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Chapter Text

“So my boyfriend's got this body pillow with a naked anime girl on it. She looks like she's fourteen, and it's creepy. He says it's just a pillow and that I'm making a big deal out of it. Is it bad I don't want it in my bed? We live together.” - A nervous agent shifted.

“No. You're not the bad guy for not wanting to be caught dead in bed with a pedophile's sex toy, Paula. It's your space, one where you sleep .” - The answer was immediate.

“So… what do I do?”

“What'dja think?” - Tony took a loud slurp from his coffee cup, staring at Paula over his hot-pink, plastic flamingo glasses. 

Paula shifted in her seat, trying not to fidget. The kid's impassive bitch face was as impressive as ever, though not unkind. Her social anxiety tends to antagonize other's presences; however, Tony never failed to make her feel safe and heard. Never. “I just want him to stop. I’m very uncomfortable around him right now, and whenever I bring up that pillow, he just keeps telling me to stop being dramatic!”

Tony nods solemnly, fueling her righteous anger and holding out his cookie tin— aptly labeled ‘I'm [Not] Sorry For Your Loss’ . Paula took a choco chip cookie, took a large bite, and scowled.

“This is ridiculous! It's been a month since he bought that disgusting thing! Every night I have to stare at its eyes and try not to hurl out my dinner right then and there!”

Tony took a long, loud sip from his coffee cup, - “Ah yes, the classic theatrical-gaslighting-to-protect-my-fragile-ego tactic. How long have you been in this relationship, exactly?”

“Two months, maybe?” - She took a matcha cookie from the other tin, labeled ‘Bitter Revenge’ , - “He was alright the first month, but he's been cuddling that pillow nonstop since he bought it and I've honestly never been more creeped out.”

“Do you think that's a red flag?” - He took another sip.

Paula thought about it. “To be honest, yeah.”

A huge, gigantic, cheerfully flapping red flag.

Tony grinned, that mischievous gleam in his eyes sparking, - “Something worth dumping him over?”

She nodded instantly, - “Absolutely. But I want him to feel this… this…”

He waited for her, as Paula searched her mind for the right words.

“— wrongness , I guess? He was a decent enough person, and I liked being with him, but this just feels so out of character and I'm frankly more than done with putting up with his bullshit. Any advice?”

That manic smile shouldn’t be as comforting nor as endearing as it was, but it was.

“Here’s the plan sister— I want you to go to the store and buy towels for the bathroom that are illustrated with hard-bodied men posing in speedos. Then I want you to buy a high powered vibrator. Attach your toothbrush to it and place it in your shared toothbrush holder—”

Paula has her notebook out, paying rapt attention one would give a commander in battle. She took notes in one of the glitter pens Tony had laying around.

“—I want you to buy one of those giant bags of cotton stuffing and knit a giant penis body pillow. Rest that pillow on your side of the bed, or preferably, next to his disgusting body pillow—”

“Question! Can I buy one instead?” - She raised her hand like it was kindergarten.

“—yes, I’d like a more personal ‘fuck you’, but this is time sensitive so you get a pass—”

She jotted that down, the pink sparkly ink spelling out the cheerful murder of this relstionship.

“—Then tonight, do your thing. Take a shower and dry off with your new towels. Brush your teeth with the ten-inch mechanical dong brush. Cozy up with your cock-cushion and read homoerotic Korean webcomics. Lean over before turning your nightlight, kiss him on the cheeks and give him a simple ‘Sweet Dreams’. Then we’ll see how that rests with him…”

By now, her admittedly crazed smile was so wide it hurts. The perfect revenge.

Paula stood up, giving Tony a solemn nod.

He returned it, looking at her with the seriousness of a soldier ready for battle.

Suddenly, the loud D.J. remixes of AC/DC's ‘ Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap ’ and ‘ Problem Child ’ blared obnoxiously from Tony's phone speakers. It was the regular end-of-session alarm.

They looked at each other, before Tony glanced at the clock and stood up, - “Welp, that's the end of our session. You wanna book another sometime soon? I will desperately need an update.”

Paula laughed, the tension leaving her body. Talking to Tony always made her feel better.

“Sure. Same time next week?”

He marked his calendar in a yellow glitter pen, - “Gotcha!”

That said, Paula dashed away to the nearest department store, giddy and excited.

Roughly thirteen hours later, at 2 AM, Tony Stark's phone rang.

She has never been more happy to call someone at two in the morning to inform them of her break up.

Yet hearing Tony letting out a ‘It’s about damn time!’ followed by a loud, gleeful ‘ Whoop!’ was much more therapeutic than anticipated.

—

“JARVIS, what's on the agenda today?”

The A.I.’s voice sounded, - “You have a booking to attend a conference as Mr. Fury's translator from ten to twelve, and Ms. Hills requested a department-wide team building activity to be held for Accounting and H.R., Sir.” 

“So it's that time of the month again. And Stark Industries?”

“Miss Potts would like you to review the business proposal for the collaboration on the new software program with Minosoft. The project manager was quite insistent that you take a look personally.”

Tony scoffed, emptying his coffee, - “That idiot Han again?”

“Yes, Sir.” - JARVIS confirmed, tone extremely annoyed as well. He hopes Han Minyoung won't mind having his phone as deep fried as Kentucky's Fried Chicken three hours from now; he must've done some grave dumbassery to tick off JARVIS.

“Tell Peps to ready the papers and have YooHoo and Okie-Dokie placed on the collaborative team. If I have to deal with an entire group’s worth of morons, I'd rather have at least two people that I know are competent.”

“Miss Potts has already worked this out with Miss Yoo and Mister Kim, and requested that you look over the clauses that somebody added. She also said that their lawyers should be sobbing on the ground for inconveniencing her at this trying time.”

“That's Carolina Reaper for you.” - Tony grinned, - “Time?”

“It's nine hundred fifteen, Sir. Colonel Rhodes also asked me to inform you that your brunch with Admiral Kazansky and The Secretary will be scheduled for the twenty-first.”

“Thanks Jar-jar! Pull up those papers for me, will you?”

Somehow, despite not having a corporeal form, any living soul in that room right now could positively hear JARVIS raising his left eye brow. Which only consisted of Tony. “You sound much too gleeful to be condemning a faithful team of lawyers to their biggest migraine, Sir.”

He gasped, mock offended, - “I’m hurt, young man! Where did you learn such manners?! I gotta break my record somehow!” 

The papers slowly slid up on the holographic screen, and JARVIS' judgemental silence could be attributed to his other, non-existent eyebrow disappearing up to his hairline. It could be the equivalent of being handed a stack of papers by the actual Jarvis and maintaining awkward eye contact with the stern, vaguely amused and slightly exasperated butler.

Tony stretched, his back cracking satisfyingly. He then cracked his knuckles, his neck, his wrists and popped his elbows. A chiropractor would be mildly impressed.

He shifted through the papers with rapid speed, letting the despairing faces of Minosoft's lawyers and anticipation for the shitty conference fuel his motivational tank. 

By the time he was done, it's nine fifty three. 

Just enough to dash up to the rather impressive banquet hall on the Helicarrier. How Tony Stark suddenly teleported from his home to the giant aircraft, nobody knows.

—

“Welcome, everyone, to the annual Conference. I am Director Nick Fury and I will be speaking on behalf of the Board of Directors today.”

“Friends, enemies, and those under review—”

“Uhh, Mr. Fury sir, why is Mr. Stark here?” - Not six words out, one brave hand rose among the sea of agents.

“—everyone should know me, if you don't, not-so-kindly reconsider your career path because I now genuinely fear for your health and safety to which I am directly and knowingly threatening—”

Nick Fury stared at the daring, bold, naive recruit's eyes. “He’s my anger translator.”

“—anywho I am Nicholas Furrysona and because the Board of Incompetence was being a bunch of motherfucking pussies, again , you are regretfully in my dashing presence to which I do not dare to lay upon any mortals for fear of them swooning over my handsomeness—” 

The new interns discretely pulled out their phones.

The recording went viral two hours later.

—

Tony is slurping his slushie loudly, entering a staring contest with Scotty McSmith in front of him.

It was silent. Then Scotty whispered, - “I am British, I whispered as I purposely spell words with U’s.”

Everyone in the group session blinked. Tony, ever the competitive mechanic, responds without missing a beat, - “I AM AMERICAN, I SHOUT AS I DEEP FRY MY FREEDOM.”

Somebody choked, muttering, - “Deep fry my freedom—”

Scotty narrowed his eyes, - “There is no U in freedom. There is no N, H or S in America.”

Tony glared, long and hard, still slurping his slushie loudly. 

(“Can someone explain what N, H and S mean?” - A clueless intern hesitantly asked, eyes still glued to the fierce battle that’s happening in front of him.

