Bucky was sitting at the kitchen island when Steve wandered in, looking for a mid-afternoon snack. There was a heap of black leather on the granite surface in front of him, and he was working vigorously at the lining with a needle and thread. It was just a touch too glossy to be Nat’s catsuit, and too big to be one of Bucky’s motorcycle jackets, which left only…
“Is that Nick Fury’s trenchcoat?” Steve asked, with open horror. He’d thought the therapist was making headway on Bucky’s latent suicidal tendencies.
“Yep.” Bucky replied, tying a knot and snipping the thread away. He stood and shook out the coat.
It jingled.
Like a Christmas stocking.
“And you say I’m the reckless one,” Steve shook his head. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Buck. I hope Fury kills you quickly.”
“You are the reckless one. I’ll be wearing a parachute when I jump off the helicarrier to escape.”
Steve couldn’t argue with that.
He wondered if Bucky had a plan to evade the Quinjets after he jumped.
kingofmemes posted:
i may spend the rest of my life in boat jail, but at least the pirate king cant sneak up on me anymore.
So my friend purplefringe and I got kind of obsessed with THIS POST about folks on DS9 complaining, and spent some time (that we should have been working) imagining it in a bit more detail:
@staff anti-gravity malfunctioning on the promenade again. Request immediate assistance! @jumalsjumja Hello Jumal this is Intern T’Pok. I have logged your case in our system. You are number #103 in the queue. Your request will be dealt with shortly. Thank you for your patience. @staff thanks!! any idea how long it will be out this time? @staff only last time all my jumja sticks got stuck everywhere @staff NEW REPORT help a nest of voles has just floated out past my stall. This definitely violates health and safety! @jumalsjumja Hello Jumal this is Intern T’Pok. I have logged your case in our system. You are number #104 in the queue. Your request will be dealt with shortly. Thank you for your patience. *** @chiefofops Chief the anti-grav seems to be on the blink again. Infirmary is in lockdown @CMO on my way Julian @chiefofops thanks! (see you at dinner, unless I end up in quarantine) @CMO quarantine? @chiefofops just got a faceful from an unsecured petri dish I’d been cultivating. @CMO You ok?? @chiefofops should be in a few hours. Currently experiencing slight loss of motor-control, dizziness, enhanced aural sensitivity, tingling in my extremities, and everything seems to have gone quite a nice shade of pink. Not really the symptoms I was expecting at this stage but it’s a positive sign and all very interesting. Should be able to get at least one paper out of th(CHARACTER LIMIT REACHED) @chiefofops…please could you tell Garak I won’t be able to meet him for lunch. @chiefofops Chief? @CMO stay where you are Julian I’ve got a situation on the promenade. Hang tight *** @chiefofops Chief could you send another team to the Promenade? @majorkira what is it Major? @chiefofops some idiot in security left the doors to the office open. Odo and his bucket have floated out. Separately. Odo’s all over the Promenade @majorkira uh oh @chiefofopshe is NOT going to be happ [@majorkira went offline] @majorkira everything ok? @majorkira Kira please respond [@majorkira came online] @chiefofops sorry Chief, just had to rescue a couple of vedeks from an unintentional anti -grav orb experience. Could have been messy. Jadzia’s here helping me now. All under control. We’ve got Odo back in his bucket @chiefofops oh and chief Dax says to tell you not to worry about the voles @majorkira voles??? I wasn’t worried but I am now. What’s she done? ***@WORF hey Worf you’re not answering your comm. Are you listening to opera? I know you’re off duty but we have an anti-grav situation over here, and could really use your help. @dax I am on my way. @WORF great! You can help me round up these floating voles/ @dax On second thoughts, I am very busy at present. I am needed on the Defiant. My apologies. @WORF Worf you get over here right now and help me round up these voles or I guarantee I will throw you a surprise party for your next birthday @dax I am on my way. *** @dax Commander what’s happened with the voles? @dax never mind, the nest just floated past. see you’re on the case. good work @chiefofops thanks chief! I’d stay away from the infirmary if I were you, Julian’s got some sort of airborne plague in there. @dax don’t I know it. Last thing we need is transmission by vole *** @chiefofops URGENT URGENT GRAVITY MALFUNCTION IN THE BAR @cometoquarks Quark please don’t use this channel, this is for senior staff only. Use @staff like everyone else. @chiefofops did I mention this was URGENT @cometoquarks A repair crew is currently