Avengers/Narnia Crossover: II. High Noon
Title: High Noon
Author: downbythebay_4
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: A transformative fan work, not for profit.
Summary: Two archers find themselves in a tight spot. Crossover with The Chronicles of Narnia.
Part of a series of vignettes. (Steve Rogers/Susan Pevensie)
I. Shadows
II. High Noon
III. Nightfall
IV. Dawn
V. Green Grow the Lilacs
Notes:For the Avengersland Deep Cover Challenge. Many thanks to stargatejunkie for beta reading; all remaining errors are, of course, mine.
II. High Noon
If Clint had had his way, the plane would have dropped him in the mountains with just his bow and a couple of knives. Too many bodies to account for was the fastest way to get somebody killed. He especially didn’t like the idea of bringing the lady nurse along; whatever Fury said about her so-called qualifications, she was practically a civilian. But his knowledge of medicine was limited to what he had picked up in the field, and there was no way of telling what shape Natasha was in.
“Do you know what they do to women in a warzone?” he asked her standing over the place where she sat, segregated from the team of five other seasoned agents.
The woman met his eyes unflinchingly. “I imagine the same things they do to the men.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to find out,” Clint said, checking the fastenings of his vest. “Scared?”
“Of drowning,” she said. “Tyrants, trains, and wolves, not of this.”
“Maybe you should be,” he said. “These people we’re going in after use sweet little things like you for target practice.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t nervous,” she said. “It’s good to be nervous, it means you care. I’d like to help, if I can.”
“You can help by keeping your head down and staying out of the way,” he said.
“No, Agent Barton,” she said, blanching and shaking her head. “You won’t have to worry about me running off seeking glory on the field of battle, I promise you that.”
Clint shrugged; it was a start.
“A wise man once told me ‘battles are ugly things, when women fight’,” she said.
Clint chuckled as he thought of Natasha and the wreckage he knew full-well she was capable of leaving in her wake. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“You truly care about her, don’t you?” she asked.
“How many people do I have to hit before everyone will stop saying that,” he replied.
“You misunderstand my meaning,” she said. “You do a disservice to the scope of human emotions to believe that the most profound bond you could ever share with another person is physical.”
Clint shut his mouth and took the seat beside her and buckled in for the descent.
“I’m Susan, by the way,” she said, gripping her restraints as the craft lurched downward.
“Alright, Susan,” he nodded. “Stick with me; I’ll look after you.”
The complex where Natasha was being held was built into the side of a mountain, a series of tunnels and caves, with only one way in or out. They met relatively little resistance on the way in, so it was the out that worried him. Nurse Susan stuck close to his elbow as they made their way through the winding corridors, the occasional sounds of gunfire reverberating off the stone.
“Don’t leave my side,” he said, his bow drawn taut as they rounded another corner of cool stone. “Step only where I step. Don’t speak, don’t clear your throat; don’t even breathe heavily. Understand?”
Susan nodded, pupils dilating involuntarily. She was scared, but trying not to show it. He watched her press her lips together and make a concentrated effort to still the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest. He relaxed his bow long enough to press one finger to his lips, nodding to the door across the hall. She nodded with a succinct up-down and he kicked in the door.
As soon as he was inside, he felt his stomach plummet at the sight of the figure prone on the floor, with a shock of red curls visible against the crudely woven mat where she laid.
“Nat,” he pressed his lips together and beckoned Susan into the room.
She was three steps in front of him when an explosion in the hallway sent him sprawling. For a moment there was nothing: silence, a white sheet pulled over his eyes. After a few blinks the white gave way to tendrils of smoke and clouds of dust. There were muffled sounds.
The communicator in his ear filled his head with static. He thought, perhaps, one of the others had set off a trip wire; thought at first it might have been Susan, that she and Natasha had been obliterated in the blast. But as he regained some of his senses he realized the explosion had blown into the room, not out, so that he must have taken the worst of it.
He reached reflexively for his bow, but his right arm was pinned beneath the rubble. He expected pain, but it didn’t come, as adrenaline surged through his veins. His vision continued to clear and he realized that his bow had been thrown halfway across the room near where Susan was huddled close to Natasha. He tried to ask if they were okay, but coughed instead.
