Do you dabble in drabbles? Are your stories commonly under a thousand words? Have you ever succeeded in writing out a complete story idea in less than 24 hours
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now I lay me down to sleep, PG-13, warning: mentions of canon-level violencesweetwatersongSeptember 29 2013, 19:54:41 UTC
So this turned out more angst than I think you wanted... Sorry.
now I lay me down to sleep
He's strong. Fuck, he's smart and fast and can crawl down a ventilation shaft in fifteen seconds, over a barbed wire fence in three. He knew how to withstand torture long before SHIELD got their claws in him, dragged him into a world where he does the hunting instead of being hunted. Broken bones, broken promises, broken people; in the dark nights he makes them, shapes them them, shakes them. His fingers have taken lives, blows, counts of corpses on the floors. And Clint’s strong, he can do that, but living with it - living with it is another thing entirely.
*
The light pours over his shoulders into the cramped bedroom, lighting up the tiny space with fluorescent blatancy, and Coulson wonders what he’ll find this time, if the bleeding hasn’t stopped or the nightmares have begun again.
But the cheap duvet is unstained, draped neatly over the bed, and Natasha lifts her head, looking at him with knowing gray eyes.
He nods to her, shutting the door with gentle fingers, and stands there for a heartbeat before turning. In moments he ghosts through the battered apartment, setting the locks behind him, and begins the long, lonely walk back to HQ.
*
In the quiet bedroom Natasha returns her attention to her partner, settling her chest against his back, her face against his bent neck. He sleeps like a dead man, his head bowed and the lines of his face drawn with exhaustion, his body tucked into her embrace as though she is a shield against the world’s evils.
If only it was that simple; if only it was an outside threat she could protect him from.
Natasha holds onto him, holds him together, murmuring Russian lullabies into the sweaty curls of his hair, and through the long, endless night stands guard.
*
Clint sleeps, weary and broken and drained, and if he dreams, he does not remember it when the morning light wakes him.
Re: now I lay me down to sleep, PG-13, warning: mentions of canon-level violencesweetwatersongSeptember 30 2013, 23:42:57 UTC
Thank you! :) (In a happier turn, you can imagine Coulson clambering into bed with them to cuddle as well... which has just spawned a whole new idea. Huh.)
now I lay me down to sleep
He's strong. Fuck, he's smart and fast and can crawl down a ventilation shaft in fifteen seconds, over a barbed wire fence in three. He knew how to withstand torture long before SHIELD got their claws in him, dragged him into a world where he does the hunting instead of being hunted. Broken bones, broken promises, broken people; in the dark nights he makes them, shapes them them, shakes them. His fingers have taken lives, blows, counts of corpses on the floors. And Clint’s strong, he can do that, but living with it - living with it is another thing entirely.
*
The light pours over his shoulders into the cramped bedroom, lighting up the tiny space with fluorescent blatancy, and Coulson wonders what he’ll find this time, if the bleeding hasn’t stopped or the nightmares have begun again.
But the cheap duvet is unstained, draped neatly over the bed, and Natasha lifts her head, looking at him with knowing gray eyes.
He nods to her, shutting the door with gentle fingers, and stands there for a heartbeat before turning. In moments he ghosts through the battered apartment, setting the locks behind him, and begins the long, lonely walk back to HQ.
*
In the quiet bedroom Natasha returns her attention to her partner, settling her chest against his back, her face against his bent neck. He sleeps like a dead man, his head bowed and the lines of his face drawn with exhaustion, his body tucked into her embrace as though she is a shield against the world’s evils.
If only it was that simple; if only it was an outside threat she could protect him from.
Natasha holds onto him, holds him together, murmuring Russian lullabies into the sweaty curls of his hair, and through the long, endless night stands guard.
*
Clint sleeps, weary and broken and drained, and if he dreams, he does not remember it when the morning light wakes him.
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