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I don’t know why Charles sent me, was the first thing you thought as you stood at the ground floor of the Avengers headquarters in New York.
You tried your best not to look up at the building and gawk like you were fresh off the turnip truck, but, to be fair, the building was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. Clean glass and steel reaching up to the sky, a miracle of modern design – and here you were, standing at the bottom of it, in business casual wear, baking caddy in one hand and briefcase in the other.
The Professor could have sent like…Scott, or Jean. Or Jean and Hank. Or Jean and Ororo. He should’ve really sent Jean, she was diplomacy central. Anyone but you – you weren’t an “official” face of the X-Men, hell, you weren’t even on the D team. What you were was an adjunct teacher that happened to be a mutant, a non-combatant, and someone not automatically affiliated with the Professor - that was the whole "adjunct" thing at work. Once you got past the glitter of the X-Men, well, no one really paid attention to the actual faculty of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. So, in a sense, you could see the logic at work, but realistically, this was about to be a pretty big deal going down, and it just didn’t seem right that it was you.
Still, you thought, as you hefted the baking caddy higher, you were sent here for a reason.
Stepping into the lobby, you were greeted by a rush of cool air, something your sweating armpits would be grateful for. New York didn’t hold a candle to the life-stopping, sweltering heat of your home town, but it that didn’t mean it didn’t get hot as hell up here. And the last thing you needed was to start hand-shaking with giant sweat circles. Luckily enough, your perfume was as stubborn as your nature, and you still smelled reasonable. A little wilted, sure, but reasonable. And your hair seemed to resist all elements thrown at it, so there WAS that.
“Welcome, (Your name),” purred the AI, “Mr. Stark has been alerted of your arrival. Please take the elevator to your right.” Okay; you’d been WARNED about JARVIS, but the soothing disembodied voice still caused you to jump a bit.
Okay. You’re okay, you breathed to yourself.
Come on – you dealt with super powered children on a semi-regular bases, an AI should not freak you out. But being here in Stark Tower? Or the Avengers Headquarters (whatever it was now), did.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped in the elevator, maintaining your death grip on your caddy and briefcase. JARVIS was silent now, and the sudden withdrawal of his voice was more unnerving than its sudden appearance. As the floors ticked by, you wondered if you should…small talk with it? It’s not an IT, it’s a he…isn’t it?
But before you could contemplate asking JARVIS about what he thought of the weather, the elevator came to a smooth stop, and its doors opened. “(Your name), this is your floor. Mr. Stark and his associates should be collected in the living room.”
“Uh, thanks, JARVIS,” you stammered, stepping out of the elevator. Maybe not as smoothly as you would have wanted; the heel of your right shoe caught on the edge of your pants and you went stumbling forward, arms pinwheeling, and for a frightening second, you thought, god, not the pie!
Before your face could become intimately acquainted with the floor, you were caught by a pair of solid arms. You hung there, held up solely by those arms, your own arms splayed straight out, briefcase still in the left hand, baking caddy still in the right. If those arms holding you let go, you’d faceplant for sure. You focused on the ceiling to get your rapidly fraying composure back together. Whoever was holding you smelled really good. Like, soap and hard work good.
“Capsicle, you can totally drop her – it’ll be the quickest way to get her out of here,” came what had to be Tony Stark’s voice from a distance.
“Tony,” sighed your savior, before he slowly helped pull you to your feet. “Are you okay, Miss…?”
Oh my god my first time up here and Captain America of all people has to catch me this is the worst best thing ever.
Resisting the urge to faint / go completely limp in his arms so he could hold you for just a little bit longer, you laughed, trying to dispel your jangling nerves. “It’s (Your name),” you said, willing your legs to hold it together as you slipped from him. “And that was a nice catch.”
“Call me Steve, (Your name),” and he held out a hand for you to shake. Taking the brief moment to set down your briefcase and caddy, you took a look at him. Holy God he was like…perfection and rainbows and a brand new unicorn Lisa Frank trapper keeper with a smile that made the sun come out and where were the little animated birds singing around his shoulders? Because they needed to be there. And around him. All the time.
“Gonna catch flies with your mouth open like that, (Last name)” came a wry response from behind Steve.
Pulling yourself together, you wiped your sweaty palms on the front of your (thankfully) black pants, and grabbed Steve’s proffered hand – maybe a bit too eagerly. Pumping his arm up and down once, Steve looked at you, bemusement in those gentle blue eyes (afagragRsrfgsdfoghsh) of his, and picked up your briefcase. “Don’t mind Clint,” he said, turning away from you, “He likes to give everyone a hard time.”