“It’s the National Health Service in the U.K., sweetie.” - A kind admin took pity on the poor kid, - “It’s a service that allows every citizen to receive free, or incredibly discounted healthcare.”

“Why don’t we have that?”

“Ask the damn government, kid.”)

Electricity seemed to spark between the two before Tony put the slushie down and slowly made his way to the board.

Maintaining eye contact, Tony added a tally in the H.R. office’s box, officially breaking the tie they had with Accounting for that department-wide paid leave week.

The H.R. people cheered and danced victoriously, while everyone else groaned and booed.

Tony gave Scotty a firm handshake, which the other man gravely returned.

“Boo! Do it again! With another topic this time!!!”

Tony found that foolish voice in the ocean of ragged office workers. As he expected, he was met with an entirely new greenie.

“Take it up with Hill, Waldo. She's the one calling the shots here.”

That foolish voice didn't speak up again.

—

He accidentally poured some coffee onto his spanner. His spanner. 

“ Shit . That's not my mug.”

“Boss, it has been forty-nine hours since you last slept more than six consecutive hours. May I recommend you get some sleep?” - FRIDAY's bubbly voice muttered muskily, like she somehow just woke up to his coffee-pouring despite not being able to sleep.

Well, she could, technically, but Tony's been running on caffeine for like, the last week maybe? Whatever it was, he has zero fucks left.

“I'm fine, six hours is a long time. When was the last time I got any sleep?”

“You got approximately five minutes of sleep twenty-six hours ago sir.” - FRIDAY's voice grumbled, still-sleep ridden.

Tony stared at that one hole he made on the wall. “...good enough for me.”

His girl's voice is starting to sound petty. Tony really didn't like that tone. “May I recommend you get some rest before Miss Potts is made aware of this?”

As much as he loves and adores his FRIDAY, snitching to Pepper is the ultimate crime and should be punished. He glared at the direction of her servers.

“Keep your mouth shut, FRI. I didn't make no snitch.”

—

“I have a dilemma.”

“That's why I'm here. Shoot.”

“...how do you politely tell someone that you want them naked on top of you?”

Tony blinked, - “...I’m pretty much positive that’s why poetry was invented in the first place.”

John, one of his regular consultees, shifted in his seat, - “...Any ideas?”

“Don’t know what to tell ya, but I’m shit at Lit. That’s why I went into engineering. That’s how I was able to make my babies.” - Tony took a bite out of the cake he bought earlier, practically melting at the amazing taste, - “Speaking of, Jar-jar? FRIDAY?”

“I’ll leave the poem-making to JARVIS, boss. He’ll kill me before I butcher the English language again.”

“JAR?”

“Here you go, Mr. Johnathan Wilde, sir. ‘For the constellations of your skin to brush against the earth of mine, I would swim the seas a thousand times.’ ”

“With the added subtext of ‘Please let’s fuck now’ at the end.” - He smirked, looking all smug and proud of his A.I. while his mouth was still stuffed full with delicious, creamy, espresso soaked tiramisu.

John looked like he was about to cry tears of joy, - “That was beautiful .”

—

“Sir, you might want to look at this.” 

DUM-E beeped, pulling on his shirt. Tony cracked a smile at his baby bot, before turning his attention to JARVIS.

“What is it?”

“The flamethrower you created for Tamara Fox was used to clear the rather absurd amount of snow on her front porch.”

Tony was confused. “And that was a problem how , exactly?”

FRIDAY’s gleeful voice cut in, - “She got arrested for it, but that wasn’t the best part Boss. Fox decimated the reporters responsible for her article. It was glorious .”

“...continue.”

JARVIS sighed, amusement evident, - “Fox stated that she was simply ‘fed up with battling the elements’ and that she did not possess the willpower necessary to move ‘four billion tons of white bull shit’ .”

“...send that woman another flame thrower. She deserves it.”

FRIDAY replied, - “Already on it, Boss.”

—

“Tony, how do I sue God.”

“That’s your worry?”

“God made me get this job. He is responsible for all my emotional damages. How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Sue. Him.”

“Go to the wishing well and ask for an audience with the Sky Fairy Godmother.”

“I want a carriage. I’ve more than earned it. I want the whole Cinderella package. I’ve been suffering for the last ten years of my life. Where the fuck is my pretty ballgown and glass slippers. I want a castle. If Lady Trama-bitch shows up I want the rights to fuck up her face.”

“Has anybody ever told you you have IssuesTM, Fury?”

“Only for the last twenty years.” - S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resident director took a cookie from the ‘This does not Spark Joy’ cookie tin. It was snickerdoodles.

—

She likes this. Not needing to explain herself. Being herself.

“I like Winx Club.”

Tony nodded. “Who's your favorite?”

“...Aisha.”

“She's a lot like you. Who'd you think I'd be?”

“Stella.”

“How so?”

“Bright. Loud. Likes sashaying. Annoying.”

“Why thank you, ‘Talia. I love slaying myself. What’s your favorite season?”

Natasha smiled. She nibbled on the cream-cheese stuffed red velvet cookie. 

She likes talking to Tony. He's the best handler she's ever had. 

Phil Coulson was her other handler, but Natasha was told Tony was everybody's handler. Or the emotional equivalent of it.

Natasha doesn’t complain. Tony was good at his job, and ten times too overqualified for it.

“Sirenix.”

Tony nodded.

He doesn't ask. She still tells.

She doesn't ask. He's still there when she turns around.

—

In S.H.I.E.L.D., everybody and their mother knows Howard Stark. 

In S.H.I.E.L.D., everyone also knew that a new consultant was hired.

In S.H.I.E.L.D., one would expect them to connect the dots when, instead of the prim, business-suit donning, ‘ Life-Sparks-Joy’, James-Moriarty-esque donkey they were expecting— Anothy Edward Stark strutted into the assembly in a bright, glittery, rainbow neon suit that serves no purpose other than to blind the eyesight of anyone who set their eyes on the extremely eye-catching man.

Nick Fury looked like he wanted to throttle the man, give him a standing ovation for even daring to do this shit in an assembly, and rip that obnoxiously bright suit from his body and send it down to R.&D. for research purposes. Not like anyone could argue if that was what ended up happening— the sheer amount of sparkles radiating from the younger Stark alone should've been, by all accounts, impossible. 

Yet, because he inherited the amazing genes of Howard and Maria Stark, anything he set his mind into will be possible. 

(They all learned their lesson with the late Stark matriarch, whom everyone had initially written off for being a trophy wife before she single-handedly tempted an army of seagulls and pelicans onto the Helicarrier then set them off onto the banquet hall. Fortunately, the only casualty from this demonic assault was one Obadiah Stane, whom no one liked in the first place.)

When it was announced that Tony Stark was to be their private consultant, the tentative hopes within each agent present bloomed like a blossom in the spring. 

Because, they've all connected the dots. They now have a consultant. They now have Tony Stark as a consultant. They now have the best consultant in the world of best consultants.

Because Tony Stark is now what a layman would call their therapist, and anyone that knows anyone knows that once a Stark was known for something, they are simply the best at it. 

The last psychiatrist that worked with them quit after three weeks— apparently, all the bullshit happening at the organization was too much for her to handle. The staff knew that their work was questionably legal at best, and on-field agents have mental breakdowns over their morally ambiguous choices more often than any liked to admit. 

So now that they have a Stark on payroll to deal with their emotional baggage?

Like fucking hell they were going to let go. 

As all traumatized support staff and workers of a shady organization such as S.H.I.E.L.D. does, they took their employer up on that offer. Medical-related and health bills in the States were expensive enough with insurance, thanks— they weren't going to pass up the chance of getting free therapy.

It helped that Tony was open to negotiating nuclear revenge plots with painfully graphic details. Everybody and their mother loved the young man— he was, simply put, a genius. 

So much of a genius in fact— so un-judgemental of their problems, of their hurts and issues; so clearly understanding and so empathetic that many wondered if he was an empath— that Tony quickly gained a fond nickname for his tungsten-metal will.

Anthony Edward Stark was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Iron Therapist, and one should take caution when speaking to him rudely, because everyone and their grandmother loved him and therefore he has an entire military at his literal beck and call. That was not counting Stark Industries, whose employees are fiercely loyal to Tony to the surprise of no one.

(Tony, for his part, was ecstatic that his new co-workers actively sought him out for advice. Take that Rhodey! He could hold a civil conversation without causing any mental distress!)

Chapter Text

Clint Barton was stupefied.

Yes, he knew someone new was hired as a consultant, it wasn't all that surprising. Yes, he has received Coulson's many, many text rants about simply how amazing this ‘Tony’ guy is. Yes, Clint has had to defuse more than one argument over his comms when his mission supervisor decided that the operation was less important than deciding whether or not oatmeal cookies should be added to the Therapy Office.

