pearwaldorf | Ficlet Funeral 2015

I was going to try something different this year and post all of my ficlet funeral bits to Tumblr in dribs and drabs, but that requires forethought, or at least patience and dedication. So fuck it, here you go, in one big lump.

Captain America

Brooklyn Boy, the heavily fictionalized Steve/Bucky story written while he was in the ice, in the vein of The Song of Achilles. I never actually wrote the story, but I wrote around it.

There’s not much left in the apartment that’s actually Steve’s, in that he actually wants to take with him. The place feels deeply impersonal, although that just might be the bullet holes, broken glass, and smears of blood still on the floor. Sam makes his way to the bedroom, where there’s the least damage and most stuff that still needs sorting through. The clothes in the closet have been packed up already, leaving some boxes on the floor visible. He opens a few, leaving aside the ones that are obviously personal. There’s a box that’s half full of books about, well, Steve. Curious, Sam pulls some out.

A lot of them look dry, academic, and meticulously researched, but there are a few that look like they were written for a general audience. A flash of color catches his eye. An artistic rendition of Captain America looking down at his shield adorns the cover, flanked by a gun and a sheaf of wheat. The shield, which doesn’t look anything like the one Sam’s seen him use, has “Ducit amor patriae” written on top. He cracks the cover open, and sees a name written neatly on the right of the first page. Before Sam can wonder who Phillip J. Coulson is and why Steve has his books, Steve walks into the bedroom.

“So was this recommended or assigned reading?” Sam holds up the book. Steve smiles sadly, like he does after he visits his friend in the nursing home or when he’s remembering something about Barnes.

“Somebody thought it would be a good idea for me to see all the stuff that was written after I went under. Apparently there was a lot of it.” He shakes his head, apparently amused at the fact that people found him worthy of interest, much less scholarship. “But Coulson never got the chance to give it to me himself. He died, in New York.”

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t know.” He swallows, and Sam wonders, as he always does, how much Steve keeps inside.

“It’s all right. You didn’t know.” Steve smiles again, reassuringly this time, and glances at the book. “I don’t know how accurate or interesting that’s going to be, given the Latin on the cover’s wrong.” Sam laughs and tosses the books back into the box.

“I suppose you are old enough to judge books by their covers.” Steve smacks Sam on the arm before they leave the room.

Big Idea post by Alina Arthur

Many books have been written about personal experience of historical events, but what if you owe your very existence to the figures you’re writing about? In this Big Idea post, Alina Arthur talks about her personal connection to the subjects of her novel, Brooklyn Boys.

--

My grandfather was one of the men rescued in Azzano. Like many of the 107th Regiment, his unit was captured by HYDRA forces. He was one of the few to make it out, thanks to the extraordinary heroism of Captain Rogers. In the movie version (of which there have been many), he would have been one of the men way in the back cheering; nowhere near as famous as Sergeant Barnes or the Howling Commandos, but grateful all the same.

I am told I was a fussy child, who settled down only at the prospect of being told a story, so I suppose you could say my interest in Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes started as soon as I could understand “Once upon a time”. And it is a bit of a fairy tale, isn’t it? An ugly duckling turned into a beautiful swan prince, fighting for what’s right and good. Or, a boy (and they were boys, really) wishing desperately for his outsides to match what he feels in his heart, and that wish coming true.

I would pore over microfilm and history books as a teenager, trying to figure out the deep devotion these two had to each other. It was not until I was an undergraduate reading the Iliad that I finally understood. Their devotion to each other was the stuff of legends.

Superbowl party. I should have finished this one up, before the Seahawks lost.

Steve is swimming in the giant blue and green jersey Sam threw at him and told him to put on. It’s a novel feeling, especially when it seems like all of his shirts are shrinking each wash. (Natasha and Bucky swear they’re putting the dryer on the appropriate setting, but he’s starting to think they might not be entirely truthful.) He holds out his arms and the shirt practically billows. Sam sees him and laughs.

“I guess I should have been more specific about what size jersey my sister should have gotten.” He pulls Steve in for a kiss. “You look good in Seahawks colors.” For reasons that are still unclear to Steve, Sam is very insistent that he not support the Patriots. Baseball is Steve’s true love, and it seems to make Sam really happy, so he’s more than willing to go along.

Steve goes to the kitchen to see if Natasha and Bucky need any help with the food. They’re putting the finishing touches on the ridiculous snack stadium Natasha insisted they build, because if they’re going to do a Superbowl party, apparently they’re going to do it as big and stupid as possible. Bucky hefts the stadium out to the living room carefully. Even with his left arm, it’s still heavy and unwieldy and liable to fall. But in the end it gets transferred to the coffee table, a magnificent set piece to accompany the ridiculousness on the big screen TV in front of them.

Daredevil/Captain America

Matt/Steve. This is my self-indulgent white dick ship.