“Which is fine, because that means she’ll be leaving sooner, won’t it, (last name)?”
God, you weren’t even all the way in the room and it was quite clear that Stark knew why you were there and didn’t approve. Maybe knew more about it than you did. Well, the good thing about his asshole attitude was that it was quickly eating up the embarrassment, leaving a comfortable burn of irritation in its place. Using the momentum of that calm anger, you picked up your baking caddy and strode into the living room.
Wow - the living room was easily 5 of your studio apartments put together. The wide windows offered the best of the city scape, in addition to massive amounts of natural light. For longer than you wanted to admit, you were gob smacked by the view.
Tony clearing his throat brought your attention back to the earth. On various couches sat the newly dubbed “Avengers” – Steve had thoughtfully set your briefcase on a chair near the entrance. The couches had been arranged in a haphazard circle, a table in the center, and “your” chair at the head. To your left sat Tony, glaring a hole through you, and to his left, Bruce. Directly in front of you sat Natasha, and Clint. To your right sat Steve and Thor. How you managed to miss Thor went completely over your head because my god that was one mountain of a man. Mount Cuteji. Mount Everhot. Okay, stop thinking about Thor and the word “Mount” so much.
“I’m (first name, last name). I’ve been sent on behalf of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.”
“After New York goes to hell, Charlie finally decides to send someone to help out? Really. Good job!” The acid in Tony’s voice is enough to ruffle your feathers, but there is an implicit truth behind it that stings. More than once, the X-Men’s conspicuous absence from the ‘Battle of New York’ had been bought up around the school, in the press, and on a few websites.
“I too, find it odd that your Professor Xavier would now, after the battle has been won, send someone to our aid,” rumbled Thor, turning to look at you.
While Steve’s blue eyes had been gentle and warm, Thor’s were a bit colder, a bit more wary. Why anyone thought that Thor was dumb was beyond you – while you wouldn’t call the look he gave you ‘calculating’, it was clear that he wasn’t about to be friends because you came with good will.
“Our existence as mutants puts us in a tenuous position, Mr. Stark, Thor,” you said, as you slipped into the chair. You’d rehearsed your speech several times- with the Professor, with Jean, with Scott (though that didn’t go as well; what was it with Summers. The stick up his ass had a stick up its ass.), and with yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t a matter of trying to sell a line of bullshit to some of the most intelligent people in the world, but trying to…make things make sense when you didn’t fully agree with them either.
“The world has had mixed reactions to superheroes since Mr. Stark made his persona of Iron Man public. And that was with someone who essentially built his superpowers. Imagine, then, how the reaction would have been to people who are born with them…and may not look that different from the aliens that you were fighting.” You gave them all a wistful smile, a “sorry, my hands are tied,” expression.
Thor seemed to be considering what you’d said, while Steve’s face was contemplative. You sort of wished you could memorize that face and print it out on a 24 foot poster and hang it in your room. Just wallpaper half of your studio with it. Clint seemed to be more interested in the contents of your baking caddy, Tony kept glowering, Natasha you couldn’t read at all (color you surprised), and Bruce leaned forward.
“You said ‘our’,” Bruce ventured, “Are you a mutant as well?”
“I am.” Before you could start a rundown of what you could do (which still didn’t make much sense, even to you. At least you weren’t alone in the “inexplicable powers” category) - Tony cut you off.
“Didn’t make the cut for the X-Men? I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that ol’ Chuck couldn’t be bothered to send one of his A-listers, or that when he finally decides to do something that I guess could be called ‘helping’, it’s way after the dust has cleared and there’s jack all to do,” Tony snapped, and you felt your cheeks burn. Not being trained as an X-Man had been a sore spot that it’d taken years for you to come to peace with. And, amazingly, in less than 20 minutes, Tony was throwing all of that hard work out of the window.
“Now, you look here,” you snarled, and instantly clapped your hands over your mouth.
But it was too late.
Tony’s face went from petulant to delighted.
“Was that a twang?” he sat up, looked over at Bruce in sheer delight. “Tell me that was a twang. (Your name), where are you from?”
“American South, Mr. Stark,” came JARVIS’s voice. “She has been in New York for several years, but originates from the American South.”
The look of horror on your face at having your personal information blurted by a disembodied voice must have been quite hilarious, for Tony let out a bark of a laugh. Your heart thudding in your chest, you swallowed and set your features. The Professor was depending on you. And you’d been through too much in your time here in New York to let this guy get to you. Didn’t matter if he had all of the money in the world (or close to it) or was as smart as they came. Even if he did catch you off guard – you’d been under the impression that with your not being a visible part of the Professor’s school, you wouldn’t have much of an internet trail. Except for those social media accounts - oh goddamn it.
