Stalking My Memories

Pairings: Phil/Clint, Peggy/other are BFFs

I get some of the weirdest (best?) ideas at unholy in the morning (for me), particularly when the weather is too warm.

I want fic. I've seen one where Peggy Carter and Susan Pevensie know each other somehow, and I'm not sure I could find it again, but it was something about friends from school or something.

I want fic where Susan has left England and gone to America to get away from her memories, and somehow fallen into applying for a position as a personal assistant. Peggy has had it up to here with fluffheads who will panic when under fire, so she's made her interview process as harsh as possible (though the current head of SHIELD won't allow her to hold the interviews in the middle of the obstacle course, the wanker). Peggy starts lecturing her potential aides on the difficulties of the job, not just filing papers and scheduling meetings, but diplomatic roles, and working with people who will die. "You will lose people. And when that happens-"

"You deal with it as a queen." And Peggy looks up, really looks at the serene, surprisingly unflappable girl across the desk, the one with lipstick as perfect and red as Peggy's own, and sees the sorrow of lifetimes, and wars, and loss. While Susan doesn't know it, she just got herself hired.

"Who did you lose?" Peggy's finally less than brusque, and while it is not offensively soft, she knows how delicate the question is.

Susan doesn't hesitate. "My parents, my brothers, my sister, our cousin, his lady friend, a surrogate father, and his lady friend." She doesn't talk of her people, of how Aslan tore her and her siblings from their homes twice, returning them without the years they earned and then a thousand years too late to help anyone they had ever known.

But Peggy understands at least some of this. She makes Susan work for the position, and doesn't mind the younger woman's penchant for a bow and arrow rather than a gun (and Su is absolutely no slouch there!), and they spend many years terrorizing SHIELD and idiots who think women are less than men in any way.

I then wanted this fic to tie into the Coulson is Peggy's son trope, but the dates don't quite line up, and THEN I realized why the HELL isn't Susan his mother?

That's right kids, Phil Coulson was raised to respect a bow, to be at least as deadly with a sword and bow as a gun or his bare hands (and all the gods help the poor boy when his Aunt Peggy sits him down to train him in the more dastardly arts and/or how to appear innocuous until you entirely destroy your enemies). His mother makes sure he knows that redemption is possible, that no matter what foolish decisions you make, even if you help the Dark you can return to the Light, and that even without full hope or devotion to a higher power, she knows for a fact that death is not necessarily an end.

It's no surprise that Hawkeye catches his attention. It is hardly a surprise that the archer who can be redeemed is someone he saves, and stands by him through anything. And as their friendship deepens, and seems to be heading towards... something else, Clint is very surprised one day to go down to the tiny archery range to find someone is already there. A slim woman, thinning hair as silvery as the wood of her bow, is almost idly picking off targets with the kind of skill he hasn't seen in aaages, and while she's not as good as him - not too many people are - it's clear that at least some of that is age slowing her down (a little) and arthritis "being a bit of a bastard" as she so wryly informs him.

Clint doesn't even realize that Phil's mom was scoping him out until he's giggling in awe about it to his handler days later. He gets to watch as Phil's eyes narrow, and Coulson just holds up a hand, picks up the phone, and quietly makes a call informing "Mom, I do not need you to test my agents. Hawkeye is my responsibility, and I thought that we agreed you would stay out of my business. What do you mean that wasn't business? This is one of our newest, greatest assets and you just happened to be -"

Clint gets a blushingly good overview of his abilities, and even though he's not able to hear the other end of the conversation, he at least gets that Phil's Mom approves of him.

That's when he starts pursuing Phil with a purpose.

Clint and Susan keep meeting up for archery playdates, including a paintball/nerf version stalking each other in the wild or an indoor obstacle course, both of them giggling like loons and loving every minute of it. Phil probably swings by to see who the hell booked the course with Hawkeye, gets shot by both parties, and leaves only to return with his own weapons and make a very good showing of himself. There is probably mad makeouts at the end of this, or afterwards, because Clint had no. Frikking. Idea that Phil knew how to use a bow other than a basic "you hold this, the pointy bit that goes into other people gets slotted here, and pull the string".

I'm not sure how Aunt Peggy checking up on the quality of young Phil's paramour goes, other than the notion of it makes me giggle. Aunt Peggy, after all, collected all the Captain America memorabilia that she could after the war, because Steve would have thought it was either hilarious or embarrassing, and either way she'd get a lot of mileage out of it. Some of these things - like the collector's cards - she kept pristine. Others made lovely toys for her honorary nephew, who became just as much a fan of Cap - Steve - as she is. So she's fond of the boy.

I want to see what happens when Clint pulls in Natasha, and both Peggy and Susan are called in as "safer" to interact with the Widow who might not appreciate men in power being her primary handlers, and all of them going down to a range and being badasses together. I want to see Susan cautiously scoping out Steve, both to satisfy her curiosity as to her best friend's old love and to gather intel for Peggy. I want Steve to be a gentleman and drawing her art, first of the world they remember and then a world she cautiously tells him of, where there are gallant talking mice and beautifully cruel talking lions and every kind of creature inbetween. By the time she goes to tell Peggy about Steve and how he's doing, she's a little bit in love with him herself.

