(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.
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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.”
(Annieverse, Jarvis and his many, many ducklings All of these short fluff prompts will be tagged Sci's Fluffuary)
“Did no one eat lunch today?”
“Nope.” Clint didn’t look up from his work, his knife moving with with quick, steady precision against the cutting board. “Or breakfast, for that matter.”
Jarvis heaved a silent sigh, setting the lid back on the soup pot. “Mrs. Parker?”
“The boys ate breakfast.” She flipped over a massive stoneware bowl, tipping a mass of pale, sticky dough out onto the polished surface of the counter. There was flour dusting the crisp fabric of her apron and the handkerchief that held her hair back. “And they are the only two I can maintain any sort of control over.”
Clint grinned down at the joint of beef he was trimming. “It’s sweet you think you can control them.”
“They sometimes do what they’re told,” May said, her lips twitching. She glanced up at Jarvis as she scraped the last of the dough out of the bowl with a sweep of her hand. “The others can be harassed, browbeat or ordered, but never controlled.”
“And yet you have more success than most of us,” Jarvis said, smiling. He checked the coffee pot. Full. And fresh, if the smell was anything to go by. “So the scones you made for breakfast?”
“In the pantry, waiting to go stale,” May said, a tart note entering her voice.
Jarvis pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket, popping it open with a flick of his thumb. “Perhaps an afternoon snack, then.” He glanced up. “If they will not be in the way?”
May laughed, her face relaxing as she dipped her hands in flour. “When are they not?” she asked, with a slight shake of her head. “Better they eat, no matter how much of an annoyance they are.”
“Just to be clear, that’s her opinion, not mine,” Clint said, and May flicked some flour in his direction. He dodged backwards, grinning. “Just for that, I’m not putting the kettle on. You can have your tea lukewarm.”
“That, at least, I can do,” Jarvis said, picking up the copper kettle. It was always heavier than he expected, even empty, but he wasn’t so weak yet that he couldn’t manage. Someday. But not today. He crossed to the sink. “I’ll gather everyone. Perhaps a bowl of soup for the boys, to tide them over to dinner?”
“We’ll feed the urchins,” Clint said, moving the beef into a roasting pan. “The rest of ‘em are on their own.”
“As they so often are. How none of them have starved, left to their own devices, I have no idea.”
“I’ll get some butter and jam from the ice box, perhaps some clotted cream,” May said. She met Jarvis’ eyes as he set the kettle on the stove. “See if you can locate Natasha? She’s been ducking me all day.”
“She’s in the music room, taking down the drapes.” Clint washed his hands. “And she’s avoiding us on purpose.”
Jarvis took a deep breath. “I’m sure she is. Thank you, Chef.” Clint waved him off, and Jarvis straightened his jacket, tugging it into place. “Once more into the breach, I suppose.”
“Good luck,” May said, leaning into her kneading.
“Indeed. I may need it.”
He knew every inch of this house by now. He avoided the squeaky step on the kitchen stairs without even thinking, and tapped the outer edge of the door with his heel before he pushed it open. It stuck, in the winter, the wood swelling, hanging heavy on the hinges. He adjusted a vase on its pedestal as he passed, recentering it on the stone base. The carpet tended to bunch up by main doors to the vestibule, and needed to be stomped back into place.
He knew every place the stone dipped, and the glass dimmed. He’d polished every bit of brass and scrubbed every inch of wood, from the basement to the attic. He knew how it functioned.
It could still surprise him, though, and that was delightful.
He opened the doors to the garage. “Gentlemen. Time for a break. Join us in the kitchen.”
Only the lower half of Happy was visible, his torso disappearing under the hood of the Rolls Royce. Nearby, Rhodey was seated at the workbench, a few pieces of machinery scattered in front of him. He waved a wrench at Jarvis. “Sorry, we lost track of time.”
“I wanted lunch.” Happy’s voice floated up from the depths of the engine compartment. “He’s the stickler who said we had to get this done.”
“You’re the one who’ll complain non-stop if you have to drive something else tomorrow,” Rhodey pointed out.
“I want it fixed, I don’t want to fix it!” Happy struggled out and upright, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Can’t you just bring it out here, Jarvis? Please?”
