Unfinished Fic Wednesday
YOU GUYS. I was sitting here at work and I suddenly realized... IT'S WEDNESDAY!
That means it's time for the inaugural episode of Unfinished Fic Wednesday!
We're starting off this feature with an awesome submission from hermionerd who says, "This is the first 991 words of the 3300 in the Word document. They consist of an introduction (this plus an additional ~700 words) and an ending (which is a long and almost-finished sex scene that I wrote the day after the movie came out)."
After the battle, they eat shawarma. After the shawarma, they drink.
"What else did you tell him?"
"I don't remember." Clint's forehead wrinkles at Natasha's look, and he knocks his head back against the wall. The ceiling is blank, overwhelming white. "I'm not shitting you, Nat. Everything's vague."
"Repression?"
"Or magic."
"Repression."
He watches as she takes a drink, both of them still clear-headed and restless, the ends of her limp hair curling at her throat. She swallows almost imperceptibly and then flinches.
Natasha hates drinking. Only does it off the clock for him, even though her tolerance is higher than his. Natasha likes to keep her head.
"He said you were no more virtuous than me," she snorts. "Obviously, you didn't tell him everything."
"Just the shit that mattered." He bares his teeth in an attempt at a grin and grabs the bottle, raising it high in something like a salute. There's a menacing slosh and then hollow silence.
In a motion too quick for him to follow, she takes the bottle back and sets it on the carpet beside her. "Clint," she says, "This is not helping."
"I know."
"What can I do?" She asks like it's the first time, like they've never had to do this before.
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he tells her, "Natasha, this one's kinda on me."
"No," she says. Yeah. He knows. "What do you need?"
"Tell me you trust me."
"No.”
"Tell me the others trust me."
"How can I know?"
"Never mind."
She palms his cheek and jerks his head toward her. "Listen to me, Clint. I have a principle about trusting someone who was still brainwashed when I woke up this morning, and it's don't. I'd be an idiot to trust you, but you are in my bedroom right now, and I am drinking the same shitty vodka you are. I'd count that as a victory."
He jerks back, taking the bottle with him. Her nails graze his chin and scratch through stubble. Watching her, he takes a swig.
"Clint."
"What am I supposed to do here? You're the expert on getting your mind played with."
"Bait me all you want. I'm not taking it." Strands of light from the window shift over her legs as she tucks them under her chin, and Natasha's eyelids close over a shine. "You have to tell me what I can do for you."
"There's always a blow job," he offers and winces. He's drunker than he thought.
To his relief, she laughs. "I would if I thought it would help."
"Tasha, that's--"
"Whatever you're going to say, no, it's not. It'd be fun. But it wouldn't make you feel any better."
"Bet it works for Stark."
"Stark is more fucked up than you, and it doesn't."
"Natasha?"
"Clint?"
"Did you blow Stark?"
"Never."
"Good." He's not sure why that's good, exactly, but he's too tired to wonder.
Natasha isn't. "Why?" she asks with a smile.
"Because."
"Clint?"
"Huh?"
"You're not sleeping on my floor."
But SHIELD won’t let him sleep in his quarters, so he curls up on her couch with nothing but a pillow, because Natasha doesn't have houseguests, and Natasha doesn't give up her bed. The walls of her living room are thin, the ceiling low, the couch stiff and rough and narrow, but it feels safe. That Natasha feels no fear at the thought of him in the next room while she sleeps is mildly worrisome, but he's grudgingly grateful for it, and he suspects she isn't really sleeping anyway.
Guilt is unproductive, and he avoids it in favor of mourning, but every shadow is Loki itching at the back of his head, and fear is almost a comfort. Restlessness wrestles with the sleep he's missed for days, and in the morning, Natasha finds him curled in the corner of the couch with his face to the cushion.
He wakes when the floor creaks under a shift of her weight that he knows is intentional, and he meets her eyes with no smile, but plenty of warmth. She tilts her head, and he nods softly and sees the tension lift from her shoulders.
She sits next to him on the couch. "No sign?"
"No." He kneads the pillow in one hand and adds, "Just paranoia."
"We're sending the Asgardians back today. Thor and Selvig don't think Loki will be any trouble."
"I'd rather not go."
"But you are going." She rests a hand on his knee and looks him in the eye. "You're going to give Rogers and the others a chance to thank you. You'll see Loki in chains, get your chance to be smug about it, and then you're coming with me."
"Coming where?" It's not like SHIELD can rely on him at this point.
She squeezes his leg and stands. "We're going on vacation."
Maybe he perks up a little at that. "Is it a vacation where I get to shoot people?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
And of course it’s Rio.
Rio is two weeks throwing ice chips at each other in tiny motel rooms with thermostats stuck at ninety and air too thick to breathe. Chatting idly while they check their arsenals.
It’s not much of a vacation, but it’s a distraction. The day of their arrival made for at least a dozen hired guns on their trail. Just yesterday, Clint's target caught him by surprise and took an arrow inches shy of deadly. He'd caught most of the spray when Natasha slit his throat.
"It's a shame. Last time we were there was so nice," Natasha says on the long, quiet plane ride back to New York. They’re not alone, but it’s not a popular destination at the moment.
"When you drugged a man for information and seduced a guy for kicks?"
"I liked the weather." She opens a magazine, pushes her hair behind her ear, and rolls her eyes at whatever’s inside.
