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bujeetles · 5 years

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a very messy (m-rated) panda shrine avengers fic. to the two people reading this, hope you enjoy!

Peter Orso fucking hated his boss. He had always disliked Francis Monogram, his blatant favoritism towards the main branch and his upper management outlook were bad enough, but this? This was the last straw.

“Ah Agent P. Apologies for calling you on your day off.” he said through Peter’s watch, voice fuzzy and picture weak, because Peter had been hiking, and there wasn’t much signal on the mountain. He didn’t actually sound apologetic at all.

“As you’ve probably heard, some of the Avengers were recently in Danville, and OWCA had a manner of cooperation.”

“So?” he signed, raising his eyebrows even further than was probably necessary.

“Director Fury feels it necessary to set up protocol, in case a similar situation arises. We have elected to send you as the OWCA liaison.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek to avoid a growl, because seriously? They were shacking this bullshit paper-trail nonsense on him?!

“Why not yours?” he asked, carefully steeling his face so it comes out neutral, instead of infuriated. After all, Agent Perry, Codename Platypus, had been the heroic savior of the hour, or whatever. (The pictures were pretty fun to look at, if he was honest. Very Silver Age.)

“Our Agent P is busy.” He said, like that was any excuse, they were all busy. “Seeing as your nemesis is currently...offline, you are our best option.”

Offline. What a lovely little euphemism, so peaceable, so voluntary sounding. How utterly bullshit. Mystery wasn’t ‘offline’, he was missing, he might even have been abducted, though Peter didn’t have enough evidence to say one way or the other. But Monogram could never say something like that, it would imply he gave a shit. In fact, he was probably actually sending Peter because he was tired of him using paid time to look for Mystery.

“When.”

“There will be an agent waiting as soon as you arrive back in civilization, Agent P. Do hurry.” he said, and hung up.

Fucking asshole.

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Peter finished his hike, but there wasn’t any of the peace he’d hoped for in it. He had thought, being away from the city, he might think of some way to find Mystery. It was strange, he’d always been a thwart and run kind of agent, never staying with one person for long. He’d seen every type of evil there was and some things that weren’t so morally defined. He was unattached, and he was good.

And then Mystery, who never told him anything, and yet he was drawn back and back again, in his traps, in his non-specific monologues. After the kidnapping turned coffee date, they’d gotten closer to traditional, what with overarching the tragic backstory out in the open, but Peter kind of liked the not-knowing, having to figure it out from what little he did know.

Now he wondered, if they were normal, functional, healthy nemeses, maybe he could find him. But they weren’t. They were weird and wrong and made for each other.

He shook those thoughts away as he made his way into the parking lot, he didn’t like Monogram at all, but most of OWCA was solid. He couldn’t afford to let them down just because of his situation.

At first, he didn’t see anyone. The lot was empty, mini-vans and sedans everywhere, the occasional non-family car. His motorcycle. One blink later and there was a woman, tight-laced, no nonsense, gray suit. Very obvious, as far as secret agents went, but well, SHIELD was secret only in name, so perhaps it was appropriate. He walked over to her.

“Identification.” she said, in lieu of hello. Not exactly incognito. Still, he fished out his OWCA ID and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“I thought Agent P worked in Danville.” Peter sighed. Monogram really was leaving it all to him, huh.

“You sign?” he asked, because he hadn’t brought his notebook with him, since it was his day off. He could use his phone if it came down to it, but he didn’t like to. The brightness hurt his eyes.

“A little. Mostly military. You might have to finger spell.” she replied. Not ideal, but at least she wasn’t forcing him to write, nor was she being rude about it.

“Not that Agent P. He’s Platypus. I’m Panda.”

“Weird naming system you guys have got going on.” she said, and he snorted, because she didn’t even know about the alliteration convention, or Agent CH out in Arizona, or was it New Mexico?

“I’ll have to verify your identity on the Helicarrier, but I was going to do that anyway. Let’s go.” she said, and before he could ask their means of transportation, he saw the light gather around him, his stomach start to lurch.

‘Shit. Teleportation.’ Was his first thought. His second, ‘I’m going to pass out.’ He was right.