He began to recognize the muffled sounds of gunfire from the corridor and growing nearer. There was a holster at his ankle and he concentrated his efforts on stretching the fingers of his free hand toward the gun as shaded figures began to take shape in the smoke. Shots rang out. One of the shadows dropped and then another.
He thought perhaps the others had made it through, as his fingers found the barrel of the gun. He took aim, attempting to distinguish friend from foe through the smoke and dust that filled the room. And then he saw an arrow soar through the tumult like gossamer.
Looking back toward the girls, he saw Susan with his bow, notching one arrow after another as if she had been trained her whole life. If she missed a single shot, he didn’t see it, and that would have been a first. One after another fell; the bodies were piling up in the opening left by the blast, bottlenecking the incoming traffic. The onslaught of bullets slowed.
Nurse Susan inched toward him, bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, dragging Natasha along on the mat, to take cover beside him.
“How is she?” he asked, throat still lined with dust.
“Unconscious, but stable,” Nurse Susan said. “What about you? Can you move?”
She sat back on her haunches and ran a hand through her hair, leaving a sticky streak of blood across her forehead. Clint guessed it was her own from the wet patch appearing at her collar as she leaned forward to start to move the rubble away from him.
“I’m going to get you out of this,” Nurse Susan said resolvedly.
He grit his teeth and pulled his arm free as she used the end of his quiver as a lever to lift a chunk of stone away from him. He sat up, cradling the broken arm to his chest and realized he couldn’t shoot a bow, and Susan certainly couldn’t carry Natasha.
“You’re going to cover us,” he announced, slipping his good arm between Natasha’s legs, maneuvering her weight across his shoulders.
Susan swallowed and nodded, dust clinging to the blood congealing across her pale face. She was in shock, but she moved like a deer and shot like a woman possessed. Clint never remembered much else about their trip back to the Helicarrier, except for Natasha’s uncommon weight resting on his shoulders.
Agent Hill had the bay doors open when they arrived, chomping at the bit, perhaps still hoping to get in on the day’s action. Nurse Susan dropped the bow and quiver like a snake sheds its skin and sank into one of the seats, letting her head drop between her knees.
“Where is everybody?” Hill quipped as the other medical staff rushed forward to collect Natasha from him.
“This is everybody,” Clint said, returning to his seat beside Susan.
Author: downbythebay_4
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: A transformative fan work, not for profit.
Summary: Two archers find themselves in a tight spot. Crossover with The Chronicles of Narnia.
Part of a series of vignettes. (Steve Rogers/Susan Pevensie)
I. Shadows
II. High Noon
III. Nightfall
IV. Dawn
V. Green Grow the Lilacs
Notes:For the Avengersland Deep Cover Challenge. Many thanks to stargatejunkie for beta reading; all remaining errors are, of course, mine.
II. High Noon
If Clint had had his way, the plane would have dropped him in the mountains with just his bow and a couple of knives. Too many bodies to account for was the fastest way to get somebody killed. He especially didn’t like the idea of bringing the lady nurse along; whatever Fury said about her so-called qualifications, she was practically a civilian. But his knowledge of medicine was limited to what he had picked up in the field, and there was no way of telling what shape Natasha was in.
“Do you know what they do to women in a warzone?” he asked her standing over the place where she sat, segregated from the team of five other seasoned agents.
The woman met his eyes unflinchingly. “I imagine the same things they do to the men.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to find out,” Clint said, checking the fastenings of his vest. “Scared?”
“Of drowning,” she said. “Tyrants, trains, and wolves, not of this.”
“Maybe you should be,” he said. “These people we’re going in after use sweet little things like you for target practice.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t nervous,” she said. “It’s good to be nervous, it means you care. I’d like to help, if I can.”
“You can help by keeping your head down and staying out of the way,” he said.
“No, Agent Barton,” she said, blanching and shaking her head. “You won’t have to worry about me running off seeking glory on the field of battle, I promise you that.”
Clint shrugged; it was a start.
“A wise man once told me ‘battles are ugly things, when women fight’,” she said.
Clint chuckled as he thought of Natasha and the wreckage he knew full-well she was capable of leaving in her wake. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“You truly care about her, don’t you?” she asked.
“How many people do I have to hit before everyone will stop saying that,” he replied.
“You misunderstand my meaning,” she said. “You do a disservice to the scope of human emotions to believe that the most profound bond you could ever share with another person is physical.”