I recognize the heartbeat. There’s not another one like it in the world. It beats like a Sousa march.

Matt hears the clunk of the door opening, the stir of air that accompanies footsteps. The way they echo in the gym, it's someone tall, well built, male. His breathing is steady, but it's the heartbeat that gives him away. Every rhythm is unique of course, but he has to concentrate to identify the differences between calm, untroubled ones unless he knows them well. (Karen's is assured, indomitable, a revelation of her true nature. Foggy's is more mercurial, rising in excitement or passion.) This one is unusual enough that he actually remembered it from the one time he heard it before, during the Battle.

He and Foggy were in Midtown when the sky opened and the world fell apart the second time, people screaming about aliens and giant snake things. Foggy pushed him towards a makeshift shelter in a bank and ran out to gather more people, always wanting to save, to help. A bunch of the things (Chitauri, he later found out they were called, the name as strange as the way they moved and fought and /existed/) burst into the bank, frightening everybody inside. He heard the thunk of a shield against unearthly flesh, its resonance unlike any metal he'd ever encountered. Beneath it all he sensed a beat, steadier and truer than could be natural. He keeps working the bag as he listens, just to be sure. And there it is, a heart that would probably pound in time to the damn national anthem if it could.

"Somebody told me I'd find a boxer here who'd give me a good match if I wanted one. Is that you?" He has a nice tenor that he remembers from the old newsreels in history class, but he didn't expect the easy good nature behind it.

"I could. Do you?” There's a pause, like he's considering it.

"I think I'd like to buy you a drink instead, if that's all right with you?" He can't make out facial expressions, but it sounds like he might be smiling. (Foggy would tell him if he was smiling. He’s going to be so mad when he hears about this.) Oh. Okay. If that's how it's going to be, he'd be stupid to say no.

"Why not." He holds out his hand. "Matt."

"Steve." It's a good handshake, not too tight, but with a hint of the power behind it. A lot of things you could do with hands like that. (Not that he’s thinking about a national icon defiling him sexually, of course not.) He pulls the cloth off his hands and stuffs the wraps into his bag. Steve taps the back of Matt's left hand, to let him know where Steve's arm is.

"So I've never done this before, but I looked stuff up. You know better than me what you need, so..." He trails off, a little awkward. It's surprisingly sweet. Most sighted people think they know what they should do, so it's nice to meet one who doesn't presume.

Daredevil

The Fisk/Wesley story about how they built the organization.

“James Bryan Wesley.” There is a world of deliberation in the way Fisk says his name. “Now why would a Westchester boy want to work for someone wedded to Hell's Kitchen?”

"Stanford. Chinese and Japanese. Impressive."

"Mandarin, to be specific. It was... practical."

"But very difficult. There must have been other reasons. A girl, perhaps?" James clears his throat.

"A boy, actually." There may be a flicker of an eyebrow, but otherwise no reaction.

"Somebody once told me "Leave the west coast before it makes you soft." So I did." He does not mention the second half of that: "Leave the east coast before it makes you hard." This is an interview of sorts. Best to put forth the image of what Fisk needs.

--

"Have you ever had a slice of genuine New York City pizza, Mr. Wesley?" James shakes his head.

--

Nobody tells you the first punch you throw at a helpless man, however deserving, hurts. A lot. Or that the sound of bone crunching beneath flesh has a particular resonance with your own, body reacting to body. But Mr.--his employer--requires it, so it must be done. Wesley leaves the man his teeth. He knows how expensive they are to get fixed.

Mr. Fisk is reading in the car when he returns. He finished with the Times this morning, and is now working his way through the Bulletin.

"It's done," Wesley states, and gets into the car. It accelerates, and he braces himself against the leather, smearing blood on the seat. He'd tried to clean off his hands as best he could before leaving the warehouse. He hopes Mr. Fisk will understand.

"You're bleeding." Mr. Fisk's voice is concerned. He takes the pocket square out of his coat and fashions a makeshift bandage over Wesley's knuckles. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he thinks he would be clumsy if he moved faster. He ties it off, giving James's hand an awkward pat.

Dragon Age: Inquisition

College AU, you've been listening to the Mountain Goats for five hours straight. Are you OK?

Cass has her music up so loud it takes her a while before she notices there’s pounding not in rhythm with the beats. She opens her door to find a tall pale redhead and a shorter brown-skinned brunette staring back at her.

“Is this about the music? I’m sorry, I’ll turn it down.” She doesn’t want to be inconsiderate, she just thought since it was during the day, it wouldn’t be an issue.

“No, we just wanted to check up on you since it was the fifth straight hour of The Mountain Goats.” The shorter one says. “Are you all right? I mean, if it was Elliott Smith we would have broken down the door to make sure you were still breathing, but--”

“Josie, let her talk.” The redhead interrupts.

