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Entry tags:
Drabbles: Iron Man, Bones/Black Books, Bones, The Red Star
Part two (of two) of 'old comment-fic from beyond the grave' resurrections!
Title: Disoriented
Fandom: Iron Man (film)
Rating: PG-13
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bodldops requested technical difficulties with Tony and Pepper.
"Tony," says Pepper's muffled voice. "Tony."
For a minute, Tony thinks he's hallucinating again. It wouldn't be the first time that he's heard Pepper Potts's voice during a near-death experience, and it probably won't be the last.
"Anthony Edward Stark," Pepper hisses, and that's when Tony's eyes snap open.
"Wow," he says. "Ow. Haven't heard that one since I was eight and got caught re-programming company systems to replace all uses of the word 'but' with 'butt.' " Beat. "That's one t, then two."
Sometimes, Tony's mouth works before his brain manages to kick it back into gear.
"Oh, God," says Pepper, white as a sheet and leaning over him. Tony is getting a lovely view of the ceiling above her. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Scare you like what?" Tony inquires, struggling to sit up with the whine of the Iron Man's overtaxed servomotors. "All I did was -- what did I do again?"
"Very funny," Pepper says tartly, helping him with both hands on his armored shoulder and back. She's on her knees on the workshop floor. Behind her, Dummy whirs a mechanical coo, its metal fingers contracting and expanding as it studies the two humans with some concern.
"Just a couple technical difficulties," Tony says, his head swimming, pounding, and performing other interesting acrobatics now that he's sitting up. "Nothing that a--ow, Potts--" (this as Pepper parts the hair at his temple to get a look at where he cracked his head on the ceiling), "uh, rigorous round of beta tests won't fix."
Pepper shoots him a look before returning to crisis mode. "Next time, you wear the helmet when you test this thing." She peers closely at his scalp, then exhales softly. "It's a pretty big bruise, Tony. You should get checked for a concussion."
"I don't need to be checked," says Tony. "Checking is for wusses and people who have time on their hands."
She sighs; sits back on her heels enough that she can look him in the eye while speaking to him. Her hands are resting on his armored knees. "Jarvis?" she says. "Would you scan him, please?"
"Certainly, Miss Potts," says the polite disembodied voice. Beat. "There are no signs of a concussion. I believe it may have something to do with Mr. Stark's thick skull."
"Hardy har har," says Tony. "Some help here, Pepper--?" She takes a gauntlet but doesn't help steady him; he stops in his tracks with a scrape of a metal boot against the floor, looking at her quizzically.
"I need you to be more careful," Pepper says, and her face is very serious, a little scared, and not a little guarded. It's easy to remember, in this moment, that not a week ago, he was dangling from a warehouse roof and she was dodging a downpour of broken glass. "Please."
"...Okay, okay okay," Tony says, quiet and warm; his mouth quirks up on one side. "I'll wear the helmet next time. Happy?"
Pepper smiles back, tiny and a touch more sure. "Ecstatic," she says wryly, and then she helps him up.
Title: There Are No Mollusks on the Jeffersonian Pipes
Fandom: Bones/Black Books
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This iscopinggoggles's fault. She wanted to see Bernard Black as the new lab assistant.
"That's the new assistant?" Booth asks, standing below the forensic platform with Cam at his shoulder.
"Yyyyep," says Cam, resigned, her arms folded.
"Isn't he -- I don't know, a little--" he wiggles his fingers, "British?"
She tosses a sideways look at him, one of those that suggests vehement eye-rolling. "One, he's Irish and I'm pretty sure that's not the same thing, and two, Mr. Nigel-Murray is British, and he does excellent work."
Booth scoffs. "Yeah, he's also a walking encyclopedia."
Cam shrugs in a fluid motion. "You win some, you lose some."
"Piss toss!" barks the grad assistant, slamming a scalpel down on the instrument tray with rather more force than necessary.
Booth looks at Cam, who closes her eyes and sighs.
* * * * *
"Okay, Bren, your assistant is officially a weird little man," Angela announces as she strides into Brennan's office -- and only Sweets is there, turning from his inspection of a display case of artifacts, to hear it. "O - kay." Angela comes up short. "You're not Brennan."