“I could, but the mood in the kitchen has taken a turn,” Jarvis said. “And should you like either Chef or Mrs. Parker to continue to feed you at any and all hours, I think it best if we respect their efforts and meet them where they are. In a literal, as well as figurative, sense.” He paused, his eyebrows arching. “Do you not agree?”
Happy winced. “When you put it like that, maybe a break is in order.”
“I have to agree.” Rhodey slid off of his stool. “Give us five minutes to clean up, Jarvis.”
Jarvis inclined his head in a slight. “Thank you, sirs. Your presence, as always, is appreciated.” He stepped back into the house, pulling the doors shut with him.
The fastest route to the music room was directly across the polished floor of the grand atrium, and through the main doors, but she’d be expecting that. Instead, Jarvis slipped into the library, moving through the connecting doors to the billiard room. The pocket doors that separated the billiard room to the music room slid open soundlessly, a wall opening with the smallest amount of pressure.
Natasha was on a short stepladder, lit by the pale, winter sunlight that filtered through the well scrubbed windows. The glass gleamed behind her, giving her an ethereal glow as she reached up, her arms piled high with the heavy silk and velvet curtains. It swayed as she moved, twisting around her legs like the skirt of a ballgown.
She shifted her burden to the side, and Jarvis saw her arm twitch backwards, her breath hissing audibly through her teeth. He stepped into the room. “I thought you said you weren’t injured.”
Natasha stilled, one hand gripping the fabric of the drapes in a death grip. She took a deep breath, her head turning slowly over her shoulder in his direction. “One of these days,” she said, her voice silken, “you are going to sneak up on me at the wrong time, and it will end badly for both of us.”
Jarvis smiled, his feet moving briskly over the carpeted floor. “And on that day, I shall die doing what I do best.” He stopped next to her, taking the weight of the curtains from her.
She looked down at him, her eyelashes dipping low over her eyes. “Being a general annoyance?”
He chuckled. “Perhaps, though I should prefer to classify it as ‘doing my utmost to care for those within my household.’” He looked up at Natasha, his eyebrows arched. “Your shoulder, Miss Romanov?”
“With all we’ve been doing recently, is it such a surprise that I have sore shoulders?” she asked, stepping down from the ladder. She reached for the curtains, and Jarvis stepped back, out of reach. She stopped, her lips twitching into something just short of a smile. “Jarvis…”
“There is a cup of tea waiting for you down in the kitchen, or coffee, if you need something stronger,” Jarvis said, setting the drapes on the nearby couch. “And a fresh basket of scones. After we’ve had a break, I’ll come back and assist you with the rest.”
“I can handle this,” Natasha said.
“You could,” Jarvis allowed. “And I could tell Doctor Banner about your fall.”
For a long moment they just stared at each other. Jarvis waited her out, his smile serene, his posture relaxed. But when she reached for the curtains again, he leaned in a bit. “Or Chef, if necessary.”
She pulled a face, her nose wrinkling. “Mind your own business, old man,” she said, but it there was humor in it.
Jarvis smiled. “I do believe I am.” He gestured at the door. “A quick break will do you good.”
Natasha swept her hands over her simple black skirt, smoothing it back into place. “I’m going to wait until your back is turned and then return back to my work, you do know that, yes?”
“Of course,” he said. “And I would have it no other way. Downstairs, please.”
He let her leave first. Or perhaps forced her, by standing there, with that serene smile, until she gave up and headed for the door, her head held high. Jarvis followed behind her, shadowing her steps across the polished marble floor until they reached the door to the servant’s stairs to the kitchen. Only after she disappeared inside did he turn back towards the terrace.
Outside the glass doors, he could see Steve, still shifting the newly fallen show off of the back terrace. He was bundled in a wool coat and heavy corduroy pants, a knit cap pulled low over his forehead. He looked up as Jarvis stepped outside. “Go back inside,” Steve said, leaning his shovel against the stone. “It’s cold out here.”
“That is to be expected. It is winter, after all.” Jarvis cast a speaking glance at the smaller shovels leaning against the stone railings nearby. “Working alone, I see.”
“They did a good job clearing the steps,” Steve said with an easy smile. He adjusted his leather gloves, tugging them higher up on his wrists. “But art calls.”