Clint shut his mouth and took the seat beside her and buckled in for the descent.
“I’m Susan, by the way,” she said, gripping her restraints as the craft lurched downward.
“Alright, Susan,” he nodded. “Stick with me; I’ll look after you.”
The complex where Natasha was being held was built into the side of a mountain, a series of tunnels and caves, with only one way in or out. They met relatively little resistance on the way in, so it was the out that worried him. Nurse Susan stuck close to his elbow as they made their way through the winding corridors, the occasional sounds of gunfire reverberating off the stone.
“Don’t leave my side,” he said, his bow drawn taut as they rounded another corner of cool stone. “Step only where I step. Don’t speak, don’t clear your throat; don’t even breathe heavily. Understand?”
Susan nodded, pupils dilating involuntarily. She was scared, but trying not to show it. He watched her press her lips together and make a concentrated effort to still the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest. He relaxed his bow long enough to press one finger to his lips, nodding to the door across the hall. She nodded with a succinct up-down and he kicked in the door.
As soon as he was inside, he felt his stomach plummet at the sight of the figure prone on the floor, with a shock of red curls visible against the crudely woven mat where she laid.
“Nat,” he pressed his lips together and beckoned Susan into the room.
She was three steps in front of him when an explosion in the hallway sent him sprawling. For a moment there was nothing: silence, a white sheet pulled over his eyes. After a few blinks the white gave way to tendrils of smoke and clouds of dust. There were muffled sounds.
The communicator in his ear filled his head with static. He thought, perhaps, one of the others had set off a trip wire; thought at first it might have been Susan, that she and Natasha had been obliterated in the blast. But as he regained some of his senses he realized the explosion had blown into the room, not out, so that he must have taken the worst of it.
He reached reflexively for his bow, but his right arm was pinned beneath the rubble. He expected pain, but it didn’t come, as adrenaline surged through his veins. His vision continued to clear and he realized that his bow had been thrown halfway across the room near where Susan was huddled close to Natasha. He tried to ask if they were okay, but coughed instead.
He began to recognize the muffled sounds of gunfire from the corridor and growing nearer. There was a holster at his ankle and he concentrated his efforts on stretching the fingers of his free hand toward the gun as shaded figures began to take shape in the smoke. Shots rang out. One of the shadows dropped and then another.
He thought perhaps the others had made it through, as his fingers found the barrel of the gun. He took aim, attempting to distinguish friend from foe through the smoke and dust that filled the room. And then he saw an arrow soar through the tumult like gossamer.
Looking back toward the girls, he saw Susan with his bow, notching one arrow after another as if she had been trained her whole life. If she missed a single shot, he didn’t see it, and that would have been a first. One after another fell; the bodies were piling up in the opening left by the blast, bottlenecking the incoming traffic. The onslaught of bullets slowed.
Nurse Susan inched toward him, bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, dragging Natasha along on the mat, to take cover beside him.
“How is she?” he asked, throat still lined with dust.
“Unconscious, but stable,” Nurse Susan said. “What about you? Can you move?”
She sat back on her haunches and ran a hand through her hair, leaving a sticky streak of blood across her forehead. Clint guessed it was her own from the wet patch appearing at her collar as she leaned forward to start to move the rubble away from him.
“I’m going to get you out of this,” Nurse Susan said resolvedly.
He grit his teeth and pulled his arm free as she used the end of his quiver as a lever to lift a chunk of stone away from him. He sat up, cradling the broken arm to his chest and realized he couldn’t shoot a bow, and Susan certainly couldn’t carry Natasha.
“You’re going to cover us,” he announced, slipping his good arm between Natasha’s legs, maneuvering her weight across his shoulders.
Susan swallowed and nodded, dust clinging to the blood congealing across her pale face. She was in shock, but she moved like a deer and shot like a woman possessed. Clint never remembered much else about their trip back to the Helicarrier, except for Natasha’s uncommon weight resting on his shoulders.
Agent Hill had the bay doors open when they arrived, chomping at the bit, perhaps still hoping to get in on the day’s action. Nurse Susan dropped the bow and quiver like a snake sheds its skin and sank into one of the seats, letting her head drop between her knees.
“Where is everybody?” Hill quipped as the other medical staff rushed forward to collect Natasha from him.
“This is everybody,” Clint said, returning to his seat beside Susan.