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aa_natashaThere is nothing good about this situation.
Dead bodies I can deal with. I can stomach mutilation.
This was something else. I don't know what. But something else.
8/23/2012
Natasha was silent and swift and skilled in the moment; camera, a quick, observant eye, a rifle through the farmhouse and then the bunker for clues as to identity or purpose. It's not until they reach the safety of a hayloft several farms over that it catches up and she sinks to the dusty boards with a quiet hitch in her breath and a hand that comes up to press against her lips.
Blood and death, destruction, it all comes part and parcel with their job, though not like this and even those bodies have affected Clint. Tension wound into the line of his shoulders like a pullstring, looking ready to spin off at any moment. His fingers are closed around his bow, and as Natasha sinks to the floor of the loft, he strides to the window to triple-check that there is no one within their radius. "He's sick. Sicker than the rest of them," he finally says, sharply.
It takes awhile for Natasha to find her voice. When she does, it's low and dark, though steady. "I think," she says quietly, "that there were some-- pieces. Missing."
If Clint didn't exactly get near enough to see that, he doesn't seem doubtful. He only asks, "Which ones?" He at least draws back to settle near her.
Natasha describes the body swiftly, listing off hair color and aproximate height (if it had had a torso) and age. She lets her head roll back to rest silently against the scratch of stacked hay. "I have pictures," she says. "There were others. Pieces moved around. It's hard to get a firm count."
"Don't worry about it," Clint assures her quietly, his fingers moving to lay across hers briefly before he draws them back to start closing his bow. "We'll send them back to the techs and get them looked over. They'll be able to tell us."
"Slava bogu, we're not techs," Natasha mutters. Her fingers twist under his, turning up for a quick squeeze before she slides them away to curve over her knees. Her gaze drifts up, watching Clint's familiar progress with an easy habit that drains some of the tension from her spine. "That wasn't just an execution."
Clint shakes his head, agreeing, "No. Seems more sadistic than just that." His fingers do not still as he checks the mechanisms that allow him to snap his bow open, folding them shut gently and then slinging it across his back. "What do you think it was for?"
"Not sure," Natasha says, fixing her eyes on him with head tilted back. "The usual answer is rage. Anger so hot they just strike and don't think." Her fingers tighten slightly against her knees. "But that doesn't account for the missing bits. I don't know if they were looking for something." She frowns, and the expression draws deep furrows across the span of her brow. After a moment she shakes her head and adds, "I don't know."
"Neither do I," Clint says quietly, his lips twisting for a moment as he leans back against the hay beside her and exhales a slow breath. "We're going to need to get out of here, soon."
Natasha turns her head to face him, quiet for a moment in close quarters before she nods once, sharp. "I'd like to find out more," she says, voice low. "Talk to the natives. Seen if we can tail any of them. But we can't do it while we're babysitting." After a brief moment she adds grudgingly, "And we may need backup."
"She isn't ready for that," agrees Clint, stretching out his legs carefully and studying his boots for a moment. "Need to get information back from the techs before we go poking more. It'd give us a general idea of what we're looking for."
Natasha dips her head in agreement and shifts just slightly, stretching her legs out next to Clint's. Her toes meet his ankles. After a stretch of silence she says, "I don't like this."
Clint's gaze slides sideways, lingering on Natasha as he says simply, "Neither do I."
Natasha mutters in a fast string of Russian and then says, "I miss the straightforward marks. Steal, kill, fuck, interrogate." She turns her head slightly toward him, and hay tickles at her temples. "Monsters," she says, "and magic."
"And gods that are out of our control," Clint breathes, leaning forward to pluck carefully at a particularly distint piece of hay that brushes against her skin.
Natasha tips into him, pressing shoulder against shoulder in silent support. She turns her gaze forward again, eyes cast down.
His shoulder presses back firmly, a lean into Natasha as Clint's gaze casts over her in a study when given the opportunity to do so by her own sliding away. "We are Avengers now. All we can do is make them pay," he says.
Natasha laughs suddenly, though long years of habit and training keep the sound quiet. She turns her head to look at him sharply. "Are we?" she says. "Avengers? Really, Clint? "
"The name could use some work, but it seems to be what we're part of now," Clint answers, his lips twitching a moment at her laugh for all that. "We're still us. Romanov and Barton."
Natasha gives him a Look, eloquent and full of 'duh' in the quirk of her brows and the slight upward pull of her lips. There's a moment before she says, "We could walk away, you know. Leave the monsters and the gods to the superheroes."
"Says the woman who launched herself in the middle of war. Could you really, Tasha?" Clint questions, doubt there.
Natasha is silent for another moment, and her expression goes uncomfortable and dark. When she eventually lifts her chin and turns to look at him, her eyes are hard. "No," she says. "I have debts to pay. One of us is going to kill him for what he did to you."
Clint nods, answering, "One of us will." He shifts, an arm going around her to pull her closer into a carefully platonic hug. "This time, fuck whatever Thor has to say about it."
Natasha tips sideways into Clint's side, tucking her head against the flat of his shoulder. She slides her hand to squeeze at the curve of his knee, and then it rests there, unmoving. "Yebat yego," she agrees ungratefully.
"Yebat yego," Clint repeats, the splay of his fingers turning somewhat possessive in instinct against her arm despite himself, but he remains quiet as they wait out for an opportunity to steal back to the hotel in the quietness of a stranger's loft.
