timmy barnes

anonymous asked:

I have so many feels about the Urban Ascent string quartet(s). Is the State of Ames in the band belt, where funding for music for schools is a given? Are there programs where children can get low cost instruments and lessons through their schools? Are any of the MPU children musically inclined enough that some of the MPU adults get to be Marching Band Parents or Show Choir Parents or Chamber Orchestra/Jazz Band Parents?

Because Ames is pretty much an idealized version of the world, yeah, arts are definitely funded adequately. I picture their school band programs working like the ones of my youth, where there’s instrument rent-to-buy programs that won’t break the bank and where at least the sort of early lessons are available through the school. With scholarships available for the kiddos who want to go further but might not be able to without financial help. 

Basically, I think it’s ridiculous we live in a world where kids who want to learn music can’t and I’d never allow that same sort of grossness in my fictional universe. Band was one of the best parts of my life. I’m not robbing my fanfiction children of that.

Dot learns piano (because Bucky plays and she begs for lessons to be like her dad) but never really latches on. But come band sign-ups, she cons her parents into letting her do percussion and the rest is history. I’ve talked before about tiny drumline badass Dot Barnes, and let me tell you: I can’t see or hear a drumline without thinking about her. Steve and Bucky will attend every marching band performance. Tony, Bruce, and the others will attend more sporadically.

Timmy plays trombone. Poorly. Very, very poorly.

Amy learns guitar at some point, one of her many attempts to find herself during high school, but I don’t think she sticks with it for very long. If anything, she wants to do a music thing because Dot is in music, but she never really feels as passionate about it as Dot.

Alex Fury plays the viola. Jackson Fury teases him relentlessly. He regrets it when his brother starts winning solo and ensemble contests and revealing that, okay, orchestra is maybe a little cool. Kind of.

Happy Birthday, Timmy Barnes!

Yesterday, November 10, 2015, was Timmy Barnes’s actual day of birth in the MPU. If the MPU kept up with reality, he’d be a fully formed little person right now! Let us celebrate with the following little story, written especially for him: 

For the first couple days after her brother’s born, Dot asks a thousand questions.

At breakfast:  “When will he smile?”

In the car after dance rehearsal:  “When does he start playing with toys?”

While Steve brushes her hair after a bath:  “Is he going to sleep and eat all day all the way until he’s able to walk?”

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I was thinking just now about how Dot is growing up in a world where she believes firmly that Uncle Tony can do anything, fix anything, and make anything more awesome than it really is, and then this happened:

“Call Uncle Tony.”

Dot Barnes is in the third-grade this year. She plays softball in a community league, participates in Girl Scouts, and really loves to draw and paint. Her best friend forever (and she will emphasize forever) is a fifth-grader named Amy, her goal in life is to be either a children’s book illustrator or a lawyer, and she’s undecided about how much she likes her toddler brother.

And right now, Steve knows, she misses her dad.

Bucky’s been in New Jersey for the last ten days, using up all their saved vacation time to be there as his mom– Well, there’s no easy way to say this, as his mom transfers into hospice care and passes away. It’s been a six-month battle, a push-pull of staring at the phone on Winnie’s worst days, and Steve’s watched Bucky’s optimism slide slowly away. Cancer’s an ugly disease, and even if they don’t see each other all that often, Bucky loves his mom. 

They’d considered pulling Dot from school and heading out to Jersey with the kids in tow, but Bucky’d shaken his head. “She doesn’t need to see that,” he’d said, and Steve’d instantly known he was right. “Let her remember Mom as somebody healthy. It’ll make the funeral suck less, at least.”

Right now, it looks like they’re all of three days from a funeral. 

Steve worries, because that’s the most he can do right now.

He worries, and he rubs his face with a hand, because he’s exhausted. Dot’s hovering in the doorway to their bedroom, her toothbrush in her hand. She’s wearing pajama shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and Steve misses the days where they were the ones who got to select her clothes. He’s pretty sure she inherited his talents for matching.


"For Nana,” she says. When Steve frowns, she shoots him a look that is pure, unadulterated nine-year-old. “To help her?”