"We're pretty easily distinguished, yeah," Sweets says. "She's out with Agent Booth and should be back soon." The gleam of interest is in his eyes. Casually: "The new grad assistant isn't working out?"
"Well, he just did this--" Angela abruptly shoves all of her hair from one side to the other, fingers pushing her bangs and the entire mass of her hair; she lets her hand drop against her leg with a quiet slap. "--and then gave me the creepiest smile in the history of all creepy smiles and tried to convince me to be his girlfriend for the summer, so yeah, I think he's a little weird."
"Ooh," says Sweets with a wince and a boyish chuckle. "Did he really? Oh wow."
"You wouldn't be laughing if you'd seen it," Angela says, tight-lipped and vaguely threatening.
Hodgins rounds the corner into the office. "I'm almost a hundred percent sure that guy just drank a jar of formaldehyde." 'That guy,' by now, has become the lab's name for the graduate assistant who everyone is certain won't be around for long. "It was seriously disturbing, and a little cool."
"Cool? On what planet would somebody drinking corpse-preserving-juice be cool?" Angela questions, incredulous.
Hodgins grins. "The one where he hasn't dropped dead yet."
"That's it," Sweets announces, earnest. "He's totally a mutant."
* * * * *
"Mr. Black," says Brennan, climbing the stairs to the forensic platform with the familiar chirp of her ID passing through the scanner. "What have you found?"
"There are greenstick fractures to the clavicle and to the radius, which leads me to believe that the victim lifted an arm to shield her head," says the wild-haired man in the filthy labcoat, and as soon as he's finished talking, he looks stunned. "Good God," he barks. "What have you people and your magical mystical wonder juice done to me?!" He belches.
"From what I understand, you drank formaldehyde, not magical mystical wonder juice," Brennan corrects absently, without looking up from the child's shattered remains. "It's a scientific improbability that you're still breathing."
"Ha!" Mr. Black scoffs. "It's a scientific impossibility that you're--"
Brennan straightens up. "How old was this child?"
"Epiphyseal fusion of the distal tibula and fibula suggests a pre-adolescent between the ages of six and ten," he says, with that same peculiarly stiff intonation. As soon as he's done speaking, he sags then pulls himself to his full height, bristling, and snaps, "Kafuckery!"
"Very good," says Brennan.
"--What?" he demands, bewildered and very, very nasty.
"Very good," she repeats, unfazed. "It would have been possible to mistake the Salter-Harris fracture on the epiphyseal plate of the left distal tibula for the epiphyseal line. You did not make that mistake."
Bernard stares at her.
"Well done, Mr. Black." She pats him on the shoulder with an open palm as she passes, stripping off her gloves. He watches her go, mouth agape.
"Hey!" he shouts after her. "You! You--- bone lady! Bone lady!"
Cam, Hodgins, Angela, Sweets, and Booth are all standing at the bottom of the steps, none subtle in their desire to see how Brennan reacted to the new intern. They're all staring, too, as Brennan steps down off the platform.
"I don't know what you were all complaining about," she says, and she sweeps past them.
Angela, the first to recover, turns to Cam. "Does this means we're keeping him?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Cam says, grimly.
On the platform, Bernard Black kicks a bucket and wonders, at the top of his lungs, precisely when somebody named Manny decided that his shop was to be a theme park.
He words this considerably less politely.
"We're totally keeping him, aren't we," says Hodgins, resigned.
"Yes." Cam sighs sharply, looking like she'd love to be anywhere but here just now. "We totally are."
Title: Dinner at the Diner
Fandom: Bones
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Decomposition and pie, formagwana!
"No," says Booth; "nuh uh. No way." He says the last while chuckling -- without much humor -- as he pushes the plate away. "Maybe you squints can eat after what we just saw, but us normal people? We can't, okay?"
"Hey," Angela says, shooting him a look across her plate of pie and the diner table; if they were standing, she'd probably have a hand on her hip right about now.
