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preraphaelitepunk · 5 years

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Fictober19 Day 22: Stompy Boots and Unconditional Love

Prompt #22: We could have a chance.

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, Warlock

Rating: General

Warnings: None

On AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936/chapters/50291660

“Good morning, darling.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley on the crown of his head, smoothing his impressive bedhead, and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Sleep well?”

“Urglh.” The angel had turned out to be a disgustingly cheery morning person, possibly because he avoided the whole grogginess business by rarely sleeping. Crowley was not. He took a swig of the coffee, relishing the heat and the aroma. Aziraphale had already added the three sugars and a splash of vanilla. “‘Sgood coffee,” he mumbled.

“Thank you. One egg or two?”

Crowley was about to moan that he wasn’t alert enough to even contemplate food, and could Aziraphale kindly knock off the cheerfulness before he, Crowley, discorporated, when his phone buzzed.

“Huh. Video chat request. Don’t recognize the number. Wazzit mean when the phone number starts with one?”

“America, I believe. Do we know anyone who’d be calling from America?”

Crowley suddenly felt completely awake. “Warlock.” He tapped the “accept call” icon.

“Hey, Nanny,” Warlock said. His hair was longer than it had been last time they’d seen him, and he looked older. That would only make sense, Crowley thought, since it had been just over four years since the disastrous birthday party. “Is Brother Francis around?”

Aziraphale shuffled into the camera’s view and gave a little wave. Warlock didn’t seem surprised by his straightened teeth and clean-shaven appearance, any more than he’d been about Crowley’s non-Scottish accent and masculine presentation. “Hello, dear. Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the birthday presents. The fountain pen is great, and I love the drone.”

“That drone is only to be used for wreaking havoc and annoying your security detail,” Crowley said severely. “If I hear you’ve been using it for benevolent purposes, I’m taking it back.” In the smaller picture window, he could see Aziraphale cut his eyes toward him disapprovingly.

Warlock grinned. “Yes, Nanny. Except I don’t have a security detail any more. My dad got fired.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was clearly torn between sympathy and a most unangelic schadenfreude; Ambassador Dowling had been a deeply unpleasant man. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. He deserved it: up to his neck in shady deals.”

Crowley laughed. “Why am I not surprised? But how did you find my number, Warlock? I’m unlisted.”

“Wasn’t that hard. All your letters use the bookshop as the return address, and it was just a matter of identifying numbers assigned to your neighborhood and ruling out any that actually got paid for.” Warlock hesitated. “So, should I call you guys Crowley and Aziraphale, instead of Nanny and Brother Francis?”

“You can call us whatever you like,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded behind him. “We’re easy that way.”

“It’s just so lovely to get to see you again,” Aziraphale added.

Warlock gave the grimace of a fifteen-year-old torn between affection and the need to preserve some veneer of aloof coolness. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course!”

“We miss you very much, dear boy.” Crowley said, a trace of Nanny’s accent creeping into his voice.

“I miss you, too,” Warlock admitted. “America sucks, and the kids here are all weird. But,” he dropped his eyes, hesitating, “if you really wouldn’t mind seeing me, for real, we could have a chance. To see each other, in person. Y’know, if you want.”

Aziraphale nearly grabbed the phone from Crowley’s hands, but Crowley managed to hang onto it. Just. “Oh, that would be delightful, dear! Do you want us to come to America?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and silently mouthed “America?” He’d do anything for those he loved, especially Aziraphale, but America’s political situation right now made him want to drink himself into a stupor. It was too much.

“No, actually, I’ll be in London in a month. Just for a few days.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Crowley said, relieved.

“My parents are shipping me off on one of those grand tours for rich brats.” Warlock rolled his eyes. “Two months to see all of Europe.”

“Two months?” Aziraphale sounded scandalized. “That’s hardly enough time to get to know even one city, let alone all of Europe.”

“Yeah, but at least it’s two months away from my parents. So, would it be okay if I see you while I’m in London?” For a moment, Warlock looked much younger than his fifteen years, and Crowley’s heart swelled.

“Of course, my dear. Just try to keep us away.”