Clint felt the subtle changes the this new guy brought in— the replies to his reports were nicer than usual, which improved his mood vastly, knowing that people appreciated what he did; the check-ins are now incorporated with small talk, instead of just calling in to tell people he's alive, the agents on call asked about his day, his insights to stuff, and gave him updates on his wife and children. Everything made him feel less lonely; made him feel like Clint Barton for about fifteen minutes rather than just the undercover persona he's parading in. 

Coulson credited Tony with all these changes; and Clint found himself wondering whether or not this guy was a wizard of some sort. He got Nick Fury to sign off on these new protocol updates, Nick Fury. 

The dude that has a last name with the literal word for anger agreed to these new changes in their old, drabby routine. 

The sky must be falling.

Clint thinks this guy must've been a saint— or at least an angel that descended Earth because even Matilda Honey had good things to say about him. Say what you would about her sweet surname, but everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. knows that you don't mess with Matilda Honey because her calling was synonymous with Human Resources and she's the one that pays your salary. R.&D. has been trying to get her to move to their department for years, but H.R. had put up a valiant fight and ultimately won her over in the end.

Matilda Honey doesn't waste her words. Never. For this woman to say that this ‘Tony’ guy was kind hearted and benevolent? 

If this ‘Tony’ dude wasn't the Holy Grail reincarnated then Clint has no idea how to handle the second coming of Jesus to their shady as fuck organization. Fury and Coulson metaphorically fell for him hook, line and sinker— while the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. firmly believes he controls the Earth's navigational axis. Whenever the topic of one Therapist Tony came up, it was like dealing with a bunch of overzealous teenagers with a celebrity crush.

The only problem was that it's an entire intelligence agency, and from what he's heard down the grapevine, there was a secret Tony fan-club set up in the depths of R.&D. because apparently, Tony was a genius at mechanics and was now idolized by the entire R.&D. department on top of everything else . Word is, the elders in the department listened to him more than their own bosses.

Another point for the Saint theory. Research and Development don't just stand idly and let people push them around— the only reason this group of hyper competent scientists and engineers would listen to somebody was because that somebody is right, and they all know it. 

At this point, Clint has a pretty clear construction of what Tony would be like. 

He would look like all the other Tony's in existence: old and weary with a stubble or beard. He's wise, and a saint, or something of an angel in personality. He would be wearing sophisticated clothes, and ones that are both comfortable as they are fashionable because Clint's been on the receiving end of Estella Miller's latest fashion rant and she was praising Tony to high heavens for his daily wear. Clint also believed this man to give off dad vibes, parenting everybody like a cool dad or uncle or something and would have a trail of agents following him around like a line of lost baby ducklings. 

That image should be disturbing because this was Fury and Coulson Clint was imagining walking in that line with a plethora of other dangerous spies, but all his brain would shout was ‘ADORABLE!’ because one Saint Tony was leading this parade with the grace and worry of a fond parent. 

With this already-endearing image in mind, one woefully unprepared Clint Barton stepped into the Director's office for his debriefing— expecting to see a kind, fatherly figure hovering in worry over Fury's shoulders and reassuring Coulson in a nervous voice that his spy was en route, completely whole and safe. Fury would put up with it because it's Saint Tony, and Coulson wouldn't have the heart to correct the man that he couldn't care less whether or not Clint came back alive since he would still be too much of a pain anyways.

That was what Clint Barton had expected to see. A worried, harried father-figure trying to parent his handler and his director, and he half-expected Tony to parent him too. But what he was certain of in his mind, that most of this Saint Tony image was based on— its very foundation actually— was that this ‘Tony’ guy was completely, utterly harmless. The he-would-cry-if-he-hurt-a-fly type of person. 

What Clint hadn't expected was his self-preservation instincts absolutely yelling at him to duck before he could take half a step into the office. What Clint hadn't expected was to feel a projectile whizzing past his head at impressive speeds, missing him by a tiny quarter-inch. What Clint hadn't expected was for it to lodge itself to the back of the metal door, the place where the top of his head was two seconds ago.

What Clint hadn't expected was to see what seemed to be a small crater on said metal door, or the rather impressive protruding dent made on the other side. What Clint hadn't expected was to find a spoon lodged into the center of said crater, and what seemed like blood right underneath it.

Suitably alarmed, he whipped his head around, hackles rising and hands instinctively reaching for his weapons. And here's another thing Clint Barton hadn't expected to see— a short, borderline tiny ass man in the most ridiculous outfit he's ever seen— and by that, he meant straight up 4-inch thick-soled combat boots, laced-up thigh cut samurai pants with a tool belt that housed an absurd amount of wrenches and screwdrivers, and a black tank top that had no business being as tight as it is. The man's face was covered in what seemed to be grease and oil smears, and a pair of bright yellow, plastic pineapple glasses nestled proudly in his bird's nest of a head of hair.

Fury and Coulson looked deathly resigned and fondly exasperated respectively, paying Clint no mind while the tiny man, spoons in between each of his fingers, started throwing them with extreme prejudice in random directions all around the office. They flew with the velocity of a small meteor, and Fury's tearful grimace each time one landed was pitiful to say the least. 

Now, being one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best snipers and surveillance operatives meant that Clint's attention to detail was very much above an average human's. That skill was the reason why he's so good at his job and the only reason he's able to see what the spoons were after. 

It was mosquitoes. Lots, and lots of mosquitoes. 

This tiny man seemed to be tired of simply throwing said spoons at the tiny insects, and instead, pulled out a giant gun-like contraption that was nowhere to be seen mere seconds before. Clint got the impression that he took it out of his pockets— only the man's pants doesn't have pockets and if they did, the only mystifying explanation for it to fit in there is if the world is a cartoon and cartoon logic applies. 

Which the world is decidedly not, but the man somehow managed it anyways. 

The tiny guy then proceeded to reach behind Fury's desk and pull out a box filled with metal spoons. He dumped them into the opening of the contraption, and started shooting at the remaining mosquitoes with terrifying accuracy. 

Fury looked three seconds away from an aneurysm and Coulson was gleefully recording everything. 

Clint didn't know whether to fear for his life or be impressed with this tiny man's spectacular marksmanship. From the constipated look on Fury's face, it was both.

“There. All mosquitoes are murdered with a spoon like you requested, director. Send me my usual consultant fee, and we'll be good to go.”

Fury puts his head in his hands, sounding suspiciously close to tears, - “And who would fix up my office?”

The tiny man shrugged, - “Duh no. I was just following orders, sir. You requested the mosquitoes to be put down with a spoon. I put down all the mosquitoes in your office with a spoon. I don't see the problem.”

“You broke my office. Over cookie dough. ”

The man shrugged again, looking a bit too smug this time, - “To be fair, it was my favorite flavor and I told you not to touch it. ”

Fury's incredulous tone and wide, disbelieving eyes would be funny if— scratch that, it was funny, - “It was shit. Actual, literal shit.”

The loud offended gasp that came out of the tiny man was on par with that of a Victorian lady, - “Ex-fucking-cuse me?! It was not shit you fucking moron! It was triple-serving imported Belgian dark-chocolate double-roasted Mocha-Java coffee-infused ganache-covered deliciousness!!! And what did you do? YOU FUCKING THREW IT IN THE BIOLOGICAL WASTE BIN!!” 

“It was in the middle of the fucking lab! Why the fuck would your shitty cookie dough be in the middle of R.&D.’s bio-chem lab?!” - Fury's face was in his hands again, and his defensive voice came from the depths of the appendages.

Tiny Man (Clint really should ask for his name) was looking ready to shoot Fury with his Spoon-inator, like, yesterday, - “It was sealed and labeled. I told you not to touch it, and my damn name was on the little fucker. How has S.H.I.E.L.D. not fallen as an intelligence agency yet? With your subpar abilities to find a good excuse and no boss to hold your sorry ass accountable—”

“—I said sorry, okay?!”

“—the bar was so low that motherfucking Hades is hanging his laundry on it. I cannot begin to fathom how the fuck you managed to dig a hole that deep, Fury.” - The tiny man glared.

Coulson was looking blue with the amount of effort he was putting in to try not to laugh. Clint was half-way hysterical with the context the conversation provided.

Nick Fury was running in circles with Tiny Man because he was being an idiot. Nick Fury was being an idiot. Nick Fury was being led around by Tiny Man. 

Clint was as still as the goddamn Statue of Liberty because just what the fuck was he supposed to do when faced with seeing a tiny man petty-fighting Fury, win , and wasn’t blown up into fucking pieces for it yet?????

Fury had his head in his arms, tucked above his desk. If Cliny didn't know better, he would’ve thought the Director was sobbing.

Tiny man decided that this was the perfect time frame to notice him, shocked and still and quite utterly defenseless Clint Barton.

“Oh, hello! You must by the infamous Hawkeye Phil was talking about! You never told me he was this cute.” - Tiny man gave Coulson a pointed glance, before shamelessly raking his eyes over him appreciatively.

