[ peter's "internship" means he gets to travel the world with the avengers on a freelance basis. sometimes, he fights aliens. one time, he literally climbed big ben! like, who even know that was a possibility? he didn't think he'd make it out of new york any time before he turned twenty-one. now, he's eighteen. and he's in england, a-freaking-gain.
he totally busted some c-list supervillain yesterday. it was awesome. and he has — is friends the word? a friend. a person. an alien person friend here, too. ]
I didn't actually think it'd be this cold. [ on a rooftop in central london in late winter (early spring, he though optimistically), bundled up in layers of flannel and jumpers and some kind of shearling jacket that he is not cool enough to be wearing, as mj so kindly reminded him. he rolls on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, with his gloved hands nestled in his coat pockets. ] Like, New York is cold, but London is — well, it's very cold. Colder.
[ perhaps he's a touch nervy, too, thinking about being alone on a rooftop with charlie, waiting for the sunset. ]
[ charlie has not often been on rooftops. he has a very nice apartment that he still shares with miss quill even though she no longer has to protect him, even though she could harm him and society at large at any moment. thus far, she has been content to make scathing remarks, drink coffee and scroll through endless pages of cat memes. said apartment has a balcony attached to his bedroom and that is as close as he's come to being on rooftops.
it's different, on a rooftop. freer, somehow. at the same time, he feels smaller. ]
Do you think it will snow?
[ the sky is certainly grey enough for it. ] — I've never seen snow. [ charlie adds after a moment. it didn't snow on rhodia. he's a touch nervy, too, in that something warm and excited sits high in his chest. he likes the feeling, but he also worries: is this a betrayal of matteusz? of what he had with matteusz?
they are no longer together because of what he did. he'd known he would lose matteusz and he had, but how can he feel this thing in his chest again now for someone else?
he swallows and pushes the thoughts away. ] Do you want to sit?
[ They weren't meant to be paired off for this mission, they weren't even supposed to cross paths. There are times when UNCLE and Kingsman collaborate on certain (potentially apocalyptic) cases so they aren't total strangers; but this was supposed to be a solo affair. However, as is sometimes the case in this life of espionage, the assignment isn't always as neat and tidy as the file it came in — and somehow this weekend went from an exclusive wedding reception at a private resort in Phuket to a high-speed midnight car chase up the Thai coastline with Gaby Teller behind the wheel and Eggsy Unwin riding shotgun.
Literally. He has a shotgun.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd cultivated this contact for months, resurrected her ballet "career" just to secure an invitation to this wedding, all to get close to the father of the groom. (Ringleader of a drug cartel, goods smuggled out of the country in the bodies of tourists who died on holiday and were being repatriated. Bypass customs, bypass the detection dogs. Clever, if it wasn't so grim. Not all those tourists died accidentally.) But the mission wasn't meant to escalate like this, otherwise Waverly wouldn't have sent her in alone. Still, she knew something was up the second she spotted Eggsy — Galahad, she's aware — across the dance floor. They've worked together in the past and usually get on wonderfully, but not tonight.
No, tonight Gaby thinks she might start yelling at him for the mess they've gotten themselves into. A mess that is possibly both their faults. But she's not in the mood to entertain that idea. ]
There's only one bridge to the mainland and it has a checkpoint, [ she snaps at Eggsy, flicking her gaze at the rearview mirror to check on their tail (still there) and back to the dark road in front of them. Somehow, she manages to convey the utmost irritation in her voice while keeping it level. ] And the airport won't be any better, so unless you know another way off this island, I'm driving us in circles and — [ and that's a bullet pinging off her side mirror ] — we're fucked.
[ It’s an odd night: Eggsy’s first foray into a formal event — not counting Valentine’s base, which isn't countable, when he wasn't himself. Add the anniversary of Lee Unwin’s death, and tie it together in a highly politicised evening. Peace and showing off and dancing and bullshit. Eggsy likes some of it. He pretends to like the rest.
Eggsy has dressed more outlandishly than he typically would for an event of this caliber or on the job — part personal taste and part distraction — and he ensured all his friends smartened up, too. Might as well, when he’s playing at being an actual tailor. After they arrive together, he sweeps Clarke into a waltz and doesn’t see Bellamy for hours.
