[sparks and motion]
[kinetic, adj.]
An Avengers fanfiction. Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton. 934 words of pre-movies, comics what comics?, action. Not mine, don't sue; I was only showing Harry my grindylow. A summary: "I like to be on a first name basis with the people who try to kill me."
The arrow in the wall next to her ear--centimeters, if that, millimeters--pinning her wig like a butterfly in a dissection box. She inhales. Licks away the blood at the corner of her mouth, reassesses--
--he never misses, but she only learns that later--
--and smiles.
"No," he says. She smiles wider, blinks. "No," he says, "Not gonna happen."
The explosion startles them both. They run in the same direction, away.
*
"Look," she says.
His breath against her ear, wet and harsh. His arm around her waist, her back against his chest. Soldiers running past--boots loud against the pavement; раз два три четыре пять шесть men, раз два women, раз два три--and the crack in the wall too small for even one of them. They make do. "Заткнись," he says. His accent is atrocious. Offensive.
"You hush," she says. Silent. Head turned to mouth the words against his cheek.
He nods. Arms tense, body at attention. She listens. Waits. The wind howls around the warehouses, snow beginning to fall. A soldier calls out, "Sector B is all clear," and Natasha nods.
She ducks, rolls, and the sound of an arrow cutting cleanly through the soldier's eye signals that she should stand. The soldier slumps to the ground, and Natasha begins to run. The man sent to kill her follows. He knows how to run without sound, without mess, and she almost regrets the fact that she will slit his throat before the night is done.
The moon is a sliver. The stars hidden by clouds, by smog. She can feel true north in her bones.
*
The knife does not shine, does not reflect any light; it is dark here, true night, and her knife is another part of that blackness. "Call me Clint," the man says. He smiles, cocky to the end. "I like to be on a first name basis with the people who try to kill me."
There's a river nearby. Flowing to the Baltic, and beyond.
"You already know my name," she says.
"Nataly-"
"Stop," she says. His Ls offend her. The ground is cold, frozen dirt and a stone digging into the small of her back. Clint's legs are on either side of her hips. A stranger passing by might mistake her for a prostitute.
Her knife traces the line of a vein in his arm. He freezes.
"Stop," she says. There's a gun pressed against her ribcage, hard enough to leave a mark.
Clint grins. "You стой," he says. A plane flies overhead, American, a make and model Natasha does not immediately recognize. She looks back at Clint. "They're new," he says. "State of the art, top secret, only four of us can even fly them."
Natasha tilts her head to the left, makes a show of looking up, and rolls them over so she's kneeling over Clint. Her knee pressed hard against the center of his chest. His head clanks against the ground, and he grunts. His eyes close. Open. The plane circles back, losing altitude.
She twists her hand, pressing the knife so his fingers loosen around his gun. She grabs it with her left hand. Switches the weapons between her hands faster than even she can see.
Clint looks her in the eye. A truck rumbles nearby, horn blowing non-stop.
"Right," Clint says. Natasha slashes a line through his shirt, then rotates her wrist and cuts his skin along the same path. Blood stains the fabric; black ink spreading on pulpy paper, and she presses a single finger against the cut, drawing a schoolgirl's H. Wiping it clear.
The plane circles back. Natasha tears off the bottom of Clint's shirt, wraps it around her bloody hand.
"Barton!" An unfamiliar voice. Clint nods.
The plane--it hovers, there's no other word; it hovers, hovers, hovers. Impossible. A ladder drops from the cargo hold, and Clint lifts his head to press a kiss against Natasha's cheek.
"Until next time," he says.
"До св," she starts. Clint shifts his weight, and she doesn't counter fast enough. She reaches out and grabs at his quiver. Lands on her ass. An arrow whizzes past her ear, and she swats at the sound like a mosquito. Clint springs to his feet. Jumps.
Natasha lifts the gun, steadies her hands. She shoots.
Clint's entire body stiffens, twitches. The ladder swings. One of his legs slips. He hangs from one of the rungs by the other leg, unsheathes one of his arrows and sets it in his bow. He waves at her, and he lets the arrow loose.
Natasha dives, dirt against her cheek. The arrow would have missed anyway. The thump of a masked soldier falling to the ground would be loud enough to attract attention were it not for the roaring of the plane.
The rumbling of the trucks.
The river, racing with the fish to the sea.
Natasha pulls herself to her feet, brushes the dirt from her pants. She tucks the gun into her jacket, the knife back into her boot. The man gurgles, gasping for breath, as she walks past him. Back toward the city.
"Clint Barton," she whispers. A name to research, to study; she burns it into her memory, already planning her next attack. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, knots it around a broken piece of arrow she plucks from a tree trunk. Buttons her jacket, ties a piece of Clint's shirt around her neck like a scarf. Blood against her skin.
There are streetlights ahead. She schools her face into a mask.
A plane flies overhead, and Natasha looks up.
***
[AO3]
Written for
pocky_slash's The Lover's Dictionary Comment Fest. I picked the letter K for:
kinetic, adj.
Someone asked me to describe you and I said, "Kinetic."
We were both surprised by this response. Usually, with a date, it was, "I don't know...cool" or "Not that bad" or, at the highest level of excitement, "Maybe it will work out." But there was something about you that made me think of sparks and motion.
I still see that now. Less when we're alone. More when we're with other people. When you're surrounded by life. Reaching out to it, gathering energy.
This entry also lives at Dreamwidth. Comment here, comment there, comment anywhere. I'm partial to Pony Express.
