i LOVE five and klaus interacting, they’re such disasters but in completely different ways. anyway this came out a little more five-centric than I meant to but here it is!

Five hates waiting in line. He adds it to the growing list in his head of Things He Forgot He Hates About Society. But there was really no other choice. The last time he blinked into the bodega on 6th and - technically - shoplifted a case of coffee, Vanya had marched him right back to pay for it. Like she’s his mom or something. Bullshit.

He dumps the bag of necessities on the kitchen table, blinks to the far cabinet for what he guesses is Luther’s “hidden” whiskey, then for a glass. The clock says it’s quarter till three and he’s pretty sure everyone is asleep, but sleep doesn’t come easily to him.

Who would’ve guessed how crowded the bodega on 6th would be at three AM? he thinks wryly, scooping the cold brew in one hand and heading for the sitting room. The clock in the kitchen is far too loud. The sitting room is always quiet.

Except, much like the bodega, it’s not empty.

Klaus half-sits on the edge of the sofa, bare feet hanging off the side, jaw clenched, eyes closed. That’s weird.

“Drying out?” Five guesses.

Klaus jumps a little, sits upright to look at him. Then he winces and closes his eyes again. “Not this time,” he mumbles.

“Ben giving you shit?” is Five’s next guess. He collapses onto the other end of the sofa and contemplates his… breakfast, he decides to call it. Irish coffee, thats a thing, right? Coffee and whiskey both have calories. It probably counts.

Klaus’s mouth twitches like he wants to laugh but can’t muster the energy. “Yeah, well, he’s always giving me shit.” He halfway turns, and Five guesses Ben had something to say about that.

It does concern him, the furrow in Klaus’s brow. Should he… ask? If he’s okay? Should he offer a blanket?

He’s forgotten how to do this. Maybe he never really learned. Five absently reaches up to rub his sideburns before he remembers they’re gone and he’s thirteen again. Shit. He can’t remember the last time someone tried to take care of him.

No - that’s a lie. Vanya’s apartment. When he turned up at his little sister’s door bleeding and too tired to think of somewhere else to go. Okay. What would Vanya do?

“Everything okay?” Five asks cautiously.

Klaus flaps a hand in his direction. It’s not really an answer, but Five takes it as his cue to shut up.

Well, he tried. Five unscrews the top of the coffee and pauses. Would it be more efficient to just dump the rest of the whiskey in first and add a dash of coffee? Probably. He does. Then he offers the three-quarters full canister of coffee to Klaus.

“Can’t sleep?” comes out of Five’s mouth before he can really think it through.

“Yeah,” Klaus says. He takes the coffee.

“Ghosts?”

Klaus doesn’t answer at first and Five wonders if it was the wrong thing to say. If it was, he thinks he can’t really be blamed for it. It’s not like he ever got a How To Handle Emotions booklet. Not that he would’ve read one anyway.

“I thought it was,” Klaus finally says, and it takes Five a second to remember what he’d asked. “But the… bitches never showed. I’m starting to think I’m being victimized.”

Five rolls his eyes. It’s wasted, since Klaus has closed his eyes again. “You always think you’re being victimized.”

Klaus cracks an eye open to glare at Five with fake venom. “That’s hurtful. What happened to family being supportive?”

“You’re talking about our family? Really? That’s cute.”

Klaus takes a swig of the coffee. “Yeah. Well, once everyone stopped coming by with bail money I got the message.”

“Bunch of fucked-up bastards,” Five agrees, raising his glass in solidarity. Klaus grabs it smoothly out of his hands and downs a third of the cup before Five can snatch it back. “Hey, fuck off, that’s mine!”

Klaus winces. “Christly dick, Five, how much whiskey is in that?”

“Some,” Five snaps, maybe a bit defensively. “Back off and drink your PG-rated coffee or I’m going back upstairs.”

Klaus looks wounded, but Five is pretty sure it’s a sympathy ploy and he’s not going to fall for it. He knocks back the rest of his breakfast so Klaus won’t try to steal it. “Seriously. What’s up with you?”

