cap_ironman | Because we haven't had much fics

A series of drabbles I wrote ages ago and never got around to posting.
They were written for the ABC challenge here (though I didn't realize, it at the time, elspethdixontold me, when I asked for permission to use her idea and pointed me in the direction of this commumity). Hope people like them.
Warnings: one is character death (the last one), and One mentions a canon death. There is also brief discussion of racist attitudes from the sixties in E is for Expectations, which I do not agree with or condone. I hope people like them.
No Beta's were harmed in the making of these fics. British Writer, so British spellings

C is for Colouring book.

“Dum Dum!”

He groaned. She was cutting a swath though the crowd, her eyes burning fire. He held the paper up, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t spot him.

Too late, she dragged him into a supply closet.

“You know people are going to talk…” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Remind me!” she said

“Remind you what?”
“Why I can’t kill him today?”
Now he understood, and he groaned slightly. Fury was coming to take control of SHIELD back in less than an hour; it was hard to tell who was happy about the news. There had been wild parties last night both on the Helicarrier and at Stark Industries, leaving most of the staff feeling fragile.

Stark, having not being drinking, was showing none of this. However he was, in Maria Hill’s words, “like a small child”, constantly asking when Fury was to arrive.

After nearly four hours of this, Dugan had suggested to Hill, that the departing Director might like to give the Helicarrier’s engines one last turn over, figuring that this would keep him busy for a couple of hours.

Evidently he was wrong.

“I thought he was turning over the engines?”

She nodded. “He finished that nearly 3 hours ago.”
“What about the jets?”

“2 hours ago?”
“The suits then?”

“An hour ago!”

He groaned, and then suddenly inspiration hit him.

“What about Rogers?”

She snorted, grabbed his arm again and dragged him back to the mess hall, pointing at the blonde haired man sat with a book in front of him.

“Say what you like, Steve’s easy to distract.” She muttered grumpily. “All you have to do is give him a colouring book!”

D is for Death.

He’d had to tell a lot of people that there loved ones were dead, and if he’d learnt one thing, it was this.

Everyone handles it differently. Some cry. Some lash out. Some just shut down.

And some are perfectly calm.

As the official stood, gazing at the young man in front of him, he wandered what he should do.

The kid had lost both parents, but he was too old for him to suggest that he took them to a friend.

The calmness of the thanks contrasted with the fire burning in the eyes. A fire that would set the world alight.

E is for Expectations

No one expected much for Steve Rogers. If he was lucky, he might make it as a copy artist, possibly be even vaguely well known in the advertising circles.

The best most of them could hope for was that he would be able to hold down a job, something his father struggled with.

But to set the world on fire? No that ain’t for our sort.

He proved them wrong.

Everyone had high expectations of Antony Stark. He would take over his father’s company, make it bigger, better. Possibly even run for office, maybe even president.

He might even help them defeat the Reds.

But to try save the world? No that’s not for the Starks.

He proved them wrong.

No one hoped for much for Jim Rodney, not even himself. He was a black man in a white man’s world. Yes the world was changing, but not fast enough.

The best he could hope for was holding down a job, and not being fired when things got tough.

Or to be an inspiration preacher like Dr Martin Luther King or Malcolm X, trying to change the world.

Or to die in the service of his country, when it didn’t even want him there.

But holding a position in National Government? No they’d never let him through the door.

He proved them wrong.

What people expected from James Buchan Barnes, was what he expected from himself. To be a soldier. To fight, and probably die, in the service of the country. To give his life, his health, his sanity, to keep this country safe.

He proved them right.

F is for funerals

He sat on the edge of his bed, trying to force himself to get ready.

He hated funerals, despite having attended hundreds in his lifetime. His parents, thousands of Friends, some of people he didn’t even know, but who he felt he ought to be there. But none had ever hurt like this.

“Hey.” She stood in the doorway, dressed all in black and looking at him with concern.

“You know, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to go. James can wear the suit; no one will know the difference.” He gazed at her, with hopeless eyes, unable even to summon the energy to point out the difference in height and in design of their costumes.

“I’d offer myself,” she continued, “but I think people might notice the difference.”

He managed a weak smile at that, forcing himself to his feet and picking up the mask.

“No. I have to go.” He said, with determination, pulling on the blue and white mask.

“After all, He came to mine.”

Because we haven't had much fics

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