“How will Tony help your nana?”

Dot rolls her eyes. “Uncle Tony fixes everything,” she informs him. He’d scold her for how snotty she sounds, except there’s just too much certainty in her voice. Because it’s a statement like a universal truth, and Steve immediately feels like he’s been slugged in the gut. “He helped Dad fix the car, he picked us up from that really bad camping trip–”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve notes.

“–he made sure my Girl Scout troop got their civics badge at the last second after that stupid judge cancelled our tour.” She half-points her toothbrush in Steve’s direction. “I bet he’ll know doctors who can make Nana better, and then Dad can come home.”

She sticks her toothbrush in her mouth then and starts actually brushing as she wanders back to the bathroom, and for a moment, all Steve can do is stare. He’d left after a full day of work to an extremely annoyed fifteen-month-old and a daughter who’d found it impossible to focus on anything–on homework, on television, on dinner, on her nightly phone call with Amy (and if she’s calling Amy every night now, Steve is actively afraid of the teenage years). Every one of Bucky’s three dozen texts sounded sad, and when Steve’d offered to call with the kids and say goodnight, Bucky’d texted back i’m staying at hospice tonight, call with them in the morning x

Dot’s rinsing out her mouth when Steve steps into the bathroom. “C'mere,” he tells her, and moves the shower curtain so he can sit on the edge of the tub. Dot hesitates and drags her sleeve over her mouth before plopping down next to him. They sit there for a second, his hands folded between his legs and Dot clutching the porcelain, before he can really figure out what to say.

“Your Nana is–” he starts, but no, that’s not right. He pulls in a breath. “What Uncle Tony does best,” he says carefully, “is swooping in when the people he loves have a solvable problem, and making that problem better. Like with the car or with the merit badge. Those are problems with solutions.”

“Nana’s problem has a solution,” Dot says, but he hears a tiny note of uncertainty in her voice. “The doctors fix her and she gets better.”

Steve snorts softly and shakes his head. He tries to smile, but right now, it’s so hard. “No, honey,” he tells her softly. “We’re past the point where doctors can fix it. It’s–” He shakes his head. “There’s no solution, not now.”

“Oh.” Dot’s head dips, and she stares at the bathroom floor. She’s quiet for a long time, and Steve can watch her expression darken and shift as she processes what he’s fairly sure is absolutely new information. “You sure?”

He wonders whether they’ve done her a disservice, sometimes, raising her just naive enough that she believes in impossible things. Because even at nine years old, she believes that Tony Stark can fix anything, that families are easily assembled, and that friendship can literally last forever.

He rolls his lips together and then nods. “I’m sure,” he says, and Dot nods back. When she leans her shoulder against his arm, he takes the cue and wraps her up in a hug.

They sit that way for a very, very long time.

The next morning, Bucky’s laughing on FaceTime when Dot tips her head at him and says, “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah, squirt?”

“I’m really sorry that nobody can fix Nana.”

The laughter stops abruptly, and Steve stands at Dot’s shoulder, Tim dropping pieces of breakfast toast onto his work shirt, while he watches Bucky’s expression soften.

He knows that they’ll never talk about the wetness in Bucky’s eyes, or the way he swallows.

But he knows at some point, they’ll maybe talk about the way he smiles when he says, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

saranoh  asked:

Prompt request: MPU Rogers-Barnes grandbaby(ies)

(As I previously mentioned, there is only a small window between when Steve and Bucky become empty-nesters to when they acquire a grandchild. This is kind of about that, but also not.)

“Still thinking all those lectures on rushing into adulthood were a good idea?” Bucky asks, his hip resting against the doorjamb.

Steve thinks sometimes that he’s devoted the last two years to obsessing how empty and quiet the house is without the kids around, but today, the quiet feels like a gift. He’s reclined in the big arm chair in the front room, the summer sun stretching across him and the floor and the breeze drifting in through the barely-cracked windows. He’d almost dozed off before he’d heard Bucky’s car door slam, and he’d kept his eyes closed until his husband finished banging around in the kitchen.

The baby, on the other hand, never stirred.

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