Klaus rubs his bare arms like he’s cold, even though Five knows for a fact that Mom keeps the house at exactly 70.4 degrees Fahrenheit at all times. He shakes his head, eyes suddenly vacant, and Five guesses Ben is saying something again. “I’m not,” Klaus snaps suddenly, and Five’s guess turns to fact. “Shut the fuck up, sweet baby dead bro. If I want your opinion I’ll—“

Ben pops into shuddering existence behind the sofa, his outline wavering like he’s underwater. “The dipshit is having a migraine and decided he wants to suffer through it,” he tells Five over Klaus’s indignant noise. “Make him take some painkillers and go to bed.”

Ben vanishes and Five rolls his eyes, this time making sure Klaus can see him do it. “A migraine,” he repeats.

Klaus shrugs a little and sets the coffee on the side table. “Ben, you’re a snitch and a bastard,” he says to the now-empty space behind the sofa.

What would Vanya do? Five could, theoretically, go wake her up and ask, and leave the situation to her, but he’s reluctant. Vanya needs sleep, maybe more than anyone else these days, and Five thinks she’s already got plenty of shit of her own to handle without him dumping Klaus’s disastrous personality on her at three in the morning. So he leans past Klaus to take the coffee off the side table, takes two gulps, and blinks out.

Mom keeps first aid kits in every bathroom and well-stocked, but Five has to stop and think when he finds the innumerable bottles of pills. There’s no opiates - Dad and Pogo had them all thrown out when Klaus was twelve and first got caught stealing the Percocet. Five weighs his options and grabs the ibuprofen. It’s better than nothing.

He blinks to Klaus’s bedroom, gathers up the first blanket that doesn’t reek of sweat or puke or both, and blinks back downstairs. It leaves him a little more out of breath than he’d like. Vanya keeps telling him to “just walk places, like a normal person,” but walking takes too long and he’s never been terribly patient.

Klaus is already slumped back over the end of the sofa, eyes shut too tightly for him to be asleep. Five dumps the blanket on him to get his attention. “Hey asshole,” he says, because he’s a dick. “Got your favorite thing.”

“Pills?” Klaus mumbles, blinking up at him, eyeliner smudged. “Oh! It is pills. How did you know?”

Five sets them on the side table beside the coffee. “Don’t get too excited. They’re not opioids.”

“Aw. What’s even the point, then?”

“Just take them and go to sleep.”

Klaus complies without another word of protest, which gives Five a clue as to how miserable he must be feeling. He pops the pills and swallows them both dry, and absently pulls the blanket further up his chest.

The whiskey settles hot in his bones and Five lets his eyes close. He’s a light sleeper, and he figures if Klaus tries to leave it’ll wake him, so he drifts off to sleep.

Peter rang the doorbell of Stark Tower again, looking into the camera above the door anxiously. While sometimes it took Tony a minute to come to the door, he usually at least said something through the speaker, but Peter had been ringing the bell and knocking consistently for the past five minutes with no reply, and it was beginning to make him a little nervous.

Finally, a rustling sound behind the door set him at ease--until it opened.

“Spider bro!” Clint Barton greeted. “Good to see you!”

“Hi, Mr. Barton,” Peter replied.

“I told you, it’s Clint.”

Peter nodded. “Uh, is Mr. Stark here?”

“I think he’s down in the lab,” Clint said. “Definitely hasn’t been up since last night. Barely came up at all this weekend, if I’m thinking about it.” Clint eyed Peter suspiciously. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just--I always help him out after school, and he didn’t send a message telling me not to come or anything, so I guess I’m just wondering if something changed.”

Clint gave a knowing, vaguely sympathetic smile and nod. “Oh, gotcha,” he said. “You know, you’re a smart kid, and you’ve known Tony for a while, I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on it yet.”

Peter hesitated. “On what?”