assessing the situation on the Promenade. @chiefofops the promenade?? You need to PRIORITIZE here. I have LATINUM on the CEILING @cometoquarks Quark we’re working as fast as we can here. Your bar is NOT top priority. @chiefofops not top priority??? Chief you don’t seem to understand, I have to look after my customers! Bad business is bad for everyone. They have a bad experience here, they report it back home, that could cause a diplomatic INCIDENT. You want that on your conscience?? @chiefofops also did I mention the LATINUM on the CEILING @cometoquarks you’re not even our second priority @chiefofops where’s my idiot brother?? why isn’t he fixing this?? @cometoquarks he’s helping to secure Odo @chiefofops …Odo’s regenerating? Say no more. I completely understand. I have everything under control here, you just take your own sweet time @cometoquarks Quark Odo is definitely going to review all the security footage after this. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. @chiefofops you wound me, Chief. I thought we were friends. Your DARTS are floating around my bar. If they take someone’s eye out, YOU’RE paying for it. *** @staff hi there, is there any reason why gravity seems to be functioning in the tailor’s shop, but not here? Only I can see his shop from my stall and it all looks fine in there. It’s chaos out here. @jumalsjumja Hello Jumal this is Intern T’Pok. I have logged your case in our system. You are number #116 in the queue. Your request will be dealt with shortly. Thank you for your patience.
there’s an educational trivia game at the citadel on the exhibits on different planets called “Dog or Not?” that shows pictures of various four legged mammals and asks if they’re a breed of dog.
it was mainly for kids to learn about the diversity of earth’s flora and fauna but it became popular with adult aliens too and had to be shut down after almost causing no less than three diplomatic incidents.
they brought it to the nexus and it’s caused two more so far
“That’s definitely a dog.” “Incorrect. This is actually an animal called a ‘raccoon’” “What? No! It’s got the ears and the tail!”
“Okay, okay, I got this. That’s not a dog. It’s way too big it’s uhhh I think humans call them bears.” “Incorrect. This is a dog breed called a ‘newfoundland’”
And when it becomes such a cultural obsession that they run tournaments and the final rounds are displayed live on the worldswide hologram system …
Somewhat cocky contestant (who heckles the others for wrong answers) looks at the hologram on display: “I’ve read up on a lot of Earth animals, even visited the Earth zoo, so you can’t fool me. It’s a picture on a farm so that’s the first clue. It’s white, fluffy, got a sloping forehead and no distinct… muzzle.. if I do remember the term correctly. It’s most definitely a sheep.”
Trivia host (attempting to hide their joy at finally being able to tell the contestant they’re wrong): “I’m sorry, that is a dog called a Bedlington Terrier. It is actually bred to look like a sheep, but notice the lack of keratinized tissue coverings on the extremities that make contact with the ground. You missed quite an obvious difference there.” (after the contestant stutters a bit and protests about dogs made specifically to look like not-dogs) “Let’s take it to the judges then” (after consulting small podium-top hologram of judging panel, now grinning and dripping with sarcasm) “Awwww…unfortunately it is a dog and rules of the game do not allow us to award partial credit… toooooo baaaaaad” (super cheerfully) “aaand… next image please!”
Shepard loves “Dog or Not?”. The human crew never misses a tournament airing. They get it on a vid screen in the mess hall and all crowd around. Some people bring blankets and pillows. Some make snacks to share. Eventually it becomes like a Superbowl party.
Dog or Not becomes a sort of inside joke on the Normandy, one that the non-human crew members still kind of get – they’re always invited to the viewing parties and sometimes sit in – but don’t really understand. Tali especially doesn’t understand when a snickering Shepard elbows her and, pointing to a varren being taken for a walk, asks, “Hey, Tali – dog or not?”
“That’s…that’s a varren, Shepard,” Tali responds, bemused. “You know what a varren is.”
Shepard is still giggling, and Kaidan, who heard the exchange, joins in.
–
Liara, Ashley, and Shepard go to recover the lost data drive at Admiral Hackett’s request. They eventually find themselves surrounded by the strange monkey-looking organisms.
With a straight face, Ashley comments, “Wow, sure are a lot of dogs on this planet.”
Shepard doubles over. Liara isn’t sure whether or not to laugh. She’s watched “Dog or Not?” before, so she knows these creatures aren’t dogs…right?