Jarvis looked over the railing down at the rolling back yard. The running footsteps of the boys had left clear trails through the pristine snow, showing every move they’d made. Now they were hard at work rolling up a snowman to match one already positioned like a guard at the base of the wide staircase. DJ’s scarf was tucked in his pocket, the red wool dragging through the snow behind him, and Peter’s head was bare, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes. But they both had their coats buttoned up to their chins, and bright mittens firmly set on their hands.
As Jarvis watched, DJ picked up a massive ball of snow, bracing it against his chest as he shoved it up and in place. Peter watched, grinning, his hands out and ready in case it slipped loose. It settled in place, looking only a little lopsided, and DJ flopped backwards into the snow, his arms outstretched.
“They are going to be soaked to the skin, aren’t they,” Jarvis said, amused despite himself.
“Pretty sure they already are,” Steve said, leaning his hands on the handle of the shovel. “Time to send them in?”
“It is well past lunch, and I do not care to see them catch cold.” Jarvis clapped his hands together, just once, but Peter’s head snapped in his direction instantly. Jarvis pointed at the greenhouse. “Go fetch Doctor Banner, please,” he called down. “After that, both of you come in. There’s soup and warm bread waiting.”
“On it!” Peter called back. He leaned down, offering DJ a hand. “Wanna come, or do you want to go help Steve put the shovels away?”
“I can handle it,” Steve said, picking up all three. “Take the kitchen door, please, don’t track snow through the house.”
DJ took Peter’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He gave Jarvis and Steve a wave, his face split with a grin that was visible even from a distance, and turned towards the greenhouse. He crashed through the snow, kicking it up wildly with every step. Laughing, Peter chased behind him, his longer legs chewing up the distance between them.
“I’ll just… Meet them at the kitchen door,” Steve said with a smile. “See how much snow I can get off of them before they go inside.”
“A quick shake should do the trick,” Jarvis said. Reaching up, he adjusted Steve’s coat collar, sweeping away the snow that had accumulated there. “There will be a hot cup of coffee waiting for you.”
Steve stood still, letting Jarvis fuss for a moment. “And I’m grateful for it.” With a smile, he slung the shovels over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. “Won’t say no to a piece of Mrs. Parker’s spice cake?”
“I do believe she has a piece tucked away just for you.” Jarvis stepped back into the house, pausing in the doorway to knock snow from his shoes. It wasn’t much, but better for the leather to get them clean as soon as possible. He’d still have to give them a good polish tonight, but an ounce of protection was worth a pound of cure. And he’d always hated shining shoes.
He backtracked again, through the vast, echoing entry hall and up the grand staircase to the second floor. The door on the corner was closed, not that he’d expected anything else. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, not waiting for an answer before he opened it and stepped inside.
Pepper looked up from her work, her eyes tired, her mouth tight. The small desk beneath the window was her favorite spot in the office, and the ledgers were stacked up there, neatly stacked beneath sheets of blotter paper and a few spare pencils. “Good afternoon, Jarvis.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Potts.” Jarvis looked at the huge mahogany desk that dominated the other side of the room. Tony hadn't even looked up, his head down over his work, his shoulders hunched forward, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. One hand was spread over the blueprints in front of him, ink staining his fingertips, the other gripped a drafting pencil with a death grip. His hair was disordered, and Jarvis could see the clear furrows his fingers had dug in the locks.
“Your coffee is ready, sir,” Jarvis said, crossing the room to the desk. Pepper straightened up in her chair, turning to follow his progress. One soft curl and worked its way free of her precise hairdo, sweeping against her cheek. Jarvis gave her an encouraging smile, and she smiled back, her expression exhausted. “Perhaps it’s time for a break.”
“Thank you.” Tony’s hand came out, fumbling at the desktop without looking. Jarvis watched him, amused, until Tony finally looked up. He stared at Jarvis, his eyes unfocused. Then he looked back at the desk. “Where is it?”
“In the kitchen, sir. Where coffee comes from.”
Tony squinted up at him, his brows furrowed. “Why isn’t it here?”
“Because I didn’t bring it,” Jarvis said, as if explaining things to a small child. Behind him, he heard a choked off giggle from Pepper, and did his best not to smile. “As you can easily see.”
