Avengers One-Shot: Hands
Title: Hands
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Clint/Darcy. Darcy speaks with her hands.
Notes: Written for caitriona_3 for the gift-giving challenge at avengers_land
Darcy was the first to figure it out. Natasha knew, of course; he told her everything, because that’s what partners did. With Darcy it was different; Darcy was a CODA kid-a child of deaf adults-if he had known, he would have been more careful, guarded his mannerisms a bit more closely. Maybe it would not have made a difference. Darcy was nothing, if not perceptive. She was an in-betweener, like him.
Clint hadn’t taken kindly to the bush-league assignments SHIELD sent him on after Manhattan, but with everything that had happened he realized he had a lot of trust to rebuild. Even if that occasionally meant minding a rambunctious co-ed.
Clint sat on the balcony of the building across the street from Darcy’s apartment. There were two undercover agents stationed in the lobby, and he was the eye in the sky, just making sure she didn’t do anything stupid. For a long time she sat at the table near the window, flipping through a magazine as she spoke on the phone. As she hung up Clint propelled himself over the banister and dropped onto the opposite fire escape. He rapped on the window.
“Jesus, Clint,” Darcy leapt up from the table, propping the window open enough for him to climb through. “Ever heard of a door?”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” she wrinkled her nose at him.
“You,” he said, holding his hand to his ear to mimic her posture. “Making plans to go clubbing in some half-wrecked, abandoned warehouse in Midtown.”
Darcy scoffed. “You heard me on the phone? Through the window? From next door?”
Clint had been prepared to rebut her protests that she was perfectly capable of enjoying a night out in the wreckage left behind by the alien invasion, but her skepticism had caught him off-guard.
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to,” he said.
“Oh yeah, you know what.” Darcy stepped in to him, folding her arms over her chest.
It was easier for Clint to observe people from afar, but Darcy was standing so close, if she had taken a deep breath he could have reported her for sexual assault. He had to drop his eyes to read the next words that came out of her lips.
“I love you.”
Clint blinked. “You what?”
“I knew it,” she clenched one fist victoriously. “You read my lips through that window, didn’t you? You’re deaf, aren’t you?”
She pointed to her ear and made a closing motion with both hands.
“I read lips,” he shrugged. “I’m a sniper, it comes with the territory.”
“I said el-eph-ant goo,” she snaked one arm away from her nose to illustrate. “You thought I said I loved you.”
“I did not,” he said, heat welling up at his collar. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world?”
He realized that it wouldn’t be.
Darcy worried, at first, about helping him perpetrate his ruse around the others, but she relented when he explained how his com worked, by-passing the damage in his middle ear. When they were with the others, she kept her hair pulled back, didn’t wear rings or bracelets, she always faced him when she spoke, and made sure to annunciate clearly. When they were alone, Darcy spoke with her hands.
“Why don’t you use hearing aids?” The fingers of one hand curled delicately around her ear. “Why do you pretend?”
They were sitting on the couch in her cramped New York apartment; she had her feet in his lap. His right hand was curled around the outside of her left foot, thumb stroking across the arch. There was an old western on the television; they had the captions on, but that hardly mattered because he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“Look at us,” Clint touched his chest twice, once for himself and again, over his heart, for Darcy. “Between the two of us, who would guess that you were hearing and I was deaf.”
Before losing most of his hearing, Clint had been fluent in Spanish, French, German, and Farsi; after six months undercover in the Ukraine, Natasha had even managed to bestow upon him a working knowledge of Russian and a few Uralic languages. But speaking sign language made him feel like a hack.
It was a joy to watch Darcy sign. Her face was so expressive. Her hands had never wielded a knife or a gun, she used her whole body, forming words and thoughts and feelings.
“It took me years to learn how to sign; I’m bad.”
He had always been a man of few words. There were many other reasons Clint had never felt the inclined to assimilate into the deaf community. With his particular skill-set, it was easier to learn how to read lips than it was to re-train his hands. In many ways, the loss of his hearing was a boon to his work, made it easier to focus. His other senses worked better once the noise fell away.