By the time he encounters Bellamy again, off to the side after the hundredth dance of the evening, he’s a few glasses of bubbly down, with his bow-tie askew and a red imprint on his cheek, courtesy of Peggy Carter. ]
Did I say you looked good when we got here? [ He tips his head, giving Bellamy a once-over. ] 'Cause I meant to.
[ zack and trini are his more...difficult team members. they're not as easy to reach, not for a (former) golden boy. see, kim makes sense. hell, he doesn't know how they hadn't talked before now, what with the cheerleader and quarterback thing (well, he does know; jason can count the number of times he awkwardly tried to speak to her before they found more binding common interests). and billy is good, better than all of them.
still, the rangers have been doing well. training, stopping petty crime, causing a stir on the days when they all show up to school and share a table in the cafeteria. they're friends now (literally ride or die, as it happens). with the texting and impromptu rendezvous, jason feels like he and zack are closer, too. like there's fondness where once was occasional bursts of tension. maybe they're still not as close as he'd like, but — jason's not just everyone's friend, is he? he has responsibilities. he leads, whatever that means. honestly, he treats it the same as he did football: schedule practices, give some pep talks, win big when the games roll around. he just needs to keep his eyes clear; that's all.
they're a few beers down by the time jason thinks to roll out his sleeping bag, to soften where he's sat for hours talking, almost like the first night they all gathered around the fire. ]
Aw, shit. [ he breaths in deeply, containing his irritation. well, he also drops his backpack. a little bit stroppy. ] You want those history notes now? [ he cards a hand through his hair, sheepish now that he's facing zack again. ] 'Cause that's what I'm bringing to the table tonight.
[ seeing as he brought his school backpack and not the bag with supplies for tonight. maybe he was distracted when he gathered his things after detention, swapped out his plaid shirt for a flannel, and made the quickest stopover at his house possible. ]
It's their seventh team-up since her return. Lucky, maybe, 'cause they tag-teamed Livewire and Madame Zodiac in the weirdest accidental convergence ever (He was on the Madam, obviously, being catnip for every super sexy villainess out there — god knows why his nerdy bat-butt gets prime coverage when Dick and Jason, y'know, exist — and she was running Live; go figure how those two crazy gals ended up under the same banner). These days, Tim isn't as surprised by her kung-fu, and she isn't as judgy of his choices. They've got it out of their systems, as much as their years of unfinished business and unstoppered feelings can ever be flushed out.
She thinks, perhaps naively, that she's building up an immunity — a Timmunity. The occasional touch to her shoulder (or her hand or, god forbid, her face) stops threatening to explode butterflies from her stomach like the chestburster in Alien. When he takes off the stupid helmet, she even manages to stop staring at his neck like it's some of the sweet sweet ankle-action in Jane Austen times. She doesn't let their squabbles escalate into sparring 'cause she knows he's into that, and, spoiler alert, she's so into him being into that.
But nope, she's done being the girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend, whatever. Gender-neutral "friend" is better and on trend. Instead of cruising for trouble or collapsing in her bed, she spends her Saturday night slash morning (it's 4AM, aight) on a rooftop ledge, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her friend, barely aware of their closeness beyond the pleasant warmth and reassurance it offers. Friends means she and Tim get to cheers milkshakes from her favourite twenty-four-hour diner (even though he mutters something about her insisting they do so). It means Tim didn't scowl when she suggested they pick up takeout. It means that he takes off his ugly ass condom-hat and keeps running his fingers through the disheveled helmet-hair left-behind.
And he laughs, when she suggests that they didn't actually bust a grand con today but ruined a supervillainess date night which, whoa, that actually might have been what happened. There was a lot of subtext in the inter-villain banter today, okay! She cracks up then, too, borderline milkshake through-the-nose level stuff. It's breathless, too-stupid-to-stop laughter, during which she catches glimpses of Tim in the same state through her fingers and hair.
It hits her harder than a brick to the face (not that she knows the feeling as well as Tim): The urge to plant one right on his mouth, to just dart forward and harness their momentum, pushing it into something else. She spent so long rewiring this part of brain through cold showers and internal lectures. God, fucking, damn it. And yet the butterflies are back with a vengeance, baby, a whole Xenomorph's worth, and her eyes have zeroed in on the line of his neck thrown back like she's a goddamn vampire. Crap, when did she stop laughing and start leaning.