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

Peter woke up on a cot, with a headache and no sound. He could still feel the vibrations of the Helicarrier under him, but his aides were gone. Not on the table, not in his pocket. He swore under his breath, he’d already been on his spares, and OWCA insurance always fought tooth and nail when he requested a new pair. He wondered if SHIELD would pay the bill, this time. It was clearly their fault.

Something hit him in the head, not enough to hurt, but to get his attention, and there was a guy in purple and black spandex in the door, grinning wide. Peter didn’t pay a lot of attention to heroes, but the bow slung over his shoulder was a bit of a dead giveaway. Hawkeye.

“New aides, if you want.” he signed, and it was confident, natural. Peter’s gaze flicked to his ears, the curling piece of plastic resting there. Huh.

“Didn’t know Hawkeye was deaf.” he said as he stood, tucking the box into his pocket. He didn’t really want to hear what he was feeling, not with the headache he was sporting.

“Try to keep it on the down low. Villains and all.” he said with a shrug, which was fair enough. “You’re from O-W-C-A, right?” Peter nodded.

“I’m supposed to feed you to the sharks, but as we are deaf bros I’m obligated to save you.” There was a dramatic tone to his signs, almost like he was performing. It made Peter smile. Perry was the only other person he could sign with easily, and he was all quick and efficient, like he was briefing someone. Of course, that could just be the circumstances. You thwart a taken nemesis one time and it’s all icy stares thereafter.

“Where to?” he asked, and Hawkeye grinned.

“We’re here to debrief, which means the gang is all here. How’d you like to meet the Avengers?”

He’s woken up to worse suggestions.

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The first place Hawkeye inelegantly dragged him is a lab. Probably. Everything’s so techno-futuristic around here that it’s hard to tell. The occupant helped. It’s Iron Man, or Tony Stark, seeing as he wasn’t in the suit, poking away at screens and looking sleep deprived.

He wasn’t perturbed by their sudden entrance, at least, Peter was pretty sure he wasn’t. The damn screens meant he couldn’t see his lips, though they were moving so quickly he would probably have had trouble anyway. Well, couldn’t all be winners like Hawkeye, he mused, and popped the new aides in.

“-not to mention non-ripable pants for the Big Guy.” Huh. His voice wasn’t quite so deep, outside the suit. “Who’s your friend?” Stark asked, flicking the screens away. Bit late, but whatever.

“He’s the OWCA liaison, Agent P.”

“OWCA?”

“You know, the whole Danville thing?”

“Christ, is anyone ever going to let us live that down? Those kids were good though, hope they take up my offer on that internship.”

“Benefits of not having superpowers to take.” Hawkeye teased. Stark rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have powers either, dipshit. My suit is more zap proof now, though. So, what’s Agent P - you got something else I can call you? Seems a bit Men in Black.”

“Panda.” he signed, and Clint translated.

“That’s what the P stands for?” he asked, incredulous.

“Your name is Iron Man.” he deadpanned.

“Fair enough. Whatcha’ doing here, Agent Panda?” he asked, a little sing-song, like he was echoing.

“Avoiding my responsibilities.”

Stark laughed at that, long and deep, until his breath couldn’t sustain it any longer.

“I like this guy. OWCA might not be so bad.” he declared, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Peter should have stayed quiet. OWCA did not want to get on the bad side of literal superheroes, and overall it did a lot of good. But it felt wrong, not to forewarn him.

“My boss is a jackass.” He wore a scowl as he said it, his teeth grinding together in frustration. His rage had faded a little, being in Hawkeye’s company, but it was back now, and it burned.

“Oof. We’ve all been there. What’s his particular flavor of jackassery? Let me guess: bad insurance, overworked and underpaid.” Stark commiserated.

“My money’s on non-ADA compliance and subtle but consistent bigotry.” Hawkeye chipped in.

Neither of these accusations were wrong, and it’s not like Peter enjoyed them, but they weren’t the reasons he really hated Monogram enough to tell superheroes about it. He wondered if he should tell them the truth of the matter. Maybe they could actually help.

And honestly? Peter was desperate.