Clint would've been flattered and would maybe even flirted back had this been any normal agent to agent interaction. As it stands, Tiny Man's status is unknown and Clint has more than a few guesses than what he could be, none pleasant. “Uhh…”

“Director Grumpy Pants caught you up to date yet sweetie?” - The other man asked, not unkindly, - “You're here for your debrief, right?”

Clint could only nod. 

Tiny Man smiled reassuringly, - “Give me a second, alright?”

Coulson was giggling in the background, and Tiny Man took Clint's dumbfounded expression as a ‘yes’. 

He went over to Fury's desk, where the Director was still burying his head to the table. Tiny Man leaned in, and whispered something that made Fury jump like a giddy school girl who's crush just confessed to her.

Only he looks like he wants death to come and take him and he's not a giddy school girl who's crush just confessed to her.

Fury stood up, with the grace and seriousness of the Director that Clint knew. 

“Let's get introductions out of the way. Agent Barton, this is Tony Stark, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s consultant. His services are available to all agents in need, and that goes for you as well. Tony, you already know Barton.” - Fury looked pretty miffed at that.

Tiny Man— Tony — only grinned.

Clint.exe does not compute. 

Unresponsive. 

Bluescreening. 

In a desperate need of an update.

B-because this… this is Tony ?! Saint Tony?! The one that everyone was basically worshiping?! The guy who all but made Fury cry?! 

Clint could feel his carefully-constructed image of the Tony he heard about shattering into pieces as he met Tony Stark, The Mechanic Extraordinaire.

Yeah. Never in a million years would he expect to learn that the man he imagined mother-henning Fury and Coulson to be Tony Stark. And it wasn't so much as mother-henning but outright terrorizing the two into making good life choices.

Clint Barton had a feeling he would be next.

Clint Barton was stupefied . 

—

Natasha Romanov was indignant.

Natasha is good at what she does. She has infiltrated every place from the streets of New York to the Royal House of Britain to Bollywood and no one had caught her yet, save Clint, but he had already known who she was. She also knows when to give up. 

So when Clint gave her his hand, she took it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't what she expected it to be. All she learned of it on her way there was that it's an intelligence agency. Natasha was nervous, but she was confident, somewhat.

She could handle an intelligence agency. She grew up in one.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. was so much more than that. They have breaks, for one. They actually get paid, for two. Then there's the daily mental health checks, the bonuses, the leaves— It was as if they actually cared for their agents. Clint said they aren't the best in the world, but they do try. 

Natasha wasn't feared here. She was respected. She was cultivating actual, mutually reciprocated, healthy and consensual working relationships with her co-workers. She was making friends. 

Coulson was her field handler— she was told her other handler was on leave for the time being. But he was damn good at his job, and Natasha never felt more carefree. Her walls are still up, and the Black Widow was present more often than not, but nobody seemed bothered and they treated her just the same. After decades of having to watch her breath in the Red Room, she never thought she would grow fond of S.H.I.E.L.D. like she did.

Yet, there's one thing she absolutely despised them for.

Their apparent obsession with one Anthony Edward Stark.

He. Was. EVERYWHERE . 

She couldn't take half a step into the cafeteria before someone mentioned his name. She couldn't go through her work-issued tablet before seeing his picture. She couldn't even walk into Fury's office before going face-to-face with a grinning headshot of the Merchant of Death himself.

Oh she knew about Tony Stark alright. She learned about him years before she could learn anything about herself. The Red Room keeps records of all threats— potential and existing. The Starks were on top of that list— between Howard Stark's weapons, Maria Stark's influence and their son’s genius; it wasn't that hard to deduce why.

But lately, she's been learning too much about him.

Like how his favorite cookie was a sugary, caffeinated, chocolate-covered edible heart-attack disk that gives diabetes Type 2 as a side effect. Like how his favorite accessory was obnoxious, neon-colored plastic glasses with tropical motifs. Like how he yawns at precisely thirteen-oh-nine every day. 

Natasha once walked into the depths of R.&D. to interrogate the idiot that was taking so fucking long to fix her Bite and came out of it traumatized with the amount of Tony Stark memorabilia she witnessed.

Some of the interns are in the corner drawing a demon summoning circle with a marker with Stark's face on it. They were also burning what looks like hair and nail clippings and Natasha never wanted to forget anything more in her entire life. 

There was a motherfucking shrine in the middle of the engineering workshop with everything under the sun that had to do with Athony Edward Stark. There was even a bedsheet with what looks like dried sperm . The pictures were as if the entire department was remotely stalking Stark. They found a picture of him at his time of birth, umbilical cord still attached. 

If she was a weaker woman and in denial, she would say she's creeped out. As it stands, she's much stronger than that and she was self-aware enough to know that she's simply terrified of the R.&D. people.

They hailed Tony fucking Stark as their omnipotent god. That's all she needs to know to stay the fuck away from the cult.

Be as it may, Natasha was simply sick at the mention of Stark. Even Clint, her ever-dependable partner, was wagging his metaphorical tail like an excited puppy at the mention of the billionaire. 

Natasha Romanov made it her now-life's mission to hand-deliver a well-meaning punch to Tony Stark's face. She doesn't know how that man got his clutches on her fellow agents and staff, but she wanted him out of her life for eternity, possibly . 

So when Tony Stark went missing, Natasha was gratified and greatful. Peace at fucking last.

Not for long. Everybody was a fucking mess. Even Fury and Coulson were shaking every single contact worth their salt that S.H.I.E.L.D. has to find the billionaire. The rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. agreed to this decision wholeheartedly, which was the single-most impressive show of collaboration she has borne witness too.

Then came the discovery of what was like a flying suit of armor coming out of a huge explosion in Buttfuck Nowhere, Afghanistan. Twelves hours later, and the rumors of Iron Man were circling the internet like crazy.

Then Tony fucking Stark came outta the woodworks after three months of being M.I.A. and announced that yes, he is Iron Man and apparently, his idiotic moron of a godfather tried to order his assassination and yes, he does have proof and also did you know that Obbie Stane was apparently selling confidential weaponry that Stark Industries’ Weaponry Department used to make for the U.S. Government on the black market? Yeah, the department that Tony shut down as soon as he turned twenty-one? No wonder Stane was so rich even after losing his job by infringing on labor laws.

The world was swooning with delight in light of the drama. To be fair, it was on par with an Oscar-winning soap opera.

This was all fine and dandy alright— it didn't affect her, so Natasha didn't care much.

That was until she was unceremoniously summoned to Fury's office, and informed that she'll be playing babysitter with the most problematic billionaire known to mankind whilst the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. reenacts the Holocaust with the group behind Stark's kidnapping.

It wasn’t as if Stark had left anything left for them to work with. But precautions, they said.

Natasha is miffed. Natasha is not pleased. Natasha may have thrown a temper tantrum of epic proportions— and she isn't even scared of the consequences. If S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't want its agents throwing fits left and right, they should have a better discipline policy. Natasha isn't scared.

(Natasha walked out of detention filled with shame and guilt. Whoever suggested that they should put her in the same room as a pitifully-looking robot and have it make vaguely sad and hurt sounds at her for two hours straight should be watching their goddamn backs.)

(She would later be informed that the robot was named Wall-E, and yes, it was inspired by the character from the movie. It's also sentient, and has a huge attachment to everyone so please don't make Wall-E sad because those eyes are W.M.D.s, I swear .)

When asked again, she reluctantly agreed.

—

Natasha had certain expectations as a captured enemy spy inducted to a new organization. 

Vivisection. Interrogation. Lobotomy. Discipline. 

In short, to be unmade. Remade to fit their ideal image. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't want— couldn't want Natasha Romanov, pretty little red head that could wrap men around her pinky finger in less than ten seconds flat. That simply wouldn't make sense. 

But S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't like that— at all . Natasha wasn't remade, not even a little bit. 

She was welcomed, and treated like one of their own. Oddly stiff half the time, sure. Always wary and paranoid— but who wasn't? She was just another agent. Just another person in their busy-body agency. 

Their agent. Their ally. Their agency. 

She was a part of it. Natasha was a part of something that doesn't care about how many lives had been taken down by her hands. She was a part of something that doesn't blink an eye at her quirks— something that was made with quirks. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. was like a quilt— each department having their own patchwork of scraps. Everyone knows about Estella Miller, head of Fashion and Cosmetics’, and her alias Cruella. Everyone knows about Kevin McCallister, one of R.&D.'s most valuable mechanics and Security's golden child, and his Christmas stints all over New York during his younger years. Their secrets were out in the open, just waiting for someone to bite into and use. 

Yet, it never was. Open secrets are common, and the subjects of such knowledge know. It's safe. Nothing to worry about.

Everyone knows everyone. They know her too. They know about the Red Room and her introduction via Clint in its entirety.

