Fic: The Night Circus - Clint/Natasha style (NC/Avengers AU)
This is for inkvoices and was written very quickly but I didn't want to lose the magic.
Title: The Night Circus - Clint/Natasha style (an AU)
Word Count: 1759
Rating: PG
He and Barney found the circus completely by accident. They’d run away from yet another foster home, intent on making it to the ocean (because Clint really wanted to see the ocean and now was as good a time as any), when they decided to stay the night under some trees surrounding a deserted field. When they woke up the next morning, the empty field wasn’t so empty any longer.
Barney wanted to sneak through the fence but Clint demanded they wait until it opened. They both had rumbling stomachs by the time they gates opened at sunset, the smell of caramel apples driving them mad with hunger after only having withered apples to appease them through the long, sun-drenched day.
“What are you going to do first?” Barney asked, his eyes roaming over the sea of black and white striped tents as if he was memorizing the layout. “I want to see lions.”
The occasional roar had sounded intriguing but Clint didn’t want to watch a bunch of big cats run around a ring. He’d seen something like that on a television at a random foster home, the animals looking as trapped and confused as he’d always felt in this new world that didn’t include his mother and father.
“I want,” but he hesitated to answer. What did he want? One day of fun could not make up for the fact that his life sucked. It would continue to suck. No matter how brave he tried to play for his older brother, he knew that they would be caught again. This time, it would probably be a state-run orphanage that they were sent to. Nothing nice and certainly not anything that could be easily escaped from.
This was the last bit of fun they’d probably have for a very long time. It would need to last them. So what did he want most of all?
“I want to see the acrobats.”
But what he was really saying was I want freedom.
***
Natasha couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t tired. Everything she did or said or thought revolved around work. Now, as she was surrounded by a milling crowd, she wondered if it was possible to slip in among them and lose herself. Could she get so lost that she’d never be able to find herself again?
A rose landed at her feet. She looked around, trying in vain to see who was responsible. When no one appeared to be concerned with what she was doing, she reached down to gather up the scattered blossoms.
Thirty more steps and it happened again. This time, she didn’t bother to look around before she picked up the broken flower and began walking again.
By the third time, she had figured out what direction the missile was coming from and approximately what trajectory she should be following. Instead of looking around, she looked up. A darker blur of black in the shadows was her only indication that her suspicions had been correct. Natasha raised a flower in salute, bringing it to her nose to try to capture the scent along with the memory that she was storing away.
Her real intent forgotten, Natasha began to just wander through the circus. None of the tents beckoned her until she found herself lifting her hand to push open a flap set well away from the rest of the crowd. A woman clad in black, her face hidden by dark netting, beckoned her forward.
“Have you come to have your cards read?”
“Excuse me?” When she tried to leave, the door wasn’t where it appeared to be.
“Your cards. Your future.”
The blood red petals scattered as she clutched at the floral gifts. “I don’t want to know my future.”
“You don’t?” The woman began to shuffle the deck of cards, letting them flash and twirl between her fingertips.
Natasha shook her head, sinking down into the proffered seat without thinking about it. “I barely care about what happens tomorrow. Why should I care what happens in fifty years?”
“Would you like to know about tomorrow?”
The rose petals looked obscene against the black and white of the cloth as she forgot her burden and placed her hands on the table. “And what would that benefit me?”
As the woman leaned forward, Natasha realized she was staring intently at the roses. She began to hum a tune under her breath as if she’d forgotten that she had a guest in her tent.
“You are not as unforgivable as you think. There is red in your ledger but that doesn’t mean it can’t be blotted out.” The barest hint of a smile peeked through the netting. “But you can’t do it alone.”
“I work better alone.”
“And where has that gotten you? Face it, Natasha. You deserve better.”
***
The shadows move near the front gate as she attempts to leave. “It’s a little early to be leaving.”
Natasha knows she should have been prepared for the man looming in front of her but, sad to say, she feels her muscles freeze for the barest of seconds. He’s dressed all in black except for the hint of silver thread woven through the material that captured the light and flung it back at her like stars winking on and off in the night sky.
“It’s a little late to be out, actually.”
“Who was the woman you were following earlier?”
“Excuse me?” His observation floored her. Between this and the woman reading the rose petals, Natasha started to feel as if this whole experience was surreal. If the wind hadn’t suddenly picked up, lifting her hair up off her neck, she might have thought she was dreaming.
“The dark-haired woman with the sour expression. Who is she?”
There was no use lying. Not when she’d been made but a circus performer who used plants as his arsenal even though she could see the quiver of real arrows, fletched in silver threads, hanging at his side. “The woman I was sent to kill.”
“What has she done to deserve that?”
Another question she was not prepared to answer but, just like with the woman in black, she felt compelled to answer him. “It is not up to me to decide what she’s done. I am merely the instrument that is used to bring about the desired results.”
He was close enough now that she could see that his eyes were the color of a storm cloud. Poetic, really, considering the expression on his face. But he wasn’t angry with her, even though he looked as if he was headed into battle.
“Don’t you have any say with your own life?”