*** ***

It was miraculously easy to convince the tour’s chaperone that Warlock should be allowed to spend all his London time with two strange men. The boy had grown lanky and was nearly as tall as Aziraphale now.

“So can we go to Camden Town?” he asked excitedly. “I hear they’ve got some wicked shops.”

“Of course.”

“And Pizza Express? I’ve always wanted to go.”

Aziraphale looked scandalized. “Dear boy, if it’s pizza you want, we can do much better than that.” He caught Crowley’s meaningful raised eyebrow, and added, “But if your heart is set on Pizza Express, then of course we’ll go there.”

“Cool! And I want to see the bookshop.”

“I’m sure Aziraphale will be glad to give you the full tour,” Crowley laughed. “Just don’t touch any of his books, and you’ll be fine.”

“We should do something educational while he’s here,” Aziraphale suggested. “Not all shopping and eating. Perhaps the V&A?”

Groaning, Crowley let his head loll back in exasperation. “Angel, no fifteen-year-old kid is going to be interested in the costume collection at the V&A.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip protruded just a bit. “They have other exhibits.”

“Yes, but you always want to go look at the clothes. I swear it reminds you of when your clothes were still in style.”

“The costume exhibit sounds cool, actually. I wouldn’t mind that,” Warlock said. He glanced up at them nervously. “I kind of like clothes. I was thinking I might study fashion design in college.” He seemed to brace himself for disapproval.

“That sounds so exciting!” Aziraphale gushed. “I’m sure you’ll make a splendid designer.”

Crowley threw a fond arm over the boy’s shoulders. “You’ll do great. Just make sure you use lots of black. Black is cool. Oh, and make clothes for everyone. Boys, girls, nonbinary, skinny, fat—”

“Able-bodied and disabled,” Aziraphale added.

“Yes! And for people with sensory issues. Everybody deserves to live with style.”

Warlock had brightened considerably. “So basically you want me to do everything for everyone, but make it fashion?”

Crowley felt a pang of sorrow and anger at the boy’s relief. Given how dreadful his parents were, he probably hadn’t received much reinforcement or support for his dreams. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Warlock. You’re a very remarkable boy.”

Aziraphale added, “We are very proud of you, my dear.”

Warlock’s lip trembled a bit, and he darted in to hug both of them. Just for a few seconds, until his innate teenaged too-cool-for-adults instinct kicked in, but for just a moment Crowley could feel the raw ache for acceptance flowing out of the boy. He swore that the next time he saw the senior Dowlings, he’d jinx them with something hideous for letting his boy feel so lonely and unloved.

Three days passed all too quickly, in a blur of laughter and silliness and earnest discussions about style, symbolism, and the inherent nature of the universe, and soon they had to return Warlock to the tour group, loaded with bags of the finest goth and goth-adjacent clothes, books on fashion history, and the newest and sleekest electronics.

“Now, take care of yourself, and have fun,” Aziraphale said, adjusting the collar on Warlock’s jacket. “I expect postal cards from every major city, understand.”

“Yes, Uncle Aziraphale.”

“And I expect you to disrupt the system wherever you go, and to challenge everyone’s assumptions at all times,” Crowley added.

“Yes, Uncle Crowley.” Nobody could drone tiredly like a teenager, but Warlock’s lips were twitching at the corners.

“Now, give us a hug, and be a good boy.”

“And fight the power.”

One last hug for each of them, and Warlock was stomping up into the tour bus to join the other rich teens; Crowley noted with pride that the boy’s shiny new black platform boots were particularly well suited for stomping. Warlock waved from his seat as the bus pulled away.

“Our little boy is growing up,” Crowley said, slipping his arm around Aziraphale’s waist as they watched the bus shrink in the distance.

“He’s a fine young person, indeed, my dear.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “My influence, of course.”

Crowley laughed. “Of course, angel. Shall we see if we can get him to visit again next summer?”

“Oh, I’d like that. I’d like that very much. Oh, and maybe when he’s a bit older, he can come study in London! The University of the Arts has an excellent fashion program.”

