gravity don't mean too much to me, the avengers, clint/natasha, pg-13, warnings for cigarette use, guns
(Five.)
Somewhere in the world right now, the Venetian blinds are dappling his coat; somewhere in the world right now, she slinks into his office, dress like a snakeskin and legs all the way up to here; somewhere in the world right now, he blows a long hiss of smoke into the air, grinds his cigarette into a black spot on his desk, snaps and snarks in an accent that's not even his own.
(Four.)
Somewhere in the world right now, she aims a gun between his eyes and stares, unblinking, unafraid. His hands waver, and this is not how the story is supposed to go.
(Three.)
She doesn't lean forward across his desk so her low-cut dress is cut even lower; he doesn't puff smoke into her face and tell her he doesn't take cases from dames. She appears in his office, chest heaving, fanning her face, nearly fainting, and when he kneels by her and asks what's the matter, she grabs his gun from his holster, kisses him, and knocks him out.
When he wakes up the sergeant tells him he's got a lead, revenge is just around the corner, he's gotta go after her, smuggling ring, mob business, down by the docks, late tonight. He rubs his lips and says, damn, but that was a woman. The sergeant gives him a look and tells him to pull himself together; he doesn't have the heart to say he hasn't been together for a long, long time.
(Two, and now the circle is whirling, black on white on grainy grey, and the violins are soaring, and the audience shifts in their seats, crunches a peanut, sneaks in around the back for the double feature; two, and the trumpets dance, the trombones slide, a wayward boot crushes a kernel of popcorn into the ancient carpet.)
On a ship halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, he finally finds her singing for a crowd of men, her dress glittering, her eyes old and cold. She meets his gaze through the crowd, and doesn't even pretend to look surprised.
She stops him as he goes back to his cabin; in storage she runs a long-fingered hand down his chest, gives him kisses that taste like smoke and frost, strips every inch of him until he's shuddering and broken and glowing. He wakes up stuffed in a lifeboat with no shirt on, puts his hands behind his head, and sighs like it's Christmas morning.
He finds her again once they dock in London, leaning against one of the salt-crusted posts, her arms crossed over her breasts. He says, "Sweetheart, you're mixed up with things way too big for you. Come back with me to New York, and they might give you a piece of pie with your last meal."
She says, "How long have you been at this, Barton?"
"At what?" he says, suspicious.
She waves a hand. "Private eye work. Heroism. Shadows."
"Long enough to know dames like you don't belong mixed up in things like this," he says; she's off-script, this is the wrong story, and it's making his heart hurt, and he doesn't know whether that's because he hates it so much or he wants it so bad, and he doesn't know if there's a difference.
She says, "Run away with me."
(One.)
Somewhere in the world right now, there's a police station, and a fedora, and a long shot of whiskey. Somewhere in the world right now, there's a New York accent that spits and snarls, a line of bullets stretching from here to eternity. Somewhere in the world right now, the sergeant raises a single brow; somewhere in the world right now, the femme fatale languishes in a dirty alley, the long white lines of her neck exposed, a dark stain spreading across her lovely waist; somewhere in the world right now, the ace detective tips his hat, lights up a smoke, tilts his chair back and heaves a sigh.
Somewhere else, Natasha presses one stiletto to the accelerator, and Clint lets the sudden speed snatch his fedora into the spiraling, dusty winds.
(And the cellos swell, and the audience stirs in their seats and does not know whether to applaud, and the screen shrinks to a perfect point of light, writes The End in swirling script, disappears.
Wow, that was fast! AND AWESOME. Thank you so much!
I love all of this, it's still recognisably them, but perfectly adapted for this setting. And the ending is wonderfully ambiguous and very well written.
Somewhere else, Natasha presses one stiletto to the accelerator, and Clint lets the sudden speed snatch his fedora into the spiraling, dusty winds.
This is my favourite line, it says a lot with so few words and I can picture it so clearly.
(Five.)
Somewhere in the world right now, the Venetian blinds are dappling his coat; somewhere in the world right now, she slinks into his office, dress like a snakeskin and legs all the way up to here; somewhere in the world right now, he blows a long hiss of smoke into the air, grinds his cigarette into a black spot on his desk, snaps and snarks in an accent that's not even his own.
(Four.)
Somewhere in the world right now, she aims a gun between his eyes and stares, unblinking, unafraid. His hands waver, and this is not how the story is supposed to go.
(Three.)
She doesn't lean forward across his desk so her low-cut dress is cut even lower; he doesn't puff smoke into her face and tell her he doesn't take cases from dames. She appears in his office, chest heaving, fanning her face, nearly fainting, and when he kneels by her and asks what's the matter, she grabs his gun from his holster, kisses him, and knocks him out.
When he wakes up the sergeant tells him he's got a lead, revenge is just around the corner, he's gotta go after her, smuggling ring, mob business, down by the docks, late tonight. He rubs his lips and says, damn, but that was a woman. The sergeant gives him a look and tells him to pull himself together; he doesn't have the heart to say he hasn't been together for a long, long time.
(Two, and now the circle is whirling, black on white on grainy grey, and the violins are soaring, and the audience shifts in their seats, crunches a peanut, sneaks in around the back for the double feature; two, and the trumpets dance, the trombones slide, a wayward boot crushes a kernel of popcorn into the ancient carpet.)
On a ship halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, he finally finds her singing for a crowd of men, her dress glittering, her eyes old and cold. She meets his gaze through the crowd, and doesn't even pretend to look surprised.
She stops him as he goes back to his cabin; in storage she runs a long-fingered hand down his chest, gives him kisses that taste like smoke and frost, strips every inch of him until he's shuddering and broken and glowing. He wakes up stuffed in a lifeboat with no shirt on, puts his hands behind his head, and sighs like it's Christmas morning.
He finds her again once they dock in London, leaning against one of the salt-crusted posts, her arms crossed over her breasts. He says, "Sweetheart, you're mixed up with things way too big for you. Come back with me to New York, and they might give you a piece of pie with your last meal."
She says, "How long have you been at this, Barton?"
"At what?" he says, suspicious.
She waves a hand. "Private eye work. Heroism. Shadows."
"Long enough to know dames like you don't belong mixed up in things like this," he says; she's off-script, this is the wrong story, and it's making his heart hurt, and he doesn't know whether that's because he hates it so much or he wants it so bad, and he doesn't know if there's a difference.
She says, "Run away with me."
(One.)
Somewhere in the world right now, there's a police station, and a fedora, and a long shot of whiskey. Somewhere in the world right now, there's a New York accent that spits and snarls, a line of bullets stretching from here to eternity. Somewhere in the world right now, the sergeant raises a single brow; somewhere in the world right now, the femme fatale languishes in a dirty alley, the long white lines of her neck exposed, a dark stain spreading across her lovely waist; somewhere in the world right now, the ace detective tips his hat, lights up a smoke, tilts his chair back and heaves a sigh.
Somewhere else, Natasha presses one stiletto to the accelerator, and Clint lets the sudden speed snatch his fedora into the spiraling, dusty winds.
(And the cellos swell, and the audience stirs in their seats and does not know whether to applaud, and the screen shrinks to a perfect point of light, writes The End in swirling script, disappears.
Zero.)
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I love all of this, it's still recognisably them, but perfectly adapted for this setting. And the ending is wonderfully ambiguous and very well written.
Somewhere else, Natasha presses one stiletto to the accelerator, and Clint lets the sudden speed snatch his fedora into the spiraling, dusty winds.
This is my favourite line, it says a lot with so few words and I can picture it so clearly.
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