That Time of the Month
Title: That Time of the Month
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Type: humor
Rating: R for language
Characters/Pairings:None
Warnings Completely movie!verse
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson knows no fear. However, even he dreaded 27th of the month, especially around 5 P.M..
Disclaimer: So much fiction, Heimdall could see it!
Agent Coulson sighed. It was that time of the month. And, God, how much he hated it; he hated it more than Tony Stark’s smirk, which seemed permanently tattooed onto the man’s face. And not for the first time the agent wondered how Pepper managed not to use her sky-high heels to slam out the drum solo from Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight on her boss’ head just for the sheer hell of it
Mercifully for the agent, the process took only one evening, but the end result would ruin his mood for at least a day.
He looked at the files spread out in front of his desk; they were like a particularly vicious strand of virus, infecting his workspace, slowly eating away his sanity and patience.
“Fuck it,” he hissed.
Phil opened the first one, which was Steve Rogers. He always started with Steve Roger’s expense report.
Firstly, it was simple to the point of quaint.
Secondly, Captain America didn’t lie like other people when it came to his monthly spending. In fact, from the brick of receipts neatly hammered to the printouts, it was painfully well documented.
As usual, Steve was trying out all the different sweets available in New York City, which was saying something. Thanks to his super metabolism, the Capsicle could eat his body weight, plus Thor’s, in sugar and not show an inch of it.
And it looked like Steve was actually trying to acclimate himself to the twenty-first century by going shopping. Unfortunately, the man who punched Hitler left Macy’s with only a pair of athletic tube socks.
Phil felt a pang of remorse. He really should’ve made a personal effort to get his hero acclimated to the 21st century, but he’d seen the disastrous consequences resulting from other people’s efforts.
It was in his job description to solve a problem, not make it.
As he flipped through rest of the receipts, a pattern caught Phil’s attention. Captain America had been eating in one diner every Tuesday, for lunch. One hamburger, an order of medium fries, vanilla shake - and on the days Steve decided to go wild - chocolate shake, along with Caesar salad.
And one honking generous tip. To the same waitress.
Phil narrowed his eyes and sighed. He noted the waitress’ name and decided to look into the woman’s background before dinner.
Natasha Romanoff’s spreadsheet read like a man’s wet dream, if that man were Barton or maybe even Fury. But for Phil, it was anything but. He always thought of himself as rather by-the-book kind of guy, but he couldn’t stop imagining what the Super Assassin was planning while spending enough money to make American Express shimmy in delight.
She had dished around four grand on Carine Gilson, which was understandable, because a handkerchief from that shop could cost a cool Ben Franklin. Then she blew even more money buying a suite of knives from a Japanese master ironmonger whose specialty was kitchenware.
Which resulted in Phil mentally picturing Natasha dancing around the kitchen, in one of Gilson’s frothy confections, while torturing her mark a la mode Reservoir Dogs.
Phil would like to blame it all on his caffeine-fueled imagination, but he had a sinking feeling that was exactly what had happened on May 22nd, 2012. In Split, Croatia.
At least she didn’t ask for a cleaning crew, Phil groused. Thank God for small mercies.
Now Clint Barton’s expense report was something of a relief. Not that the bottom line of twenty grand would make Phil dance around the desk, but at least Clint was predictable, including his lies.
Firstly, the medical bill from Mass General? Probably a shipment of highly volatile bullets from the Ukraine that Fury would never allow a SHIELD operative to use.
The night course in computer literacy at Columbia? A cache of highly sensitive data on some third-world dictator that Barton planned on taking out as a Christmas present to himself. Not that Phil believed Clint was incapable of learning the finer arts of 0101’s. But the assassin wouldn’t waste time on such things when he could terrorize a competent programmer into doing whatever he wanted.
So, for Clint Barton, it was basically armaments, armaments, gym memberships to five clubs spread out all over the globe, and a metric shit-ton of private data he had absolutely no right to possess.
However, the hotel bills that included room service charges were genuine, at least. Phil smiled a little and felt weirdly proud that Barton had the good taste not to pander champagne to his lady friends.
Barton’s expense report ended on an improbable note: a single ticket to La Bohème performed at the MET on the 19th.
Thor’s, or more accurately, Dr. Foster’s expense sheet, read like if the elements in the Periodic Table chugged massive amounts of tequila, and then screwed other elements in the Table, and then gave birth to new and even more interesting elements. Phil had long given up trying to understand what the hell they were doing. He knew it had something to do improving the Bifrost, and that was a noble cause since nobody, Asgardian or Midgardian, wanted to end up in Cthulhu’s lap because Sparkly Road suddenly hiccupped during mid-trip. But Phil hadn’t a goddamn clue where in hell all this fit no matter how hard he tried, and so far none of the scientists he queried had a clue, either.
Mercifully, this time their energy bill didn’t make Phil reach out for his antacid tablets. Of course, what Foster's lab used in a month could easily power up Seattle for two weeks, but Phil was happy that he could actually input the figure in the Excel program and not have it go over to the next cell.