“No kidding? Where from?” Clint asked, leaning forward. Natasha lightly elbowed him, and he sat back, crossing his arms. “What?” he sighed. “I’m from the Midwest. Middle of nowhere,” he supplied, with the slightest “I feel your pain” look. You looked back at him, grateful. Oh, he was getting something awesome next time. You would make sure that there would be a next time just for that. In the notebook of your mind, you wrote “Me and Clint = bros 4EVER” and drew a large heart around it.
“Oh, this is rich - according to her Facebook, she’s originally from-” Before Tony could announce your birth place, Thor spoke up.
“I do not get it, what is it about the ‘American South’ that is so amusing?” Thor’s face was a study of perplexity. “She speaks the same language.”
Though you wouldn’t count the Thunderer as a friend quite yet, you thought you detected a little annoyance from him towards Tony. Huh. Maybe language was a sore spot between them? Thor did have the diction of a slightly updated Shakespeare. It was oddly sonorous. If the Avenging gig didn’t work out for him, you figured that he would have a brilliant career recording audio books. Truth be told, you’d listen to Thor read the phone book.
“It’s not that she doesn’t speak the same language – it’s the way she speaks it,” Natasha supplied, her voice cool and calm, and heavy with Tony leave it alone.
“But I noticed no true difference,” Thor said, looking back at you with a question in his eyes. Steve, on the other hand, seemed to be slightly amused by the whole thing, but was far too much of a gentleman to laugh. The way his eyes crinkled around the corners was evidence enough, though.
“Well, hell,” you sighed, letting your accent ease out. It wasn’t noticeable – people were never quite sure where you were from-, but when you were annoyed, or relaxed, or calling home, it slipped out. It was like slipping out of a pair of comfortable tennis shoes into fluffy slippers. You spoke “properly” enough without a strain, but there was something about letting the accent fly full force when it wanted to, knowing that you wouldn’t be stared at or assumed to be an idiot, that relaxed you. Now? It was a cause for embarrassment. To hell what they thought of you –okay, knowing that Steve thought less of you would hurt-, but letting it slip meant that you’d lost control. That your anger had gotten the better of you.
Settling down into the chair, you reached down, and took off your heels, digging your toes into the carpet. “Look, I get it. I know why you’d wanna be pissed off at the Professor. I’ll have you know that not everyone agreed with his choice, includin’ yours truly, but he’s playing a longer game. He tends to be a lot more far-sighted than the rest of us. Doesn’t help that mutants haven’t been getting good press lately. I’m sure you remember the Golden Gate bridge episode,” and you gave Tony and Bruce a pointed look. Steve would be spared; he may not have been out of the ice when it happened. “The mutant cure fiasco or miracle, depending on who you ask. Magneto in general. The world has actively been trying to eradicate us, Mr. Stark. Not reign us in, not politely tell us that we should be more normal – they have been trying to KILL us. And like everything and everyone else, we have our own fair share of infighting. Magento. Again.”
You took a breath. The carpet under your feet was outrageously fantastic.
“We’ve done our best to lay low since then, but honestly, there’s no telling when the next threat to mutants is going to just pop out of God knows where, and we are honestly running a school. I can’t tell you how many kids we get in that have nowhere to go, and it’s not like they can blend in. What do you tell a 14 year old girl that has the ability to project your greatest fears and has never been off her Reservation when she comes to you? ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you gotta go because we’re off saving the world for folks that hate us when they have their own perfectly capable superhero team’?”
You sighed, and licked your lips before you continued.
“I get it; Charles gets it. I’m here because he thought that I could help you get information and get things that you normally wouldn’t catch wind of. I’m not here because of S.H.I.E.L.D, I’m not here because of the government, I’m not here trying to sell you anything on the behalf of mutants. I’m a fixer of sorts – I help keep things secret when they need to be. I get places that other people can’t, and I’m far more reliable that an AI. I’m under the radar because people don’t generally know I’m a mutant, what my abilities are, and I hear a lot of stuff and keep a lot of secrets. I’m high enough in politics where what I say matters, but I don’t leave a trace behind.”
To his credit, Tony had listened to you in silence, his fingers steepled under his chin. Once you were done, he spoke. “We have one of those,” and he pointed to Natasha. “Except apparently you’re like Black Widow mark 0, because you don’t have her combat abilities. So I don’t know why we should keep you around.”