(Want to be featured on Unfinished Fic Wednesday? Find out how here!)
That means it's time for the inaugural episode of Unfinished Fic Wednesday!
We're starting off this feature with an awesome submission from hermionerd who says, "This is the first 991 words of the 3300 in the Word document. They consist of an introduction (this plus an additional ~700 words) and an ending (which is a long and almost-finished sex scene that I wrote the day after the movie came out)."
After the battle, they eat shawarma. After the shawarma, they drink.
"What else did you tell him?"
"I don't remember." Clint's forehead wrinkles at Natasha's look, and he knocks his head back against the wall. The ceiling is blank, overwhelming white. "I'm not shitting you, Nat. Everything's vague."
"Repression?"
"Or magic."
"Repression."
He watches as she takes a drink, both of them still clear-headed and restless, the ends of her limp hair curling at her throat. She swallows almost imperceptibly and then flinches.
Natasha hates drinking. Only does it off the clock for him, even though her tolerance is higher than his. Natasha likes to keep her head.
"He said you were no more virtuous than me," she snorts. "Obviously, you didn't tell him everything."
"Just the shit that mattered." He bares his teeth in an attempt at a grin and grabs the bottle, raising it high in something like a salute. There's a menacing slosh and then hollow silence.
In a motion too quick for him to follow, she takes the bottle back and sets it on the carpet beside her. "Clint," she says, "This is not helping."
"I know."
"What can I do?" She asks like it's the first time, like they've never had to do this before.
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he tells her, "Natasha, this one's kinda on me."
"No," she says. Yeah. He knows. "What do you need?"
"Tell me you trust me."
"No.”
"Tell me the others trust me."
"How can I know?"
"Never mind."
She palms his cheek and jerks his head toward her. "Listen to me, Clint. I have a principle about trusting someone who was still brainwashed when I woke up this morning, and it's don't. I'd be an idiot to trust you, but you are in my bedroom right now, and I am drinking the same shitty vodka you are. I'd count that as a victory."
He jerks back, taking the bottle with him. Her nails graze his chin and scratch through stubble. Watching her, he takes a swig.
"Clint."
"What am I supposed to do here? You're the expert on getting your mind played with."
"Bait me all you want. I'm not taking it." Strands of light from the window shift over her legs as she tucks them under her chin, and Natasha's eyelids close over a shine. "You have to tell me what I can do for you."
"There's always a blow job," he offers and winces. He's drunker than he thought.
To his relief, she laughs. "I would if I thought it would help."
"Tasha, that's--"
"Whatever you're going to say, no, it's not. It'd be fun. But it wouldn't make you feel any better."
"Bet it works for Stark."
"Stark is more fucked up than you, and it doesn't."
"Natasha?"
"Clint?"
"Did you blow Stark?"
"Never."
"Good." He's not sure why that's good, exactly, but he's too tired to wonder.
Natasha isn't. "Why?" she asks with a smile.
"Because."
"Clint?"
"Huh?"
"You're not sleeping on my floor."
But SHIELD won’t let him sleep in his quarters, so he curls up on her couch with nothing but a pillow, because Natasha doesn't have houseguests, and Natasha doesn't give up her bed. The walls of her living room are thin, the ceiling low, the couch stiff and rough and narrow, but it feels safe. That Natasha feels no fear at the thought of him in the next room while she sleeps is mildly worrisome, but he's grudgingly grateful for it, and he suspects she isn't really sleeping anyway.
Guilt is unproductive, and he avoids it in favor of mourning, but every shadow is Loki itching at the back of his head, and fear is almost a comfort. Restlessness wrestles with the sleep he's missed for days, and in the morning, Natasha finds him curled in the corner of the couch with his face to the cushion.
He wakes when the floor creaks under a shift of her weight that he knows is intentional, and he meets her eyes with no smile, but plenty of warmth. She tilts her head, and he nods softly and sees the tension lift from her shoulders.
She sits next to him on the couch. "No sign?"
"No." He kneads the pillow in one hand and adds, "Just paranoia."
"We're sending the Asgardians back today. Thor and Selvig don't think Loki will be any trouble."
"I'd rather not go."
"But you are going." She rests a hand on his knee and looks him in the eye. "You're going to give Rogers and the others a chance to thank you. You'll see Loki in chains, get your chance to be smug about it, and then you're coming with me."
"Coming where?" It's not like SHIELD can rely on him at this point.
She squeezes his leg and stands. "We're going on vacation."
Maybe he perks up a little at that. "Is it a vacation where I get to shoot people?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
And of course it’s Rio.
Rio is two weeks throwing ice chips at each other in tiny motel rooms with thermostats stuck at ninety and air too thick to breathe. Chatting idly while they check their arsenals.
It’s not much of a vacation, but it’s a distraction. The day of their arrival made for at least a dozen hired guns on their trail. Just yesterday, Clint's target caught him by surprise and took an arrow inches shy of deadly. He'd caught most of the spray when Natasha slit his throat.
"It's a shame. Last time we were there was so nice," Natasha says on the long, quiet plane ride back to New York. They’re not alone, but it’s not a popular destination at the moment.
"When you drugged a man for information and seduced a guy for kicks?"
"I liked the weather." She opens a magazine, pushes her hair behind her ear, and rolls her eyes at whatever’s inside.
(Want to be featured on Unfinished Fic Wednesday? Find out how here!)