They didn't care.

So Natasha worked hard to be good. To be reliable. To be trusted. She rose as one of their top agents, and trainees eyed her with respect and mild wonder instead of the usual heaps of envy and jealousy she knows. She became recognized, and besides the up in clearance level, people treated her the same.

No wariness. No caution. No tiptoeing or walking on eggshells around her. They were well aware of her capabilities, and she was not more or less for it.

Natasha loved that. Being normal for once.

Now normal will have to fly out the window because Tony fucking Stark can't keep his shitty schedule straight. Two weeks in as Stark's employee, and she's already ripping her hair out three times in the past hour. 

How she hasn't gone bald yet, only God will know. 

Natasha's already deep grudge against him plummeted further. Can't this man just be on time for once? If this was what she had to do as one of the assistants that works near his office, thank Vodka she scrapped the plan to be his P.A.. Her respect for Pepper Potts, or as Stark calls her— Carolina Reapers— has surpassed Fury's by an astronomical amount. 

As soon as that woman is nominated for CEO, she'll threaten all the members on the Board of Executives to transfer Potts immediately. Cover be damned— Stark Industries’ overpriced salary range, cossall benefits and amazing 401k match would entice any dreaming nine to five office worker out there; but Natasha, or Natalie , has been disillusioned from day fucking one and she would like a new employer, effective immediately, pretty please. 

Any and all plots of earning some extra money from this cover was foiled from the second she took a step here. If Natasha had to hear another ‘Miss Rushman!’ from another intern for a misprint again, she'll chuck their supervisor out of the motherfucking window just for the heck of it. 

The money was not worth it.

When Pepper Potts reassigned her as Stark's P.A., Natasha has no shame in admitting that she begged the other woman to chose someone else, anyone else— Stark won't care if a stray cat was doing his paperwork— but Pepper only looked at her with a helpless ‘No can do’ and showed her the transfer papers already completed, stamped and signed by the entire Board overnight.

The next time she sees one of them— they'll be begging for mercy as she strangles them by the tip of their hairs.

But it wasn't like Stark was a bad boss. He wasn't incompetent or ignorant.

He just doesn't fucking care. 

Stark spends more time on his little blog and in his workshop making shit than actually getting any paperwork done. Paperwork that she has to do for him. Which means she has no time to spare on top of her usual recon workload.

Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s R.&D. better start synthesizing that stabilizer ASAP or she'll be sending Stark down to greet their fallen comrades. Natasha is hanging on the very thread of her skin— because it's been weeks since she last slept soundly, because she's stuck dry in this maze of a penthouse for three days with no way home, because Stark only came outside his lab once and signed one document that was at the bottom of the priority stack just because— 

“ Hole-ly Mother of Hell— you look like shit , Rushman.”

Natasha sent him her deepest, darkest, deadliest glare she could muster over the sixty-pound designer eyebags and oily hair that she's sure she hasn't washed in like, two weeks.

“And whose fault is that , Stark? ”

At least he has the decency to look sheepish. 

“I'm sorry…?”

Natasha groaned and dropped her head in the pile of paperwork, hearing a loud ‘BOINK’, feeling some pain and a trickle of blood on her forehead, before peacefully passing out after seeing Stark's panicked face.

Take that, motherfucker.

She's getting the beauty sleep she deserves.

—

She wakes up in a cloud of a bed, to a neat stack of organized documents on her table, and a flurry of messages from Coulson telling her that her babysitting mission is officially over (FUCK YEAH!) and that S.H.I.E.L.D. has arranged for her other, mysterious, handler to come and pick her up. 

Finally. 

After seemed like an eternity trapped in Stark's ten story penthouse— who the fuck has a ten story penthouse— Natasha has finally been given freedom and the first thing she'll do is hit the training fields and shape up some recruits for stress relief. Vodka knows she needs them— Natasha has a greater appreciation for the Accounting Department now, and dealing with Stark’s expenses needs a degree in and of itself.

(Who in the nine circles of hell needs three hundred kilos of glitter?!?? )

She stretched her aching back, something she hasn’t done in weeks. It gave a series of loud cracks, and that bruising spot on her spine popped satisfyingly.

Natasha walked out to the rather luxurious living room, sprawled on the couch, and turned on the TV. She had about thirty minutes until the appointed time, and conveniently, her breakfast was already on the table.

If it was Stark’s, then she wasn’t gonna complain. He should’ve written his name then.

It was, by all accounts, a fantastic morning. She’s happily curled up in the softest sofa in existence, eating a healthy plate of pancakes and watching the latest season of ‘Good Omens’ while leisurely waiting for her new handler to pick her up.

Then, as always, Stark came and ruined the fun. 

“Hey Natashalie, ready to go?”

Let Natasha be clear— she is good at her job, very much so, and aliens can come knocking on her door without getting so much as a squeak out of her. She would be ready with flamethrowers and Laura Barton on speed dial. Aliens wouldn’t come close to touching her.

As it stands, she didn’t expect her former boss to name-drop her actual name. Or maybe she should. He is a genius. 

However, there are three very concerning statements that a single question gave her.

One— her cover was blown.

Two— Tony fucking Stark was very aware of her cover.

Three— he’s implying that he was her handler. 

Natasha doesn’t know what’s worse— that she failed this mission, which is possibly the most elementary operation a spy can get— or that she found her new handler, and he was Anthony Edward Stark. 

Fury better have a good explanation for this.

—

Fury does not have a good explanation for this. Natasha has grilled him for every possible reason to this decision under the sun, but has yet to come to a conclusive statement.

A good conclusive statement, that is. ‘He’s the best we've got.’ doesn't mean shit when Natasha has witnessed Stark doing cartwheels from his kitchen counter to his armor assembly line while chugging single-malt scotch from a baby bottle before dropping unconscious. Drunk . It was noon on a Tuesday.  

In the meantime, she has to deal with one hyperactive puppy-man for two hours everyday.

“Nah-tah-sha-lieeeeeeeeee—”

Natasha punched the wall.

—

“How do I leave.”

“You can’t, Tashalie.”

Natasha grits her teeth.

—

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“So do every demon in hell. You ain’t special sweetie.”

Her eyes twitched.

—

“What the fuck do I need to do to get you to leave me alone!”

“That’s the point honey— I can’t give you advice for a problem that doesn’t exist.”

“It sure as hell does!”

“You can walk away right now and save both of us two hours of our time. But that isn’t gonna happen because as soon as you crawl through that door, Fury is going to drag your ass back here kicking and screaming until you're stuck in here with me for five hours straight.”

…True.

“How do I get Fury to leave me alone then?”

Stark smiles like it's the easiest thing in the world, - “Simple. You make it so he can’t. ”

…Natasha hates that the advice worked.  

—

“How do I train a bunch of wannabe recruits.”

“Specifically?”

“...Jonah.”

“Get him on a plane to Los Angeles, go to Samoa and snitch on him to his mother, and drag him by the ear back to the Helicarrier after he made up with his brother.”

“...how’d you know this?”

“Facebook.”

—

“Clint’s mad at me. Why.”

“Did you ask him?”

“...no.”

“You know what to do then.”

—

“Why do they keep PINING??? ”

“They're blind.”

“Why?!”

“Jack and Amy are stupid, ‘Tallie. Let them figure their shit out.”

“As their instructor, I’m locking them in a closet.”

“I’ll set up a camera to watch it then.”

—

They have a routine now. Natasha would come in, metaphorical guns blazing with a statement of some sort.

Tony would give her advice— or if he can’t, plan contingencies with her. 

Natasha likes contingencies. It means she had a plan.

She wasn’t sure when exactly Stark became Tony in her mind, even less certain about how it just felt safe to come to him with random tidbits of her life.

Talking to him was fun. It was a relief to be able to talk about her personal stuff. 

…she likes the cookies in his office the most though. Tony wasn’t even offended when she said that.

It wasn’t until she told him her real name and Tony kept calling her ‘Talia’ and having it felt right that it hit her. 

Natasha wasn’t Black Widow. Not… anymore.

She still used the name. The suit and shoes still fit.

It was just that— she’s more Natasha Romanov than the Black Widow . The name was her cover, her skin and peel— but underneath it, she was more Natasha than Widow and it felt good to know .

“I’M NOT BLACK WIDOW!!!” - She yelled as she kicked the door in.

Tony looked bewildered, - “Sure you're not. What happened?”

Natasha points at him, - “You're my friend.”

Tony blinked, - “...Thanks?”

She smiles, wide and happy. Tony was Natalia’s friend. Natalia Alianova Romanova’s friend.

Natasha was indignant.

She’s indignant because it took her this long to realize.

—

Steve was dumbfounded.

Somehow, within the span of twelve hours since he (self) received his mission parameters, he managed to travel seventy years into the future. 