“Yes, but-” Tony blinked hard. “Why didn’t you bring it? You always bring it.” He straightened up in his seat, wincing as his back protested. “Jarvis.”
Jarvis arched an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Where is my coffee?”
“As I said, it is in the kitchen, sir. As you have now worked through two separate meals and look as if have not bathed in a week, which is impressive, as I drew you a bath last night.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I have work to do.”
“As do we all, and yet, no one else in this household presents themselves in such a disgraceful manner.” Jarvis circled the desk, gesturing with one hand. “Up.”
With a put-upon sigh, Tony pushed himself to his feet. “I do not have time for this.”
“And yet, you will make time, as you cannot accomplish anything if you end up in the hospital,” Jarvis told him, his voice tart. He straightened Tony’s shirt with a quick flick of his hands, and rebuttoned his vest. “Chin up.”
“You might not have noticed,” Tony said, tipping his head back, “But I am no longer 12, Jarvis.”
“I’ve yet to see proof of that,” Jarvis said, fixing Tony’s collar and adjusting his tie. The movements were rote, practiced. He’d done it for years, and if it were up to him, he’d be doing it for years more. “There. Presentable, at least.” He stepped back. “And since you’re up, off to the kitchen with you.”
“I don’t want to go to the kitchen,” Tony said, loosening his tie again. “I want to finish this, and crawl into bed, and die.”
“You may finish it later, and you will eat and bathe before bed, and you are not permitted to die,” Jarvis said. He turned away. “Miss Potts, perhaps one of the cherry tarts?”
“I’m cursed to immortality by a cranky butler,” Tony said. “Pepper, we have to finish this.”
“I am exhausted, my head is aching, and I would kill you myself for a pastry,” she said, her voice so flat Jarvis nearly believed her. “Jarvis, lock the door behind us.”
“Of course, madam,” Jarvis said.
“Behind who?” Tony asked, as Pepper snagged his elbow and pulled him towards the door. “No. Absolutely not. If he wants us to eat, he can bring it here.”
“March,” she said, and Tony marched.
By the time Jarvis locked the office door and set off after them, they were almost down to the first floor. Tony twisted around, his arm still caught in Pepper’s viselike grip. “I can just unlock that!”
“You have no idea where your key is,” Jarvis said, and watched in amusement as Tony faced that truth.
“Once I’ve had coffee, I’ll remember,” Tony said, and Pepper shoved him through the doorway to the servant’s stairs. Chuckling to himself, Jarvis followed.
“Coffee,” Tony announced as he strode into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” May asked, staring him down.
“Coffee, please,” Tony said, and she held out a cup to him. Behind him, Jarvis cleared his throat, and Tony’s head fell back. “Thank you.”
“He can be taught,” Rhodey said, grinning.
“One must continue one’s work,” Jarvis agreed, as the back door swung open. DJ and Peter piled in, with Steve right on their heels. “Boots off.”
Peter leaned down, untying his boots. “Are we having coffee?” he asked hopefully. “I’ll take mine with sugar and milk, please.”
“Black,” DJ announced.
“Absolutely not,” Steve said, at the same time May said, “Try again, mister.”
“Chocolat,” Clint said, giving the word an overdone French twist.
“Also good,” Peter said as May swept a hand over his head, knocking away the snow. He grinned at her. “Can I have scone?”
“Soup first, for both of you,” May said, crouching down to help DJ wrestle out of his coat. Once he was free, she handed it to him. “Hang it up,please, on your hook.”
“How did you get grease on your ear?” Pepper asked Rhodey, reaching for a napkin.
“You’ve got ink freckles, so I don’t think- Hey!” he said, laughing as she scrubbed at his cheek.
Happy took a huge bite of his danish. “Told you,” he said, his mouth full. “Gotta check the ears.”
Natasha set a cup of tea on the island next to Pepper. “The pot is still steeping, if you want more.”
The kitchen door opened again, and Bobbi wrestled her way through, a wooden box held in both hands. “Produce for dinner, Chef.”
“Oui.” Clint slipped a plate across the island towards her. He followed the single, coherent word with a cascade of babble. Tony, seated on a stool across from him responded with actual French, mixed with a fair amount of Italian. Clint grinned at him, all sharp teeth and threats.