“It’s really sweet of you to be concerned, but I’m fine.” Cass is touched, but also amused.

The Musketeers

Anne/Constance, after the episode where Constance basically kidnapped the baby

The maid departs, closing the door, and they are now alone. The Queen stands by the vanity in her bedroom, stately and imposing even in her peignoir. It is the first time Constance has seen Her Majesty since the... incident. She curtsies low, spreading her skirts out fully.

“By rights, as a mother and a queen, I should have you flogged and hanged, Madame Bonacieux.” Her Majesty’s voice is sharp, but not as reproachful as Constance feels it would be if their roles were reversed.

“What were you thinking?” The Queen’s voice becomes quiet, perhaps a little hurt. How many breaches of trust has she endured, small betrayals from those she has placed her confidence in? It mortifies Constance that she has contributed to this, and she remains silent. There is nothing she can say in her defense. It was a foolish, impulsive decision, one she should not have made, and she is lucky to have escaped with her life. She will probably be dismissed now, sent back to her husband in disgrace, and it will be no less than she deserves.

“Answer me, Constance.” Her voice is still soft, but there is iron behind it. “I could order you to, but I would prefer you tell me of your own accord.” Now she sounds tired, as if the weight of the past few days is finally settling upon her.

“I only wanted to help, your Majesty.” Constance stares at the floor. She is afraid of what she will see in her Queen’s face.

“You should have talked to me! I could have lost my son!” She glimpses a swish of fabric and hears footsteps coming towards her. Cool fingers tilt her head up to look at Her Majesty’s visage, anxious and concerned. “Losing you as well would have been terrible. For you are my only friend here, and it means more than I can say.”

Mad Max: Fury Road

The Dag, seeds and becoming the keeper of them

The ‘ponics rooms are humid, the press of the aqua almost tangible against her skin. It still feels extravagant, being in the presence of so much 'cola without so much as a guard. Not that she was ever left alone before.

There’s a sheaf of paper at the bottom of the bag. She pulls it out, careful of the brittle string that holds it together. There’s a drawn key with shapes of bottles and numbers, identifying the types of seeds.

Some of the sprouts don't take root, and she cries. The Keeper’s papers warned her of this, but she still feels responsible.

Furiosa is a sunflower, bright and tall where everybody can look to her.

Man from UNCLE

Napoleon, cooking (Gaby/Illya, Illya Napoleon)

Of the many things that Gaby appreciates about not being in East Berlin, her favorite might just be the coffee. It’s nothing like the watery, barely palatable swill that was only sometimes available, and she savors every strong, tiny cup, especially here in Istanbul. By unspoken accord, early mornings are her time, her only company the newspaper and an occasional pastry. Illya likes to sleep late (his only indulgence, she thinks sometimes), and Napoleon wanders in whenever. She never asks where he’s been, as it’s none of her business, and if Illya has a problem with it that’s between them.

Today Napoleon comes in as she’s finishing up the crossword, closing the door quietly behind him. He takes off his jacket and unknots his tie, forever careful with his clothes. The lipstick on his collar is not unusual, but the streak of flour in his otherwise immaculate hair is. She raises an eyebrow in inquiry.

“The waitress at the restaurant two blocks over.” Gaby has passed it many times, but has never eaten there.

“I see.”

“She was sweet, but I was mostly trying to get close to her grandmother.” He winks at her, and she folds up her newspaper. She’s sorry she asked, and it’s time to go wake Illya up anyways.

--

She and Illya stagger into the apartment, exhausted and sore. It’s been a long day, and she’s starving. At this point, a heel of bread and some cheese would be more than welcome. She walks into the kitchen and stops, unsure if she’s so tired she’s imagining the formal settings and candlelight. Napoleon has a towel draped over his arm, and he bows, deep enough that she can tell he’s mocking. Mostly.

Illya makes the first move, sitting down at one end of the table. Gaby follows, allowing Napoleon to push in the chair for her. Bowls of dumplings in sauce appear. She looks at hers more closely. They are tiny, about the size of her thumbnail, and so numerous they threaten to fall past the rim.

“Did you make all these?” She asks. Illya, unconcerned with their origin, starts eating, first automatically, then with increasing interest.

Napoleon shrugs. “Idle hands, Miss Teller. I had nothing else to do.” His dismissiveness is far too calculated, but she doesn’t know what to do about it, so she turns her attention to the bowl.

The dumplings are rich and spiced, with a creamy garlic and tomato sauce, and she digs in like Illya. Napoleon leans against the counter, watching her eat. Finally, she is full, and the bowl is empty. Illya has fallen asleep on the table, a bit of sauce on his face. Napoleon wipes it off with his towel.

“Thank you, that was delicious.” She says quietly.

Napoleon maneuvers around Illya’s form as he clears the table, a small, fond smile on his face. “I do what I can.”