–
Garrus accidentally joins in on the fun after they discover a new species on a fog-covered planet. They’re bright red, they have carapaces, and they breathe fire. The team is examining one’s corpse when Garrus asks hesitantly, “So…is that a dog?”
Shepard’s head whips up and they stare at him for a full five seconds before breaking down. Garrus has to half-carry a wheezing, crying Shepard back to the shuttle. Jack’s eyelashes are wet from her own mirth.
–
They’re driving full speed over the scorching desert of Tuchanka. They’ve just called Kalros, the mother of all thresher maws, to deal with the Reaper destroyer in their way. All faces are pressed to the windows to see the fight.
Kalros bursts from the sands with an unearthly screech and tackles the Reaper. The two grapple in the sands, both representing the might of organic and synthetic, respectively.
“Garrus,” Shepard says in a low, awed voice.
Garrus has been around Shepard for too long not to know when they’re about to make a joke. “Shepard, I swear on all the spirits of Palaven – “
“That’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.”
Garrus quietly regrets all his choices that led him to this moment, then sighs. “Which one?” he returns.
I have never played a Mass Effect game, yet this was very amusing.
Flash sidled up to Superman on one of the Watchtower’s mezzanines, leaning against a rail. They looked at each other sidelong, then away.
“Wanna hear my new time?” Flash asked sideways, swaying as he alternated which foot held his weight, hands on his hips.
“There’s no way you beat my time,” Superman muttered, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were in the other direction, and both men went silent as the Lanterns walked too close. Superman and Flash gave them a nod of acknowledgment, then waited for them to be at a safe distance.
“Nine seconds.”
“What!” Superman dropped his arms, whipped his head around to where Flash was grinning and bouncing on his heels. “No way.”
“Flat,” Flash said.
“There’s no way.”
“Check my heartbeat if you don’t believe me,” Flash said, tapping his insignia with his thumb. Then he frowned. “Actually, don’t, I’m pretty excited about this so my pulse is probably crazy.”
His heart always sounded like an angry hummingbird trapped between his lungs, but Barry was also a notoriously terrible liar, so it wasn’t as relevant as it could have been.
“Dangit,” Superman said, crossing his arms again. He leaned back to scope out the area around them. No one seemed to be paying them much mind. “What time?”
“Eleven on a Saturday,” Flash said, looking even more smug. “You know I don’t mess around.”
“Tch!” Superman made an irritated sound, licking his canines. Then he snapped his fingers. “You forgot about–”
“Nnnope,” Flash interrupted. “I’m including the new ones in that, that’s the whole reason we had to reset our times, otherwise I’d still be at seven-point-four.”
“Tch.” Superman drummed his fingers against his bicep. “Nine seconds,” he repeated, torn between irritation and awe.
“You know what that means,” Flash said, waggling his eyebrows.
Superman sighed. “Alright, where are we going?”
“I want soup.”
“Uh-huh.” Superman waited. Flash was waiting for him to ask. Superman was not going to give him the satisfaction.
“… in Saigon.”
“You’ve been watching Bourdain again,” Superman accused.
“It looked like really good soup!” Flash said, defensive.
“Fine,” Superman said, “but I am going to beat your time, and when I do–”
“Beat what, now?” Wonder Woman asked, having managed to approach them while they were distracted by negotiations.
“Nothing!” Flash and Superman said at once.
“We were just talking,” Superman said.
“About stuff,” Flash added unnecessarily. “Private, personal, man stuff.”
Wonder Woman’s eyebrows shot up. She was close enough for her lariat to hum on her hip. She looked Flash over. Flash started to turn red.
“Okay bye!” Flash said, and he was gone in a streak of red.
“Superman?” Wonder Woman asked.
“I should, uh. Hal…”
He wasn’t actually making any definitive statements, just stringing words together, and yet somehow it still managed to ring false. She watched him go, putting her hands on her hips.
She could practically sense it when Batman came up beside her, even quiet as he was.
“Do you want to know what they were talking about.”
“Do you know?” she wondered. He said nothing, so she turned to look at his face. It was as expressionless as ever, but she got the impression that he did not consider the question worthy of dignifying with a response.
He was Batman. He would never be so rude as to say ‘of course’ – but of course he knew.
“I wouldn’t want to invade his privacy,” Wonder Woman said cautiously.
“He’d tell you if you really asked,” Batman said. “They just like feeling like they have a special thing.”
“Oh.”
“Flash, especially.”
“I see.” She tapped on her lower lip as she watched Superman talk to one of the Green Lanterns. “So what’s the special thing?”
