FICLET: "Toast" (T, no warnings apply)
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towerparty speed challenge flashfic, written to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geckoholic’s prompt “we live or die together.”
“We live or die together.”
Thor waves his beer in salute over the sea of cartons, tins of beer and bits of dropped broccoli – his huge hands still can’t manage chopsticks -- that litter the coffee table in the common room.
Clint’s hand pauses en route to his mouth, a piece of Szechuan chicken suspended in midair.
“That’s a seriously sick toast,” he mumbles around a piece of chicken that has already found its way to his mouth. Life in the circus and various foster homes has taught him to eat fast, before someone can take the food away. “Do we at least get to pick?”
Thor, unfazed by the challenge, lets out a spectacular belch.
“It is a saying among the glorious warriors of Asgard, friend Archer,” he says and reaches into a box of rice. He kneads the kernels into a medium-sized ball with his fingers and stuffs it into his mouth. “It signifies our devotion to the brotherhood of the battle. And you are my brothers, without any doubt.”
Natasha lets out a snort and rolls her eyes at Maria, but says nothing.
“I don’t think Thor meant any offence,” Steve tries to whisper, but fails. “I think he was paying you and Maria a compliment, in an Asgardian way, by considering you one of his …”
“Bullshit.” It’s amazing how un-bureaucratic Maria Hill can get when she has two or three beers in her. “Being lumped in with you testosterone-sodden lot is not a compliment, let’s make that perfectly clear.”
“Children, children,” Tony sets his beer down with more force than strictly required, although this is probably more the result of reduced motor control, than any desire for rhetorical emphasis. “Let’s not spoil the moment. Cracking a HYDRA base in under thirty minutes has to be worth a little un-fractious celebration. The future is ours, my friends!”
Bruce hasn’t said a thing, but that’s not too surprising given that he’s been shovelling spring rolls (vegetarian) into his mouth at a rate of two a minute. It never fails to amaze Natasha just how much food the good doctor can absorb -- just how many calories does a transformation burn?
Over by the bar, Sam and Rhodey have left the discussion in Stark’s living room in favour of his single malt collection.
“Worth leaving the military for?” Sam opines as he sniffs a twenty-three-year-old Balvenie.
“What – the Scotch or the HYDRA thing?”
Col. Rhodes, as far as Natasha can tell, is being deliberately obtuse. Sam isn’t having any of it.
“All of it,” he says, and swishes the liquid gold around in his mouth, allowing the peat to waft up his palate before swallowing. Or that’s what it looks like to the Black Widow, and so she wanders over to help herself and repeat the experience.
“And by all of it you mean this walking collection of Daddy and abandonment issues, and the kind of shit we get into?” she asks Sam. He nods enthusiastically.
“I'm lovin' this,” he says, and means it.
Natasha looks over at Clint, who has unwrapped a clean pair of chopsticks and has started twirling one of them, in and around and through his long fingers. Practice, she knows. His skills don’t come from a bottle, a ray or an alien sun; even when he plays, he doesn’t – not ever, not really.
Someone makes a comment about Thor’s hammer, and before you know it, Steve and Tony (with reinforcement from Rhodey) are trying to out-macho each other with the thing. To no avail, of course, but Pepper’s coffee table may never be the same again. Natasha and Maria exchange an exasperated look.
Natasha takes a sip of Scotch. The liquid heat has just started gliding down her throat when the walls explode.
We live or die together.
Days later, with the world in ashes and drones dripping from the sky like the tears of a metal god, Natasha wonders by what process some words are lost forever, while others become truth.
towerparty speed challenge flashfic, written to geckoholic’s prompt “we live or die together.”Toast
By Alpha Flyer
By Alpha Flyer
“We live or die together.”
Thor waves his beer in salute over the sea of cartons, tins of beer and bits of dropped broccoli – his huge hands still can’t manage chopsticks -- that litter the coffee table in the common room.
Clint’s hand pauses en route to his mouth, a piece of Szechuan chicken suspended in midair.
“That’s a seriously sick toast,” he mumbles around a piece of chicken that has already found its way to his mouth. Life in the circus and various foster homes has taught him to eat fast, before someone can take the food away. “Do we at least get to pick?”
Thor, unfazed by the challenge, lets out a spectacular belch.
“It is a saying among the glorious warriors of Asgard, friend Archer,” he says and reaches into a box of rice. He kneads the kernels into a medium-sized ball with his fingers and stuffs it into his mouth. “It signifies our devotion to the brotherhood of the battle. And you are my brothers, without any doubt.”
Natasha lets out a snort and rolls her eyes at Maria, but says nothing.
“I don’t think Thor meant any offence,” Steve tries to whisper, but fails. “I think he was paying you and Maria a compliment, in an Asgardian way, by considering you one of his …”
“Bullshit.” It’s amazing how un-bureaucratic Maria Hill can get when she has two or three beers in her. “Being lumped in with you testosterone-sodden lot is not a compliment, let’s make that perfectly clear.”
“Children, children,” Tony sets his beer down with more force than strictly required, although this is probably more the result of reduced motor control, than any desire for rhetorical emphasis. “Let’s not spoil the moment. Cracking a HYDRA base in under thirty minutes has to be worth a little un-fractious celebration. The future is ours, my friends!”
Bruce hasn’t said a thing, but that’s not too surprising given that he’s been shovelling spring rolls (vegetarian) into his mouth at a rate of two a minute. It never fails to amaze Natasha just how much food the good doctor can absorb -- just how many calories does a transformation burn?
Over by the bar, Sam and Rhodey have left the discussion in Stark’s living room in favour of his single malt collection.
“Worth leaving the military for?” Sam opines as he sniffs a twenty-three-year-old Balvenie.
“What – the Scotch or the HYDRA thing?”
Col. Rhodes, as far as Natasha can tell, is being deliberately obtuse. Sam isn’t having any of it.
“All of it,” he says, and swishes the liquid gold around in his mouth, allowing the peat to waft up his palate before swallowing. Or that’s what it looks like to the Black Widow, and so she wanders over to help herself and repeat the experience.
“And by all of it you mean this walking collection of Daddy and abandonment issues, and the kind of shit we get into?” she asks Sam. He nods enthusiastically.
“I'm lovin' this,” he says, and means it.
Natasha looks over at Clint, who has unwrapped a clean pair of chopsticks and has started twirling one of them, in and around and through his long fingers. Practice, she knows. His skills don’t come from a bottle, a ray or an alien sun; even when he plays, he doesn’t – not ever, not really.
Someone makes a comment about Thor’s hammer, and before you know it, Steve and Tony (with reinforcement from Rhodey) are trying to out-macho each other with the thing. To no avail, of course, but Pepper’s coffee table may never be the same again. Natasha and Maria exchange an exasperated look.
Natasha takes a sip of Scotch. The liquid heat has just started gliding down her throat when the walls explode.
We live or die together.
Days later, with the world in ashes and drones dripping from the sky like the tears of a metal god, Natasha wonders by what process some words are lost forever, while others become truth.
no subject
Date: 2015-03-13 09:21 pm (UTC)