“I’ll see what I can do to convince him.” Somehow, Crowley didn’t think he’d have to work very hard to convince Warlock. Even if the Dowlings wouldn’t support a degree in fashion, even if they disowned their child in a fit of pique and narrow-mindedness about what was appropriate for a regular boy-type Y-chromosome-man-child, Warlock would know he could always count on unconditional love from his weird uncles. Crowley would make sure of it.

#fictober19 #good omens #good omens fanfic #fluff #fanfic #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands #warlock (good omens)

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let-it-raines · 5 years

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Since this actually happened to my friend last week and I’m now totally paranoid it’s going to happen to me too: person x is trying to sell their house/apartment and person y’s realtor forgets to give notice and person y walks in on person x getting out of the shower...

Rain pounds down around her as she drives to the viewing she set up last week. It’s time for her to get out of her apartment and have a house for Henry with a backyard. Like, an actual backyard with grass and a swing set and not something that’s covered in concrete and trash from their neighbors. She feels like she’s been saving for years, and maybe she has been.

No, she definitely has been.

It’s hard to be a bail bondsperson and a mom to a ten-year-old boy. Some nights she spends half of her paycheck on Henry’s babysitter, especially because a lot of the time they have to spend the night at her apartment. Frankly, it sucks. But this is the hand life has dealt her, with a large assist from Neal Cassidy and all of his asshole ways, and she’s dealing with it. She thinks she deals with it well, but it’s not like she’s given Henry a life with two parents and ice cream on Saturdays after they come home from his soccer games.

There’s one parent, maybe some ice cream, and Henry likes baseball, weirdly enough. She didn’t know a single thing about baseball until Henry came home one day and told her he was playing it.

She’s a baseball mom.

Like, she keeps a chair in the back of her car and brings orange slices (sometimes donuts when she forgets it’s her week) to games and slathers she and her son down in lotion so that neither of them get burned. Ten years ago when she was in the high school bathroom staring at a positive pregnancy test, she could have never imagined any of this.

Life is weird.

She loves her kid more than anything in the world.

Her car runs through a puddle, mud and water splashing up on the side, and she nearly sways into the other lane. Shit, she needs new wipers too. She doubts that comes with this house. Maybe some curtains and the appliances but definitely not windshield wipers for her car. That would be a little odd. Helpful but odd.

She thinks that she’s pulled up to the right house, the exterior looking the same as the listing online, and she checks the address one more time as a loud crash of thunder vibrates the ground, her car, and seemingly the blood in her veins. She really hates storms. Seriously. Nothing good comes from them except maybe plants and grass getting watered, but all they really need is a light sprinkle. They don’t need a thunderstorm.

Calm it down universe.

Sighing, she pulls on her raincoat, zipping it up as much as she can, and pulls the hood over her hair. She really needs an umbrella, but she gave Henry hers before he got on the bus for school this morning. It’s probably five dollars for another umbrella. She’ll stop by CVS or something on the way home.

Home.

That’s a weird word because technically, if she likes this place, and if Henry likes this place when she brings him here at some point, this could be their home.

Huh.

Home.

It’s a mad dash from her bug to the front door, her keys jiggling against the key Ashley, her realtor, gave her to get into the house as she runs. It doesn’t really help, though. Her boots are somehow soaked through, wet grass and mud covering her feet as she tries to shake the water from her coat, water droplets falling to the brick steps that are covered by the roof.

Oh, a nice little covered porch. That’s good. She likes that.

She scrapes her feet against the welcome mat (sorry, house owner) and unlocks the door, stepping inside. It looks just like the pictures, which is always a good sign. There’s a small entryway, light gray paint covering the walls, with a small cushioned bench pressed up against the wall. It’s definitely more for decoration than anything, but she can see she and Henry having a little cubby there for their shoes and his backpack. She’d definitely put a key ring there and then decidedly not put her keys there.

It always happens. And she’s always late everywhere.

With her shoes squeaking on the dark hardwood, she walks out of the entryway and into the living room. It’s kind of small, but then again, so is the house. It’s not like she’s looking to buy some kind of mansion. She’s a single mom looking for a place where she and her son can have their own bedrooms and bathrooms, preferably ones that don’t share walls. It’s not like she’s brining guys back to her house, but sometimes Henry jams out to hard rock (she has no idea where the AC/DC obsession came from, and she’s honestly not sure if she should be letting her kid listen to it) and she needs to sleep.