“Pick me up in the plane on Saturday and I can show you.”
She froze. Slowly, she turned to look at him. As always, being able to see him helped not at all. “Like a date?” she asked.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “More like a stakeout.”
“That could be like a date.” She was mostly saying it to tease him. Sometimes if she did it right, he turned pink and had to find a shadow to hide in.
“It’s usually not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m usually with the kids.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean–”
“It’s fine.”
She put her hand out to rest on his shoulder. “I would never imply–”
“I know.”
She took her hand back. “I’ll behave,” she assured him.
“You don’t have to,” he said, and she grinned.
“I’ll pick you up at ten,” she said, and she gave him an exaggerated wink as she walked away.
“It’s a date,” he murmured.
“Why,” Wonder Woman asked, “are we in Florida?”
Batman was sitting beside her, and the plane was in a low hover. “Because as far as anyone can tell, this is the single biggest and busiest Walmart in the world.”
“I don’t think that explains as much as you think it does,” she said.
Batman held up a phone. A clock took up most of the screen. 10:59. “Watch,” he said, and he pointed out to the parking lot, vast and terrifying and teeming with people. She watched, and she had no idea how she was supposed to see anything in the crowd.
Finally, she spotted it. The motion too quick to be anything mortal. Would anyone on the ground notice anything more than a strong breeze?
“Oh! It’s the–” She snapped her fingers, couldn’t remember the word.
“Carts,” Batman supplied.
“Yes!”
In almost no time at all, every cart in the parking lot had been returned to one of the designated corrals. Batman pointed to something that he must have been using technology in his mask to see, because otherwise his eyes should not have been good enough. Wonder Woman was much better equipped to see Superman, standing beneath a tree and checking a stopwatch and scowling. He did some kind of motion with his arms and one leg that suggested he’d have thrown his hat to the ground, if he’d been wearing one.
“They introduced new carts,” Batman explained. “They don’t fit with the other ones, so it slows them down. Ruined their whole system.”
“They had a system?” she asked, giggling.
“No, here,” he said, tapping her arm to point again. “This is the best part. He’s frustrated.”
“That’s the best part?”
“Watch what he does.”
She watched. Superman was gone again, more impossible-to-follow motion through the crowd. Things were moving. Large things.
“He’s fixing the cars!” she said, clapping her hands together.
“He’s fixing bad parking jobs,” Batman confirmed. “Because he’s mad.” There was a brief crooked curve to his mouth.
“He moved that one to a different space!”
“Illegally parked in a handicapped spot.”
“How fun.” Wonder Woman watched the people wandering through the lot, wondered how many of them had noticed what was happening and how many had disregarded it as nothing worth noticing. “Flash is the winner of this contest, then?”
“Consistently.”
“Is there a prize?”
“Clark buys him lunch. Usually somewhere he saw on a food show, since he can’t normally do that.”
“Why not?”
“Hm?”
“Barry can run anywhere, can’t he?” she asked. “I see no reason he couldn’t run to these places on his own.”
“He doesn’t like being alone in foreign countries,” Batman explained. “It makes him anxious.”
“Oh.” She returned her gaze to the parking lot. “How nice, then, that it all works out.” She frowned. “Is this weird?” she asked. “Spying on our friends like this.”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask.”
“Do you do this often?” she wondered. “Watch people have fun without you?”
“Define ‘often’.”
Wonder Woman held up a finger in warning. “Zatanna taught me a trick.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“She says that if you ask me to define the parameters, it means the answer is bad.”
Before he could respond, there was a thump.
Superman was standing on the nose of the invisible jet.
He tapped a knuckle on the glass, until Diana opened the hatch. “Hello!” she said cheerfully.
“What are you two doing here?” Clark asked.
“We’re on a date!” Diana said.
“We’re not on a date,” Batman said.
“If you’re not on a date, can you give me a ride?”
“You’re out of our way,” Batman said.
“Nah, just drop me off in Gotham,” Clark said, slipping inside the plane, awkwardly floating between the two front seats into the back.
“You don’t even need a ride,” Bruce said, having to fit himself as far as possible into the edge of his seat so that Clark would have room to get by. “You can fly.”
“Yeah, and you can walk, but I don’t see you giving up the Batmobile.” Clark made himself comfortable in the back seat as Diana closed up the plane. “I’m craving Dimitri’s.”
“You’re too sober for Dimitri’s,” Bruce said.