Bruce Banner’s was a fun read on the occasions Phil didn’t have to alert SHIELD operatives who had infiltrated Interpol, Pentagon, NORAD, KGB (scarier than ever), and the Vatican on one occasion.
His monthly spending bounced around from Thai massages to materials needed to create ion fusions necessary to stabilize energy fields. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose when he realized that Banner might actually be at the stage that he could carry out a live test run instead of computer simulations.
He now had to make sure, along with Lady Jane … Dr. Foster’s lab that Banner wouldn’t blow up his research facility in the near future and somehow disturb the time-space continuum.
Phil allows himself to nostalgically remember the days when that was more science fiction than science.
It would take Phil all night to figure out where this could take place, as Banner had three such labs: one in Stark Tower, one in SHIELD’s main research facility, and his private one in an island off of South Carolina. So, the good doctor could quite possible spare one and not lose too much sleep over it. However, should Banner succeed and then an accident happened, there might be an off chance that a Black Fucking Hole could appear in Manhattan like a bad SyFy movie, and that would give Phil Ulcer Number Nine. Not to mention inducing a permanent facial tick on Fury.
Phil jotted down a note on his tablet and sent it off to the appropriate channels. He was sure that his men would keep even a closer eye on the good doctor. Not that Banner was easy to miss, especially when he turned green, gained a solid ton, and had more issues than Voldemort.
Phil wrote up his summations and sent them off to Fury. He then neatly stacked the folders in his shredder box and happily hummed as it did its job. Phil then pulled out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, downed two without a drop of water, before popping Vivaldi’s Water Music CD into his computer.
One swift knock was all the warning Phil had before Tony Stark stormed in.
With a wide grin Stark tossed a heavy folder onto Phil’s desk.
“Hey, this is my expense report for this month,” Stark said, his smile growing impossibly wider. “And, for the record, the bottom line’s correct. I even had Pepper look at it.”
Phil was proud that his face remained innocuously passive.
“And SHIELD owes me 1.5 mil as of...” Stark made a dramatic gesture at looking at his watch, “4:59 PM, today.
“Have a good night. By the way, I love your suit.”
With that smarmy observation, Stark actually did a little jig as he left.
Oh, how Phil hated this time of the month.
The End
I had this one stored in the cellar since I've seen the movie. So, ta-dah! And I adore Phil. So, to quote a famous doctor: "I reject your reality and substitute my own!"
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Type: humor
Rating: R for language
Characters/Pairings:None
Warnings Completely movie!verse
Summary: Agent Phil Coulson knows no fear. However, even he dreaded 27th of the month, especially around 5 P.M..
Disclaimer: So much fiction, Heimdall could see it!
Agent Coulson sighed. It was that time of the month. And, God, how much he hated it; he hated it more than Tony Stark’s smirk, which seemed permanently tattooed onto the man’s face. And not for the first time the agent wondered how Pepper managed not to use her sky-high heels to slam out the drum solo from Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight on her boss’ head just for the sheer hell of it
Mercifully for the agent, the process took only one evening, but the end result would ruin his mood for at least a day.
He looked at the files spread out in front of his desk; they were like a particularly vicious strand of virus, infecting his workspace, slowly eating away his sanity and patience.
“Fuck it,” he hissed.
Phil opened the first one, which was Steve Rogers. He always started with Steve Roger’s expense report.
Firstly, it was simple to the point of quaint.
Secondly, Captain America didn’t lie like other people when it came to his monthly spending. In fact, from the brick of receipts neatly hammered to the printouts, it was painfully well documented.
As usual, Steve was trying out all the different sweets available in New York City, which was saying something. Thanks to his super metabolism, the Capsicle could eat his body weight, plus Thor’s, in sugar and not show an inch of it.
And it looked like Steve was actually trying to acclimate himself to the twenty-first century by going shopping. Unfortunately, the man who punched Hitler left Macy’s with only a pair of athletic tube socks.
Phil felt a pang of remorse. He really should’ve made a personal effort to get his hero acclimated to the 21st century, but he’d seen the disastrous consequences resulting from other people’s efforts.
It was in his job description to solve a problem, not make it.
As he flipped through rest of the receipts, a pattern caught Phil’s attention. Captain America had been eating in one diner every Tuesday, for lunch. One hamburger, an order of medium fries, vanilla shake - and on the days Steve decided to go wild - chocolate shake, along with Caesar salad.
And one honking generous tip. To the same waitress.
Phil narrowed his eyes and sighed. He noted the waitress’ name and decided to look into the woman’s background before dinner.
Natasha Romanoff’s spreadsheet read like a man’s wet dream, if that man were Barton or maybe even Fury. But for Phil, it was anything but. He always thought of himself as rather by-the-book kind of guy, but he couldn’t stop imagining what the Super Assassin was planning while spending enough money to make American Express shimmy in delight.