Steve took the box from Bobbi, walking it into the pantry. “Cut it out, both of you.”
“That’s not happening,” Bobbi said, dusting her hands off on her thighs. Bruce slipped through the door, closing it silently behind them.
“Wash your hands properly,” May told her. “And your coat goes on the hook, not the floor.”
“I”m going right back out,” Bobbi told her, reaching for the scone. May smacked her hand, and she jerked it back with a hiss that sounded like a curse. “It’s clean enough.”
DJ’s face peeked over the counter, and he looked at Bobbi’s hands and then up at her, his face disapproving. “Wash your hands,” he said.
Bobbi ruffled his hair, and he dodged out of reach, giggling. “Fine, we’ll go together,” she said.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Banner,” Jarvis said, taking a cup of coffee from the sideboard. “Miss Romanov slipped off the library shelves yesterday and hit her shoulder, if you wouldn’t mind checking on her?”
Natasha stared at him, her lips parted. Jarvis smiled. “It’s for your own good.”
“I will make you regret this betrayal,” she said, as Clint slammed the oven door. Her eyes squeezed shut as he came stomping across the room, his face a thundercloud.
“I’m sure I will.” Jarvis took a seat next to May. “Coffee, Mrs. Parker?”
She smiled at him,handing over a cup. “For a man so wedded to keeping this household running smoothly, you certainly do thrive in chaos.”
He smiled back. “One adapts to one’s circumstances, do we not?” He held out his cup, and she touched the rim of her cup against his.
(Guess who found a list of fluff prompts for the short month of February! Guess who was like 'huh, I've kind of done all of these before.' Guess who also said, 'guess I'm doing them all again!' Not me, that's for sure! Each one will be tagged Sci's Fluffuary, and the pairing, group or universe will be at the beginning.)
Feb 1- Meet cute (Steve/Tony, Foodieverse)
“Hey, Pepper? How much money do we have in petty cash?”
There was a long, loaded silence. Then, on the other end of the phone, Tony heard a sigh. “Tony. We don’t have ‘petty cash.’”
Tony jammed his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, using both hands to wrestle a box off of the shelf. “What the hell are you talking about? Yes, we do. The petty cash drawer. What’s in the petty cash drawer?”
“Tony. Do you remember the last meeting with our accountant?”
“No.” Tony crouched down, trying to see under the edge of the box. “But I bet it was boring.”
“Well, I remember it. I distinctly remember you being told that if you referred to the register as a petty cash drawer one more time, they were going to quit.” She paused. “And maybe light the last seven years of our tax returns on fire in the parking lot on the way out of the building.”
“Which, we can all agree, would be a drastic over reaction,” Tony pointed out. “And potentially an arson charge, depending on what kind of a mood the NYFD was in on a given day.”
“You light things on fire in the parking lot at least once a quarter,” Pepper said.
“Yes, but A, it’s my property, and B, it’s always for culinary reasons, nothing as tawdry and lowbrow as revenge.” Tony said. He reached out with one foot and maneuvered his flat top cart a little closer. He could probably do this by himself. That ‘team lift’ sign was clearly just a suggestion.
Pepper hummed, soft and low. “The Great Citrus Bonfire of August 20-”
“We agreed never to speak of that again,” Tony said, cutting her off with ruthless efficiency. “Anyway, that doesn’t change the fact that I need a little bit of money, off the books, nothing traceable, because Bruce is on a new blood pressure medication and I’m not interested in testing it quite this soon.”
“No, Tony.”
“You haven’t even heard-”
“I know for a fact that you are at the restaurant supply store in Newark, Tony,” Pepper said, her voice tinged with sugar. “So I don’t have to hear anything to know that whatever you’re trying to buy is going to result in chaos.”
Tony leaned an arm on the top of the box. “That’s just unfair, Pep, it could also end in disaster.”
“Either way, I’m not bankrolling it,” she said. “And your ass better be back in that kitchen for the first seating, or I’ll be the one lighting something on fire.”
Tony’s lips pursed. “Do… I want to know what? Exactly?”
“No, Chef, you do not. Be. On. Time.”
