mini nanowrimo, word count 451, excerpt from a longer fic
excerpt from a fic i'm calling Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, sort of a fix-it fic? Phil is dead. Clint is losing memories and everything seems to be unraveling one moment at a time.
Clint found the body on a Wednesday.
He had been sent on a joint mission with some CIA spooks and some NSA jokers. Natasha had been tagged to go, but intel had turned up that this particular kingpin indulged in the rougher sex. He liked his men and his sex just this side of dangerous.
Clint had thought that if that was what the man wanted he should have just asked Natasha to slip on her harness and have at it. With or without the knives, Natasha was ballsier than most of the agents Clint had worked with. That he remembered at any rate.
The mission ended with Clint naked and a ring of bruises around his throat from the choke collar and blood under his nails. The spooks got their information and the NSA got rid of two double agents and a very, very bad man who did very, very bad things on US and European soil. Clint had very bad man semen drying on his skin and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a meal.
The safe house was fronted as a hospice. The rooms at the very top were reserved for S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house and in-transit agents. Clint found the man sleeping in the other bed in the shared room.
The nurse who sat at the bedside looked up and frowned.
“This is a private room, sir,” she looked at his rumpled suit and wrinkled her nose.
“Uncle Samuel told me to visit on Saturday nights and Friday afternoons,” Clint said, the pass phrase slipping out easily.
The nurse relaxed and she nodded, smiling faintly. The soft click of a safety being enaged was loud over the monitoring machines. “The bathroom is through there. Are you the relief?”
“Ma'am?” Clint asked tossing his duffle onto the free bed. It wasn't unusual to find convalescing agents at this particular safehouse.
“They usually send a familiar agent to visit our special cases. He hasn't had any yet, frankly, then again with the failing of our main server down in White Plains, his paperwork might still be lost in the system,” she stood up and nodded to Clint. “He doesn't even have a name. We just call him Hero.”
Clint sat on the bed and untied his shoes. The man's face was hidden in shadow and Clint could tell from the readings that he was alive. That was as far as his medical knowledge took him. “That's unusual don't you usually call them John?”
Her nameplate said Sandy Richardson, RN. “Usually but he's got a tattoo on his shoulder. Big ol' Captain America shield and the company logo,” she winked.
So, yeah. This fic in an of itself is rather angsty. Uh, I am predicting a happy ending. Maybe? Possibly. There might be a quest involved. IDEK. [Yes, one day I will stop using Fall Out Boy song titles/lyrics for titles for my fictions. Today is not that day.]
Clint found the body on a Wednesday.
He had been sent on a joint mission with some CIA spooks and some NSA jokers. Natasha had been tagged to go, but intel had turned up that this particular kingpin indulged in the rougher sex. He liked his men and his sex just this side of dangerous.
Clint had thought that if that was what the man wanted he should have just asked Natasha to slip on her harness and have at it. With or without the knives, Natasha was ballsier than most of the agents Clint had worked with. That he remembered at any rate.
The mission ended with Clint naked and a ring of bruises around his throat from the choke collar and blood under his nails. The spooks got their information and the NSA got rid of two double agents and a very, very bad man who did very, very bad things on US and European soil. Clint had very bad man semen drying on his skin and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a meal.
The safe house was fronted as a hospice. The rooms at the very top were reserved for S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house and in-transit agents. Clint found the man sleeping in the other bed in the shared room.
The nurse who sat at the bedside looked up and frowned.
“This is a private room, sir,” she looked at his rumpled suit and wrinkled her nose.
“Uncle Samuel told me to visit on Saturday nights and Friday afternoons,” Clint said, the pass phrase slipping out easily.
The nurse relaxed and she nodded, smiling faintly. The soft click of a safety being enaged was loud over the monitoring machines. “The bathroom is through there. Are you the relief?”
“Ma'am?” Clint asked tossing his duffle onto the free bed. It wasn't unusual to find convalescing agents at this particular safehouse.
“They usually send a familiar agent to visit our special cases. He hasn't had any yet, frankly, then again with the failing of our main server down in White Plains, his paperwork might still be lost in the system,” she stood up and nodded to Clint. “He doesn't even have a name. We just call him Hero.”
Clint sat on the bed and untied his shoes. The man's face was hidden in shadow and Clint could tell from the readings that he was alive. That was as far as his medical knowledge took him. “That's unusual don't you usually call them John?”
Her nameplate said Sandy Richardson, RN. “Usually but he's got a tattoo on his shoulder. Big ol' Captain America shield and the company logo,” she winked.
So, yeah. This fic in an of itself is rather angsty. Uh, I am predicting a happy ending. Maybe? Possibly. There might be a quest involved. IDEK. [Yes, one day I will stop using Fall Out Boy song titles/lyrics for titles for my fictions. Today is not that day.]