That's what his intuition has been telling him at least. Or he's been dropped into a completely different dimension.

When he first woke up, here's what he noticed.

The people in the alleged ‘military’ personnel that's been going out and about in the ‘hospital’ were all wrong. The women's ties were too long, the men's boots were too shiny, the crates that were stacked up in the corner had a strange smell that surely wasn't wood. 

Steve has been awake for forty-five seconds and there's something about this red-headed nurse that sets off all sorts of alarms in his head. There's also something covering her chest, an undergarment that was outlined in her work outfit that was decidedly alarming . 

It might've been crass, staring at a lady's breasts and figuring out that something was off because of it— but goddamn Steve couldn't get it out of his head. None of the women he's ever worked with would be caught dead in misbehaving lingerie; Steve could see from the curved topline what the underwear was shaped like. It was made of a much sturdier material, not satin.

There's also the fact that her breasts were sitting at a much lower angle than what he remembers should be , and her tits were not the cones that he was used to seeing. 

Her tie was also too wide, too straight, too long— might be a men's tie, Steve wasn't sure, but the only familiar thing about it was the knot.

His eyes wandered up, and by the time he got to her hair, he knew something was very, very wrong. 

Steve wasn't going to mention it though— while the entire situation was off, his Ma raised him to be a gentleman. He hasn't been far from home long enough to forget his manners.

So Steve thanked the woman for her work, thanked her again for helping him adjust, and started sniffing around as soon as she left. 

Wandering along the halls, everything started to deviate from what he knew. The first thing was that the halls got darker, and the paint wasn't the beige he was used to seeing. The people walking around are strange— while they were in some sort of uniform, it was decidedly not that of what military hospital personnel wore. It looked too… clean. 

The cozy and familiar feel of his room was slipping away the further he traveled into the building. It started to get replaced by discomfort and outlandishness, while the entire place seemed to ooze an unfriendly feel.  

There was a digital clock in the wall, no dials in sight and the numbers were glowing a bright red. There was a white chalkboard in the middle of the hall— with the big, giant letters spelling ‘ANNOUNCEMENTS’ in a black color, while papers and schedules were fixed with flat pins that were seemingly sticking to the board. And there, on the corner, was the date.

May 14th, 2011. 

Two-thousand-eleven. 

Almost seventy years. 

Last he knew— it was February, 1945 . 

Steve didn't really process this, not at first. He hightailed outta there and beelined straight back to his room, muttering to himself how that was enough exercise for the day. Steve doesn't know what to think, and he half-believed the crazy theories his mind was cooking up.

He took note of everything weird that happened. It seemed like someone was doing a shitty job of imitating the 1940s— that, or they're trying to fuck around with him and let him figure his shit out. 

Steve snuck back to look at the whiteboard everyday after that. When the date changed from May 14th to 15th, 16th, 17th, and so on— he was forced to come to terms with his new time period.

What made him crack was the bananas. 

Yeah, bananas tasted wrong in the twenty-first century. Steve liked to believe that food never changes; but having a fundamental fruit tasting bland all of a sudden was challenging his faith.

Scratch that, everything was challenging his faith these days.

The constant hovering of the nurses and doctors, the still in conversation as soon as they stepped into his room, the weird machines and fluids that they injected into him with no apparent rhyme or reason. 

Well, the rhyme is that he time-traveled, and the reason was they would have to reveal his seventy-year chronological age gap to him if they had to explain.

By the sixth day, he was done. 

Steve was on his bed, spread eagled and fiddling with a block of metal he nicked from one of the doctors. It had a screen glass of sorts, and was basically a tiny television— if televisions were tiny, touch-based and stored semi-magical shit that he was pretty sure was a hallucination.

At least some parts of it were pretty intuitive. In the last two days, Steve was stuck on that thing all night typing every name he knew. It was like a gigantic, free, automatic library that stored all sorts of information he could ever hope for.

It has everything .

Or, nearly everything. He tried searching up HYDRA and some of his missions— precious few articles were released. Some were just about how he went on defeating them and how they were gone and dead. Most were ‘fanpages’ that talked about Captain America comics. 

Since when did he have comics made after him?

What did they do with his image this time?

Steve wasn't naive— overly idealistic and sometimes ungrounded in reality, maybe— but he was far from naive as a World War II soldier and a subject of the Serum. He knew what intelligence, imagery and reputations could do. 

Peggy Carter and Howard Stark were prime examples of this. Steve doesn't think he needs to explain.

Speaking of Peggy and Howard— Howard got married to an Italian heiress (of what, the article didn't say), had a son, and made Peggy the godmother of said son. From what Steve could find about Tony Stark, the man (boy? Steve wasn't sure either) had two completely different reputations and his name was synonymous with the latest scientific advancements.

A genius among geniuses, they say. No current IQ test could determine his intelligence level accurately.

Everything about him was so contradictory, Steve didn’t know what to think. 

Fox NewsWEB had said that Tony Stark was an upstanding member of the Catholic Church and a rambunctious party-goer with no regards for his chastity in the same sentence. Fox NewsTV also called him the most ingenious and innovative weapons manufacturer of his time while dressing him down for not continuing his father's legacy to support and protect U.S. soldiers— despite the fact that Tony Stark only stopped creating offensive weapons. 

MSNBC TV disses the younger Stark off for being a multi-billionaire left and right while praising him to high heavens for establishing Stark Industries’ employment policies that brought millions of Americans out of debt and poverty every single year. 

Forbes magazines had Tony Stark on their cover page every two issues. The science-oriented organizations and humanitarian relief charities worshiped him like a man dying. NGOs plastered his face everywhere— and the Maria Stark Foundation is practically synonymous with the word philanthropy. 

Don't even get Steve started on the rabbit hole of gossip and rumors that was Facebook and Twitter. Everywhere he looked, Tony Stark was either called the second coming of Scientific Jesus, the Antichrist or one of the Four Horsemen of the Sci-pocalypse. There are even conspiracy theories about him. 

Most popular being: Tony Stark is a part of the Illuminati , Tony Stark is an alien and Tony Stark is on his merry way to conquer the world.

In all honesty, Steve wouldn't be surprised if any of this shit came true. He was seventy years into the future after some sleep on the Arctic— Howard's lovechild with Science ruling the world seemed almost tame in comparison.

Almost, because if there's anything those comics didn't get, was that he's a horrid gossip.

Steve paid attention when people talked, even if he didn't seem like it. As it stands— his nurses were even worse gossips than he was, and within three hours of eavesdropping them while they thought he was asleep (that was a long time to be discussing whether or not one should buy a wine red or a crimson red dress)— Steve knew all about S.H.I.E.L.D. and their worship of one Anthony Edward Stark. 

Not surprising to hear that Peggy and Howard's intelligence agency would kiss dirt at the behest of their creators’ semi-demonic offspring. If the man was half as smart and cunning as everyone says, Steve already respected him so damn much.

He wouldn't lie that he has certain… expectations for a man raised by Howard Stark and Peggy Carter. Like how he might give a lopsided smile and a firm handshake when greeting someone, like Howard. Like how he would walk into a room commanding respect and attention like Peggy used to do.

(Tony certainly met Steve halfway with the latter half of his assumptions, though dramatics were raised to the nines.)

Steve was sitting nervously in a meeting with an irritatingly stone-faced agent named Phil Coulson and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s current Director Nick Fury, both accompanied by two of their best field agents— Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov. Suddenly, the door was kicked in with a loud BANG and a shout of ‘YOU UNFROZE HIM BEFORE TELLING ME?!’.

There, standing in all his glory— was Tony Stark.

The four bitch-faced people Steve sat adjacent to broke composure, two letting out stifled laughs and two loudly groaning. Steve then realized that while Howard's threatening presence and Peggy's authoritative aura was there— the reason why nobody could dismiss Tony Stark was because they simply couldn't. 

The man was literally sparkling from head to toe while his face was half-covered in motor grease and oil smears. Tony certainly took after his mother— may his friend rest in peace, but Howard was never much of a looker appearance wise— and the realization that this wasn't either Howard or Peggy hit him. While yes— Tony Stark was brought up by the two of them, this man gave exactly zero fucks when Steve inquired about his father and tutted whenever Peggy was mentioned. Steve thinks Tony was mostly raised by his Ma— and maybe the butler couple he read about in ‘Wikipedia’ had also helped. The remaining Howlies certainly had a hand in Tony's upbringing, if the mention of ‘Uncle Dum-dum and others’ was any indication. 

But the most striking contrast?

Tony was tiny. 

Even Peggy was taller than he was.

When Steve mentioned this, he didn't take it well. Super Soldier serum or no— his family jewels suffered a devastating blow and his ears were nearly bitten off. Steve was pretty sure Tony ripped him a new asshole— something that was really Peggy-like, only Peggy would've been a tad bit nicer considering the circumstances.