But her own bathroom? That’s a must have.

She wanders around the living room and the connected dining room, the table and chairs under a rounded archway, and even though she’s supposed to be imagining their stuff here, all she notices is the nautical décor. Seriously. She knows that they live in Maine and the ocean is fifteen minutes away, but this is some serious anchor and captain’s wheel decor. Everything is in dark leathers and deep blues, and if she had to bet, a guy lives here. It’s stereotypical, but stereotypes are true for a reason.

Damn, sailor. How many stripes can you have on each pillow?

Is there a crab on that pillow on the recliner? There is.

It’s a nice place, though, one that hits all of her boxes, and the very last thing to check is the master bedroom. She’s basically living in a shoebox now, so when she opens the last door in the house and sees that there’s room for a king bed (not that she has one) plus a few extra pieces of furniture, she lets out a sigh of relief. The nautical theme is still going on, a white bedspread with blue and green pillows covering the mattress, and above the bed is what seems to be a framed Naval uniform. Or at least the jacket. It’s a weird flex, but it’s not the weirdest thing she’s ever seen. Yesterday Ashley took her into a house that had purple carpeting and a leopard couch.

Nautical is much better.

She’s bringing her own stuff her anyways. The owner is going to take all of his things and never come back.

After looking at the bedroom and watching the rain fall heavily outside, she walks over to the door that she assumes is the bathroom and twists the knob, opening the white frame and stepping into what has to be the bathroom.

Which is being used right now.

Specifically the shower.

Which is clear glass.

With a naked man inside of it.

Holy shit.

“What the bloody hell are you doing in here?” the man shouts the moment he sees her, blue eyes connecting with green. Why in the world is the shower so close to the door? Why is that her concern right now?

There’s a naked man in the shower. Like, she’s getting a full frontal view.

“What are you…what are you doing in here?” she screeches, still staring at the damp hair that’s matted down on his chest and the lean muscles that are beneath. Nope. Nope. Nope. She should not be looking at this naked man who most likely broke into the house to take a shower or something. Damn it, she should have brought her gun inside.

She looks at him one more time, shock still running through her system and causing her heart to beat erratically in her chest, threatening to break through the ribcage, before she looks up at the ceiling, biting the inside of her cheek while her foot taps. Why is she standing still instead of running away? This is the dumbest decision she’s ever made.

“What am I doing here?” the man scoffs, turning the water off.

How did she not hear the water? The rain. The rain must have blocked it out. Or maybe she was too distracted by all of the nautical stuff. Maybe this house turns into a boat and sails away. It might need to if this storm never stops.

“Yes, what are you doing here? Are you one of those creeps who breaks into houses that are for sale and steals things? Or uses the shower? Did you also decided to make yourself lunch today?”

She’s so focused at looking at the pattern on the ceiling that she doesn’t realize that the man has gotten out of the shower and stepped toward her, hovering slightly over her face. Couldn’t he have put on more than a damn towel? She’s probably going to get murdered, and she’s distracted by this dude’s bare chest and the scruff that lines his jaw. He’s crazy hot, and his eyes are much bluer this close.

Crap. He’s probably like Ted Bundy or something.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not going there. She is not getting murdered today.

“Love, I own this house. What are you doing here?”

Oh.

Oh shit.

“W-what do you mean you own this house?” she asks, straightening out her back to try to make herself bigger. He’s not that much taller than her with the heels of her boots helping, but it’s still a difference. Plus she has to stop looking down. The towel doesn’t hide much. “Ashely said that no one would be here and I’m free to look around.”

His tongue clicks at the same time that thunder rolls outside, and she takes the brief moment to back up so that she can’t feel his body heat.

“You’re viewing the house. Thank God. I was about to call the cops.”

“And say what? A woman is watching me shower. I don’t think – oh yeah, I could totally get arrested for that. Sorry.”

He smiles at her, white teeth contrasted against the black of his beard, and she absolutely cannot wait to tell Ruby about this. She may very well die of laughter…if Emma doesn’t die of embarrassment first.