“I’m always sober. You’re lucky I can tell this wasn’t a real date, or I would be really creeped out by the whole spying on me thing.”
“Don’t tell Barry we know about your special thing,” Diana said, pulling the plane out of its hover to ascend. “I don’t want to ruin it for him.”
“I won’t,” Clark assured her. “Hey, you know where we should go while we’re here?”
“No,” said Bruce.
“Where?” asked Diana.
“No,” said Bruce.
“Disney World!”
“No.”
Diana gasped.
“No.”
Clark put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You can’t have come all the way to Florida just to see me,” he coaxed.
“I’m banned from Walmart, strongly discouraged from visiting Disney parks, and my parents are dead. I have no other reason to visit Florida.”
Tags:
#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(I cracked up at ”banned from Walmart”) #(I recognised the reference to one of unpretty’s previous fics) #(also in my #Batman #tag) #fanfic #superman
“And now, the weather. There’s a winter storm coming in, and it’s going to be a doozy- no snow, this time. It’s just 100% hail, accompanied by a dense layer of fog that’s going to make driving more dangerous than usual. Everyone is recommended to stay inside, or at least go out with a warm parka and a sheet metal umbrella.
That’s it for the weather today- apologies for the unusual format, by the way. Just to summarize, the weather is going to be: All hail; thick, low cloud.”
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
when i started wayne manor i did not intend for this to happen but quite frankly it’s all thomas’ fault. WELCOME TO HELL.
i don’t know if there’s a name for a ship that is so obscure it might as well not exist, but then if you voice the idea out loud people go “WAIT BUT THAT MAKES SENSE??” but anyway that is the level of hell we are at with this and it’s just the worst.
The alarm went off, and Thomas grumbled, rolling over until he could reach far enough to hit it. Then he rolled back, throwing out an arm as he took his designated position as Biggest Possible Spoon. Martha sighed, comfortably nestled into her place as Rather Tall But Currently Littlest Spoon.
Alfred was of course in the position of Middlest Spoon, or possibly Actually Taller And Handsomer Than Average Spoon Even If You Wouldn’t Know It To Look At These Other Spoons, or to use an entirely different metaphor, The Blonde Center Of A Raven-haired Sandwich. He objected to being the cream filling, because that had connotations.
“Alfred,” Thomas mumbled, nuzzling at the back of his head. “Go make sure Bruce is dressing appropriately for the museum.” Despite this, he had made no move to allow Alfred to escape.
“He’s your son,” Alfred said. “You do it.”
“I’m doing it by making you do it,” Thomas said.
“You can’t make me,” Alfred said.
“The hell I can’t,” Thomas said, indignant.
“Tommy-love, you haven’t rehired him yet,” Martha reminded him.
Thomas had rules about fraternizing with staff. Thomas did not break rules. Particularly not rules about ethics. He had the kind of ironclad and unbreakable sense of right and wrong that consistently and without fail inconvenienced and annoyed the shit out of everyone around him.
Which is why Martha had fired Alfred.
Martha was very good at finding workarounds for her husband’s sense of ethics.
“Alfred,” Thomas said, his voice adopting the particular baritone of Professionalism, as if he were not still in mid-cuddle with the man. “I hear tell my wife fired you last night.”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne,” Alfred said, interrupted by a yawn. “I’m sorry to leave, of course, but I’m not a man to overstay my welcome.” His hand wandered over Martha while he could still get away with it, and she giggled.
“Between you and me,” Thomas said, “I’m afraid my wife may be suffering from her monthlies.”
Martha gasped. They could hear the fire lighting in her eyes. Immediately Alfred clamped his arms around hers.
“It may even be hysteria,” Thomas added, and he had to wrap his arms around both Alfred and Martha to keep his wife from sitting up and hitting him. Thomas could feel the subtle shaking of Alfred trying not to laugh as Martha tried to get her arms free. He was trusting Alfred enormously not to let her go, since Martha had a mean right hook and a manicure that could kill. “I’m a doctor,” he added, in case anyone had forgotten. “This is my professional doctor-man opinion.”
“I see,” Alfred said as seriously as he could, having to lean his head back toward Thomas so Martha couldn’t headbutt him.
“How about you just come on back to work,” Thomas said, “and we forget this whole thing ever happened?”
“While I can think of nothing I’d like better,” Alfred said, “if I’m going to be returning to such an unstable work environment, I will require greater compensation.”