“Okay, but that would be more effective if you-” He paused, and pulled his phone away from his face. “She hung up on me.” Tony’s lips twitched. “Good for her.” He tapped the phone against the top of the box. “Now, how do I get you back to my place without anyone noticing?”
“They do offer delivery, you know?”
Tony grinned. “What’s the fun in that?” he asked, sliding his phone into his back pocket before turning to look over his shoulder.
Steve gave the box a wary look. “I mean, I’d say the fun is in not throwing your back out trying to move that on your own, but to each his own, I guess.”
Tony leaned up against the shelves, his arms crossed over his chest. He let his eyes slide over Steve’s form, from the pale, disordered locks falling over his forehead to the tips of his battered workboots. He was wearing a pair of jeans that clung to the long lines of his legs, and a heavy canvas jacket, open at the throat. Tony could just see the hint of a red flannel shirt under edge of the jacket’s collar, and it did things to him that ought to be illegal.
He let his lips curl in his dirtiest smile, his eye brows arching. “Don’t suppose I could impose on you to help me, then?”
Steve’s head tipped forward, and Tony knew he was struggling not to laugh. He waited, pleased with himself, until Steve glanced up, his lips twitching and his cheeks flushed. “I don’t work here,” Steve said, laughter running through the words.
Tony tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, drawing them tight across his hips. Steve’s eyes flicked down and back up, not quite fast enough, and Tony smirked at him. “I pay well.”
“I’m sure you do, but I’m not looking for a job.” Despite that, Steve stepped away from his own cart. He crouched down next to the box, frowning at the label. His shoulders slumped, and he looked up at Tony. “A cotton candy machine?”
Tony grinned, “Top of the line,” he said. Steve gave him a look tinged with amusement, and Tony leaned over, wrapping his arms around the box. “This thing can crank out a multicolored mass of spun sugar the size of your torso in under 45 seconds.” Steve stared at him, his face blank, and Tony smacked the box with both hands. “The size of your torso.”
“Why would I need to do that?” Steve asked, and Tony could tell he was trying not to laugh.
“The possibilities are limitless,” Tony told him.
“The possibilities-” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut. “I’d ask what those possibilities might be, but I’m kind of afraid you’d tell me.” Despite that, he waved Tony back and wrestled the box onto the cart. “Are you planning on starting a carnival?”
“I do work with a bunch of clowns, but no.” Tony glanced at Steve’s cart, piled high with the biodegradable takeout boxes that he preferred and a stash of bamboo utensils. “You can get those cheaper out in Secaucus, you know.”
“I know, but I meet the strangest men at this place,” Steve said. “So it’s worth the drive.”
“By strangest, do you mean most fascinating?” Tony considered the shelf of cotton candy sugar. The options seemed horrible. He should probably get one of each. “Funniest? Smartest? Sexiest?”
“Buddy, you’re spending two grand on a cotton candy machine with no plans for what you intend to do with it,” Steve said, folding his arms on the handle of his cart. “I think ‘strange’ was the correct choice of words there.”
Tony grinned. “I’d take issue with that, but you did help me out, so I guess I owe you now.” He grabbed half a dozen boxes of sugar and tossed them into Steve’s cart. “Follow me back to Manhattan and I’ll feed you.”
Steve picked up one of the boxes. “Blue Razzleberry flavored,” he read, his voice flat. His eyes tipped up towards Tony. “I might pass on that meal.”
Tony pushed his cart past Steve, pausing just long enough to hook a finger in the open neck of Steve’s jacket, tugging his head around and down. His mouth inches from Steve’s, he smiled. “Baby, you have no idea what I’m capable of when I’m cooking.”
Steve’s lips parted, his face flushing. “Are we talking food, or…”
Tony pulled his hand away, his knuckle ghosting against Steve’s throat. “We’re talking about whatever you want.” With that, he headed up the aisle and towards the registers. “I cook to order.”
“I can already tell that’s a damn lie,” Steve said from behind him, and Tony couldn’t take offense, because he could hear Steve’s footsteps, moving faster behind him to catch up. “This is a bad choice, isn’t it?”
Tony patted his newest toy. “It’s a day for those, I think.”
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(Darcy/Harris, with guest appearances from Shawn/Drew and Clint, who only talks about having a boyfriend. Toasterverse. All of these can be found under the tag Sci's Fluffuary)
“It’s snowing.”