And disappointment over not getting the house. There’s no way this guy is going to sell it to her now.

“Yeah, love,” he laughs, tightening his towel around his waist, “you could.” He reaches his hand out in front of her, and she stares at it for a moment too long before taking it and shaking his rough hand, disbelief at this entire situation beginning to sink in. “Killian Jones, house owner and shower taker. I’m in desperate need of a realtor who tells me when to get out of the house so that beautiful women don’t walk in on me in the shower and see all of the features that are not included in the sale.”

“Wow,” she whistles, shaking her head back and forth at the cockiness of this guy, of Killian Jones. Or maybe he’s just confident. He does seem to be laughing a bit at himself, and he could be embarrassed. She swears that she sees the slightest bit of red on the apples of his cheeks. She honestly doesn’t know. “So if I buy the place, you don’t just hang out naked in the shower all day?”

He lets go of her hand and leans forward, seductively winking. That doesn’t make goosebumps rise on her skin at all. “I could if you want me to.”

Her lips part, all words dying on the tip of her tongue. All she can really think about doing is kneeing this guy in the balls, but that doesn’t really seem appropriate. She did kind of invade him in his own home, after all.

“I don’t,” she finally answers.

He shrugs it off. “Fair enough. What was your name again, love?”

“I don’t believe I told you.”

He raises his right brow, lines on his forehead increasing, and she gets the feeling that this is kind of his signature move.

“Would you like to? I’m not Rumpelstiltskin or anything. I don’t get a secret power in knowing your name.”

She laughs at that. She can’t help it. “Funny. My son just got really into fairytales and has been kind of obsessed with Rumpelstiltskin. But I’m Emma. Emma Swan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Swan,” he smiles, and she notices how he doesn’t question or flinch away at the mention of Henry. Most people do. But this isn’t a date or anything. This is just an awkward meeting, and if she wasn’t interested in buying this house, she’d probably never have to see this guy again. “If you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll change into some actual clothes and show you around the house, give you the real behind the scenes tour. It’s the least I can do.”

She’s not sure why he’s being so nice when she’s the one who walked in on him, but she’ll take it.

“I’d like that.”

After he gets dressed, Killian shows her around the house, telling her all of the ins and outs that she might possibly need to know. Really, he shares far too many weird facts and oddities about the house (like how sometimes he has to slam his hand up in the freezer to get the ice machine to work and how there’s a dip in the wood in the second bedroom that gets worse in the heat) for someone trying to sell the house, but she appreciates his honestly in everything. He’s actually really good at showing the place off, much better than Ashley has been in showing her the other places, and when she asks him if he also works in real estate, he lets out a hearty laugh before telling her that he’s a retired Naval Captain (which explains so damn much about every piece of décor in the house) and is moving to an apartment closer to his new job as the harbormaster. He says he doesn’t need this much space anyways.

It’s the perfect amount of space for she and Henry, though.

She spends an hour or so listening to him talk, which is really far too much time since she’s already looked at most of the house, but she kind of loses track of time listening to him explain things and share stories that give her a little glimpse into all of the life that’s taken place at this house. He’s a charming guy, which is usually the first warning sign to stay far away, but she tells herself that it’s all about the house. That’s why she’s listening to him.

And that’s what she tells herself three days later when she brings Henry to see the place. Killian isn’t there, Ashely most likely actually telling him to leave, but he does leave a note on the counter that she knows is for her.

I left the shower free if you want to test it out. I’d suggest locking the door, love. You never know who might walk in.

“What are you smiling at, Mom?” Henry asks her as he slams a kitchen cabinet door shut.

“Nothing, Kid.”

She goes under contract to buy the house two days later.

Two years later, after dating for nearly all of that time, she asks Killian to move back into the house that he sold to her in some kind of weird full circle move.

They definitely share the shower.

#cs prompts #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

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whirlybirbs · 6 years

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PREVIOUSLY ON #BITTERCOFFEE | THE MASTERLIST

summary: #bittercoffee. in which the reader is ghosted after the date with bucky and tony stark is to blame. but, an internship opportunity at the tower has her ready to bite back. rating: mild swearing and a brainiac reader. fight me. word count: 1.6k a/n: my bittercoffee!reader is about to fuck shit up. sorry for the lack of buck-o in this one. he’s coming up next part. enjoy!