Her monologue is already rapid-firing zingers, the final line of defense: You thirsty idiot. You great big, When Harry Met Sally lovin' piece of shit.
Stephanie smooths her hand over his jaw, just skimming the beginnings of stubble (that's new, she thinks) and closes the gap, kissing Tim Drake fast and breathless, the same way she laughs. It's hard, like she might have chickenedd out if she went less than full-throttle, and there's probably a weird mix of her cheap-ass fruity chapstick and chocolate milkshake going on, taste-wise.
one.two.three.four. ❝ i'm gonna ruin you, boy, because i'm already ruined. ❞ ( they have a trope — it's called open windows and aggressive, risky makeouts. )
Edited (apparently postimg sucks, who knew.) 2018-04-23 20:50 (UTC)
[ right, so, you — leopold fitz — are dead. your life on earth has ended and you are now in the next phase of your existence in the universe.
that's not possible. if he was dead, he wouldn't be here. don't you worry now. you're in the good place. there should be nothingness. that's all there is. his mum always said to never be afraid of death because it's just like the way life was before you were born — which wasn't that bad, was it?
all that tech you invented? it saved lives. your work is worth thousands of points, by our metric.
fitz thinks he would have remembered this place. in fact, he knows he'd recall the dandy doctor-who-type showing him around. the pastel colours and spotless streets. not to mention, the soulmate. daisy, he's told, but by then he's already coughing up his chocolate froyo because hold on a bloody minute. a soulmate? someone to spend the afterlife with. the explanation like the flower follows, as if he doesn't have two phds or basic listening skills. a soulmate. wow.
no word on how he died yet. it's better not to lead with that, which okay, fair, but it feels more bad than good, pacing about in his home (perfectly designed for him and the 'ol eternal love of his life; cottage exterior and modern, cosy interior; complete with a glorious study... in which he can't reach 50% of the bookshelves and can't seem to find a ladder or a stepstool to rectify the problem). it leaves him plenty of time to chart out the hundreds of ways he could have died and theories for how this place even exists. god, he hopes that milton from accounting didn't do him in. drives like a maniac and always parks over the line of fitz's spot. wanker.
americans are the worst.
whenever daisy arrives, fitz is pacing about the sitting room. underneath the general existential crisis, he's almost... pleasantly nervy about the soulmate thing. it's weird, but it's also awfully romantic, isn't it? eternity with the person you're mathematically meant to be with has a certain appeal. despite the odds, he'd always thought there might be someone just right out there. taking a deep breath, he adjusts his collar, crisply folded under the top of his blue jumper. bit brighter than what he would have worn in life, to be honest. guess that's part of the good place shtick.
he hears the door creak, turning around to face it with his best smile (which is only a half-excited and half-skittish, at the moment). oh, god, should he hug her? he clasps his hands and then unclasps them. kiss her? christ, no, definitely not. shake her hand? fitz wipes his hands on his trousers, stepping forward without knowing how to proceed. ]
Hi. [ offering his hand. ] Leopold Fitz. My friends call me Fitz, but, ah — [ a laugh bubbles over. ] — I suppose you call me whatever you like.
[ the scene is beautiful. it's tacky and overdone in a way that makes daisy's eyes water, but she has to admit, the production crew knows how to tug on heartstrings. with cascading lights twinkling in the dark, tropical flowers laid out in gorgeous waterfall arrangements, and plenty of skin glistening under the bright spotlights, it's a scene that any viewer would want to drink in. add in the gentle melody of live orchestra in the distance, and it's basically romance porn for the 18-35 target audience.
not that it's been all beauty and grace thus far. no, she's suffered through a three-week hellfire period already, watched girl after girl go home after convoluted group dates and overly dramatic, teary-eyed catfights, and drank at least half a dozen bottles of champagne all on her own — daisy's convinced it's only the fact that she's managed to stay under the radar that's kept her in the game thus far. well, that, and the fact that her boss' former girlfriend happens to be running the show. quinn king might not be the nicest woman alive, but she sure knows how to keep her end of a bargain.
final six, johnson. you have until final six, and then you're on your own.