An Avengers fanfiction. Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton. 934 words of pre-movies, comics what comics?, action. Not mine, don't sue; I was only showing Harry my grindylow. A summary: "I like to be on a first name basis with the people who try to kill me."
The arrow in the wall next to her ear--centimeters, if that, millimeters--pinning her wig like a butterfly in a dissection box. She inhales. Licks away the blood at the corner of her mouth, reassesses--
--he never misses, but she only learns that later--
--and smiles.
"No," he says. She smiles wider, blinks. "No," he says, "Not gonna happen."
The explosion startles them both. They run in the same direction, away.
*
"Look," she says.
His breath against her ear, wet and harsh. His arm around her waist, her back against his chest. Soldiers running past--boots loud against the pavement; раз два три четыре пять шесть men, раз два women, раз два три--and the crack in the wall too small for even one of them. They make do. "Заткнись," he says. His accent is atrocious. Offensive.
"You hush," she says. Silent. Head turned to mouth the words against his cheek.
He nods. Arms tense, body at attention. She listens. Waits. The wind howls around the warehouses, snow beginning to fall. A soldier calls out, "Sector B is all clear," and Natasha nods.
She ducks, rolls, and the sound of an arrow cutting cleanly through the soldier's eye signals that she should stand. The soldier slumps to the ground, and Natasha begins to run. The man sent to kill her follows. He knows how to run without sound, without mess, and she almost regrets the fact that she will slit his throat before the night is done.
The moon is a sliver. The stars hidden by clouds, by smog. She can feel true north in her bones.
*
The knife does not shine, does not reflect any light; it is dark here, true night, and her knife is another part of that blackness. "Call me Clint," the man says. He smiles, cocky to the end. "I like to be on a first name basis with the people who try to kill me."
There's a river nearby. Flowing to the Baltic, and beyond.
"You already know my name," she says.
"Nataly-"
"Stop," she says. His Ls offend her. The ground is cold, frozen dirt and a stone digging into the small of her back. Clint's legs are on either side of her hips. A stranger passing by might mistake her for a prostitute.
Her knife traces the line of a vein in his arm. He freezes.
"Stop," she says. There's a gun pressed against her ribcage, hard enough to leave a mark.
Clint grins. "You стой," he says. A plane flies overhead, American, a make and model Natasha does not immediately recognize. She looks back at Clint. "They're new," he says. "State of the art, top secret, only four of us can even fly them."
Natasha tilts her head to the left, makes a show of looking up, and rolls them over so she's kneeling over Clint. Her knee pressed hard against the center of his chest. His head clanks against the ground, and he grunts. His eyes close. Open. The plane circles back, losing altitude.
She twists her hand, pressing the knife so his fingers loosen around his gun. She grabs it with her left hand. Switches the weapons between her hands faster than even she can see.
Clint looks her in the eye. A truck rumbles nearby, horn blowing non-stop.
"Right," Clint says. Natasha slashes a line through his shirt, then rotates her wrist and cuts his skin along the same path. Blood stains the fabric; black ink spreading on pulpy paper, and she presses a single finger against the cut, drawing a schoolgirl's H. Wiping it clear.
The plane circles back. Natasha tears off the bottom of Clint's shirt, wraps it around her bloody hand.
"Barton!" An unfamiliar voice. Clint nods.
The plane--it hovers, there's no other word; it hovers, hovers, hovers. Impossible. A ladder drops from the cargo hold, and Clint lifts his head to press a kiss against Natasha's cheek.
"Until next time," he says.
"До св," she starts. Clint shifts his weight, and she doesn't counter fast enough. She reaches out and grabs at his quiver. Lands on her ass. An arrow whizzes past her ear, and she swats at the sound like a mosquito. Clint springs to his feet. Jumps.
Natasha lifts the gun, steadies her hands. She shoots.
Clint's entire body stiffens, twitches. The ladder swings. One of his legs slips. He hangs from one of the rungs by the other leg, unsheathes one of his arrows and sets it in his bow. He waves at her, and he lets the arrow loose.
Natasha dives, dirt against her cheek. The arrow would have missed anyway. The thump of a masked soldier falling to the ground would be loud enough to attract attention were it not for the roaring of the plane.
The rumbling of the trucks.
The river, racing with the fish to the sea.
Natasha pulls herself to her feet, brushes the dirt from her pants. She tucks the gun into her jacket, the knife back into her boot. The man gurgles, gasping for breath, as she walks past him. Back toward the city.
"Clint Barton," she whispers. A name to research, to study; she burns it into her memory, already planning her next attack. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, knots it around a broken piece of arrow she plucks from a tree trunk. Buttons her jacket, ties a piece of Clint's shirt around her neck like a scarf. Blood against her skin.
There are streetlights ahead. She schools her face into a mask.
A plane flies overhead, and Natasha looks up.
***
[AO3]
Written for
pocky_slash's The Lover's Dictionary Comment Fest. I picked the letter K for:
kinetic, adj.
Someone asked me to describe you and I said, "Kinetic."
We were both surprised by this response. Usually, with a date, it was, "I don't know...cool" or "Not that bad" or, at the highest level of excitement, "Maybe it will work out." But there was something about you that made me think of sparks and motion.
I still see that now. Less when we're alone. More when we're with other people. When you're surrounded by life. Reaching out to it, gathering energy.
This entry also lives at Dreamwidth. Comment here, comment there, comment anywhere. I'm partial to Pony Express.