!” DJ got it to the door, adding the box to the stack that was already there. He dropped it onto the pile, and dusted his hands together in a gesture that he absolutely picked up from Steve.
Grinning, Tony headed up the twisting ramp that lead around the base of the tree up to DJ’s treehouse. He was still proud of the damn thing, a towering structure of metal and wood and plastic. It wasn’t real, but Natasha and Bruce had added pothos, spider plants and ferns along the winding path, real greenery that made the illusion a bit more real.
Tony had objected at the time. Plants died. A lot. But they’d thrived under DJ’s care. He was good at schedules, good at routine, good at learning how to do things, and good for asking for help when he needed it.
Some kids got a pet. DJ got a spider plant that refused to stop putting out babies.
Across a suspension bridge, and up a few carefully starved steps, and Tony dropped his box in front of the door of the treehouse before scrambling the rest of the way up with his hands free. He shoved the box further into the playhouse with one foot.
“Hey, light of my life, have you seen your father?”
Tony moved to the window of the treehouse, leaning his arms on the windowsill to look down into the play room. Steve was standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Yes,” DJ said, back in front of his bookcase. He held up a book. “Keep?”
“You can keep all of them, if you want,” Steve said. He looked at the boxes stacked up by the door. “I know we’re doing spring cleaning, Deej, but that’s mostly because your dad is a magpie who gets emotionally attached to a circuit board that has literally been on fire.”
Tony frowned. ‘On fire’ was such an exaggeration. Minor scorching, at most. He could fix it.
Steve crouched down next to DJ, taking the book from him. “You like this one, right?”
DJ considered it. “Like all of them,” he said. He took it back, weighing it in his hands. “On library app, though.”
“Yeah, it is, you read it on your tablet.” Steve brushed DJ’s hair back. “And I’m glad the library has it, and I’m glad you use the library to read it, but you don’t have to give ti up.”
DJ nodded. “Okay.” He put it back on the shelf. “Not all of them.”
“Nope, you don’t have to keep all of them, or get rid of all of them,” Steve agreed. “And if you make a mistake and get rid of one you love, you can get it back. Okay?”
Another nod. DJ leaned his head against Steve’s arm for a second, then straightened up. “Art next.”
“Tell me if anything needs to be replaced,” Steve said, pushing himself to his feet. “Now. Where’s your dad?”
“Hiding,” DJ said, and above them, Tony let his head fall forward.
“Betrayal,” he muttered under his breath. ‘And humiliation. Don’t know which is worse.”
“Is he hiding, or is he hiding the box of junk I told him was going to the dumpster?” Steve asked. DJ looked at him, a wide smile on his face, and Steve ruffled his hair. “Or both?”
“Maybe both,” DJ said, going onto his toes to press his head into Steve’s hand.
“Right,” Steve said. “But he’s not in our apartment. And he hasn’t left the building. He hasn’t been gone for long enough to get far. And if he puts it in your bedroom, I’m going to find it, so…” His head tipped towards the treehouse. Tony didn’t bother to duck.
He knew the moment Steve spotted him. His smile was soft and sweet, full of the sort of affection that Tony never quite knew what to do with. The smile that Steve seemed to reserve just for him.
Which was only fair. Tony was pretty sure he had one he reserved only for Steve.
Steve never broke eye contact as he crossed the playroom. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” he asked, and Tony started laughing. Steve grinned at him, wide and bright, as he approached the base of the tree. “It is the east, and Tony is my sun.”
“No, your son’s over there, sorting colored pencils into color strats,” Tony said, leaning into his folded arms. “And I’m no Juiliet, what are you even doing right now?”
Steve set a foot on the bottom of the ramp, his head tipped back, his hands spread out to the sides. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, already sick and pale with grief. That thou, my love, art far more fair than she.”
“Gonna start throwing things down at you, you know that, right?” Tony asked, amusement curling him as Steve headed upwards, ducking through the trailing leaves, pushing vines out of his path before disappearing around the back of the trunk. Tony looked around the play house. DJ had a lot of stuff in here. “You’re a very big target.”