which might explain her casual vibe at tonight's day-after-elimination party. leaning up against a bar, occasionally chatting with the scruffy italian bartender when refills demand, daisy's gotten more entertainment out of her people-watching spot than she's had in days; the promise of doubled-down liquor in the near future carries the potential for a few nasty catfights to release some pent-up jealousy.
maybe the bachelor will need an opportunity to escape too? if he does, she'll be happy to share her drink — jack and coke, heavy on the jack. ]
Edited (tmw you reread your tag and realize you repeated words a bunch) 2018-08-26 19:04 (UTC)
[ What is it about her that attracts men in finely tailored suits sitting in a car giving her directions as she speeds away from a crime scene (or hail of bullets/bazookas, angry Russians, or something along those same lines)? This must be some kind of record. And for a woman who is employed in espionage with partners that are cut from the same cloth, there's a serious lack of subtlety in most of her missions that makes her think they're all in the wrong business and really ought to stick with haberdashery.
Except her. She knows cars, not clothes. And she knows this one very well, has admired it from afar, ridden in it but rarely been allowed behind the wheel. Likely because the Jag isn't hers, but Eggsy Unwin's. Who, incidentally, is yelling and cursing a blue streak at her side and she is very resolutely ignoring it as much as she ignores the scrape of the undercarriage on cobblestones and sidewalks, the paint on the doors on walls and lamp posts. It's a beautiful car, she is sure Waverly will hate her for making UNCLE foot the bill, but they'd all probably be better off with an expensive scrap heap than two dead agents. And she'll fix what she can to spare the expense — assuming they make it to the safehouse.
But they do. It's Kingsman's; she managed to decipher the directions from the expletives from her partner-in-crime along the way. The garage doors shut behind them and Gaby slumps back in the driver's seat with an exhale, relaxing for only a second or two before she climbs out, rolling up her hypothetical sleeves. (She's in a cocktail dress. Of course she is.) She's already inspecting the car, meaning to get to work. ]
I don't know what you're upset about, [ she says breezily, cutting into whatever tirade the other spy may or may not be in the middle of, or gearing up to launch into. She rests one hand on her hip and the other on the hood, still hot from their pleasure cruise through the city. ] We got away, didn't we?
[ He's been here for well over a year. 'Here' being New York City, 'here' being 1950. It doesn't mean the fledgling intelligence organisation now known as SHIELD has stopped searching for a way to get their wayward agent from the future back where he belongs, but it's become a little less frantic as time has worn on, cases have piled up, and tensions with Russia have slowly begun escalating. Everything is a priority but everything is jostling to be first priority and Director Carter's attention is often spread too thin (and at odds with her desire to remain a field agent when the target on her back grows bigger).
Tonight is one such instance. She'd flown back from a meeting in DC with a briefcase full of documents and stopped by the modest apartment on loan from Howard Stark to one Leopold Fitz — ostensibly because she has some schematics for him to look over. It's given them one hell of a leg up, having an engineer from the 21st Century, and perhaps the man will solve his own way home before Howard (or his best scientists) can. But a delivery had turned into a dinner, had turned into a nightcap, had turned into a late night work session, and now Fitz has blueprints in front of him and Peggy is settled on the carpeted floor in front of the coffee table with her nth glass of whiskey, a stack of folders, and a cramp in her hand from signing their contents.
The clock chimes the time at some point, but she barely notices with the soft croon from the wireless filtering through the sitting room. But as she shifts position before one stockinged foot can fall asleep, she pauses, head cocked to the song that comes on. ]
Oh, [ she says after a moment, breaking the comfortable working silence between them. She's smiling. ] I remember this one.
[ It was quite popular a few years ago; how lovely to hear it come on again. Peggy considers him across from her for a moment, then rises up onto her knees now, suddenly decisive. ]
[ It isn't that Fitz hasn't noticed Peggy Carter is beautiful — he has; she once arched her brows at him over a cup of tea, after making a dry remark at Howard and, well, Professor Vaughn’s class never prepared him for that — it's that her looks are secondary in their relationship, founded at an irregular juncture of spacetime. She's the founder of SHIELD, the embodiment of what it means to be both an agent and a hero.