"Besides Angela," Booth allows. "Angela's normal but still has an appetite after that stuff." His face says: you happy? and Angela leans back in her seat and takes a smug, appeased bite of cherry pie.
"You've seen just as much death and dismemberment as the rest of us, by now," says Cam, squeezed into the booth between Angela and Hodgins. "Suck it up and eat your birthday pie, big guy."
"It really wasn't that bad, Agent Booth," says Wendell, who immediately quails, just a little bit, at the glance that he receives from Booth. "Y'know, considering."
"Wendell's right. The remains were in an extremely advanced stage of decomposition," Brennan says, sitting on the edge of one bench seat, beside Booth. "I understand that squeamish individuals are often more comfortable with human remains when less flesh remains on the skeletal structure, as was the situation in this case. Logically, you shouldn't have been bothered."
"Squeamish," says Booth, incredulous, and the three on the other side of the table go through various stages of eye-rolling or settling in for the long haul. "Squeamish? You think I'm squeamish?"
"Well, you are expressing discomfort, nausea, and loss of appetite due to viewing a set of decomposing human remains," Brennan says. "I believe that qualifies you as squeamish, yes."
"Hey!" Sweets swoops in, all scurrying desperation. He eyes the packed booth for a moment, then drags a chair over and sits down at the end of the table. "What'd I miss?"
"I am not squeamish!" Booth protests, ignoring the arrival. "It's just weird, lookin' at a dead body full of maggots and rotting stuff, and then coming to eat!"
As Brennan immediately retorts, Hodgins hooks Booth's plate and pulls it over. Cam raises her eyebrows at him. "What?" he says, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. "I don't have any problems with eating after looking at maggots."
"How long have they been doing this?" Sweets asks, his brow furrowed, as he points between the still-arguing -- and in their own world -- Booth and Brennan.
"Forever," says Angela, dry as the desert, and she leans across Cam to take a bite of Hodgins's hijacked pie.
Title: The Wonder Years
Fandom: The Red Star
Rating: PG-13
Summary:genarti asked for Alex Goncharova (and others), with the prompt of 'pressure.'
"No," barks Alexandra Goncharova, shaking her head furiously.
"But Alex--" Maya Vlasova says, and Alex immediately points at her, sharp and mad as hell.
"I swear to God, you witch, if you try to whine at me, I'm not speaking to you for a week!"
Maya' eyes are big and wide and very blue behind her glasses. "I'm just trying to help!" she protests.
Alex sputters with righteous indignation. "Did I ever ask for help?!" she yelps. "I don't need help! I can get dates on my own just fine!"
"--Oh, I know you can, I know!" Maya says hastily, clearly recognizing that she has said the wrong thing. Earnest: "It's just -- I really think you'd like him, and he would like you; he's cute, too, an--"
"Dammit, Maya, I don't need a matchmaker!" The shouting is starting to draw attention, heads turning their way across the grassy quad; neither girl notices. "Just because you finally learned how to talk to one boy and are suddenly all lovey dovey and awful doesn't mean you have the right to start peddling that crap at me!"
"Honestly, Alex, you're making this sound like a drug," Maya says with a laugh. She glances over Alex's shoulder; her tug at her braid betrays her nervousness. "I'm not trying to peddle anyt--"
"Yes, you are!" Alex's hands are firmly set on her hips. "You're trying to peddle and pressure, and I don't goddamn appreciate it!"
"Well, that's too bad," Maya says, with a sudden, rare (but growing more frequent, these days) spark of spunk; she gathers herself up and finishes, "because they're right behind you."
Alex stares at her for a second, and then turns around.
"Hi," says the shorter of the two men taking the last few steps toward them. Maya wasn't lying -- he is handsome, and there is a bemused light in his eyes and a ready smile on his face. He's wearing the Fleet uniform, cap tucked under his shoulder, and he is the spitting image of Maya's boyfriend, who's trying to hide his grin behind his hand, just behind.
The shorter of the brothers offers Alex his hand. "Urik Antares."
"What's the matter, you can't get girls on your own?" Alex snarls, and she stomps off. "Save me from meddlesome witches!"