Bucky doesn’t come in for coffee the next morning.

And when you text him, wondering sweetly if maybe he had “avenging to do”, your text is met with silence. Nothing. You don’t text him again until late that night when you’ve hiked back from the shop in the rain. You ride the subway in silence. You have your earbuds in. No music. Your body rocks with the train. Your fingers move quick across your phone screen.

I hope everything’s okay?

You make it to your apartment, sad and somber and angry. You’re soaked to the bone and weighed down. The growing anxiety that Bucky had decided you weren’t worth his time, or maybe he didn’t like you enough was eating away at you, and though it feels childish, you cry. It’s muffled into the sleeve of your NYU sweatshirt.

Marissa comes in, having heard the quieted sobs, and offers you some microwaved pizza. You decline, to sick on sadness to think about eating.

“Sometimes boys just don’t work out,” she said, “No matter how much we like them.”

You look like hell, and the next morning? Still nothing. No texts, no Bucky. The coffee shop is slow and empty thanks to the rain. You feel the same way. You try not to let Matt into the inner turmoil, but he knows something’s not right.

You push the feelings down and away and pretend you’re fine.

You do for the whole week.

And then you begin to think you’re never going to see Bucky Barnes again.

Until, one night, on your walk back from campus, you notice you’re being followed. It’s a taxi - or at least you’d thought - until it follows you to the subway stop and a man in a suit steps out. He’s bigger, no older than his mid-forties, looking less than pleased with the rain. He sits in the same subway cart as you, gets off at the same stop. He walks past your apartment, though, and from your dining room window you watch him climb into another car. A black Lincoln.

The license plate reads ‘HAPPY’.

The back window has a Stark Industries decal on it.

You begin to notice more of strange little things like this - the same man comes in and gets coffee one morning. You pretend you have no idea who he is, but your heart rate is pounding and you’re half-convinced he’s going to gun you down at register one.

He doesn't though. He sits, he watches, he sips his coffee. You think maybe this is some kind of intimidation play.

You stand your ground though; you even bus his table, smiling and asking him how his day is.

When he’s leaving, you snap a picture of him, pretending to snapchat, and you save it.

Sniped.

You reverse image search him when you get home that night and land a positive ID. You’re hunched over coffee and the notes surrounding your midterm thesis paper around integrated militarized biotech. The blue light of your laptop illuminates the room, and you cheer, mouth full of popcorn, when you nail his name down.

You think maybe Bucky would be proud of you. You’re a good sidekick. But, well, that ship has sailed. Your heart hurts a little bit thinking about him.

The guy from the shop is Harold Hogan. Personal bodyguard and trainer to the one and only Tony Stark.

You begin to note more Stark property along your walk to work. The building across from you has been bought out. Apparently some housing project Stark is working on. You learn to look at the license plates. The Avengers Tower decal for parking is minuscule but apparent if you know where to look. It includes security clearance.

You’re clearly being watched.

And then your wifi starts to act up, too. Through some more backwards engineering, you delve into the internal system codes of the apartment router and find that a external proxy has been set up. Your cookies, data, history and any and all saved files are being copied and routed to an apartment in Queens. You get the IP address. You track it to a May Parker.

No doubt a relation to Peter Parker.

No doubt you were being watched thanks to that Stark Internship.

You call Bucky that night, curse him out on his voicemail - it’s long winded and angry and maybe you had a little bit too much wine - and tell him to tell Stark to fuck off. You don’t hear anything back, but you’re sure someone got the message -- if anything, Stark probably tapped into your cell long ago.

Things are starting to stack up against Iron Man.

You’re starting to think maybe there’s a reason why you haven’t seen Bucky Barnes. That reason has got to be Tony Stark.

You’re not sure why, but you can’t let it go. You know deep down it’s because you like Bucky far too much for it to just slip your mind. You didn’t date often -- and Bucky was pretty. Handsome and funny and shy and… Sad. You find yourself worrying about him, wondering if he’s walking around Brooklyn late at night, trying to find himself. You hope he’s okay. You regret telling him he ‘fucking sucks’ on his voicemail the other night.