And she's a rather remarkable person, given that she believes in his tales of the future and unconventional designs. Her company matters a great deal to a man made lonely by circumstance, even in his own time. Before the monolith swallowed him whole, there were blocks with him, incapable of rearranging to allow others to reach him, after the Framework. But for Peggy Carter there is no former Fitz and present Fitz, tainted by his time in an untoward reality. There's just the one man. Particular and offbeat, for the year and place, but not changed.
When she first speaks, he keeps his focus on the schematics, humming along in acknowledgment.
His name warrants a glance, especially when intoned with such finality. A quizzical look, features scrunched as he gathers her meaning. Good thing, too, given how captivating she is, with a determined look in her eye. She rarely turns that on him, when his twenty-first-century sensibilities and knowledge have equipped him to expect more, not less, of her. ]
I'm out of practice, y'know. [ said even as he stands. By now, he knows better than to deny her. Without argument, he dusts the fluff from the carpet off his trousers, as if it matters in the privacy of his flat (no, Stark's flat, to suggest otherwise is to confer permanence to his surroundings). ]
You'll have to do the heavy-lifting — [ one corner of his mouth quirks. ] — which I know you're accustomed to.
[ absolutely a quip at the expensive of their coworkers (her coworkers). Fitz steps closer, holding out a hand. ]
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✧ peter parker
boys!!
he totally busted some c-list supervillain yesterday. it was awesome. and he has — is friends the word? a friend. a person. an alien person friend here, too. ]
I didn't actually think it'd be this cold. [ on a rooftop in central london in late winter (early spring, he though optimistically), bundled up in layers of flannel and jumpers and some kind of shearling jacket that he is not cool enough to be wearing, as mj so kindly reminded him. he rolls on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, with his gloved hands nestled in his coat pockets. ] Like, New York is cold, but London is — well, it's very cold. Colder.
[ perhaps he's a touch nervy, too, thinking about being alone on a rooftop with charlie, waiting for the sunset. ]
booooooys
it's different, on a rooftop. freer, somehow. at the same time, he feels smaller. ]
Do you think it will snow?
[ the sky is certainly grey enough for it. ] — I've never seen snow. [ charlie adds after a moment. it didn't snow on rhodia. he's a touch nervy, too, in that something warm and excited sits high in his chest. he likes the feeling, but he also worries: is this a betrayal of matteusz? of what he had with matteusz?
they are no longer together because of what he did. he'd known he would lose matteusz and he had, but how can he feel this thing in his chest again now for someone else?
he swallows and pushes the thoughts away. ] Do you want to sit?
tags!! erratically!!
tags!! even more!! erratically!!
✧ trish
[ he enjoyed kissing her under the mistletoe. ]
one million years later!!
I didn't love the festivities, but the company was pretty good.
You going to be in my neighborhood any time soon?
[ her neighborhood, realm, planet, whatever. ]
blows u a kiss
Did you? That is good to hear.
In fact, I am headed to Midgard at the moment.
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✧ eggsy (for spy stuff in london)
u know
Literally. He has a shotgun.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd cultivated this contact for months, resurrected her ballet "career" just to secure an invitation to this wedding, all to get close to the father of the groom. (Ringleader of a drug cartel, goods smuggled out of the country in the bodies of tourists who died on holiday and were being repatriated. Bypass customs, bypass the detection dogs. Clever, if it wasn't so grim. Not all those tourists died accidentally.) But the mission wasn't meant to escalate like this, otherwise Waverly wouldn't have sent her in alone. Still, she knew something was up the second she spotted Eggsy — Galahad, she's aware — across the dance floor. They've worked together in the past and usually get on wonderfully, but not tonight.
No, tonight Gaby thinks she might start yelling at him for the mess they've gotten themselves into. A mess that is possibly both their faults. But she's not in the mood to entertain that idea. ]
There's only one bridge to the mainland and it has a checkpoint, [ she snaps at Eggsy, flicking her gaze at the rearview mirror to check on their tail (still there) and back to the dark road in front of them. Somehow, she manages to convey the utmost irritation in her voice while keeping it level. ] And the airport won't be any better, so unless you know another way off this island, I'm driving us in circles and — [ and that's a bullet pinging off her side mirror ] — we're fucked.
bellamy.
Eggsy has dressed more outlandishly than he typically would for an event of this caliber or on the job — part personal taste and part distraction — and he ensured all his friends smartened up, too. Might as well, when he’s playing at being an actual tailor. After they arrive together, he sweeps Clarke into a waltz and doesn’t see Bellamy for hours.