"... Wow," says Urik, as Marcus collapses into laughter behind him. "She's a charmer."
Title: Disoriented
Fandom: Iron Man (film)
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
bodldops requested technical difficulties with Tony and Pepper."Tony," says Pepper's muffled voice. "Tony."
For a minute, Tony thinks he's hallucinating again. It wouldn't be the first time that he's heard Pepper Potts's voice during a near-death experience, and it probably won't be the last.
"Anthony Edward Stark," Pepper hisses, and that's when Tony's eyes snap open.
"Wow," he says. "Ow. Haven't heard that one since I was eight and got caught re-programming company systems to replace all uses of the word 'but' with 'butt.' " Beat. "That's one t, then two."
Sometimes, Tony's mouth works before his brain manages to kick it back into gear.
"Oh, God," says Pepper, white as a sheet and leaning over him. Tony is getting a lovely view of the ceiling above her. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Scare you like what?" Tony inquires, struggling to sit up with the whine of the Iron Man's overtaxed servomotors. "All I did was -- what did I do again?"
"Very funny," Pepper says tartly, helping him with both hands on his armored shoulder and back. She's on her knees on the workshop floor. Behind her, Dummy whirs a mechanical coo, its metal fingers contracting and expanding as it studies the two humans with some concern.
"Just a couple technical difficulties," Tony says, his head swimming, pounding, and performing other interesting acrobatics now that he's sitting up. "Nothing that a--ow, Potts--" (this as Pepper parts the hair at his temple to get a look at where he cracked his head on the ceiling), "uh, rigorous round of beta tests won't fix."
Pepper shoots him a look before returning to crisis mode. "Next time, you wear the helmet when you test this thing." She peers closely at his scalp, then exhales softly. "It's a pretty big bruise, Tony. You should get checked for a concussion."
"I don't need to be checked," says Tony. "Checking is for wusses and people who have time on their hands."
She sighs; sits back on her heels enough that she can look him in the eye while speaking to him. Her hands are resting on his armored knees. "Jarvis?" she says. "Would you scan him, please?"
"Certainly, Miss Potts," says the polite disembodied voice. Beat. "There are no signs of a concussion. I believe it may have something to do with Mr. Stark's thick skull."
"Hardy har har," says Tony. "Some help here, Pepper--?" She takes a gauntlet but doesn't help steady him; he stops in his tracks with a scrape of a metal boot against the floor, looking at her quizzically.
"I need you to be more careful," Pepper says, and her face is very serious, a little scared, and not a little guarded. It's easy to remember, in this moment, that not a week ago, he was dangling from a warehouse roof and she was dodging a downpour of broken glass. "Please."
"...Okay, okay okay," Tony says, quiet and warm; his mouth quirks up on one side. "I'll wear the helmet next time. Happy?"
Pepper smiles back, tiny and a touch more sure. "Ecstatic," she says wryly, and then she helps him up.
Title: There Are No Mollusks on the Jeffersonian Pipes
Fandom: Bones/Black Books
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is
copinggoggles's fault. She wanted to see Bernard Black as the new lab assistant."That's the new assistant?" Booth asks, standing below the forensic platform with Cam at his shoulder.
"Yyyyep," says Cam, resigned, her arms folded.
"Isn't he -- I don't know, a little--" he wiggles his fingers, "British?"
She tosses a sideways look at him, one of those that suggests vehement eye-rolling. "One, he's Irish and I'm pretty sure that's not the same thing, and two, Mr. Nigel-Murray is British, and he does excellent work."
Booth scoffs. "Yeah, he's also a walking encyclopedia."
Cam shrugs in a fluid motion. "You win some, you lose some."
"Piss toss!" barks the grad assistant, slamming a scalpel down on the instrument tray with rather more force than necessary.
Booth looks at Cam, who closes her eyes and sighs.
"Okay, Bren, your assistant is officially a weird little man," Angela announces as she strides into Brennan's office -- and only Sweets is there, turning from his inspection of a display case of artifacts, to hear it. "O - kay." Angela comes up short. "You're not Brennan."