So, you start to formulate a plan. You think about sauntering right into the Tower downtown, strolling up the reception and asking for Tony Stark -- but no doubt the man was busy, and there was no guarantee security wouldn’t drag you out kicking and screaming when they explained he wasn’t there and no, you couldn’t speak to him.

Email was a no-go. He’d probably just ignore it. Phone, too.

You could knock on Peter Parker’s door and interrogate the high schooler for information on why you’re being watched. But, you knew why you were being watched -- it was because you knew too much about Bucky Barnes.

Then, when you think you’re shit bum out of luck, an opportunity falls into your lap. Trips and lands. You catch it by the throat.

Your last class of this particular Thursday is a lab; normally running about four hours, it leaves you hungry and tired and wanting nothing more than to bolt home and kick start your homework. Though working on your actual conceptualized thesis is fun, time seems to drag on.

But, today, you were talking internships.

“You know,” your professor’s name is Sarah -- she insists you call her Sarah -- and she’s sweet. The class is dominated by men mostly, so she excitedly chatters with you when she can. You like it. Sarah leans against your lab bench after the small lecture. You’re soldering some wires together on the mechanisms functions panel, “I have a certain internship in mind for you.”

“Oh?” you say, a smile tugging at your face, “Please, enlighten me.”

Sarah laughs. “I got an email earlier this week… NYU typically isn’t one of the Universities gets these type of offers, but… Stark Industries is looking to hire.”

You feel the color drain from your face. “Stark Industries, huh?”

“They’re looking for medical students, actually,” she murmurs, “But, I want you to apply. You’re biomedical and you’re great, so if anything, they’ll be even more interested.”

“Have you… put my name down on anything yet?”

Please say no, please say no.

“No,” she says and you nearly cheer, “But, the interviews are next Monday -- are you interested? I can always email them back --”

“No!”

Sarah nearly jumps back.

“I mean -- yes, I’m interested,” you reassure her, gloved hand touching the sleeve of her lab coat, “I’m just thinking maybe don’t let them know who I am or my major or...? They might discriminate because of the medical thing…”

Totally not because of other reasons.

“Right!” Sarah hums, “You’re so right. And the best part? You’ll be surprising Tony Stark.”

You nearly laugh in her face. “Are you saying…”

“He’s doing the interviews -- some special involvement campaign, I guess. He wants to get to know our grads, get to know who he’s hiring. After the whole H.Y.D.R.A. infiltration thing, it makes sense. A lot of grads have turned it down, but I can dig up some recommendations for you. You can bring them with you --”

“Please do,” you grin, hands clasped in a tight ball, “You’re the best.”

Sarah grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she claps you on the shoulders. “I’m so excited!”

Me too, Sarah. Me too.

It’s 8:30 am, Monday morning.

Marissa is looking at you like you have three heads.

You’re tugging on your patent leather heels, sweeping your hair into a professional looking bun. The romper you have on is black with a dipping neckline -- your blazer is bright red. You feel like you could kill a man with a single look. It’s a confidence boost. You need all the help you’re going to get.

“So... you’re meeting with Tony Stark. For the internship.”

“Well,” you mumble, bobby pin between your teeth as you fix your bun, “Not really.”

Marissa blinks down at your resume. In fine print, along the top, under your name, it reads:

‘Please, ask me about my slideshow!’

“You… You have a slideshow.”

You swivel your laptop across the kitchen counter. The screen glows alive with the slideshow in question.

Marissa’s jaw drops. She reads from the title slide.

“Why I’d Like Tony Stark to Fuck Off?”

You shoot her an award winning smile, sweeping your resume and faux cover letter into a protective cover. It slips neatly into your handbag and you yank the memory drive from your laptop as well.

“Is this some activism stuff?” she mumbles, “Anti-Avengers propaganda?”

You pause.

“Sure.”

And with that, you’re out the door. Behind you, Marissa shouts.

“Let me know if I have to bail you out of jail!”

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