She never tells Peggy, and Peggy probably knows anyways, and neither of them treat each other or Steve any differently.

I want to read about a young Nick Fury getting irate with Those Women, and Peggy and Susan facing him down, with matching scarlet lipstick and old fashioned nylons - seams perfectly straight above deadly high heels (admittedly never as high as Pepper's, who has a superhuman ability when it comes to footwear). Fury loses, but is the better for it.

I want to read about a young Pepper, first handling Tony unholy Stark, and finding an old friend of the family has come to visit and Ms. Carter and her assistant Ms. Pevensie are wonderful, terrifying, and very fun to go out and get drunk with. They start a barfight, and win. Pepper retains her shoes, though all the ladies are disheveled after a good brawl.

Mind you, I still love the thought that Phil's dad is Kay from MIB, and it was a bit of an inadvertent fling that neither party meant to go anywhere, and the two agencies are a bit cool towards each other, and both Phil's parents are beyond polite and make a game of Who Cracks the Impossibly Perfect Government Agent Stone Face First.

Phil wins every time there's a family gathering, and Clint has declared himself Official Referee and thus the one to keep this damned game from going on for weeks. Peggy has started helping him, and acknowledges that he's her boss when this happens.

I want to read how Kay is supportive, but they're not married and there's some sort of MIB crisis when the kid is due so it's Peggy in the room holding Susan's hand as she gives birth, it's those two who first greet Phil. Kay is happy and proud, but the ostensible parents regularly in Phil's life are Susan and Peggy. Susan names her son, gives him both names, and perhaps she is remembering people in her other life (fun with names!).

She tells Peggy once, of magic and wardrobes, and Peggy tells her of science and a boy who was the sweetest kindest man who suddenly became the strongest hero she ever met. They believe each other. They don't need to commiserate often, mostly they bring out a pair of special drinking glasses and a special alcohol for the bad occasions.

I suspect they hook up at least once, though I don't know if it sticks. Even if they do, it's quiet and low key, as is their friendship - unless they have a row, in which case they end up quite loud, icily cold, and possibly swinging swords at each other.

They're back to normal within 24 hours, every time, and always, ALWAYS unquestionably professional in front of others.

They are glamorous, they are powerful, they are as sisters, they are clearly Queens.


edit: I also want to see Susan seeking out Thor, giving him a narrow eyed look and INTERROGATING the poor man about godhood, and the nature of power, and how he treats followers in both a practical sense and the religious sense. She leaves satisfied and speaking with an archaic lilt, and for weeks afterwards - until he’s acting naive and particularly boneheaded - he’s her favorite. When he does goof, she’s there and chewing him out as equals, or perhaps superior, and unlike anyone else she makes it stick.

No one but Peggy and possibly Phil really understands why Thor calls her Queen Susan, or why she responds to it naturally and with a regal recognition, as if it were her due.

As he’s growing up, Susan calls Tony “Ed” on several occasions, to his confusion and her obvious distress. This stops as he gets older, though she always seems to look at him with an ancient, sorrowful look.

(was crossposted, but nothing beats redundancy!)

.....Kickstarter is not the answer to every interesting question.

F'r instance, setting something like that up to make Gargles shirts again, or the toothbrushes --

That's just the nuttiness getting to me. Right?

Please?

I'm serious, this is quantifiably A Bad Idea, right?

Good gods, brain, stop coughing up little fragments of ideas like hairballs that just sit and LOOK at me without any frikkin' clue where they go or what the hell this is all about. *mutter grumble stupid earworm ideas that steal FAR too much from other things*

Base: obviously the earth king whatsisface and the evil vizar archtype guy, with a world savior who is NOT the avatar, dammit. It was almost dreaming, ok? (translation after the fact to english: my brain took too much Avatar, season 2, which I have never seen, spiced it with a nice chunk of Bastion [for the xbox 360], and then demanded I write it)

( trimmed for length and ramblyness )

Friend locked since I'm occasionally a paranoid bastard unfriendlocked since after a few days sanity kicks in

This morning I was sprawled in bed, half awake at best. I was groggy, not entirely conscious, and my mind was flowing all over the place the way it sometimes will. I went from what I wanted to do today, and then several things I have to do later this week, and once again I got stuck on Tuesday. Since I was in elementary school, I've enjoyed in the privacy of my own head calling it Moon's Day, or Freya's Day, or whathaveyou, but for the longest time Zues' Day confused me. I'd looked it up a few months ago, and it was (unsurprisingly) named for another Norse god, but unawake as I was, I couldn't recall which (Wikipedia has since reminded me it is Tyr, which feels like a duh moment).

