An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Just under two weeks ago, while minding my own business, a sentence randomly popped into my head. I messaged @dresupi (partly to see if it was as hilarious as I thought it was), and also told her I thought there was something there, because I felt like it was something Darcy Lewis would totally say.
DO IT, she said.
And I did. It even made me finish another piece (The Scion and the Scientist) because I sternly told myself I needed to draft the last chapters before I was allowed to write this new piece, and I actually listened to myself. And I wanted this Christmas Crack out by the holiday in question.
So again, many many thank yous to Dresupi for the encouragement, for the back and forth that gifted me many of the codenames, for the edits and title suggestion, and for just being lovely.
So if you want some Girls Night Out shenanigans with a side of Avengers, a few preludes to pairings (particularly Shieldshock), happy Christmas, this is for you.
for @thestarfishdancer
237 words
Rated T
I’ve been cursed, can you help me?
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’ve been cursed, can you help me?” Jemma’s leg was cramping by the time she entered the hut in the woods. The poison had already started to grab hold of her muscles.
“What happened?” James asked, his brows furrowing under that mess of long hair. He caught her before she hit the floor, and she was only just able to get it out before he sent her into a blissful sleep.
“Lockup,” she whispered.
“I got just the thing, doll. Don’t worry...”
“It hurts,” she mumbled.
“Not for long,” he replied, and everything went blissfully black.
By the time she woke up, she was stretched out on his bed, watching the early morning rays coming through the window.
He pushed a cup of herbal tea into her hand. “You scared me, Jemma... but I figured it out. It wasn’t Lockup, but I took care of it.”
“Oh?” she said, taking a sip of the tea. “What was it?”
“Something worse,” was his cryptic reply. “What do you know about Hydra, Jemma?”
She shook her head. “Should I know anything about them?”
“You might want to figure it out in the near future. But for now, just rest, okay, doll?”
“I like it when you call me that,” she said, yawning.
He grinned and turned around to hide it from her. But she saw anyway.
Hydra sounded scary, but if James was with her, she could handle it.
Summary: "Wow," says Skye, head tilted as Jemma turns towards her, curious. "I have to say, I always hate to see him go, but I love to watch him leave."
"Skye!" Jemma exclaims, hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing because that isn't remotely appropriate but -- well, she's not wrong.
"What?" Skye says, eyes still tracking the retreating hero, "Man is fine. I know he's yours but you cannot blame me for looking."
"He's not mine," Jemma says, reflexively, and fights the blush down that the thought always brings to her skin.
Okay guys, fictober is so close to done I can almost breathe again, and it looks like I ended up writing a lot of like...first parts this month. Would anyone be interested in voicing an opinion on ones ya’ll actually care about expansions on? I mean I can go on comments or kudos...
I think I ship these far out ships with characters who've had little to no contact because I can make it my own. Like I can ship them based on their personalities than what "actually" happened.
May 3 - "What’s your favorite silverware? Because I like to spoon!” Jemma/Bucky or Karen Page/Frank Castle for @phantomofthenightclub
This is Jemma/Bucky, unashamedly pulling from the classic ‘huddling for warmth’ trope :3
Written by @cinnaatheart (CinnaAtHeart on AO3)
The cabin is so many shades of ‘disaster waiting to happen’ Jemma can scarcely believe it actually exists. The tiny, one-bedroom homestead is hidden in the wilds of Canada, an hour’s drive from the nearest township. The bedroom itself is poky and cramped, the mattress on the bed at least a few decades old, and the kitchen- if one could really call it that- smells ever so faintly of rancid meat and cigarette smoke. So far out, the cabin isn’t hooked to the power grid, powered instead by a generator that could be described as shonky at best, and don’t even get her started on the bathroom. It’s a horror show on all levels, and more than once she pinches herself, as though somehow it might wake her from this walking nightmare of a mission.
Jemma’s suspects their ‘banishment’ here is half-research assignment, half an excuse to keep Barnes hidden in the aftermath of the latest international disaster. Another ‘favour for a friend’, no doubt, though Coulson had been sketchy on the details.