By the time he encounters Bellamy again, off to the side after the hundredth dance of the evening, he’s a few glasses of bubbly down, with his bow-tie askew and a red imprint on his cheek, courtesy of Peggy Carter. ]
Did I say you looked good when we got here? [ He tips his head, giving Bellamy a once-over. ] 'Cause I meant to.
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[ sharing a tent, sharing a sleeping bag. (accidental) boners. ]
yELLS
still, the rangers have been doing well. training, stopping petty crime, causing a stir on the days when they all show up to school and share a table in the cafeteria. they're friends now (literally ride or die, as it happens). with the texting and impromptu rendezvous, jason feels like he and zack are closer, too. like there's fondness where once was occasional bursts of tension. maybe they're still not as close as he'd like, but — jason's not just everyone's friend, is he? he has responsibilities. he leads, whatever that means. honestly, he treats it the same as he did football: schedule practices, give some pep talks, win big when the games roll around. he just needs to keep his eyes clear; that's all.
they're a few beers down by the time jason thinks to roll out his sleeping bag, to soften where he's sat for hours talking, almost like the first night they all gathered around the fire. ]
Aw, shit. [ he breaths in deeply, containing his irritation. well, he also drops his backpack. a little bit stroppy. ] You want those history notes now? [ he cards a hand through his hair, sheepish now that he's facing zack again. ] 'Cause that's what I'm bringing to the table tonight.
[ seeing as he brought his school backpack and not the bag with supplies for tonight. maybe he was distracted when he gathered his things after detention, swapped out his plaid shirt for a flannel, and made the quickest stopover at his house possible. ]
yELLS LOUDER
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one million years later pls forgive me
It's their seventh team-up since her return. Lucky, maybe, 'cause they tag-teamed Livewire and Madame Zodiac in the weirdest accidental convergence ever (He was on the Madam, obviously, being catnip for every super sexy villainess out there — god knows why his nerdy bat-butt gets prime coverage when Dick and Jason, y'know, exist — and she was running Live; go figure how those two crazy gals ended up under the same banner). These days, Tim isn't as surprised by her kung-fu, and she isn't as judgy of his choices. They've got it out of their systems, as much as their years of unfinished business and unstoppered feelings can ever be flushed out.
She thinks, perhaps naively, that she's building up an immunity — a Timmunity. The occasional touch to her shoulder (or her hand or, god forbid, her face) stops threatening to explode butterflies from her stomach like the chestburster in Alien. When he takes off the stupid helmet, she even manages to stop staring at his neck like it's some of the sweet sweet ankle-action in Jane Austen times. She doesn't let their squabbles escalate into sparring 'cause she knows he's into that, and, spoiler alert, she's so into him being into that.
But nope, she's done being the girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend, whatever. Gender-neutral "friend" is better and on trend. Instead of cruising for trouble or collapsing in her bed, she spends her Saturday night slash morning (it's 4AM, aight) on a rooftop ledge, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her friend, barely aware of their closeness beyond the pleasant warmth and reassurance it offers. Friends means she and Tim get to cheers milkshakes from her favourite twenty-four-hour diner (even though he mutters something about her insisting they do so). It means Tim didn't scowl when she suggested they pick up takeout. It means that he takes off his ugly ass condom-hat and keeps running his fingers through the disheveled helmet-hair left-behind.
And he laughs, when she suggests that they didn't actually bust a grand con today but ruined a supervillainess date night which, whoa, that actually might have been what happened. There was a lot of subtext in the inter-villain banter today, okay! She cracks up then, too, borderline milkshake through-the-nose level stuff. It's breathless, too-stupid-to-stop laughter, during which she catches glimpses of Tim in the same state through her fingers and hair.
It hits her harder than a brick to the face (not that she knows the feeling as well as Tim): The urge to plant one right on his mouth, to just dart forward and harness their momentum, pushing it into something else. She spent so long rewiring this part of brain through cold showers and internal lectures. God, fucking, damn it. And yet the butterflies are back with a vengeance, baby, a whole Xenomorph's worth, and her eyes have zeroed in on the line of his neck thrown back like she's a goddamn vampire. Crap, when did she stop laughing and start leaning.