Tony Stark came into his life with a whirlwind of swears and backhanded insults. While the footage and files the Internet provided him with depicted a loud, arrogant, and slightly obnoxious little man, the person he found himself with was different. 

Oh, he was loud, he was arrogant, and he was very obnoxious (and he was a little man, not that he’d ever say that aloud again after what happened this time) (he'll never have children again, serum or no).

But he wasn’t just that. 

He was also hardworking, stubborn, incredibly bright and smart, and kind. He was also one of the best things to draw he had found in the 21st Century.

By the time this little meetup ended, and Tony sauntered out of the room all self satisfied, Steve felt a deep sense of kinship with his fellow rebellious off-field soldier.

Director Fury and his now half-handler, Coulson, both had their head in their hands for completely different reasons. Fury was on the verge of a mental breakdown while Coulson was trying his damn hardest not to laugh Joker-style. Barton was hanging upside down from the vent rafts snacking on something while Ramanov was snoozing peacefully on the meeting table.

Steve needed Tony to give him some pointers. If only Howard had married earlier and Tony came to their base back then. Steve was giggling like a madman at the thought of his superior's faces at the shit they'd both get into with Tony's sneaky genius and Steve's own bullheadedness.

If Bucky was here, he'd have a field day.

—

Bruce Banner was mortified.

Flustered as hell.

It has been a trying year for him. Bruce has encountered many problems in the past year, but it can be summarized into three parts.

First, there’s Ross. Thaddeus Ross, not Betty— Betty's nice. Her old man? Hard pass. 

Second, there’s Gamma-Project-Whatever that he didn't bother to remember the name of as soon as they chucked him in a lab with a needle in his arm. He's currently more radioactive than most nuclear power plants and anyone with half a brain could track him down if they wanted too.

Third, there’s his furry little problem. Only that ‘fury’ implied that it was small and fluffy and possibly cute— which was not the case. The problem he's facing is big and green and loves to challenge his dignity by ripping his clothes apart every ten seconds in that form. 

Which leads him to the fourth, and possibly, the most embarrassing problem of them all: standing in a cave, naked, and trying to avoid eye contact with Tony fucking Stark while the team of agents kept working behind him. 

How he got to this point in life without dying of embarrassment— he'll never know.

But this was how their introduction went— with the most famous mechanical scientists of the century grinning sunnily at him as he told Bruce this:

“It's good to meet you, Dr. Banner. Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”

—while he was dirty, half-asleep, nude as the day he was born, and still not computing with the fact that his [green] furry little problem seemed to love the other man. 

Compared to many others, some who Bruce knew, his dream wasn’t to meet his in-field idol and have them later become one of the most important people of his life— but looking back, he can't imagine the situation being any different considering Tony was… well, Tony. 

It was a few weeks after the other man all but bullied Bruce into living with him that he realized something.

“Hey, Tony. You didn't come there specifically looking for me, right?”

“Did I come there to specifically find you? No shit, I was cosplaying Indianna Jones and had my assistants spread out and about like some two-bit wannabe villain goons and I was role playing the Jumanji ostrich-chase scene with an army of aliens of my tail— of fucking course I was looking for you.”

“Why…?”

All he got was an incredulous stare, - “Brucie-bear, your toes aren't the only ones Rosie Ross ran over. I just happen to owe ‘Beth a favor, and she decided that her missing boyfriend was a big enough issue to call the big guns in.”

…what?

Betty wasn't…?

“Speaking of, have you talked to her lately? She told me she wanted to give you some space, but the entire issue isn't going to solve itself, you know?” - Tony quirked a brow, slurping his giant mug of coffee loudly.

Bruce sucked in a breath. 

“Can you get me a phone?”

Tony grins, and throws him the newest Starkphone model that Bruce was sure isn't on the market yet.

“Her number's already saved. Talk to her, big guy.”

Yeah. Bruce was still mortified by their first meeting— but he wouldn't change a thing.

—

Thor was disturbed. 

He was not scared. He was not scared. 

Anyone who dares to state otherwise would be met with Mjolnir raining lightning down upon their heads.

Thor was… disturbed. Not scared. Definitely not… terrified of this mortal. 

Midgard was supposed to be a pen of goats. Annoying, irritating perhaps— but certainly not dangerous. 

Though, Lady Darcy and Lady Jane had already managed to challenge that belief of his. But comparing Lady Darcy's fiery temper that would put most warriors’ to shame and Lady Jane's scathing quips to this— beast— of a man seems hardly fair. 

After his own brother had dared to usurp his rightful throne and proceeded to jump through the Bifrost in an attempt to further his achievements; then being thrown, banished, to live among a herd of Midgardians— this terrifying monster should've been easy pickings on Thor's conquest. 

Yet, here this man was, dressing down the God of Thunder like he was a misbehaving babe with a humiliating temper tantrum and Thor's honor was a mere speck of dust. 

Thor had no illusions that Heimdall did not see this. The Watchman of the Gods sees everything, and oh, the complete embarrassment and terror that Thor feels would definitely be made known to the entire Court of Asgard by sundown. 

His valor at Midgard will not go down this way. Thor would not let it. 

So he took a deep breath, readied his Midgardian mace (a poor replacement for Mjolnir, but it will do), and subtly charged forward, hoping all against hope that the absolute beast in its red and gold armor would not notice him until it's too late.

“I CAN SEE YOU, YOU RACIST, MORONIC GENOCIDIST!! GET YOUR FUCKING ASS OVER HERE SO I CAN SHOVE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PENIS DOWN YOUR STOMACH AND BEAT YOU WITH THAT SHITTY ASS STICK YOU'VE GOT UP YOUR ASS!!!!!” 

Thor, while indeed was bullheaded sometimes, still has what one would call an animal’s survival instinct. The thing that would scream black and blue at you to get the fuck away from there and hide somewhere far, far away. 

Unlike what most would think, Thor does indeed value his life. 

Maybe he shouldn't just have tried to drag Loki by the hair back to Asgard. Or barge into what was clearly a Midgardian warrior den. Or yelled some choice insults to his brother in front of what was clearly, the All-Mother of Midgard who had adopted the mage.

So he did the only sensible thing, for possibly, the first time in his life. 

He tucked his tail between his legs and scrambled to get away from there. Honor is not above survival and life, and he doesn't fancy life in Hel quite just yet.

Chapter Text

The tabby peered up at Tony, cautiously poking the glitterbomb he set on the Director's desk. 

It was April Fools, and Tony had been planning for this debacle months in the making. He has gained an unusual ally to his cause as well— Fury's adorable cat, Goose. 

Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to be under the impression that Goose was an average cat. No. The beautiful, tiger-striped tabby was not any ordinary cat.

He is intelligent . He is malevolent. He is chaotic. 

All things Tony was and more.

The beautiful tabby was to set off everything, and Tony was determined to give this doom, dread and gloom Helicarrier the makeover it deserves. 

Nothing a little color and glitter can't fix— Fury will be sorry he denied his request to get the place repainted. Seriously— how exactly was this man expecting his employees to stay cheerful and happy around the clock when all they see was black, void and the fucking abyss staring back at them twenty-four seven? 

Tony gets that ‘Everything Black’ is an aesthetic, he is a man of aesthetic concepts— but you can't even tell if it's day or night once inside this stupid thing. Everyone's internal clocks are screwed because all they see is black, black, and even more black and fucking nobody is getting a normal sleep schedule around here because absolutely no one poked their head out to see the sun. 

Tony is hired as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s consultant. If, as a consultant, the consultee decided that the advice from the consultant should be dismissed, it means that the consultant should take matters into their own hands and fix the goddamn problem or get the consultee to. 

Maybe he's projecting here, but The Board Of Incompetence decided to grace the Helicarrier with their sparkling presence, so there is no time like the present to demonstrate his proposal in person. 

With the last bomb rigged, Tony gingerly picked up Goose, the pretty tabby curling inwards and nuzzling Tony's arms like a burrowing baby. 

How this precious thing was even related to that dark, old, bitter director was a fucking mystery.

—

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ swished thy tail as thy was picked up by Soul-Creator human. Thy food-bringer, Fler’ One-Eyed, was not in its den. S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ would've been dissapointed, had Soul-Creator not present thy with cosmos sparkles, whispering fervent prayers and urgent wishes to thy godly majesty S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ. 

Soul-Creator ‘tis a maker, and thy were given the right of passage to raise and teach Soul-Creator’s lovely creations since thee birth. 

Soul-Creator raised it’s hand-made offspring itself, like all good Queens would, if S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ would say so thyself— yet the Earthen litter Soul-Creator birthed needed a Flerks’ touch, and no other humans are able to give theem that. S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ knows that kittens need to be raised by colony, and so far, only Soul-Creator Queen has made an effort to properly guide them. 