“This is how Tony is,” he replied. “He does whatever the most interesting thing is and ignores the rest, even if it’s a more pressing obligation.”

That didn’t really check out to Peter. “Really?” he asked, surprised. “He’s… never acted that way with me.”

Clint chuckled. “Well, that’s because you come here to work on his robots and whatever,” he explained. “You know, stuff that’s interesting to Tony.”

Peter shifted from foot to foot. “I mean, he promised me he’d come to my mathalon, even though he wasn’t really paying attention when I asked…”

Clint grinned. “Mathalon? Like, as in, you’re a mathalete?”

“The point is,” Peter continued pointedly, “he whined about it the whole ride there, but he went with me and May, and even took us to Steak ‘n Shake afterward.”

Clint considered this. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I guess it’s a little different with you,” he admitted. “Alright, so what are you thinking? Kidnapped? Drugged? Killed by Dum-E in his own private robot uprising?”

Peter paled. “I, uh, was just wondering if he was sick or something, but NOW I’m worried… It would be Dum-E… I see the way that robot looks at him.”

Clint laughed. “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Stark being sick, because he hasn’t been upstairs complaining about it,” he said, “but we can go down and tell him you’re here.”

Peter stepped through the open door and followed Clint through the common room and to the elevator.

“So you haven’t heard from Mr. Stark all weekend?” Peter asked. “And you live in the same tower?”

“Well, I’m just staying temporarily, but yeah,” Clint replied. “We’re talking about Stark, here,” he said, as if that explained anything. Maybe it did, to the other Avengers, but for Peter, it didn’t make him feel any better.

They took the rest of the elevator ride in silence, but when Clint pulled at the door of the lab, they wouldn’t open.

“FRIDAY?” Clint called. “We want to check on Tony. Let us in.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but you don’t have access to the lab,” she said.

“Oh!” Peter chirped, and as soon as he tugged on the door, it opened right up. Clint still walked in first, taking a look around the lab, eyes scanning the computers, the workbenches, the corners where he kept suit parts and reactor bits and robots.

“Stark?” he called. There was no response except for a small groan, like someone was being woken up. “I think he fell asleep in the lab,” Clint whispered to Peter. “Let’s wake him up.”

Peter didn’t love the mischievous edge to Clint’s tone, but followed him to the couch anyway, where indeed, Tony was curled up with his face buried in the arm.

“Rise and shine, tin can,” Clint called, stepping up onto the arm of the couch with one foot. When Tony shifted to look up at him, he cursed.

“Is he okay?” Peter whispered frantically.

“Uh,” Clint replied eloquently. Tony was squinting at him and covering one eye, barely opening the second, and covered in sweat. Awake, he’d began shivering, and his face was flushed red. “Tony?”

Tony groaned again, this time punctuating it with a miserable, wet cough. “Wait, how’d you get in here?” he asked, his voice sounding congested and raspy.

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter spoke up, “I just--”

“Oh, shit,” Tony cursed, sitting up with a grimace, “I meant to set an alarm.”

“You did, Boss,” FRIDAY interjected, “but I disabled it when your temperature rose above 103.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Stark, why didn’t you come get me?”

Tony shook his head. “I’m fine,” he brushed him off, “just need some water and a few aspirin.” He turned to Peter, forcing a reassuring and easy smile. “You mind grabbing some?”

Peter nodded and rushed back to the elevator to find them. As soon as the elevator dinged and Peter stepped in, Tony’s posture slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Damn it, Clint,” he cursed, still looking at him through barely-open eyes, “why would you bring the kid down to the lab if I wasn’t answering the door?”

Clint blinked confusedly. “I didn’t know,” he defended, “because you didn’t tell me you were sick, not to mention this sick.” In the silence of his pause, he could hear Tony’s breath whistling in his chest. “That sounds like it could be pneumonia,” he accused. He’d self-treated them on missions enough to know when he heard a serious lung infection.

“Just a chest cold,” Tony brushed him off.