Dead bodies I can deal with. I can stomach mutilation.
This was something else. I don't know what. But something else.
8/23/2012
Natasha was silent and swift and skilled in the moment; camera, a quick, observant eye, a rifle through the farmhouse and then the bunker for clues as to identity or purpose. It's not until they reach the safety of a hayloft several farms over that it catches up and she sinks to the dusty boards with a quiet hitch in her breath and a hand that comes up to press against her lips.
Blood and death, destruction, it all comes part and parcel with their job, though not like this and even those bodies have affected Clint. Tension wound into the line of his shoulders like a pullstring, looking ready to spin off at any moment. His fingers are closed around his bow, and as Natasha sinks to the floor of the loft, he strides to the window to triple-check that there is no one within their radius. "He's sick. Sicker than the rest of them," he finally says, sharply.
It takes awhile for Natasha to find her voice. When she does, it's low and dark, though steady. "I think," she says quietly, "that there were some-- pieces. Missing."
If Clint didn't exactly get near enough to see that, he doesn't seem doubtful. He only asks, "Which ones?" He at least draws back to settle near her.
Natasha describes the body swiftly, listing off hair color and aproximate height (if it had had a torso) and age. She lets her head roll back to rest silently against the scratch of stacked hay. "I have pictures," she says. "There were others. Pieces moved around. It's hard to get a firm count."
"Don't worry about it," Clint assures her quietly, his fingers moving to lay across hers briefly before he draws them back to start closing his bow. "We'll send them back to the techs and get them looked over. They'll be able to tell us."
"Slava bogu, we're not techs," Natasha mutters. Her fingers twist under his, turning up for a quick squeeze before she slides them away to curve over her knees. Her gaze drifts up, watching Clint's familiar progress with an easy habit that drains some of the tension from her spine. "That wasn't just an execution."
Clint shakes his head, agreeing, "No. Seems more sadistic than just that." His fingers do not still as he checks the mechanisms that allow him to snap his bow open, folding them shut gently and then slinging it across his back. "What do you think it was for?"
"Not sure," Natasha says, fixing her eyes on him with head tilted back. "The usual answer is rage. Anger so hot they just strike and don't think." Her fingers tighten slightly against her knees. "But that doesn't account for the missing bits. I don't know if they were looking for something." She frowns, and the expression draws deep furrows across the span of her brow. After a moment she shakes her head and adds, "I don't know."
"Neither do I," Clint says quietly, his lips twisting for a moment as he leans back against the hay beside her and exhales a slow breath. "We're going to need to get out of here, soon."
Natasha turns her head to face him, quiet for a moment in close quarters before she nods once, sharp. "I'd like to find out more," she says, voice low. "Talk to the natives. Seen if we can tail any of them. But we can't do it while we're babysitting." After a brief moment she adds grudgingly, "And we may need backup."
"She isn't ready for that," agrees Clint, stretching out his legs carefully and studying his boots for a moment. "Need to get information back from the techs before we go poking more. It'd give us a general idea of what we're looking for."
Natasha dips her head in agreement and shifts just slightly, stretching her legs out next to Clint's. Her toes meet his ankles. After a stretch of silence she says, "I don't like this."
Clint's gaze slides sideways, lingering on Natasha as he says simply, "Neither do I."
Natasha mutters in a fast string of Russian and then says, "I miss the straightforward marks. Steal, kill, fuck, interrogate." She turns her head slightly toward him, and hay tickles at her temples. "Monsters," she says, "and magic."
"And gods that are out of our control," Clint breathes, leaning forward to pluck carefully at a particularly distint piece of hay that brushes against her skin.
Natasha tips into him, pressing shoulder against shoulder in silent support. She turns her gaze forward again, eyes cast down.
His shoulder presses back firmly, a lean into Natasha as Clint's gaze casts over her in a study when given the opportunity to do so by her own sliding away. "We are Avengers now. All we can do is make them pay," he says.
Natasha laughs suddenly, though long years of habit and training keep the sound quiet. She turns her head to look at him sharply. "Are we?" she says. "Avengers? Really, Clint? "
"The name could use some work, but it seems to be what we're part of now," Clint answers, his lips twitching a moment at her laugh for all that. "We're still us. Romanov and Barton."
Natasha gives him a Look, eloquent and full of 'duh' in the quirk of her brows and the slight upward pull of her lips. There's a moment before she says, "We could walk away, you know. Leave the monsters and the gods to the superheroes."
"Says the woman who launched herself in the middle of war. Could you really, Tasha?" Clint questions, doubt there.
Natasha is silent for another moment, and her expression goes uncomfortable and dark. When she eventually lifts her chin and turns to look at him, her eyes are hard. "No," she says. "I have debts to pay. One of us is going to kill him for what he did to you."
Clint nods, answering, "One of us will." He shifts, an arm going around her to pull her closer into a carefully platonic hug. "This time, fuck whatever Thor has to say about it."
Natasha tips sideways into Clint's side, tucking her head against the flat of his shoulder. She slides her hand to squeeze at the curve of his knee, and then it rests there, unmoving. "Yebat yego," she agrees ungratefully.
"Yebat yego," Clint repeats, the splay of his fingers turning somewhat possessive in instinct against her arm despite himself, but he remains quiet as they wait out for an opportunity to steal back to the hotel in the quietness of a stranger's loft.