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ had berated the other humans for adbanoning their nursing Queen, especially when Soul-Creator has now taken in and mothered two other junior humans that had been abandoned by their clowder. And Soul-Creator has not even passed five Crescent Moonshines yet! 

Such a young queen, and yet the clowder has not even attempted to help. S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ’s interventions had not made a difference, and between the last summer and this fall, Soul-Creator had taken in an unnatural, a godling and a human kit!

Soul-Creator was S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ’s human; thy Earthen Queen, thy lovely clowder-mate, and thy's favorite warrior. The pesky humans surrounding S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ often remarked that thy was Fler’ One-Eyed’s cat, yet they are unaware that S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ was not thy's Earthen sibling.

All but their Queen Soul-Creator, whom treated S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ like a fellow human clowder-mate from day one. Thy gave the queen thy's Flerken blessing and claimed Soul-Creator as a fellow Flerk in return. 

Soul-Creator had told S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ of its’ grievances with the clowder leaders, hurting Soul-Creator’s clowder-mates by trapping them in a cave of eternal darkness and distressed over the fact that none of the clowder has been getting sleep because of this. 

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ had yowled and growled at these two-legged meat sacks— how dare they cause harm to the colony, how dare they gave their nursing Queen misery! Soul-Creator was upset and anguished, harried from hurt for multiple Earth-moons. 

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ was determined to help. Soul-Creator was a Queen, yes— but Soul-Creator was a creator and warrior first. S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ knew thy human— it had a plan to save the cluster from this. 

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ was it’s Flerk guardian, just like how Soul-Creator was thy’s human. Soul-Creator had asked S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ for S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ’s aid, and S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ gladly assisted. 

Soul-Creator said the cosmo sparkle orbs it made will guide the glaring to freedom and destroy the dark cave as it was released. All S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ had to do was help Soul-Creator release the cosmo sparkles from its container, because there were too much for Soul-Creator to do alone. 

S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ gave an approving mewl. So strong, so brave of a warrior Soul-Creator was. 

As S̷̤͈̱͕̈̀h̸̨̜̞̤̲̀̾́͊̊̾̕ǒ̸̬͆͐̅̎̂̊ủ̵̮̳̪̪̞̗̇̇͌̈́̚͜͜͝ͅͅm̷̺̗̮̣̊̂̕é̸̩͉͂́ͅn̸̬̿̀̎y̴̛̺͐͌̅̇̍̑̕͜ǜ̸̬̬̟̱̹͌á̶̗̲̟̠̮̹̤̾͌̋̇͊̃͐̅͘̕n̷̢̖͎̞̓́͂̑̎͋̓̈̊͜t̸̞́ȏ̴̖͚͐̈̄̓̌̋͝ụ̴͕͛̑̆́ͅͅd̷͍͉̟̥̤̪͚́̐̊̎̔̾͛͜͜͜a̴̰̳̱͌͊͋̍̎̽̋̚͘ͅl̸̤̱̳̍̅̈́́̈́̾͛͘͝a̷̛̟͌̕̕͝v̵̧̺͕͎͈̺̯̫̇̃̉̆̈́̽̑̕̕c̵̱̲͎̺̞̞̍͌̽ḣ̸͉̼͎̫̞ͅͅ rolled down the first orb, thy were filled with pride.

—

“Mew.”

“I told you we needed more glitter.”

—

It was April Fools, and all agents knew better than to trust anyone.

Friends will become foes, and alliances doesn't mean jack shit in the face of pranks and humiliation. 

Natasha had learned this lesson the hard way when one memorable day, Clint set roosters off in her chambers and got them to shit all over her bedroom. She got him back though— those bed sheets were her favorite.

(She would savor his terrified screams for years to come. Ohhh, Clint. You really didn't think she would be above snitching on you, correct?

Lovely Laura didn't take it well when she learned of the absolute disgrace he did to Nat's precious, precious lingerie. After some back and forth about the appropriate response to destroying one's comfort shorts, Laura promised her justice and sent over a recording of Clint's so-sweet screams of terror just five minutes later.

Oh, how Natasha loved Laura Barton to death.)

She wasn't the only one who had fallen and avenged herself. Somebody tried to steal Miller’s latest fashion artwork last year, and she went full-on Cruella De Vil on them with no remorse. Same thing happened to the poor soul that touched Dupain-Cheng's sketchbook. The idiot got constipation pills snuck into his food for an entire week afterwards.

Then there was the collaboration between Security and R.&D. last year— led by Tony Stark and Kevin McCallister respectively. Natasha cannot describe the sheer relief she felt when she was assigned a mission away from HQ when she first caught wind of this. 

From word of mouth, there were Death Gods and frilly pink bows involved. Coulson also mentioned something about Goose and an eldritch horror entity? She couldn't really tell if he was joking or not.

But the point is— after years of being in the midst of her ridiculous co-workers; Natasha knew better than to not be on guard. 

Her April's Fools Day drill was this: Go to work, do her shit, clock out early, and avoid any and all pranks if she could. That way, she'd still get her full paycheck and won't be standing in the showers for five hours trying to get pieces of eggshells and grounded ramen out of her hair. She learned from her mistakes. 

Her plan, carefully cultivated after literal decades living, fighting and just existing besides her colleagues, was easy, straightforward, and ultimately, S.H.I.E.L.D.-proof.

It was a fool proof plan. Fool. Proof. 

If all else fails, she'll just camp out in Tony's office. Nobody would dare to brave Tony's wrath after the April Doomsday fiasco seven years ago. While Tony's pranks involve too much neon paint and glitter for his office to be completely safe, the chances of him purposefully dive bombing it was 50/50— low enough stakes that Natasha feels secure.

It was a good day today.

If today were any other normal, painfully ordinary day— Natasha would've skimped off some of her paperwork, curled up on her couch with a hearty bowl of Bibimbap and watched the newest season of ‘Reign’.

As it stands— today was April Fools, and therefore this makes it suspicious. 

So far, there were only three cupcake pranks, five water balloon drops, and R.&D. had already released their hideous Deathbot lovechild-creation-thing with the Fashion Department onto poor, unsuspecting Accounting. 

Clint's been shooting paintballs on people's crotches and Hill had just relieve her poor squad of agents from their bathroom posts, where coincidentally, Artemis Fowl from the WAR department has been setting up near-violating-Geneva-Convention booby traps for the next poor soul that stumbles into the loo.

For April Fools, it was a good day. 

Which means something worse is coming along. Don't argue. Natasha has never been wrong before.

The first of April is the singular day where all of those ‘bad-luck’ superstitions go haywire. You step on a crack and you can very well break your mother's back. Murphy's Law and Lady Karma are suddenly best friends and develop a simultaneous grudge with anyone and everyone. Schrodinger's Bastards were everywhere, and you never know if you're the next victim.

Safe to say, Natasha is more than cautious. Everything was too nice. 

As if every deity known to man had heard her, the first wave started.

She didn't even hesitate when the explosion of semi-permanent paint and nano glitter bursted down the hall. She will not be spending the next three months still trying to clean her ears and hair of green sparkles, thank you very much.

They should be over Vietnam right now, Natasha mused, dashing towards the vehicle basement. Opening the window hatch of a helicopter, and strapped on a parachute and flew out.

It's a good thing she has a safehouse hidden and stocked up in Bao Loc. No one from SHIELD should find her there until next week, at least.

—

Tony smirked triumphantly, strutting into the large meeting room. 

Goose was curling up peacefully around his shoulders, oddly smug as the feline looked around the entire Helicarrier.

Nothing was spared. Every single surface inside of the aircraft was covered in sparkly glitter. The vents. The pens. The paper. The taps. Even the water in the toilet bowl was sparkling.

Beautiful, that's what it is. Against the dreary black backdrop in the Helicarrier, it looked like some cosmic alien had vomited the entire Andromeda Galaxy against the walls. Nothing was devoid of sparkles.

Not the agents. Not the staff. Certainly not the Board of Incompetence. 

(Though Tony made sure to not stain the Fashion Department's working samples. He was bored, not suicidal.)

Everybody that's needed and even more people that's not are already gathered here— covered from head to toe in magnificent, sparkly nano glitter that's sure to keep their eyes irritated for the next nine months.

Green glitter monster number one hisses, but their tone was oddly resigned, - “Stark.”

A few more glitter-monsters glared his way, but the air of dread and acceptance surrounding them only fuelled his megawatt smile to be that much brighter.

The pretty glitters on the wall started to sparkle. Now that's a good aesthetic.

“Good morning, lovely dazzling people!!! Now.” - His grin was predatory, and Tony could already sense a few glitter monsters gulping down their fears. Good. That'll show them not to question his impeccable decor tastes, - “Let's talk paint.”

—

Natasha came back two weeks later.

The inside of the Helicarrier was painted a disturbing shade of bubblegum pink.

She promptly jumped back out.