“My...” He paused. He couldn’t call Mystery his nemesis, it was a different term on their level. Part of the reason Peter didn’t pay attention to heroes was the evil that followed them, he didn’t like thinking about the cursed red Nazi still walking around. He was happiest when things were on OWCA’s scale. Preventable, personal, often petty. It was evil still, and the more extreme scientists might even be thrown in jail if schemes turned deadly, but for the most part? OWCA prevented the smart and broken from destroying the world by giving them something to do. With that in mind, the term he did use wasn’t technically a lie.

“My partner disappeared last week. He doesn’t want me looking for him.”

Stark and Hawkeye shared a look, one that conveyed information he wasn’t able to decipher, a wordless (and signless) conversation which ended on agreement.

“Let’s call the Cap.”

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Everything after that was a bit of a blur, if Peter was honest. Captain America asked for everything he knew about Mystery’s last whereabouts, he told him. It wasn’t as hard as he thought it might be, not mentioning the villainy. Mystery was so closed off even his intentions weren’t obvious to see.

He’s about 70% sure they think Mystery is his lover, which is funny and fucked up and only two degrees away from the truth. There was something kinetic in animosity, similar to sex, and he’s not going to pretend he hasn’t thought about combining the two with Mystery. So many secrets he could unravel under his tongue, his fingers, and he could just kiss him and kiss him and never stop.

Reality wasn’t that kind. Reality was in the forms he finally picked up, another gut-wrenching teleportation, an empty apartment and a vague promise of news that might never come. Reality was insomnia, coffee he had to pour down the drain because one of the few things he did know is how much Mystery loves it, and he’s not here. Reality was tears that didn’t count because his eyes were still closed.

Reality could go fuck itself.

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Four months went by, slow as an ocean current, before Hawkeye - civilian name Clint Barton - texted Peter an update that didn’t include some sort of apology. A photo of a rumpled looking man in a mask with the eyes of a cursed spirit, and a caption that killed in understatement. “he’s kind of grumpy, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes he is.” he texts back, immediate.

“your bf is kinda dumb, you know”

“like brilliant and whatever but also”

“the only reason he disappeared is b/c of some very illegal wormhole manipulation”

“good luck with the charges on that”

“I’ll manage. When can I come and get him?”

“we were just going to drop him off tbh; you don’t have a good history with teleports”

“also wtf i can’t believe you had us calling you panda for months when your name is actually peter”

“aww he’s asking if you saw anyone else while he was gone”

“I mean he said thwart which is a bit of a weird word choice but seattle so who knows”

“No. I’ve been on desk duty this whole time. I got offers, but I refused.”

“double aww I told him what you said and now he’s all flustered”

“anyway meet us in this field in like an hour”

Peter put on his fedora and googles, sent an email about stopping his nemesis, his nemesis, who was back! He followed the coordinates to a park barely inside Seattle city limits, a little squalid, cameras broken or unattended. All the better for SHIELD’s fake secrecy agenda, when four people beam out of the sky. Thor and Hawkeye were holding Mystery steady, while Dr. Banner - Hulk or not the man had doctorates, while Peter had barely survived grad school - looked on with vague concern.

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be, Peter the Panda.” Mystery growled as he righted himself, and oh how he had missed it, the insults, the banter.

“Not at the moment.”

“Peachy. You know, in another dimension, you’re an actual Panda. And you still left me for Doofenshmirtz. Not exactly encouraging.” he accused, moving towards him, one, two steps.

“He’s not a bad night’s call. But you’re my nemesis.”

Mystery’s eyes went wide, and Peter regretted every second he’d spent stepping out, in downplaying how important Mystery was to him, because it was so obvious in his retrospect.

“You mean that?” he asked, a tremor muffled under fabric. When Peter nodded, the distance between them disappeared, the knife glinted against his throat.

“Very well, Peter the Panda. I will take great joy on obliterating you and bringing havoc upon the entire Pacific Northwest,” He pulled away and smirked. “Tomorrow afternoon. Don’t be late.” With that, he strode off into the depths of the greater Seattle area.

“Did we just rescue a super villain?” Hawkeye asked, blinking furiously.

“OWCA business. Don’t worry, he’s mine.”

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bujeetles · 7 years

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The day it happened was the most ordinary kind. The kind of unobtrusive, unremarkable day that generally isn’t worth remembering. The weather was decent, the traffic only mildly annoying. Now that he was no longer assigned a nemesis Perry had to report to OWCA headquarters daily and meet up with his team, where they would be given a new mission or continue along one previously assigned.