Martha’s angry struggling was forgotten as she started to laugh.
“God damn it,” Thomas said, clearly outmaneuvered.
“Oh, Alfie, you’re marvelous,” Martha said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wayne,” he said. “One does one’s best.”
“I don’t suppose you take payment in dick?” Thomas asked, and Martha laughed again.
“I thought that was the benefits package,” Alfred said.
There was a familiar sound in the bedroom walls, a faint thump.
“Shit,” Martha said, all three of them bolting upright. “We took too long.”
Immediately and without preamble, both Waynes shoved Alfred downward and covered him with the comforter. He did not protest.
“How much do you wanna bet he’s wearing the pith helmet?” Thomas asked.
“That’s not even gambling,” Martha said with disdain.
Bruce appeared outside their bedroom window, because they’d made it too difficult for him to get in directly through the vents. He’d gotten in the habit, instead, of going through the walls and then out a decorative window, clambering across sills to get to theirs.
Martha was beginning to consider re-opening some of the secret passages into the bedroom, if only so he didn’t fall while climbing on all the architecture.
Bruce was, surprising no one, wearing his pith helmet. He was the sort of ten-year-old that believed very strongly in dressing for the occasion.
He had the window unlocked from the outside in no time at all, bending halfway through it so that he could retreat if he was seriously yelled at.
“The museum opens in an hour,” he said before they could say anything, clearly upset with their lollygagging. He was also the sort of ten-year-old that believed very strongly that ‘on time’ meant ‘a minimum of ten minutes early, but preferably more’.
“Brucie,” Martha said, her voice stern. Since she didn’t sound the kind of upset that Bruce considered dangerous, he slid inside, having the approximate weight and compressibility of a Hoberman sphere made of balsa wood. “What have I told you about breaking into our room?” The comforter was wrapped around her chest and tucked under her armpits, and she managed to make it look dignified.
“I might as well just pick the lock on the hall door,” Bruce said, as dismissive as any child repeating something he’d been told a thousand times. “This route was more efficient. And if we’re not one of the first two-hundred people in the exhibit, we don’t get the collector’s coin!” His change of subject was a flawless pivot, holding up the brochure that the museum had sent them in the mail, which of course he’d brought with him as a visual aid. He pointed at the embossed picture of the coin.
“Brucie, we’re their biggest donors,” Thomas reminded his son. “If you want a coin, all we have to do is ask.” They were technically included free at the ‘recurring five-hundred dollar donation’ level, which the Waynes far exceeded.
“That’s cheating,” Bruce said, not for the first time. “We have to get it right or else it doesn’t count.”
Bruce also had a particular sense of right and wrong, and it made his love of collecting things much more difficult than it had any right to be when his parents were billionaires.
“How,” Martha asked, “is crawling in the window a more efficient route than just taking the hall?”
Bruce huffed impatiently, lowered the brochure. “Because I went to Alfred’s room first, which is the other reason I’m here, because Alfred is missing and we need to find him because I’m not leaving without Alfred.” He stomped his foot to emphasize this point.
Thomas pressed his lips together into a thin line of not-grinning.
Martha pointed at the door. “Back to your room,” she ordered. “Dress properly, this time.”
“Mooom,” Bruce protested, putting his hands protectively on his hat. “I’m wearing in the old-timey paleontologist way! Not the old-timey archaeologist way!”
“No one can tell that to look at you, darling, you look like a grave-robber with a mild case of syphilis.”
“Mother!”
“Go put something on that suggests you know we’re living in a society, so that your father and I can get dressed. Then we’ll all go find Mr. Pennyworth so we can go to the museum together – and we will arrive on time, when it opens and not a moment sooner. Won’t that be lovely?” She smiled, dazzling white, and Bruce knew there was no point arguing.
“Fine,” he said, dragging his feet as he headed for their bedroom door. “But if we get there, and there’s a long line and I don’t get my coin, I’m going to put on a brave face and try not to let it ruin my day because there’s so much cool stuff to see, but it’s still going to ruin my whole day, and you’re going to be able to tell because I’m bad at lying about my feelings, and then you’re going to feel bad and it’s going to ruin everyone’s day.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Martha said, because she had a much better sense than her son of exactly how many people were clamoring to get in to the obscure new exhibit on trace fossils.
“You hear that?” Thomas said when Bruce had left, lifting the comforter. “You’ve gone missing.”