“You have good hands,” she reached out, laced her fingers with his just long enough to give his hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re just out of practice.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’ve been signing since I was a baby,” she said, hands and lips moving together. “But the other hearing children at school thought I was strange because I shouted all the time, made funny sounds. Both of my parents lost their hearing before they were a year old, they never learned to speak as well as you.”
“I still have trouble with controlling my volume,” Clint said.
“I know,” Darcy said. “You like to err on the side of caution.”
Clint lifted his eyebrows. A question without words, even in the dim lamp light.
“You mumble.” Darcy put one hand over her mouth, fingers dancing wildly.
“I do not.”
“You do! Even when you sign, you mumble.”
She pressed her toes into his belly and laughed. He wished for a moment, that he had worn his hearing aids, if only to hear that sound. The way her eyes squished, her lips drawing away from her teeth, the gentle shake of her shoulders just didn’t satisfy.
“You have to attack the words.” One hand descended upon the other, she formed two fists. Her face turned soft. “If you told the others, they would support you.”
Clint reached out and twisted a lock of her dark hair around his fingers.
“Coulson knew. Nat knows.” He kept his voice low, in spite of his protests to the contrary. “I didn’t tell anyone else because I knew if word got out, sooner or later, someone would find out who would use that to hurt us. All of us.”
“You didn’t tell me,” worry creeped into Darcy’s brow. “I figured it out on my own. Are you afraid I can’t keep a secret? That someone might come for me.”
“If anyone tries to touch a hair on your head, they’ll find out just what these hands are good for.”
“I know what they’re good for.”
Darcy swung her legs of the sofa and climbed into his lap, pressed her lips against his. He closed his eyes as his hands wandered around her waist and down her back. She smelled like coffee, but her lips tasted like Swedish Fish. Her body felt warm pressed against him. For a long time, neither of them spoke, not with words.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Clint/Darcy. Darcy speaks with her hands.
Notes: Written for caitriona_3 for the gift-giving challenge at avengers_land
Darcy was the first to figure it out. Natasha knew, of course; he told her everything, because that’s what partners did. With Darcy it was different; Darcy was a CODA kid-a child of deaf adults-if he had known, he would have been more careful, guarded his mannerisms a bit more closely. Maybe it would not have made a difference. Darcy was nothing, if not perceptive. She was an in-betweener, like him.
Clint hadn’t taken kindly to the bush-league assignments SHIELD sent him on after Manhattan, but with everything that had happened he realized he had a lot of trust to rebuild. Even if that occasionally meant minding a rambunctious co-ed.
Clint sat on the balcony of the building across the street from Darcy’s apartment. There were two undercover agents stationed in the lobby, and he was the eye in the sky, just making sure she didn’t do anything stupid. For a long time she sat at the table near the window, flipping through a magazine as she spoke on the phone. As she hung up Clint propelled himself over the banister and dropped onto the opposite fire escape. He rapped on the window.
“Jesus, Clint,” Darcy leapt up from the table, propping the window open enough for him to climb through. “Ever heard of a door?”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” she wrinkled her nose at him.
“You,” he said, holding his hand to his ear to mimic her posture. “Making plans to go clubbing in some half-wrecked, abandoned warehouse in Midtown.”
Darcy scoffed. “You heard me on the phone? Through the window? From next door?”
Clint had been prepared to rebut her protests that she was perfectly capable of enjoying a night out in the wreckage left behind by the alien invasion, but her skepticism had caught him off-guard.
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to,” he said.
“Oh yeah, you know what.” Darcy stepped in to him, folding her arms over her chest.
It was easier for Clint to observe people from afar, but Darcy was standing so close, if she had taken a deep breath he could have reported her for sexual assault. He had to drop his eyes to read the next words that came out of her lips.
“I love you.”