Her monologue is already rapid-firing zingers, the final line of defense: You thirsty idiot. You great big, When Harry Met Sally lovin' piece of shit.
Stephanie smooths her hand over his jaw, just skimming the beginnings of stubble (that's new, she thinks) and closes the gap, kissing Tim Drake fast and breathless, the same way she laughs. It's hard, like she might have chickenedd out if she went less than full-throttle, and there's probably a weird mix of her cheap-ass fruity chapstick and chocolate milkshake going on, taste-wise.
You ruined everything, you stupid motherfucker. ]
aggressively tops.
❝ i'm gonna ruin you, boy, because i'm already ruined. ❞
( they have a trope — it's called open windows and aggressive, risky makeouts. )
soulmate au! SOULMATE AU!
give me your cold hands, put them on my heart
we are going to live tonight like there's no tomorrow
because we are the afterlife —♪♫
what a JAM
that's not possible. if he was dead, he wouldn't be here. don't you worry now. you're in the good place. there should be nothingness. that's all there is. his mum always said to never be afraid of death because it's just like the way life was before you were born — which wasn't that bad, was it?
all that tech you invented? it saved lives. your work is worth thousands of points, by our metric.
fitz thinks he would have remembered this place. in fact, he knows he'd recall the dandy doctor-who-type showing him around. the pastel colours and spotless streets. not to mention, the soulmate. daisy, he's told, but by then he's already coughing up his chocolate froyo because hold on a bloody minute. a soulmate? someone to spend the afterlife with. the explanation like the flower follows, as if he doesn't have two phds or basic listening skills. a soulmate. wow.
no word on how he died yet. it's better not to lead with that, which okay, fair, but it feels more bad than good, pacing about in his home (perfectly designed for him and the 'ol eternal love of his life; cottage exterior and modern, cosy interior; complete with a glorious study... in which he can't reach 50% of the bookshelves and can't seem to find a ladder or a stepstool to rectify the problem). it leaves him plenty of time to chart out the hundreds of ways he could have died and theories for how this place even exists. god, he hopes that milton from accounting didn't do him in. drives like a maniac and always parks over the line of fitz's spot. wanker.
americans are the worst.
whenever daisy arrives, fitz is pacing about the sitting room. underneath the general existential crisis, he's almost... pleasantly nervy about the soulmate thing. it's weird, but it's also awfully romantic, isn't it? eternity with the person you're mathematically meant to be with has a certain appeal. despite the odds, he'd always thought there might be someone just right out there. taking a deep breath, he adjusts his collar, crisply folded under the top of his blue jumper. bit brighter than what he would have worn in life, to be honest. guess that's part of the good place shtick.
he hears the door creak, turning around to face it with his best smile (which is only a half-excited and half-skittish, at the moment). oh, god, should he hug her? he clasps his hands and then unclasps them. kiss her? christ, no, definitely not. shake her hand? fitz wipes his hands on his trousers, stepping forward without knowing how to proceed. ]
Hi. [ offering his hand. ] Leopold Fitz. My friends call me Fitz, but, ah — [ a laugh bubbles over. ] — I suppose you call me whatever you like.
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tfln, tuesday edition.
why've i got a four minute voicemail of you singing elton john?
more importantly, do you know you're off-key?
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might've been the tequila
u should've come out for drinks w us
we were legless by the time we made it to this sick karaoke bar in camden
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romcom dot com
not that it's been all beauty and grace thus far. no, she's suffered through a three-week hellfire period already, watched girl after girl go home after convoluted group dates and overly dramatic, teary-eyed catfights, and drank at least half a dozen bottles of champagne all on her own — daisy's convinced it's only the fact that she's managed to stay under the radar that's kept her in the game thus far. well, that, and the fact that her boss' former girlfriend happens to be running the show. quinn king might not be the nicest woman alive, but she sure knows how to keep her end of a bargain.
final six, johnson. you have until final six, and then you're on your own.
which might explain her casual vibe at tonight's day-after-elimination party. leaning up against a bar, occasionally chatting with the scruffy italian bartender when refills demand, daisy's gotten more entertainment out of her people-watching spot than she's had in days; the promise of doubled-down liquor in the near future carries the potential for a few nasty catfights to release some pent-up jealousy.