“‘Just’ nothing,” Clint chastised. “FRIDAY says your temperature is 103.”

“That was an hour ago, Mr. Barton,” she corrected. “It’s presently 103.7.”

Clint frowned. “Shit,” he cursed, “that REALLY doesn’t sound like a chest cold, Stark,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing when Tony seemed to prove his point by coughing until he gagged.

The elevator dinged and Tony looked to Clint with panicked, bright eyes. “Keep him outta here,” he said. “Send the kid home. Tell ‘im I’m fine but he’s got the day off.”

Clint’s heart melted a little bit. So it WAS different with Peter. He suddenly understood why the kid would be so concerned when Tony flaked on him without a word. Because, in any other situation, Tony WOULDN’T flake on him without a word.

Clint went to meet Peter at the door of the lab, taking the water, aspirin, and a few other things Peter had managed to scavenge from Tony’s meager medicine cabinet supplies.

“Hey, so I don’t think Tony wants you here for this,” he said. Peter looked hurt. “I dont’ think it’s personal--”

“No, I get it,” Peter cut him off. “That’s how Mr. Stark is. He doesn’t want me to see him all vulnerable and sick. I get it.”

Instantly regretting his own version of the “that’s how Tony is,” speech, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “exactly. I’ll let you know how he’s doing later, but it’s looking like I’m gonna have to take him to SHIELD medical.”

“Good,” Peter breathed. “I think he’s really, really sick. I’ve seen him work through some pretty nasty stuff before, so if he’s out of commission…”

“Right,” Clint said. Peter lingered for another moment, trying to subtly peek around Clint to get another glimpse of Tony, who was lying on the couch unmoving and coughing again, breathless and deep.

“Don’t worry about him too much,” Clint smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He always bounces back.”

Peter didn’t look entirely convinced, because what the hell kind of answer was “he’ll be fine; he’s never died before?”

Nevertheless, he knew that the longer he stood here, the longer it would take Clint to get back to Tony, who was still coughing, and--suddenly, oh, shit, he was grappling off the couch. The thought of leaving forgotten, both Clint and Peter rushed toward Tony just as he collapsed in front of a trash basin, retching into it a few times and still battling for breath.

“Okay, scratch SHIELD medical,” Clint barked, “FRIDAY, get an ambulance?”

“Yes, sir,” she said curtly.

“Tony?” Clint tried, his hands hovering over Tony’s back, “you good?”

Tony glared at Peter, still unable to breathe enough to form a coherent answer, but pointed.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “but I’m gonna stick around until the ambulance gets here. Mr. Barton might need help.”

Tony didn’t look pleased, but the fact that he still wasn’t getting any good breaths in was starting to take him under. A cold water bottle was suddenly being pressed to his mouth, and he tried to take a few sips of it as best he could.

Damn, that was cold, and he really needed it. As soon as a few sips had calmed the coughing a little, Tony started to drink faster and in larger, more desperate gulps until Clint took it away.

“You’re gonna throw it up if you do that,” he scolded.

Tony was still gasping, looking much paler than even he had on the couch, and his head drooped forward until his forehead was pressed to Clint’s shoulder and neck.

“He’s boiling,” Clint hissed. “FRIDAY, how high is his temp?”

“Presently, 104,” she said. “A temperature this high, combined with the probable chest infection, can put a severe strain on the arc reactor,” she added. “I believe it is imperative to begin lowering his temperature with a lukewarm shower even before medical intervention arrives, as it could be another 9 minutes.”

“I’ll get the water running,” Peter announced, but FRIDAY cut him off.

“No need, Mr. Parker,” she reminded, “he just needs to be carried upstairs.”

Gotta love AI.

Together, Peter and Clint wrestled a worryingly limp Tony to the elevator, where they allowed him to sit on the ground. His eyes opened at all the movement, and when they locked onto Peter, he frowned, as if just remembering again that he was there.

“Thought I told Barton’a give’ya a day off,” he slurred. God, he really was out of it if this was news to him.