To his credit, though his words could have been construed as harsh, he said them as nicely as could be expected from him. It eased the rejection. But you’d known that going in that you’d probably be considered redundant; you’d mentioned it to the Professor, but he’d just given you one of those enigmatic smiles which meant that on the giant chessboard of life that Charles liked to play, you were just a pawn, a part of something much bigger. That would have grated on your last nerve, if it hadn’t meant actually visiting the Avengers. So, you guessed everything washed out in the end.
“I do! I know why we should keep her!” crowed Clint.
When and how he’d managed to flitch your baking caddy, you had no idea, but it was on his lap, and open. The rich smell of spices and sweet potato rolled out of the open caddy, and even Tony’s attention was brought to it.
“She brought pie!”
Producing a knife out of nowhere, Clint cut himself a slice quick as anything, and promptly shoveled it into his mouth. In an exaggerated expression of orgasmic bliss, he groaned. “Oh my god, you guys. I’m about to cough all of this so no one else can have it.”
“Clint!” hissed Natasha, and she grabbed the pie from him, setting it down on the table. She gave you a look of apology.
“Well, I guess I should go get plates,” Steve said, sheepishly, and went to the kitchen.
Collectively, they’d all made short work of the sweet potato pie. All conversation on more serious matters had stopped, with the occasional argument over who had how many slices and that one was cut way too big and Clint stop being a pig and share. Even Natasha had helped herself to a small piece, shooting you a rare smile as she took a bite. As much as this meeting wasn’t going as planned, your heart couldn’t help but to swell – and on some level, you felt successful.
“That. Was. Amazing,” Clint said, rubbing his stomach.
“I heartily agree, this pie of sweet potato was quite the feast,” boomed Thor.
The smile on his face was megawatt, but you didn’t consider it as symbol of acceptance. Not yet.
“Where’d you get it from?” Natasha asked, setting her fork down. At the looks of surprise from around the room, she gave an off-handed shrug. “I enjoy pie.”
“I made it,” you said, and you let the pride shine through in your voice. “Where I’m from, you don’t typically go visiting people without bringing them a little something.”
“Does it get any more country fried than that?” Tony said, throwing his arms out to frame you. “I’m waiting for the Candid Camera. Seriously, Betty Crocker?”
“Yes, seriously,” you snapped. “I’ll have you know that culturally, the South is diverse as anywhere else. We have our own traditions, and the way I was raised, when you’re invited to someone’s house, you bring them something. For fuck’s sake,” and you deliberately added the last bit, hoping to dispel the good ‘ole Southern Belle’ idea that had firmly taken root in Tony’s mind. “Being raised to consider certain gestures as polite doesn’t make me backwards. Or dumb.”
“Damn right,” said Steve, softly.
Maybe Steve could join the Bros 4 Ever club. He could be treasurer.
“But if I had known you’d show your ass in such a spectacular manner, I wouldn’t have made the damn thing,” you snapped at Tony, though you knew it was a lie. You’d expected him to be a jerk; just not of this magnitude. And the pie was for ALL of the Avengers.
Bruce looked down at his fork, fiddling it between his fingers, fighting off a shy grin. “I think Tony has an ass-showing problem, Ms. (last name). Don’t let it offend you.”
Tony, on the other hand, was far too busy chuckling to form words other than, “ ‘Show your ass’. ‘Show your ass’ – who says that?” Collecting himself, he said, “JARVIS, run a search for Southern idioms and ‘Show your ass.’”
“Will do, Sir.” Was it just you, or did even JARVIS sound about 100% done with the hullabaloo over your accent?
“And, please, don’t let it stop you from making us more food. Like all the food. Ever.” Clint was running a finger mournfully around the pie dish, looking for any extra crumbs. “All of the food, (your name)”, he said, in a conspiratory whisper.
“Legolas, you act like no one feeds you or that you don’t have access to the best restaurants in New York. C’mon. One homemade pie can’t win you over.”
You shot Tony a look, leaning forward in your chair. The way he said “homemade” made your pie sound like it was inferior. And bad enough that he insult your standing in the X-Men, now he was crossing over into “I will beat your ass, I don’t give a shit who you are” territory. No one, but no one, insulted your cooking. Or baking. Or both. And, for the first time since this whole debacle started, Tony actually looked chastened. He held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “Okay, one, amazingly well-crafted, taste the love, thing of Faulker and all of the ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ Southern goodness pie can’t win you over.”
That was better. And you sat back in your chair. “It’s a very persuasive argument,” said Steve, a smile implicit in his voice.
When you left the Tower that afternoon, you weren’t really sure if they’d taken up Charles’s offer. What you were sure of, however, was that whenever you came back –because you WERE to come back-, you were forbidden to come in the door empty handed.
And that’s how you started showing up at the Avengers Tower to cook.