She had dished around four grand on Carine Gilson, which was understandable, because a handkerchief from that shop could cost a cool Ben Franklin. Then she blew even more money buying a suite of knives from a Japanese master ironmonger whose specialty was kitchenware.
Which resulted in Phil mentally picturing Natasha dancing around the kitchen, in one of Gilson’s frothy confections, while torturing her mark a la mode Reservoir Dogs.
Phil would like to blame it all on his caffeine-fueled imagination, but he had a sinking feeling that was exactly what had happened on May 22nd, 2012. In Split, Croatia.
At least she didn’t ask for a cleaning crew, Phil groused. Thank God for small mercies.
Now Clint Barton’s expense report was something of a relief. Not that the bottom line of twenty grand would make Phil dance around the desk, but at least Clint was predictable, including his lies.
Firstly, the medical bill from Mass General? Probably a shipment of highly volatile bullets from the Ukraine that Fury would never allow a SHIELD operative to use.
The night course in computer literacy at Columbia? A cache of highly sensitive data on some third-world dictator that Barton planned on taking out as a Christmas present to himself. Not that Phil believed Clint was incapable of learning the finer arts of 0101’s. But the assassin wouldn’t waste time on such things when he could terrorize a competent programmer into doing whatever he wanted.
So, for Clint Barton, it was basically armaments, armaments, gym memberships to five clubs spread out all over the globe, and a metric shit-ton of private data he had absolutely no right to possess.
However, the hotel bills that included room service charges were genuine, at least. Phil smiled a little and felt weirdly proud that Barton had the good taste not to pander champagne to his lady friends.
Barton’s expense report ended on an improbable note: a single ticket to La Bohème performed at the MET on the 19th.
Thor’s, or more accurately, Dr. Foster’s expense sheet, read like if the elements in the Periodic Table chugged massive amounts of tequila, and then screwed other elements in the Table, and then gave birth to new and even more interesting elements. Phil had long given up trying to understand what the hell they were doing. He knew it had something to do improving the Bifrost, and that was a noble cause since nobody, Asgardian or Midgardian, wanted to end up in Cthulhu’s lap because Sparkly Road suddenly hiccupped during mid-trip. But Phil hadn’t a goddamn clue where in hell all this fit no matter how hard he tried, and so far none of the scientists he queried had a clue, either.
Mercifully, this time their energy bill didn’t make Phil reach out for his antacid tablets. Of course, what Foster's lab used in a month could easily power up Seattle for two weeks, but Phil was happy that he could actually input the figure in the Excel program and not have it go over to the next cell.
Bruce Banner’s was a fun read on the occasions Phil didn’t have to alert SHIELD operatives who had infiltrated Interpol, Pentagon, NORAD, KGB (scarier than ever), and the Vatican on one occasion.
His monthly spending bounced around from Thai massages to materials needed to create ion fusions necessary to stabilize energy fields. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose when he realized that Banner might actually be at the stage that he could carry out a live test run instead of computer simulations.
He now had to make sure, along with Lady Jane … Dr. Foster’s lab that Banner wouldn’t blow up his research facility in the near future and somehow disturb the time-space continuum.
Phil allows himself to nostalgically remember the days when that was more science fiction than science.
It would take Phil all night to figure out where this could take place, as Banner had three such labs: one in Stark Tower, one in SHIELD’s main research facility, and his private one in an island off of South Carolina. So, the good doctor could quite possible spare one and not lose too much sleep over it. However, should Banner succeed and then an accident happened, there might be an off chance that a Black Fucking Hole could appear in Manhattan like a bad SyFy movie, and that would give Phil Ulcer Number Nine. Not to mention inducing a permanent facial tick on Fury.
Phil jotted down a note on his tablet and sent it off to the appropriate channels. He was sure that his men would keep even a closer eye on the good doctor. Not that Banner was easy to miss, especially when he turned green, gained a solid ton, and had more issues than Voldemort.
Phil wrote up his summations and sent them off to Fury. He then neatly stacked the folders in his shredder box and happily hummed as it did its job. Phil then pulled out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, downed two without a drop of water, before popping Vivaldi’s Water Music CD into his computer.
One swift knock was all the warning Phil had before Tony Stark stormed in.
With a wide grin Stark tossed a heavy folder onto Phil’s desk.
“Hey, this is my expense report for this month,” Stark said, his smile growing impossibly wider. “And, for the record, the bottom line’s correct. I even had Pepper look at it.”
Phil was proud that his face remained innocuously passive.
“And SHIELD owes me 1.5 mil as of...” Stark made a dramatic gesture at looking at his watch, “4:59 PM, today.
“Have a good night. By the way, I love your suit.”
With that smarmy observation, Stark actually did a little jig as he left.
Oh, how Phil hated this time of the month.
The End
I had this one stored in the cellar since I've seen the movie. So, ta-dah! And I adore Phil. So, to quote a famous doctor: "I reject your reality and substitute my own!"