Steve paused just below him, his eyes dancing beneath the pale sweep of his hair. “Is this your way of saying you’re done with cleaning?”
“It’s my way of luring you out of my workshop so Jarvis can seal the whole thing down.” There was a vase of fake flowers sitting on the child sized table next to him, and Tony pulled a rose from it. He held it out to Steve. “You’re easy to distract.”
Steve reached up, his fingers brushing against Tony’s as he took it from his hand. “We’re still throwing it out, Tony.”
Tony smiled. “Hey, Deej!”
Steve groaned. “Do not weaponize the child.”
“Too late.” He didn’t look away from Steve, but from below, he heard the thump of bare feet bouncing towards them. “Steve says he’ll help us organize all of your blanket fort building materials. Want to pull out the bins for us?”
Steve caught the edge of the windowsill, pulling himself up to be eye-to-eye with Tony. “There is so much laundry in your future, mister.”
Tony leaned in, brushing a kiss across his lips. “Worth it.”
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(Roombaverse, all the ladies. All of these ficlets will be tagged Sci's Fluffuary)
“All right, does everyone have their assignments?”
“If you try to give me an assignment, Lewis, I will see to it that you’re transferred to the legal office,” Maria said, the words gritted out from between clenched teeth.
“Noooooo,” Darcy said, her head falling to the side. “I’d hate it there. They know all the rules and actually expect you to follow them.”
“And the lawyers will hate having you there, but I swear to God, I’ll fake a paralegal degree for you myself and exile you,” Maria said. Beside her, Pepper started to giggle, and Maria gave her a look. “Do you want her?”
“I would take her in a New York minute,” Pepper said, tipping her oversized sunglasses forward to peek at Maria over the rims. Maria glanced in her direction, and Pepper smiled. “Don’t try to bluff me, Hill, I’ll raise every single time.”
Maria’s lips twitched. “Remind me not to play poker against you.” She checked her side mirror, and merged into traffic. “Why are you trying to hand out assignments?”
“We have a lot of ground to cover, and only like-” Darcy checked her phone. “Nine hours? We need to be efficient about this.”
Maria’s eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror. “Nine hours.”
“Right,” Jane said. She opened her massive shoulder bag, pulling out a meticulously organized set of folders. She flipped open the top one. “Do you think we should split up?”
“Booooo,” Bobbi said from the far back seat. “I am not here for the event, I am here for the girltime, I’m not doing this alone. I refuse.”
“I refuse to spend nine hours with Bobbi,” Natasha said, and Bobbi gave a melodramatic gasp.
Darcy twisted around in her seat. “Settle down back there, girls, or AD Hill will turn this minivan right around.”
“Nine hours,” Maria said again.
Pepper studied her, taking a long, audible sip from her cup. Finally, she put the cup down. “You don’t know where we’re going, do you?”
Maria’s hands tightened on the wheel, her shoulders shifting forward. “I know where we’re going, in case you missed it, I’m driving.”
Pepper tapped the dashboard. “You’re following an address Darcy put into the navigation system, I saw her put it in before you showed up, and you might be driving, but you have no idea where we’re going, do you?”
“She doesn’t,” Darcy said, fishing around on the floor for the paper bag that held their breakfast. “I didn’t invite her.”
Jane looked at Darcy. Her hair was jammed under a baseball hat, and Darcy was pretty sure she was wearing one of Thor’s sweatshirts. “What-”
“Doctor G said if we invited her, she’d say no,” Darcy said, offering Jane her box of French toast sticks. “But if we requisitioned a minivan and put down why, she’d show up and insist on coming.”
“What,” Maria said.
“You fell for that?” Natasha asked, glee spiking through her words. “A trap that glaringly obvious?”
“I did not-”
“No, she wouldn’t have fallen for that,” Ana said, her head back, one foot propped on the arm of Darcy’s seat. “That’s why I told Darcy to book the van under Jane’s name.”
“Wait, you can do that?” Jane asked Darcy.