Clint blinked. “You what?”
“I knew it,” she clenched one fist victoriously. “You read my lips through that window, didn’t you? You’re deaf, aren’t you?”
She pointed to her ear and made a closing motion with both hands.
“I read lips,” he shrugged. “I’m a sniper, it comes with the territory.”
“I said el-eph-ant goo,” she snaked one arm away from her nose to illustrate. “You thought I said I loved you.”
“I did not,” he said, heat welling up at his collar. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world?”
He realized that it wouldn’t be.
Darcy worried, at first, about helping him perpetrate his ruse around the others, but she relented when he explained how his com worked, by-passing the damage in his middle ear. When they were with the others, she kept her hair pulled back, didn’t wear rings or bracelets, she always faced him when she spoke, and made sure to annunciate clearly. When they were alone, Darcy spoke with her hands.
“Why don’t you use hearing aids?” The fingers of one hand curled delicately around her ear. “Why do you pretend?”
They were sitting on the couch in her cramped New York apartment; she had her feet in his lap. His right hand was curled around the outside of her left foot, thumb stroking across the arch. There was an old western on the television; they had the captions on, but that hardly mattered because he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“Look at us,” Clint touched his chest twice, once for himself and again, over his heart, for Darcy. “Between the two of us, who would guess that you were hearing and I was deaf.”
Before losing most of his hearing, Clint had been fluent in Spanish, French, German, and Farsi; after six months undercover in the Ukraine, Natasha had even managed to bestow upon him a working knowledge of Russian and a few Uralic languages. But speaking sign language made him feel like a hack.
It was a joy to watch Darcy sign. Her face was so expressive. Her hands had never wielded a knife or a gun, she used her whole body, forming words and thoughts and feelings.
“It took me years to learn how to sign; I’m bad.”
He had always been a man of few words. There were many other reasons Clint had never felt the inclined to assimilate into the deaf community. With his particular skill-set, it was easier to learn how to read lips than it was to re-train his hands. In many ways, the loss of his hearing was a boon to his work, made it easier to focus. His other senses worked better once the noise fell away.
“You have good hands,” she reached out, laced her fingers with his just long enough to give his hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re just out of practice.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’ve been signing since I was a baby,” she said, hands and lips moving together. “But the other hearing children at school thought I was strange because I shouted all the time, made funny sounds. Both of my parents lost their hearing before they were a year old, they never learned to speak as well as you.”
“I still have trouble with controlling my volume,” Clint said.
“I know,” Darcy said. “You like to err on the side of caution.”
Clint lifted his eyebrows. A question without words, even in the dim lamp light.
“You mumble.” Darcy put one hand over her mouth, fingers dancing wildly.
“I do not.”
“You do! Even when you sign, you mumble.”
She pressed her toes into his belly and laughed. He wished for a moment, that he had worn his hearing aids, if only to hear that sound. The way her eyes squished, her lips drawing away from her teeth, the gentle shake of her shoulders just didn’t satisfy.
“You have to attack the words.” One hand descended upon the other, she formed two fists. Her face turned soft. “If you told the others, they would support you.”
Clint reached out and twisted a lock of her dark hair around his fingers.
“Coulson knew. Nat knows.” He kept his voice low, in spite of his protests to the contrary. “I didn’t tell anyone else because I knew if word got out, sooner or later, someone would find out who would use that to hurt us. All of us.”
“You didn’t tell me,” worry creeped into Darcy’s brow. “I figured it out on my own. Are you afraid I can’t keep a secret? That someone might come for me.”
“If anyone tries to touch a hair on your head, they’ll find out just what these hands are good for.”
“I know what they’re good for.”
Darcy swung her legs of the sofa and climbed into his lap, pressed her lips against his. He closed his eyes as his hands wandered around her waist and down her back. She smelled like coffee, but her lips tasted like Swedish Fish. Her body felt warm pressed against him. For a long time, neither of them spoke, not with words.