"We're pretty easily distinguished, yeah," Sweets says. "She's out with Agent Booth and should be back soon." The gleam of interest is in his eyes. Casually: "The new grad assistant isn't working out?"
"Well, he just did this--" Angela abruptly shoves all of her hair from one side to the other, fingers pushing her bangs and the entire mass of her hair; she lets her hand drop against her leg with a quiet slap. "--and then gave me the creepiest smile in the history of all creepy smiles and tried to convince me to be his girlfriend for the summer, so yeah, I think he's a little weird."
"Ooh," says Sweets with a wince and a boyish chuckle. "Did he really? Oh wow."
"You wouldn't be laughing if you'd seen it," Angela says, tight-lipped and vaguely threatening.
Hodgins rounds the corner into the office. "I'm almost a hundred percent sure that guy just drank a jar of formaldehyde." 'That guy,' by now, has become the lab's name for the graduate assistant who everyone is certain won't be around for long. "It was seriously disturbing, and a little cool."
"Cool? On what planet would somebody drinking corpse-preserving-juice be cool?" Angela questions, incredulous.
Hodgins grins. "The one where he hasn't dropped dead yet."
"That's it," Sweets announces, earnest. "He's totally a mutant."
"Mr. Black," says Brennan, climbing the stairs to the forensic platform with the familiar chirp of her ID passing through the scanner. "What have you found?"
"There are greenstick fractures to the clavicle and to the radius, which leads me to believe that the victim lifted an arm to shield her head," says the wild-haired man in the filthy labcoat, and as soon as he's finished talking, he looks stunned. "Good God," he barks. "What have you people and your magical mystical wonder juice done to me?!" He belches.
"From what I understand, you drank formaldehyde, not magical mystical wonder juice," Brennan corrects absently, without looking up from the child's shattered remains. "It's a scientific improbability that you're still breathing."
"Ha!" Mr. Black scoffs. "It's a scientific impossibility that you're--"
Brennan straightens up. "How old was this child?"
"Epiphyseal fusion of the distal tibula and fibula suggests a pre-adolescent between the ages of six and ten," he says, with that same peculiarly stiff intonation. As soon as he's done speaking, he sags then pulls himself to his full height, bristling, and snaps, "Kafuckery!"
"Very good," says Brennan.
"--What?" he demands, bewildered and very, very nasty.
"Very good," she repeats, unfazed. "It would have been possible to mistake the Salter-Harris fracture on the epiphyseal plate of the left distal tibula for the epiphyseal line. You did not make that mistake."
Bernard stares at her.
"Well done, Mr. Black." She pats him on the shoulder with an open palm as she passes, stripping off her gloves. He watches her go, mouth agape.
"Hey!" he shouts after her. "You! You--- bone lady! Bone lady!"
Cam, Hodgins, Angela, Sweets, and Booth are all standing at the bottom of the steps, none subtle in their desire to see how Brennan reacted to the new intern. They're all staring, too, as Brennan steps down off the platform.
"I don't know what you were all complaining about," she says, and she sweeps past them.
Angela, the first to recover, turns to Cam. "Does this means we're keeping him?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Cam says, grimly.
On the platform, Bernard Black kicks a bucket and wonders, at the top of his lungs, precisely when somebody named Manny decided that his shop was to be a theme park.
He words this considerably less politely.
"We're totally keeping him, aren't we," says Hodgins, resigned.
"Yes." Cam sighs sharply, looking like she'd love to be anywhere but here just now. "We totally are."
Title: Dinner at the Diner
Fandom: Bones
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Decomposition and pie, for
magwana!"No," says Booth; "nuh uh. No way." He says the last while chuckling -- without much humor -- as he pushes the plate away. "Maybe you squints can eat after what we just saw, but us normal people? We can't, okay?"
"Hey," Angela says, shooting him a look across her plate of pie and the diner table; if they were standing, she'd probably have a hand on her hip right about now.
"Besides Angela," Booth allows. "Angela's normal but still has an appetite after that stuff." His face says: you happy? and Angela leans back in her seat and takes a smug, appeased bite of cherry pie.