“Do you?”
“I can leave with you right now.” He held out a hand as if he intended to walk hand-in-hand through the gate. As if in a dream, she felt her arm extending even though she wasn’t actively telling it to move. When he had her hand engulfed in his, he turned it over so her palm was facing up. Slowly, one of his fingers began to trace over the skin. “But I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“And what is it that you think I want?” Because, quite frankly, she didn’t know what she wanted so how could he.
“Freedom.”
As he said the word, she felt disconcerted, as if what her eyes saw and what her skin felt were two different things. She wasn’t standing on the ground but her feet were still balanced on the crushed grass of the path. She was swaying slightly, her hair swinging about her neck and shoulders, but her stomach couldn’t detect the movement. His hand still holds hers and his finger was still drawing subtle pictures along her skin, but he was also grasping it firmly in a grip that, if he relaxed, would send her plummeting to the ground.
“Where are we?” she asked even though she could see where they were. She just didn’t know if she believed it.
“You were a dancer once. It’s still there, in your bones and flesh, a memory of what is possible.” They’ve picked up speed, the wind now creating friction along her skin. Even though she thinks she should be afraid, she isn’t.
Suddenly, he’s no longer holding on to her but she’s still flying. “Dance for me.” His words sounded far away but she can feel his lips nearly touching her ear as he whispered them from a more intimate distance.
It never dawned on her to say no.
***
When you come to the circus, your expectations high and your enthusiasm bubbling over, you never think that it’s a place you can stay at for any longer than a night. You never once ask yourself if this is a place you would like to spend your life. It’s a welcome distraction for two nights, or maybe three.
As you walk from tent to tent, sampling delights for all the senses, you never once imagine that it could be you because it’s all too fantastical to be real. It’s a nice dream.
And when you enter the tent that is so high up into the sky that you can barely see the tiny figures up on the high ledges, you don’t ever ask yourself where they got their training and who they are when they aren’t wearing their white and black costumes that make them appear as if they are shadow and light, dancing together as if they were meant to be two sides of one person. You merely enjoy the show. At the end, when they spin together faster and faster while red blossoms fall from the pair like drops of blood, you try to catch one. If you’re lucky, your fingers grasp one or two and you stuff them in your pocket where you let your fingers smooth over them from time to time and you find yourself smiling at the silky texture that is a constant delight.
The next morning, you awake from your slumber and marvel at the scrap of white paper that held your cinnamon swirls or the bit of black ribbon that you found on the ground. They are figments of a delightful dream.
What you don’t see are the red petals. You remember them in great detail. In fact, the tips of your fingertips are still red from where you caressed them. But they are nowhere to be seen. Somewhere, in the night, they’ve fallen free of your grasp and you cry for what you will never have again.
Title: The Night Circus - Clint/Natasha style (an AU)
Word Count: 1759
Rating: PG
He and Barney found the circus completely by accident. They’d run away from yet another foster home, intent on making it to the ocean (because Clint really wanted to see the ocean and now was as good a time as any), when they decided to stay the night under some trees surrounding a deserted field. When they woke up the next morning, the empty field wasn’t so empty any longer.
Barney wanted to sneak through the fence but Clint demanded they wait until it opened. They both had rumbling stomachs by the time they gates opened at sunset, the smell of caramel apples driving them mad with hunger after only having withered apples to appease them through the long, sun-drenched day.
“What are you going to do first?” Barney asked, his eyes roaming over the sea of black and white striped tents as if he was memorizing the layout. “I want to see lions.”
The occasional roar had sounded intriguing but Clint didn’t want to watch a bunch of big cats run around a ring. He’d seen something like that on a television at a random foster home, the animals looking as trapped and confused as he’d always felt in this new world that didn’t include his mother and father.
“I want,” but he hesitated to answer. What did he want? One day of fun could not make up for the fact that his life sucked. It would continue to suck. No matter how brave he tried to play for his older brother, he knew that they would be caught again. This time, it would probably be a state-run orphanage that they were sent to. Nothing nice and certainly not anything that could be easily escaped from.
This was the last bit of fun they’d probably have for a very long time. It would need to last them. So what did he want most of all?
“I want to see the acrobats.”
But what he was really saying was I want freedom.
***
Natasha couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t tired. Everything she did or said or thought revolved around work. Now, as she was surrounded by a milling crowd, she wondered if it was possible to slip in among them and lose herself. Could she get so lost that she’d never be able to find herself again?
A rose landed at her feet. She looked around, trying in vain to see who was responsible. When no one appeared to be concerned with what she was doing, she reached down to gather up the scattered blossoms.
Thirty more steps and it happened again. This time, she didn’t bother to look around before she picked up the broken flower and began walking again.
By the third time, she had figured out what direction the missile was coming from and approximately what trajectory she should be following. Instead of looking around, she looked up. A darker blur of black in the shadows was her only indication that her suspicions had been correct. Natasha raised a flower in salute, bringing it to her nose to try to capture the scent along with the memory that she was storing away.