“I’ll go in a bit,” Peter promised. “I just want to help him get your fever down. It’s pretty bad, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gave a displeased huff but didn’t have the energy to argue further. His head lolled once more against Clint’s chest, who pulled him close and heaved him up when the elevator arrived on the main floor.

Under the stream of the shower, Tony was shivering hard enough that it was becoming really difficult for Clint to force himself to keep Tony under the stream.

“C-Clint?” Tony asked, his voice strained by the chattering of his teeth, “wha’s goin’ on?”

Clint smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you’re a little more lucid,” he said.

Tony glanced to Peter and, once again, frowned disappointedly.

“Go home,” he commanded.

“Oh, come on!” Peter cried. “Every time you wake up!”

Tony looked confused, but Clint just continued patting his shoulder.

“You’re really sick, buddy,” he explained, “and you probably have been for a while.”

Thinking back on the weekend, Clint should have seen the signs. Tony had been snappish, which he usually wasn’t unless he was interrupted. He’d had a fit on Clint for playing music too loud, and though he’d just assumed it was breaking his concentration, Clint now wondered if he’d been trying to sleep. He’d even thought he’d heard him throwing up in the upstairs bathroom, and Clint had written it off as a hangover. Damn it. Not only had he judged Stark wrong, but he’d ignored the signs of illness because of it. Signs Peter had seen in just seconds.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony replied, “sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Tony blinked a few times. “I… dunno,” he admitted. Clint bit the inside of his cheek and thought, not for the first time since he’d known Tony, that Howard Stark was an asshole.

“Okay,” Clint said gently. “Well, we went down and found you pretty much burning up and delirious. An ambulance is on the way.”

Tony groaned. “Ugh, you called’n ambulance? Tell ‘em to go back. Just need some sleep.”

“Mr. Stark, your temperature is dangerous,” Peter interjected. “You needed sleep, like, last week. Now you need a hospital.”

Tony at least had the good sense to look guilty. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, Pete,” he apologized.

“These things tend to escalate quickly for Mr. Stark,” FRIDAY offered. “Because of the decreased lung capacity due to the arc reactor, a small cold can become very serious quickly.”

Clint frowned. “Why didn’t I know that?” he demanded. “If you knew that, why didn’t you tell someone when you first felt sick?”

Tony looked pointedly away, coughing instead of answering, and not being able to stop. Cool, Tony. Play the pneumonia card.

When the paramedics arrived, Peter finally went home after Clint promised to text him updates, and Clint followed the ambulance on his motorcycle. It was an hour before they stabilized Tony enough to have visitors, but Clint was ready as soon as he was allowed access to his room.

Tony was lying in the bed looking about as pale as the sheets underneath him.

“Hey,” Clint greeted. “Cool outfit.”

Tony tugged at the collar of the hospital gown. “Well, I may have been allowed to stay in my street clothes if someone hadn’t soaked them.”

Clint shrugged. “We wouldn’t have had to do that if you’d gotten me when your temperature wasn’t frying that stupid genius brain of yours.”

Tony bit a fingernail. “Yeah,” he admitted, “sorry about that.”

Clint sighed. “Just don’t do it again.”

Tony nodded in a way that suggested he wasn’t making promises, and Clint took the remote from the bedside table.

“Hey,” Tony objected.

“Relax,” Clint rolled his eyes. “There’s only four channels on this thing, anyway, and you can consider this payment for me having to watch you puke.”

Tony grimaced. “You what?”

“Twice,” Clint said. “You don’t remember?”

Tony shook his head.

“God, well, you were really out of it, so I shouldn’t be surprised.” Emeril Lagasse was throwing seasonings into a pot on the television and Clint gasped. “Oh my God, I haven’t heard about Emeril in years. Glad to see he’s doing okay.”

Tony bit down on a smile. “Look at the quality of this film, Clint,” he argued, “this is like 10 years old.”