She doesn’t quite know what to think of Barnes. He seems quiet for the most part; when she saw him back at base, he seemed to move tentatively, like he’s afraid of making himself noticeable. A helpless case there; more than once Jemma’s had to remind herself to stop staring, all too easily entranced by the graceful utility of his movements and his muted smile when he sees something he likes. It’s… distracting, and she’d been almost relieved to finally reach the cabin and have him run off as soon as she’d set her bags down..
She sighs, and stares glumly down at the generator, lit dimly by the torch on her phone. Unsurprisingly, it had gone kaput about ten minutes ago, taking with it their only source of light. “Damn,” she huffs. She looks over the machine, searching for any evidence of a fault, breath turning to a thick fog around her. “Why couldn’t Fitz have come along?”
“What’s wrong?”
Jemma yelps, and her phone tumbles from her frozen grip, landing with a disappointing thwack in the slush around the generator. “Bugger,” she growls, and bends down to retrieve it, wiping the mud off carefully. “You scared me,” she says, glaring over at Barnes half-heartedly. He at least has the grace to look sheepish, his face deeply shadowed by the moonlight. She wonders, briefly, where he’s been all day.
“Sorry,” he says. He scratches at the back on his head awkwardly, and motions to the generator. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Jemma fusses, and turns back to the machine. “It just… stopped working! I have a basic knowledge of how it works, but Fitz is the engineer, not me.”
“Hmm,” he hums. He shoulders past her, and Jemma tries not to inhale too deeply at the scent of him; leather and the sharp, astringent scent of pine needles. Rude.
Barnes crouches down beside the generator, and looks over it curiously; Jemma tries to light his view for him with her phone, but she doubts there’s much they can do in the dark. Better off really to wait until morning to see what the problem is.
As if to confirm her thoughts, Barnes settles back on his haunches, looking put out. “Beats me what’s wrong with it,” he sighs, breath misting. “Guess we’ll just have to live by candlelight tonight.”
Jemma bites her lip, and misses the way his gaze lingers on her mouth. “Do you think we can fix it tomorrow? I need to be able to use my computer.”
He shrugs. “Maybe? I’m no expert, but I think we can work it out.”
She nods, satisfied. A cold breeze rustles through the trees, and through the silhouetted branches, she watches a mass of clouds creep over the moon. She shivers. “I wonder if it’ll snow again.”
Barnes scowls and stands, fussing with the thick scarf wrapped around his neck. “I hope not. C’mon, we should get inside.”
“Right,” Jemma says absently, and she lets him lead her around the cabin and inside. It’s significantly warmer, though she’d let the wood-burning stove go cold hours ago, and the fire’s died down. “Where have you been, anyway?”
He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door, kicking off his muddy boots with a graceful efficiency. She copies him, and grimaces as she realises how much warmth she’s let leech away from the rooms, the chill of the wood seeping through her socks. Shouldn’t have let herself get distracted by her work.
Barnes ambles over to the fire and tosses in another cut log. “Just out,” he says. “Felt like going for a walk.”
“All day?” she blurts out, and when he glances over at her she blushes, fumbling for the right thing to say. “Sorry- it’s just- you know…”
He shakes his head, looking wary. “No, I don’t know.”
Jemma shrugs helplessly. “Well… most people I know don’t go for day long ‘walks’ through the wilds of Canada in the middle of winter! Did you even take food?”
He pinks and glances away. “I… didn’t want to get in your hair,” he says quietly. Jemma blinks in surprise.
“Why would you get in my hair?”
His mouth twists. She finds his micro-expressions fascinating. For a former assassin, Jemma thinks, he’s not terribly good at school his emotions. “I’ve seen you work. At base,” he explains, every word slow and deliberate, “you seem to get very… absorbed. I didn’t want to break your concentration.”
“Oh,” she says, and looks away. She can’t think of anything else to say.