Darcy stared at her. “Jane. I book your plane flights. Your hotels. Your speaking engagements. I submit your expense reports. Why do you think I can’t book SHIELD services for you? I’m the department admin, I could change your insurance info and your beneficiary on your insurance policy if I really wanted to be evil, and you’re worried about me putting in a request for the hagwagon?”
“The what now?” Bobbi asked. She was still in pajama pants.
Darcy fished her bagel sandwich out of the bag and passed it back. “The. Hag. Wagon.”
Maria held up a hand and everyone went silent. “It is five thirty in the goddamn morning. On a Sunday. I haven’t had a day off in three weeks. And I’m driving a minivan to New Jersey, and I am here because you need adult supervision-”
Ana sat up. “Bull. Shit,” she singsonged. “If we had asked, you would’ve said no. You would be at work for the 22nd day in a row. And if Darcy had booked the van, you would’ve known it was a trap. But we booked in Jane’s name, which set of an alarm you absolutely have, because now instead of trying to call your attention to it, we were trying to cover for what we were doing, and that double bluff is enough to get you into the driver’s seat of a late model minivan with a bunch of women you keep claiming are not your friends. Because blah, blah, blah.” Her head swung back and forth.”Lone wolf, girlboss, hardass, etc, etc.”
She leaned forward. “Next time, we will invite you. And you will say?”
“Fuck you,” Maria said, but she was smiling, just a little. “Where are we going?”
“The largest thrift and vintage sale on the eastern seaboard,” Darcy said.
“Huh.” Maria nodded. “That’s… Better than I expected.”
Darcy held out a croissantwich. “Egg, avocado and heirloom tomato?” Maria took it, and Darcy was pretty sure that meant that she wasn’t going to end this road trip shoved in a car compactor somewhere in Jersey. “So. Now that we’re all on the same page, what are we looking for?
Pepper didn’t look up from the notebook in her lap. “Vintage Coach, pre-2000, preferably crossbody and clutch bags, but I’m open to anything in reasonable condition.” She held up a hand, her fountain pen gleaming in the low light. “Dig up anything in a the lower green tones and I will pay you a finder’s fee.”
Darcy’s lips pursed. “Okay,” she said with a nod. “Pepper has her assignments.”
“No, you all have my assignment.” Pepper twisted around in her seat, gesturing with the pen. “I want new purses.”
“I do love a good hunt,” Natasha mused, peeling back the foil on her breakfast sandwich. “I’m looking for Captain America memorabilia.”
There was a long moment of silence. Maria sighed. “Can you go five minutes without sowing chaos?”
Natasha took a big bite of her croissant, and chewed with a great deal of care. “No,” she said at last.
“For Clint or Phil?” Darcy asked.
Nat’s teeth flashed. “Depends on what I want.”
“If you’re going for money, Tony is the correct target,” Pepper said, sipping her coffee.
“Interesting,” Natasha said, licking her thumb. “The thought had occurred to me, but honestly? Cutting a deal with Stark is usually too much trouble.”
“Tell me about it,” Pepper said, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.
“Steve’s going to kill you,” Bobbi mumbled. She took a long draw from her iced coffee, her cheeks sucking in with the force. “I want a slinky dress.”
“Vintage? Modern? Colors?” Jane asked, scribbling in her folder.
“Fits my ass, everything else is negotiable,” Bobbi said, leaning over the back of Jane’s seat. “But red’s nice.”
“Medical equipment,” Ana said. “Pre-1900s preferred, I’ve been looking for a civil war era bone saw for forever.” She took a bite of her donuts. “Also ceramic unicorn figures.”
“I’d like to change seats now,” Bobbi said.
“I’ve found German produced turn of the century glassware,” Jane said to Ana. “And one time? A full centrifuge.”
“Goddamn, I would’ve done it, sterilizing equipment that could legitimately kill you? Who could resist?”
“Everyone. Everyone can resist,” Darcy said. “What about you, bosslady? What do you want to hunt for?”