Darcy made a humming noise under her breath. “Yeah, the- The weather app said that should be ending by around four pm, so the commute tonight shouldn’t be that bad.” She paused to squint at a print out of the worst receipt that she’d ever seen. Well, at least the worst one she’d seen this week. “I’m still not looking forward to it, but-” She smacked the stack of pages onto her desk mat, tipping her head up. “But leaving work? Always good.”
Harris was grinning down at her, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushed. Darcy smiled back, charmed by the childlike expression on his face. “You okay, buddy?”
He flattened his hands on the top of her desk, leaning as far over as he could. “Darcy.”
She leaned forward too, meeting him almost halfway. “Harris?”
“Snow,” he said, the single word vibrating through him.
Darcy tried not to laugh. “Snow,” she agreed. “This is… A good thing?”
He nodded so hard his hair bounced. “Let’s go play in the snow.”
“Play in the snow,” she repeated. “Harris.”
“Darcy?”
Darcy nodded. “That sounds cold. And damp. And unpleasant.”
“Probably, let’s go, we’ll get your coat and I borrowed an extra pair of gloves from procurement, Drew and Shawn are going to meet us outside.” He fumbled in his coat pocket, coming out with a hideous red and black plaid cap. “Let’s go.”
“Absolutely not.” Darcy covered her head with both hands. “Not today, Satan.”
Laughing, Harris retreated, shoving the hat onto his own head instead. Darcy was annoyed by how adorable he looked in it, hanging lopsided across his forehead. “C’mon, let’s go outside, let’s have a snowball fight, let’s make a snowman, let’s-”
“Let’s not,” Darcy said, and he was walking around the side of her desk. Darcy immediately grabbed onto a couple of drawer handles, hanging on for dear life. “No! I am wearing heels!”
“That’s a fucking lie, I don’t even need to look,” Harris said, “I know that’s a lie.”
“Okay, I’m wearing very practical boots, but I don’t want to get them wet.”
“Are they leather?”
“Maybe! As far as you know, they are.” Darcy leaned back. “Harris, it’s New York, it’s New York and everything is goddamn filthy and you’re touching the ground, do you know what’s on the GROUND in New York City?”
Harris boosted himself up onto her desk, kicking his feet. “Snow,” he said, his eyebrows wiggling.
“Yeah, there’s like a tenth of an inch of snow that is already melting and under that is a layer of filth that’s been building up since the Hamilton era, Harris, and I mean the original one. With the old white men. I do everything in my power not to touch any part of New York, but especially not the ground.”
Harris groaned, his head falling back, and Darcy reached out, adjusting his hat. “Let’s just stand in front of a window and like, look at the snow.” He made a face, and she tugged him down, holding onto the ridiculous earflaps like handles. She gave him a quick, smacking kiss on the tip of his nose. “Perhaps with a cup of cocoa. Or three.”
“We can have cocoa after we go outside,” Harris said, and she could tell that he thought this was a valid negotiating technique. “I’ll buy.”
“I have a box of Swiss Miss packets right here, you’re not moving the needle, love.” She stood up. “Besides, where would we possibly ‘play’ in the snow here? There’s about 2 feet of sidewalk that isn’t actively being taken up by pissed off New Yorkers who are praying for April. Once we get out of range of the SHIELD front doors, we’re basically in the street.”
Harris stuck out a leg, bracing one foot on the arm of her desk chair. He leaned in. “We’re not going down,” he said, his grin taking on a manic edge. “We’re going up.”
Darcy stared at him. “Up where?”
“The roof,” Harris said. “I’m not claiming it’s clean, but probably fewer dogs have peed on it.”
“I love that you’re still hedging your bets.” She put a hand on his knee. “The roof? No insult, but that’s dumb.”
He started to laugh. “I love how you say ‘no insult’ and then promptly insult me,” Harris said.
“Yeah, but it’s out of looooove.” She tipped her head to the side, fluttering her eyelashes. “And also the knowledge that if either of us go within 40 feet of the roof, we’re going to set off every alarm in the building.”
“Is she coming?” Shawn poked his head into Darcy’s office, one hand braced on the doorframe. He grinned at Darcy, his brown eyes dancing. “Hi! Are you coming?”