maybe the bachelor will need an opportunity to escape too? if he does, she'll be happy to share her drink — jack and coke, heavy on the jack. ]
every thread is gonna start in a car
Except her. She knows cars, not clothes. And she knows this one very well, has admired it from afar, ridden in it but rarely been allowed behind the wheel. Likely because the Jag isn't hers, but Eggsy Unwin's. Who, incidentally, is yelling and cursing a blue streak at her side and she is very resolutely ignoring it as much as she ignores the scrape of the undercarriage on cobblestones and sidewalks, the paint on the doors on walls and lamp posts. It's a beautiful car, she is sure Waverly will hate her for making UNCLE foot the bill, but they'd all probably be better off with an expensive scrap heap than two dead agents. And she'll fix what she can to spare the expense — assuming they make it to the safehouse.
But they do. It's Kingsman's; she managed to decipher the directions from the expletives from her partner-in-crime along the way. The garage doors shut behind them and Gaby slumps back in the driver's seat with an exhale, relaxing for only a second or two before she climbs out, rolling up her hypothetical sleeves. (She's in a cocktail dress. Of course she is.) She's already inspecting the car, meaning to get to work. ]
I don't know what you're upset about, [ she says breezily, cutting into whatever tirade the other spy may or may not be in the middle of, or gearing up to launch into. She rests one hand on her hip and the other on the hood, still hot from their pleasure cruise through the city. ] We got away, didn't we?
you pick the au.
less fun fact: did you know we now are banned for life from bed bath and beyond?
gimme future ml bbandb
[ that's nerd for "no"
a long pause. ]
even the beyond part?
[ you know he loves the beyond!!! ]
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Tonight is one such instance. She'd flown back from a meeting in DC with a briefcase full of documents and stopped by the modest apartment on loan from Howard Stark to one Leopold Fitz — ostensibly because she has some schematics for him to look over. It's given them one hell of a leg up, having an engineer from the 21st Century, and perhaps the man will solve his own way home before Howard (or his best scientists) can. But a delivery had turned into a dinner, had turned into a nightcap, had turned into a late night work session, and now Fitz has blueprints in front of him and Peggy is settled on the carpeted floor in front of the coffee table with her nth glass of whiskey, a stack of folders, and a cramp in her hand from signing their contents.
The clock chimes the time at some point, but she barely notices with the soft croon from the wireless filtering through the sitting room. But as she shifts position before one stockinged foot can fall asleep, she pauses, head cocked to the song that comes on. ]
Oh, [ she says after a moment, breaking the comfortable working silence between them. She's smiling. ] I remember this one.
[ It was quite popular a few years ago; how lovely to hear it come on again. Peggy considers him across from her for a moment, then rises up onto her knees now, suddenly decisive. ]
Come on, Mr Fitz. We've sat still long enough.
isn't it romantic dot mp3
And she's a rather remarkable person, given that she believes in his tales of the future and unconventional designs. Her company matters a great deal to a man made lonely by circumstance, even in his own time. Before the monolith swallowed him whole, there were blocks with him, incapable of rearranging to allow others to reach him, after the Framework. But for Peggy Carter there is no former Fitz and present Fitz, tainted by his time in an untoward reality. There's just the one man. Particular and offbeat, for the year and place, but not changed.
When she first speaks, he keeps his focus on the schematics, humming along in acknowledgment.
His name warrants a glance, especially when intoned with such finality. A quizzical look, features scrunched as he gathers her meaning. Good thing, too, given how captivating she is, with a determined look in her eye. She rarely turns that on him, when his twenty-first-century sensibilities and knowledge have equipped him to expect more, not less, of her. ]
I'm out of practice, y'know. [ said even as he stands. By now, he knows better than to deny her. Without argument, he dusts the fluff from the carpet off his trousers, as if it matters in the privacy of his flat (no, Stark's flat, to suggest otherwise is to confer permanence to his surroundings). ]
You'll have to do the heavy-lifting — [ one corner of his mouth quirks. ] — which I know you're accustomed to.
[ absolutely a quip at the expensive of their coworkers (her coworkers). Fitz steps closer, holding out a hand. ]
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makes this my 1,000th fitz tag
YELLS
🔥
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