“How distressing,” Alfred said, wiggling back out from underneath it. “Do you think you’ll be able to find me in time?”
“Bruce won’t rest until we have,” Martha said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“No Alfred left behind,” Thomas agreed, kissing the other.
“I suppose I should – I don’t actually need a raise,” Alfred said suddenly. “To be clear, I’m… more than happy.”
“Too late!” Thomas said, ruffling Alfred hair in the way he knew annoyed him, leaning over Alfred to rub noses with his wife. “You’re in a new tax bracket now and nothing can stop me.”
my husband is Distraught
(in this canon the waynes die when bruce is 12 no one @ me about his age pls)
Tags:
#Batman #fanfic #nsfw? #long post #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(”and you’re going to be able to tell because I’m bad at lying about my feelings”) #death mention
The nice, expensive trail mix, with twelve kinds of nuts and the big sunflower seeds and dried fruits, the kind Tony only rarely left sitting on the common floors for everyone to get at, was gone.
Clint had been looking forward to that stuff all morning.
All the way through a hellish morning “jog” with Steve, all through Nat handing him his ass on the training mats, all through firing the same batch of misweighted arrows over and over so Tony could take scans and fix the design, he’d been thinking, when this is done I get to go upstairs and hang out on the couch and watch Dog Cops and eat the good trail mix, guilt-free.
And it was gone.
Clint was gonna shoot somebody.
Just as soon as he figured out who’d taken the trail mix.
kingofmemes posted:
yesterday i saw a sad duck in the park who kept getting picked on by the other ducks so today i brought some trail mix and we had a nice lunch together. also i think he might be the duck who pooped on sam last week. if so, he is officially my new best friend.
#the other half of his superpower is the ability to locate coffee anywhere #which is how he knew what direction to start walking when he was in afghanistan #‘the nearest pot of coffee is 23 miles east’ #and then he started walking through the desert #honestly that’d be kind of a fun plot device #somebody write it I’m too lazy (via @buckykingofmemes)
There is a reason Tony never mentions that he’s a mutant. It’s not that he’s ashamed, or even that he’s afraid of the negative impact the news would have on the Stark name and his business.
It’s that he got such a fucking lame power.
The X-men can fly, control the weather, shoot lasers from their eyes, and make things go boom. Tony? Tony get’s the amazing ability to metabolize caffeine extra well (okay, on a level that would kill ten average people) and sense it for miles.
He’s one of those mutants whose powers fall into a category all their own. teeeechnically, he’s actually an alpha level mutant, given the complex way his body processes caffeine and the nearly fifty mile range on the sensor aspect of his talent, plus the degree of sensitivity. But in practice? The few people in the know mostly consider him to be a beta mutant, since his power isn’t really applicable as a defence or offense.
At any given moment he can tell you with pinpoint accuracy what things within a block of him have caffeine and what they are, even managing to differentiate between different kinds of coffee. He can even tell you who made it, if he’s met the person.
(He tries to explain it to Pepper and Rhodey, once. Tries to explain that it’s not that he’s measuring the level of caffeine in a pot of coffee really, it’s that everyone makes coffee differently. If he focuses, he can tell that the pot of coffee down in the accounting break room was made by Margery, not Cole, or Clarke, or Franchesca, because it feels like her. Numbers and irritation and impatience coupled with the peppermint sticks she likes to swirl in a cup of black. He knows he doesn’t manage it well when all he gets are indulgently confused smiles from his two friends.
Charles Xavier prattled a bit about possible subconscious empathic or telepathic impressions, but honestly Tony doesn’t really care. He just does what he does. It’s not like the mechanics really matter with a useless power like his. He doesn’t stay at Xavier’s long. Hanging with the X-men makes him feel like a toaster hanging out with sports cars.)
It’s not until he’s kneeling in scorchingly hot sand, an unforgivingly bright sun high in the sky above him and bits of scattered metal around him, that he’s thankful for the power evolution gave him. Because when he reaches out with that strange other sense of his, he can feel all the distant pinpricks of sensation that mean, ‘Here! There be coffee here!’. Most carry the notes of people who feel like the land around him, but one….. Smiling grimly, he heaves himself to his feet and looks east, towards the distant call that carries with it a taste of foreigntiredordersyessirdutythiscoffeeSUCKSman that tells him there are american soldiers that-a-way.
He starts walking.
Tags:
#Marvel #fanfic #I didn’t actually laugh aloud but it still amused me enough to reblog
Brinens and Things 