--
Jemma shifts in her bed for the umpteenth time, curled in on herself to try and stave off the bitter cold. The main room of the cabin may be warm- thanks to the fire and the stove- but the poky little bedroom Barnes had insisted she take is freezing, even with four layers of blankets and a woollen duvet. Sleeping had been a lost cause the moment she’d slipped into bed.
At her wit’s end, she sighs and slips out of the bed. The duvet she hangs around her shoulders like a cape, and determined, she pick up her musty-smelling pillow and wanders out into the main room. The change in temperature is immediate, the fire stoked so enthusiastically she almost begins to sweat.
Barnes- spread languidly across the single, uncharacteriscally spacious futon, book in hand- looks up. “Hey,” he says, looking confused. The warm orange light of the fire casts his face is rich shadows. “What’s up?”
“I…” Jemma shuffles self-consciously. She feels oddly child-like, draped in her blanket and clutching her pillow like a teddy-bear. If Barnes thinks the same, he shows no sign of it. “I couldn’t sleep. My room is freezing.”
“Ah,” he says. He dog-ears his page and drops the paperback on the floor. “Did you want the couch?”
“No, no! It’s fine! I can just sleep on the floor.”
He frowns at her. “I ain’t gonna let a woman sleep on the floor,” he says disapprovingly.
“It’s fine, really! I’ve slept on far worse!”
“Bull.” He shakes his head and sits up. In his sweatpants and knitted jumper, he looks soft and unfairly handsome; miles away from the legend he carried for fifty years. “The floor’ll leach the warmth right outta you.”
“Fine,” she capitulates. It’s late, she reasons, and she’s tired. “We could share the couch though…? I mean, if that’s okay with you…”
His brows rise in surprise and he blinks at her. “Yeah alright.”
He lies back down and holds up his blanket, and it’s Jemma’s turn to stare at him in surprise. His mouth curls into a smirk. “C’mon doll,” he says. “I’m getting’ cold here. No shame in keeping warm.”
“Right!’ Jemma is certain her entire face is on fire, but she drops her pillow and sits down tentatively at the edge of the futon. She had meant sleep end-to-end, but when a man like Barnes offers to share his space, she’s not about to object. She’s selfish like that.
He smiles and tugs her down, tucking her back against him and pulls his blankets over the top of them. “Do you mind?” he asks quietly, hand hovering over her waist.
“It’s fine,” she says again, feeling stiff and ungainly as she shifts, trying to get herself comfortable despite her acute awareness of his proximity. He murmurs a ‘thanks’ into her hair, and curls his arm around her waist. Jemma’s mouth goes dry, heart stuttering in her chest.
“If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to let my hands wander.”
“I’m sure,” she says. “Sorry to make you share.”
He chuckles, low and soft. “Oh, I dunno,” he drawls, and Jemma may not be able to see him, but she can hear his smirk plain as day, “I’m always up for a nice spoon.”
“Oh my God,” she says, face burning. “Please shut up.”
“What’s wrong, doll? Got another piece of silverware in mind?”
“I have no idea what that means, but I can hear the euphemism in your voice.”
He laughs again, and his arm tightens around Jemma’s waist. Barnes is blissfully warm, the smell of pine weaker now, but still present. She stares into the fire, hypnotised by the flames. They’re peaceful.
“Don’t worry,” he says eventually. Jemma twitches in his hold, and tries not to dwell on the strange intimacy in his voice. “My intentions are pure, I swear.”
She giggles despite herself. “What a relief,” she drawls, her speech slurring with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn.
“You should sleep.”
“Mm. So should you.”
“Don’t worry about me, doll. You get your beauty sleep. You need it.”
She scoffs in mock outrage and elbows him in the gut, and Barnes yelps, flinching backwards. “Rude!” she scolds him and he cackles, the sound loud and cheery in her ear.
“Sorry- sorry!” he laughs. “I’ll behave, I swear.”
“Liar,” she grumbles, but she hides her smile beneath the blankets. This man is going to be the death of her, she’s sure.