That day they were on the tail end of a mission for the Swiss government involving embezzlement, organized crime, and mechanical adding machines. All the interesting business had been dealt with, leaving only paperwork in all four official languages of the country in triplicate. Perry had obtained an extra-large oolong tea and a stack of two-language dictionaries for this purpose.

The whole task was made slightly easier by having a native German speaker, though admittedly if a very different dialect. Yet when Perry arrived in the board room he had requested, Heinz was not there. Maggie and Harry were getting set up, the former on French, which she had taken in college to fill out a semester, the latter on Romansh, as he had drawn the short straw. Karen was also in attendance, though mostly symbolically. Aside from fighting she had a somewhat lazy disposition, which not even the black band could sufficiently reform.

Heinz’s absence was not in and of itself surprising, he was still late more often than an agent of their status should be, and had the most uncanny knack for getting himself into trouble. But Perry could think of nothing that could have impeded the Drusselsteinian today. He had already made it to headquarters, his name had been scrawled with usual illegibility across the sign-in sheet, and it was only a few hundred feet from there to his current location. Perry’s brow creased as he tried to find some explanation, but the lack of any infrastructural damage made most of them impossible. Finally, he decided to consult the others, regardless of the teasing he would certainly receive.

“Where’s Heinz?” he signed, trying and mostly failing to keep the anxiety off his face.

“Got a phone call.” Maggie said, her voice clipped and somewhat squawkish, as per usual.

“He-He-He didn’t seem to like it very much.” Harry added, twisting his fingers together and pulling apart with a nervous energy. “Couldn’t understand it though, all in Ge-er-erman.” He was shaking slightly, eyes moving wildly in his sockets. Harry never stood still if he could help it.

“From the embassy?” he asked, Heinz had never been particularly tactful with members of bureaucracy, considering his brother. Perry hoped he wouldn’t have to arrange for another fruit basket.

“Nah, it was on his cell phone.” Karen said, looking over the edge of hers. She pointed with one finger, the dangerously sharp bright pink nail sticking out like a serrated knife. “He went that way.”

Perry nodded and dutifully followed the direction, peering through the branching hallways of the corporate maze that half reminded him of the offices in Monsters Incorporated - one of the boys’ favorite movies. Unlike that sterile environment, the offices of OWCA were lively, full of chatter and laughter and frustrated noises as the internet suddenly dropped mid-report. It was so chaotic he almost missed that faint, pitiful little sound from behind the closet door. He opened the door carefully, an inch at a time, and the light spilling in caused the shadows to form long spindles towards the epicenter. Towards Heinz.

Heinz had been crying and it seemed that he was an ugly crier. His face had turned a blotchy-red white, the skin around his eyes swelled, his long distinctive nose dribbled like a steady stream. The thing that Perry realized with a chill was that he had never seen Heinz cry like this. Oh there were tears that welled up occasionally, but his sadness was always tearless. It was too old for crying, instead worn with weary little frowns and the inverted slant of his eyebrows. These tears were raw, and that scared him.

“Oh, it’s you, Perry the Platypus.” he said, his voice limpid and the words half on autopilot. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m hiding in a supply closet. Well the habit all started back in Gim-” he stopped abruptly, sighing. “What’s the point? For all the pain and torment that place left on me, it doesn’t remember.” Perry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. He never had. That was the reason he never commented on his tragic backstories when they were nemeses, too angry and lost for words.

“Vater’s dead.” he stated clearly, no wobble to his voice. “It wasn’t exactly a shock, considering the state of his health. He didn’t seem to think the laws of nature or economics applied to him. Stubborn, mean, downright cruel at times.” His mouth attempted something like a smile but didn’t make it.

“I’ll miss him, but that’s not the reason for all this, oh no. You see, while I only learned the news this morning, it happened a month and a half ago. Everyone in the Doofenshmirtz line was called up, all the cousins and niblings, Vanessa taught me that one. Though Uncle Justin always just called me fickfehler, you know, before he fled to Borneo. Anyway, everyone showed up at the funeral, even Mother, who hadn’t spoken to Vater since they separated. Roger gave this big speech and everyone got to cry and laugh and grieve while I was in Switzerland, tracking adding machines.” he bunched up the papers that had been lying at his feet and hurled them into a bucket with such force Perry was surprised the thing didn’t fall over.