“My sanity,” Maria said. Her fingertips drummed on the steering wheel. “And Pyrex.”
“Excellent choices.” Darcy held up the bakery box. “Who wants rugelach?”
(Sam/Bucky, Foodieverse All of these can be found under the tag Sci's Fluffuary)
“Are you in line?”
Bucky didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Does it look like I’m in line?”
The man looked up at Sam, confusion written on his face, and Sam gave him an easy smile. “He’s not in line,” Sam said. “He’s just-” He paused, looking down at Bucky, who was slumped on an upended milk crate, his long legs tossed out across the sidewalk in front him, his shoulders braced against Sam’s truck. Sam couldn’t see his expression from this angle, but judging by the way he was clutching the paper with his good hand, he was probably scowling.
Sam looked back at the man on the sidewalk. “He’s not in line,” he repeated.
The man did not look convinced. “Are you sure you’re not-” Bucky lowered the paper, his head coming up, and the guy looked like he was going to choke on something. Probably whatever he’d been about to say. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s just, if you’re not in line, I don’t know what-”
The newspaper came back up. “I’m the bouncer.”
Sam leaned an arm on the service window. “You’re the what now?” he asked, amused despite himself. “Since when you on payroll?”
“Does a food truck need a bouncer?” the man asked.
“When it’s this fucking good, yes, it does,” Bucky said. He rattled the paper. “Order something or move on, buddy.”
“Ignore him, he’s a local miscreant, but he’s harmless,” Sam said, reaching for his order pad. Bucky sputtered at that, and Sam grinned, wide and bright. “What can I get for you?”
The man considered Bucky, and took a big step to the side, well out of reach. “Uh, what do you-”
“Get the totchos,” Bucky said. “Extra pickled jalapenos, barbacoa pork, and a sprinkle of chopped scallions.”
“No body asked you,” Sam told him, his pen tapping against his order pad.
“Well, they should,” Bucky said.
“No, that sounds good,” the man said. He squinted at the menu for Potato Rescue. “You got Sprite?”
“Coke,” Bucky said. “And if you order diet, I’m tossing you right into the street.”
Sam braced his forehead in one hand, his eyes squeezing shut. “Bucky, I swear to God-”
“Okay,” the guy said, with a nod. He looked at Sam. “A can of Coke.”
Sam considered the guy. “You can have Spite, man.”
“No, he can’t,” Bucky mumbled, his shoulders hunched around his ears. “Citrus would ruin the deep, smoky undertones of the pork, what the fuck, Sprite.”
“I mean, he’s probably right,” the man said to Sam.
“He’s usually not, but we’ll give him this one,” Sam said. He pushed away from the counter. “Barbacoa totchos, coming right up.”
“Yeah, I’ll just-” The guy gave Bucky a nervous look. He took another step along the sidewalk, “I’ll wait over here. Out of the way.”
“Yeah, step aside, keep the ordering window clear,” Bucky said.
Sam looked at the empty sidewalk. “Yeah, because the rush is about to start at any minute, it being-” He glanced at his watch. “11:45pm.”
“Any minute now,” Bucky agreed.
“You gotta start wearing a better bike helmet,” Sam told him, and stepped away to the frier.
A few minutes later, he slid the paper boat of crisp, hot tots, braised shredded pork and cheese across the counter. Steam rose into the cool night air, finding cracks in the piles of shredded lettuce, jalapenos and olives. He added a side of sour cream and a stack of napkins. “Coke’s on the house,” he said, adding the icy can to the counter.
“Thanks.” The guy paid and collected his tots. Picking up the can of soda, he gave Bucky one last wary look before walking away, with a pace just under a run.
Sam leaned out the window. “Bouncer?”
“You said I couldn’t say ‘guard dog’ any more.”
“Yeah, because it was weird, Buck, you get that, you get it was weird, right?” Sam folded his arms, leaning into them. His feet hurt, and he was ready for this day to be over. “In that this is probably the best neighborhood I’ve ever parked my truck at.”