And my mind flowed from there, possibly latching onto a trailer or two I'd seen for Thor, and I was half dreaming of a viking lord's Hall. I think it was a Loki-esque character that was being taunted, or perhaps the camera was focused on someone with Honour who disapproved of such japes and taunting the fallen foe/Loki/whathaveyou. A man, with long hair of indeterminate color, turned to the Lord and declared somewhere between a growl and a deadly calm, quiet statement that he would stay until that *point* torch burned down, but no longer. When it died, he would leave.

The Lord was unamused. At this point, the near dream shifted, and I realized that these were no vikings, but this was Under The Hill, and these were Sidhe. And an unamused Sidhe lord is not to be trifled with, even by one of his greatest warriors. The feasting and merriment went on, with dark tones and ominous trumpets underneath, and as guests slipped out of the hall the torches burned down, one by one.

Save the torch most relevant. It burned, still halfway down, and it remained thus. The camera remained on The Warrior, his face grave and grim, as the revelers around him left. And still the torch burned. And thus centuries passed, the torch glowing as is normal but never lower.

A part of me realized this held flavors of Beauty and the Beast, but I liked the imagery, the vehicle. Perhaps an archaeological exploration, centuries later - perhaps not in the modern era of cell phones and computers, but in a vibrant Renaissance era, full of Greek influence and exploration and swashbuckling heroism, all in a world that is not earth, that has elves and possibly magic though later serious thought says magic should be a myth not "reality". Or maybe a young man or woman, dropped down an old, dry well for some inaccurate crime. A lean, lithe figure creeping down a hallway in almost utter darkness, able to glimpse hints of... something, gods help them let it be something, for e'en if tis death, at least tis not endless hunger in endless darkness!

And they step out of darkness into the flicker of a torch - fresh enough, looking to last maybe another hour at least - and a man, sitting at an empty table. And then this impossible figure in ancient clothes, with an ax or sword hanging off a high backed chair moves, and something which is ancient but not quite a skeleton, with long gracefully pointed ears and inhumanly glittering eyes glares at our hapless hero(ine). The cadaverous mouth opens, and says something in an ancient tongue that sounds like church hymns but is equally incomprehensible. It is an ancient language that our hero is definitely not familiar with, but despair they know. They hear the emotion, and that is how they respond.

I'm not sure what happens next. As often/always happens with me, I've the first part of an idea and no idea what to do with it. Perhaps The Lord is still around, and has become crueler and more capricious. Perhaps they have even taken up a human guise and is now Alchemist to a King. Or perhaps with The Warrior never-dying, his main greatest foe has never died either, lying insensate and restrained by sympathetic magics in a further flung hall, and only now stirs, and wishes to continue, or end, the conflict.

I like a good romance, or at the very least a bromance, so something should grow between The Warrior and Our Hero(ine), though strangely enough this gives me vibes of LadyHawke. I think there should be something, but what is most accurate is unclear.

I'm not sure where any of this goes. But I do find the image of a flickering torch enthralling, a worked iron sconce and endless flames surrounded by time and darkness.

The Friday night KGB event has reached its end, in a random, generic party after this rush of mini events. I had to take my computer out into the hallway, for a few moments away from people - not from being around them, but interacting with them. It's so strangely bittersweet...

Somehow, over the past few weeks, I seem to somehow involved myself with the organization to the extent where people do know my name, recognize me as more than just Register Monkey....

I'm sitting here, watching a circles-dancing-to-music projected in a classroom, and a cluster of people, hanging out, sprawled on the floor, and this one guy, dancing. It's beautiful. Graceful moments that somehow follow, or find, or enhance the beat and music, two pink glowsticks tracing the music into the air of the darkened room.

I'm not familiar with people dancing like this. Others were doing similar earlier; a girl who clearly had background in the Irish step dancing, a guy who incorporated his kung fu into slow, deliberate movements, a girl who has obvious moments of ballet, and this guy... flying lights and flowing limbs, music somehow personified.

And even as I was watching in awe, staring in wonder at him, or the guy behind him who was juggling in time with the beat, a small, bitter part of me was thinking wistfully of Wesleyan, the "concerts" there, and I want to cry. Small, sad bitter tears, thinking of LeAnne, the roommate who dragged me out onto the dance floor and basically did the Snoopy Dance with me for most of - I don't even remember who. Tonic SolFa, I think. I felt strange and embarrassed at the time, but now......

Now I have such a strange mood stirring in my gut. I'm grateful to know that I am learning. I acknowledge that I probably couldn't have handled anything bigger than WVWC when I first left high school.

But, oh, gods, I'm still here wondering.....

Yes, what ifs. What if I had gone to a bigger school? What if, for example, I had ended up in Pittsburgh back then? Would it really have overwhelmed me, or would I have grown, that much faster?

He talked to me earlier, when I cautiously told him that his dancing was incredible. He claimed it wasn't much, that he learned by being dragged out, handed glowsticks, and being told to dance. He offered to do the same to me, and while it made for some good banter, there is also part of me that wants to take him up on it.

More people are dancing. I'm going to go back in, and watch. It's a sweet bitterness, this belonging but comfortable outside the group, savoring the joy of now and regretting the emptiness of then.