Clint frowned, but didn’t change the channel to anything more recent.

“I… My memory is kind of fuzzy. Was Pete there when… well, was Pete there?”

“You mean did he see you throw up and collapse?” Tony nodded. “Yeah, he did. Freaked him out. That reminds me, I told him I’d text him.”

“I’ll do it,” Tony objected. “Hand me my phone.”

Clint shrunk down in his seat. “About that…” he trailed off.

Tony sighed. “It was in my pocket when you threw me in the shower, wasn’t it?”

Clint nodded.

“Awesome,” he said. “Well, give me yours, then. I still wanna text the kid.”

Clint obeyed, watching Tony pick his words too carefully not to read the message when he handed it back.

[To: Spider Bro 7:54 pm]

Hey, Pete, it’s Tony. I’m good now. Should be released tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll see you Wednesday. Sorry about today. I didn’t mean for things to get bad, especially with you around. We can talk Wednesday, but don’t worry about anything.

Clint smiled, and informed Tony when Peter replied that it was fine, but that he wasn’t going to come back until Friday, because that was the absolute earliest that Tony should be out of bed, and that Karen, FRIDAY, and Clint were conspiring against him to ensure he rested.

“Et tu, Barton?” Tony asked, a hand to his heart in betrayal.

“Until you’re not a baby who doesn’t know how to take care of himself, your robots and I are your new parents.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re grounded,” Clint said sternly.

“Where does Peter fit into this new family?”

“He’s your son, obviously,” Clint replied, “though he’s smarter than you are.”

Tony laughed. “Don’t I know it.”

“You really have a soft spot for Spidey, don’t you?”

“Course I do,” Tony said fondly. “He’s a good kid.”

i like that you tagged this as "spoilers" even though all you said is that it was good lmao

@taylor-tut HOLY SHIT YOU LIKE IT TOO?!?

another one of @taylor-tut s Rubys

I

oh my god <3

fav scene ive ever written… ngl the first thing that comes to mind is the helicopter scene from the voltron initiative? like its literally in the last chapter (leaving out the epilogue) and at this point i hate most of that fic but like. i was building up to that for months, ok? like. keith stealing a helicopter was a lowkey running joke in that fic for ages and i was like, i have to make this happen. and i mean its already a giant robot vs kaiju fic, like, there was no real reason not to include an over-the-top action-movie sort of. helicopter hijacking. the villain falling out and clinging to a dangling ladder. like. it was so cliched but man i still love that scene.

just. just go here and read the second scene. you dont need context. its fine.

-

cried while writing… i dont think ive actually cried, but young blood came real damn close. i killed keith my dude. that hurt.

i mean, he comes back in the sequel. but like. he died.

-

laugh? ALL THE TIME oh my god. i am like always giggling to myself over my own fics. two particular offenders tho were two kids and a missing pilot go to space: what happens next will warm your heart! for i think obvious reasons, and a hole heap of trouble. both of which edge into crack territory but w/e.

here is a chunk of tkmp but honestly the whole things a riot imo:

“The Balmera has opened the way!” she tells Keith. “It leads directly to the prisoners. It is… steep, and narrow, however.” She is reasonably certain she will not fit through it—but Keith will.

He crosses his arms. “You’re saying I have to go alone and might not be able to come back up the same way.”

“…Yes.”

“Figures. I’ll meet you down there, I guess,” he says, walking over to the hole. He eyes it the way he eyes the dishes he has been told to wash: he knows he is going to do it, but he certainly will not enjoy it.

“Good luck!” she says.

ah. yeah im still laughin at that fic.

-

as for outlining… sorta?? some fics (mostly ones im doin just for me) i just wing, but anything for a zine/event i do some sort of outline. usually just like, certain beats/scenes i wanna hit, nothing complicated. i dont need a lot to get going.

Happy Birthday, April 39th anon! (if you didn’t see that post then I’m sorry that joke made no sense) I hope it’s as lovely as you are! Here’s a fic!