“Which means nothing, in the scheme of things,” Bucky said. He folded his paper up and stood, tucking it under his arm, adjusting his prosthetic as he found his feet. “Night’s over?”
Sam glanced at Tobru’s parking lot. Almost every car was gone, and the stragglers could fend for themselves at this point. “Yeah, or close. Just gotta clean up.”
“Great.” Bucky leaned his chin on the edge of the serving station. “I’ll take my pay.”
Sam stared at him. “Your… ‘pay.’”
Bucky’s eyebrows arched. “Commission?”
“I’m not paying you,” Sam said, struggling against a smile. “Why would I pay you, you traumatize people.”
Bucky’s eyes went big and sad, his mouth turning down in a sad little frown. Sam pointed at him. “No.”
“Tots?” Bucky said, his eyes enormous.
“Oh my God,” Sam said, laughter bubbling through him. “You’re a mooch, you know that?”
“I take offense to that,” Bucky said, straightening up. “I provide a valuable service.”
“Intimidating people into ordering your favorites off the menu in the hope you’ll get leftovers?”
“Increasing sales,” Bucky said. He gave the milk crate a kick, bouncing it off of the pavement and catching it on the first bounce. He swung it over his shoulder, his fingers hooked in the plastic lattice. “And general cleanup services?”
“That, I’ll take.” Sam tipped his head towards the back door of the truck and Bucky jogged out of sight. A moment later, the door opened, and Bucky slung the milk crate into its spot under a counter. “Bleach bucket’s in the usual spot.”
Bucky tucked his paper in his back pocket. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Same dropped the tots into the frier. “Nope, set the timer already.”
Bucky leaned in, and Sam let himself be backed into a corner, his shoulders pressed against the fridge. “You sure?” Bucky asked, his lips curling in a smile that still made Sam’s knees weak.
Despite that, he smiled back. “How often you hang around outside my truck? I know your tastes by now.”
“You sure as fuck do,” Bucky agreed, leaning in. Sam let his eyes slide close, a second before Bucky’s lips brushed against his. The kiss was soft, and sweet, and then it was none of those things.
The insistent beep of the frier was the only thing that had him pulling away. “Tots’re done,” he managed, as Bucky’s lips brushed against his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Sam let his head fall back, his breathing heavy. “Gonna burn.”
Bucky laughed into Sam’s shoulder. “I like ‘em crispy.”
“I’m not burning my truck down because you’re horny, get off,” Sam said, giving him a shove. Still laughing, Bucky stumbled back a step, and Sam ducked around him. “Letting my food burn, who do you think I am?”
“Clearly, a man of principle,” Bucky said, kissing the back of Sam’s neck as he passed. “I woulda eaten ‘em anyway, you know that.”
“Just because you have no taste, doesn’t mean I don’t have standards,” Sam told him, because okay, yeah, that was working for him. More so when Bucky actually flipped the lid off of the cleaning supplies and started wiping down the counters.
“I’ll have you now my standards are very high,” Bucky told him, working methodically along Sam’s workspace. “That’s why I’m dating you. Unfortunately, you’re dating me, so…”
Grinning, Sam grabbed a to-go container. “Oh, I see, you’re biking home tonight. ‘Cause no one who’s depending on a ride would insult the guy with the keys.”
“I mean, I’ll race you,” Bucky said, grinning down at the counter. A strand of dark hair slipped free from behind his ear, swinging into his face, and he blew at it, his nose scrunching up.
Sam set the to-go box in front o him, his other hand reaching out to tuck Bucky’s hair back behind his ear. Bucky leaned into the touch, rubbing his cheek against Sam’s knuckles. “You got plans tonight?”
“I recorded the game, and I’ve got like a month worth of invoices to enter into Excel,” Sam said, slapping lids onto the individual bins of ingredients.
“You open to a counter offer?” Bucky asked.
Sam stopped next to him, his hands full. “From my own personal bouncer?”
“I still say guard dog is better.”
Sam gave him a quick, hard kiss. “Not a chance.”
Bucky smiled at him. “Well, I’m angling for bodyguard.”