"You've seen just as much death and dismemberment as the rest of us, by now," says Cam, squeezed into the booth between Angela and Hodgins. "Suck it up and eat your birthday pie, big guy."
"It really wasn't that bad, Agent Booth," says Wendell, who immediately quails, just a little bit, at the glance that he receives from Booth. "Y'know, considering."
"Wendell's right. The remains were in an extremely advanced stage of decomposition," Brennan says, sitting on the edge of one bench seat, beside Booth. "I understand that squeamish individuals are often more comfortable with human remains when less flesh remains on the skeletal structure, as was the situation in this case. Logically, you shouldn't have been bothered."
"Squeamish," says Booth, incredulous, and the three on the other side of the table go through various stages of eye-rolling or settling in for the long haul. "Squeamish? You think I'm squeamish?"
"Well, you are expressing discomfort, nausea, and loss of appetite due to viewing a set of decomposing human remains," Brennan says. "I believe that qualifies you as squeamish, yes."
"Hey!" Sweets swoops in, all scurrying desperation. He eyes the packed booth for a moment, then drags a chair over and sits down at the end of the table. "What'd I miss?"
"I am not squeamish!" Booth protests, ignoring the arrival. "It's just weird, lookin' at a dead body full of maggots and rotting stuff, and then coming to eat!"
As Brennan immediately retorts, Hodgins hooks Booth's plate and pulls it over. Cam raises her eyebrows at him. "What?" he says, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. "I don't have any problems with eating after looking at maggots."
"How long have they been doing this?" Sweets asks, his brow furrowed, as he points between the still-arguing -- and in their own world -- Booth and Brennan.
"Forever," says Angela, dry as the desert, and she leans across Cam to take a bite of Hodgins's hijacked pie.
Title: The Wonder Years
Fandom: The Red Star
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
genarti asked for Alex Goncharova (and others), with the prompt of 'pressure.'"No," barks Alexandra Goncharova, shaking her head furiously.
"But Alex--" Maya Vlasova says, and Alex immediately points at her, sharp and mad as hell.
"I swear to God, you witch, if you try to whine at me, I'm not speaking to you for a week!"
Maya' eyes are big and wide and very blue behind her glasses. "I'm just trying to help!" she protests.
Alex sputters with righteous indignation. "Did I ever ask for help?!" she yelps. "I don't need help! I can get dates on my own just fine!"
"--Oh, I know you can, I know!" Maya says hastily, clearly recognizing that she has said the wrong thing. Earnest: "It's just -- I really think you'd like him, and he would like you; he's cute, too, an--"
"Dammit, Maya, I don't need a matchmaker!" The shouting is starting to draw attention, heads turning their way across the grassy quad; neither girl notices. "Just because you finally learned how to talk to one boy and are suddenly all lovey dovey and awful doesn't mean you have the right to start peddling that crap at me!"
"Honestly, Alex, you're making this sound like a drug," Maya says with a laugh. She glances over Alex's shoulder; her tug at her braid betrays her nervousness. "I'm not trying to peddle anyt--"
"Yes, you are!" Alex's hands are firmly set on her hips. "You're trying to peddle and pressure, and I don't goddamn appreciate it!"
"Well, that's too bad," Maya says, with a sudden, rare (but growing more frequent, these days) spark of spunk; she gathers herself up and finishes, "because they're right behind you."
Alex stares at her for a second, and then turns around.
"Hi," says the shorter of the two men taking the last few steps toward them. Maya wasn't lying -- he is handsome, and there is a bemused light in his eyes and a ready smile on his face. He's wearing the Fleet uniform, cap tucked under his shoulder, and he is the spitting image of Maya's boyfriend, who's trying to hide his grin behind his hand, just behind.
The shorter of the brothers offers Alex his hand. "Urik Antares."
"What's the matter, you can't get girls on your own?" Alex snarls, and she stomps off. "Save me from meddlesome witches!"
"... Wow," says Urik, as Marcus collapses into laughter behind him. "She's a charmer."
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Hijacked pie.
You are awesome.
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