“No,” Darcy said, her voice tart. “Nice earmuffs.”
Shawn’s eyes tipped up, as if he could see the earmuffs he was wearing. They were covered in metallic silver fuzz, standing out against his black hair. “Thanks! Drew gave them to me.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Darcy hip bumped Harris’ leg, and he moved it out of her way. “We can’t go on the roof.”
“We have a plan,” Shawn said, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He was wearing heavy boots that went all the way up to his knees, laced between panels of colorful embroidery.
“Is the plan getting fired? Or is that just a natural consequence of your plan?” Darcy asked, ducking as Harris threw a scarf at her like a lasso. Laughing, she scrambled out of reach. “Hey! Stop it! Stop trying to put winter gear on me!”
“It can only improve the travesty that is that outfit.”
Darcy didn’t even bother to look. “Drew, not all of us have a body that allows us to shop in the ‘Eurotrash club twink’ section of the mall, we have to do the best we can.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.” Drew adjusted the lapels of his very expensive looking coat. He smirked at her. “And not one I have.”
“Is he Eurotrash or just West Coast LA-lite?” Shawn asked Harris.
“I’m wearing a plaid hat,” Harris said. “What makes you think I know fuck all about fashion?”
“The amount of time you spend with us, you should’ve absorbed the basics via osmosis,” Drew told him. He pressed a finger to his pursed lips. “That hat is a travesty. You make it work, though.”
Harris gave a slow nod. “Thanks? I think?”
Darcy clapped her hands. “Okay, Moe, Curly and Larry, glad you stopped by, I’m not going out in the snow, get out of my office.”
“Curley?” Drew asked. “Who’s Curley?”
“Who’s Moe and Larry?” Shawn asked.
“My god, you are infants,” Darcy said. “Uncultured infants.”
“Hey.”
All of them turned as one towards the door. Clint was leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He tapped a finger against his bicep. “This op is way behind schedule, if you want to pull this off, we go now.”
Darcy pointed at him. “No.”
Clint’s head tipped in her direction. His eyebrows arched. “Grab her, and let’s go.”
Darcy swept a hand around her office. “Clint. Baby. My spooky spy in the sky, brother from another mother, who the hell in this room do you think can pick me up?”
“I mean, I’ve proven I can,” Clint mused. “Want a repeat of that Tuesday night?”
She considered that. “No.”
“Yeah, me, neither, c’mon, let’s go do something insanely stupid and make a SHIELD agent snowman on the roof.” Clint reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He held up a pair of bent sunglasses. “I stole these off of Phil.”
Darcy considered that. She looked at Harris. He grinned at her, his face bright with hope. She smiled back. Surrender was the better part of valor, some days. “We need a tie.”
“Do you think I’m a fucking amateur?” Clint asked. “Nat’s getting it.”
“Fine.” She headed for her coat rack. “Where’s your jacket?”
“Fucked if I know.” Clint shrugged and slipped the sunglasses onto his nose. They sat crooked against his cheek. “I’ll be fine, I’m hot blooded.”
“I… Don’t think that’s how that works,” Shawn told him, his brow furrowing.
“That’s how that works,” Clint said with confidence.
Darcy gave a slow nod. “Uh-huh.” She hooked a thumb at Shawn and Drew. “They don’t know what the Three Stooges are.”
Drew’s eyes got big. “Wait, why are you-”
Clint’s arms slapped down on their shoulders, yanking them both in. “Gentlemen.” He grinned, and started dragging them both towards the hallway. “We have much to discuss.”
Harris watched them go. “That was mean.”
Darcy shrugged into her coat, giggling under her breath. “Fuck them kids,” she said, just to hear Harris laugh.
“You’re like five years older than them, you know that, right?”
“And infinitely wiser,” she said, her nose in the air. She stopped in front of him, buttoning her coat. “I cannot believe I’m doing this. For you. Just so you know, if it wasn’t for you, I would not be doing this.”
Harris smiled at her. “You don’t have to. You know that.”
“Yeah, but you’re cute when you get all flushed.” Darcy tapped his cheek. “Makes your freckles pop.”
He laughed. “Really selling it, Darce.” He held out a hand. “Snowball fight?”
(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.”
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.