“I don’t care about being loved anymore, I know I didn’t earn it, but Gott im Himmel I deserved to be at Vater’s funeral! At the very least I deserved to be told directly, not find out after the fact from a lawyer who assumed Roger had to be the oldest son, the one who inherited everything, not one three cent coin for me, of course. Who cares about pathetic Heinz Doofenshmirtz?” he ranted, his hands wringing at the air as if he could choke it, fresh tears falling like Sisyphus’ boulder.

Perry couldn’t stand it any longer. He crossed the length of the closet, grabbed Heinz by his collar and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the kind that left no air for words or sobs. It was a painful, rough, and exactly what was needed at the moment, judging by the hard scrabble of his limbs as Heinz held onto him. When he pulled away there was a smile there, small but genuine.

“Thank you, Perry the Platypus.”

A nod, a pat on the back. And after a moment of hesitation, a tap to his chest, fingers curling across his chin, a press of his palm across Heinz’s heart.

“I care about you.”

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bujeetles · 7 years

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Fake

based on this art

When Miggs Ortega wakes up with pounding behind his eyes and bars in front of his face he figures something has gone horribly wrong. His brand of evil is largely consultation based, with a generous heap of plausible deniability on the legal side of things. Even the schemes he sets up for his nemesis were localized enough to avoid imprisonment. He scrabbles through his brain looking for explanations but finds nothing, just a tingling numbness.

Seeking information, Miggs turns his attention to the outer world, finally noticing the figure crouched in front of him. He’s rather large, even in his hunched state. He has a notebook in his hands, a three word message spelled out on the smooth paper.

“Miggs, U ok?”

Alarm bells ring in his head, nobody tied with his Professor Mystery persona knows he goes by Miggs, he’s a firm believer in the separation of personal and evil lives. Even if they got his legal name, Miguel, most people don’t think to shorten it. Could it be that this was someone from his normal life? He doesn’t recognize them. He turns his confusion, like most of his emotions, to anger, hurls it at the figure.

“How the fuck did you know I go by Miggs?” he accuses, backing up a little so he can see whoever this is more properly. Once the round glasses pop into view it’s obvious. Peter the Panda, his nemesis. Or at least, a Peter. He doesn’t look exactly like his Peter. A little more wrinkled, his facial hair less unruly, a few new scars on his arms. They’re subtle, but Miggs knows Peter down to the smallest detail, still maintains the shrine to him, though without any references to that harlot Doofenshmirtz. It’s all very puzzling, but he can’t show that weakness, especially as he doesn’t know what kind of trouble he might be in.

“Aren’t you my nemesis? I almost didn’t recognize you without that stupid hat.” he scoffs, quirking one eyebrow and hating how the lie feels, he would never not know Peter, not now that he has him back. His averts his eyes from Peter’s gaze, not wanting to see his cool indifference right now. Even though he’s decided to have Mystery for now, he’s all too aware he hasn’t inspired that all-consuming hate in him, not yet. Maybe someday, he hopes.

He turns cold when he sees the glint though, the thing so obvious he hadn’t noticed on first glance. The ring. Silver and simple and worn on the left hand, the one he leads into his punches with. A wedding band. Logically, he oughtn’t care whether Peter was married, intimate and nemesis relationships were different, if similar in their commitment. But Miggs can’t stand the thought of someone else having his Peter, his nemesis to themselves.

“You’re married.” he says, rage scraping gouges into the words and lighting fury in his eyes. “After everything we’ve been through, you didn’t think that was important to mention?! I told you my most emotional backstory, Peter, and you didn’t trust me with this?!” Miggs screams, reaching through the bars and pulling at his shirt, banging his head into the metal with a ringing twang!

But Peter doesn’t punch him back, doesn’t do anything but look dazed and half-broken, blood dripping from his forehead and tears welling in his eyes. It stops Miggs faster than a brick wall. There’s something decidedly wrong with this Peter, he knows Miggs’ name and looks his age and cries when he’s hurt. He lets go of him and backs up until he hits the wall, looking at him with confusion and horror.

“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my nemesis?”

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