Her real intent forgotten, Natasha began to just wander through the circus. None of the tents beckoned her until she found herself lifting her hand to push open a flap set well away from the rest of the crowd. A woman clad in black, her face hidden by dark netting, beckoned her forward.
“Have you come to have your cards read?”
“Excuse me?” When she tried to leave, the door wasn’t where it appeared to be.
“Your cards. Your future.”
The blood red petals scattered as she clutched at the floral gifts. “I don’t want to know my future.”
“You don’t?” The woman began to shuffle the deck of cards, letting them flash and twirl between her fingertips.
Natasha shook her head, sinking down into the proffered seat without thinking about it. “I barely care about what happens tomorrow. Why should I care what happens in fifty years?”
“Would you like to know about tomorrow?”
The rose petals looked obscene against the black and white of the cloth as she forgot her burden and placed her hands on the table. “And what would that benefit me?”
As the woman leaned forward, Natasha realized she was staring intently at the roses. She began to hum a tune under her breath as if she’d forgotten that she had a guest in her tent.
“You are not as unforgivable as you think. There is red in your ledger but that doesn’t mean it can’t be blotted out.” The barest hint of a smile peeked through the netting. “But you can’t do it alone.”
“I work better alone.”
“And where has that gotten you? Face it, Natasha. You deserve better.”
***
The shadows move near the front gate as she attempts to leave. “It’s a little early to be leaving.”
Natasha knows she should have been prepared for the man looming in front of her but, sad to say, she feels her muscles freeze for the barest of seconds. He’s dressed all in black except for the hint of silver thread woven through the material that captured the light and flung it back at her like stars winking on and off in the night sky.
“It’s a little late to be out, actually.”
“Who was the woman you were following earlier?”
“Excuse me?” His observation floored her. Between this and the woman reading the rose petals, Natasha started to feel as if this whole experience was surreal. If the wind hadn’t suddenly picked up, lifting her hair up off her neck, she might have thought she was dreaming.
“The dark-haired woman with the sour expression. Who is she?”
There was no use lying. Not when she’d been made but a circus performer who used plants as his arsenal even though she could see the quiver of real arrows, fletched in silver threads, hanging at his side. “The woman I was sent to kill.”
“What has she done to deserve that?”
Another question she was not prepared to answer but, just like with the woman in black, she felt compelled to answer him. “It is not up to me to decide what she’s done. I am merely the instrument that is used to bring about the desired results.”
He was close enough now that she could see that his eyes were the color of a storm cloud. Poetic, really, considering the expression on his face. But he wasn’t angry with her, even though he looked as if he was headed into battle.
“Don’t you have any say with your own life?”
“Do you?”
“I can leave with you right now.” He held out a hand as if he intended to walk hand-in-hand through the gate. As if in a dream, she felt her arm extending even though she wasn’t actively telling it to move. When he had her hand engulfed in his, he turned it over so her palm was facing up. Slowly, one of his fingers began to trace over the skin. “But I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“And what is it that you think I want?” Because, quite frankly, she didn’t know what she wanted so how could he.
“Freedom.”
As he said the word, she felt disconcerted, as if what her eyes saw and what her skin felt were two different things. She wasn’t standing on the ground but her feet were still balanced on the crushed grass of the path. She was swaying slightly, her hair swinging about her neck and shoulders, but her stomach couldn’t detect the movement. His hand still holds hers and his finger was still drawing subtle pictures along her skin, but he was also grasping it firmly in a grip that, if he relaxed, would send her plummeting to the ground.
“Where are we?” she asked even though she could see where they were. She just didn’t know if she believed it.
“You were a dancer once. It’s still there, in your bones and flesh, a memory of what is possible.” They’ve picked up speed, the wind now creating friction along her skin. Even though she thinks she should be afraid, she isn’t.
Suddenly, he’s no longer holding on to her but she’s still flying. “Dance for me.” His words sounded far away but she can feel his lips nearly touching her ear as he whispered them from a more intimate distance.
It never dawned on her to say no.
***
When you come to the circus, your expectations high and your enthusiasm bubbling over, you never think that it’s a place you can stay at for any longer than a night. You never once ask yourself if this is a place you would like to spend your life. It’s a welcome distraction for two nights, or maybe three.
As you walk from tent to tent, sampling delights for all the senses, you never once imagine that it could be you because it’s all too fantastical to be real. It’s a nice dream.
And when you enter the tent that is so high up into the sky that you can barely see the tiny figures up on the high ledges, you don’t ever ask yourself where they got their training and who they are when they aren’t wearing their white and black costumes that make them appear as if they are shadow and light, dancing together as if they were meant to be two sides of one person. You merely enjoy the show. At the end, when they spin together faster and faster while red blossoms fall from the pair like drops of blood, you try to catch one. If you’re lucky, your fingers grasp one or two and you stuff them in your pocket where you let your fingers smooth over them from time to time and you find yourself smiling at the silky texture that is a constant delight.
The next morning, you awake from your slumber and marvel at the scrap of white paper that held your cinnamon swirls or the bit of black ribbon that you found on the ground. They are figments of a delightful dream.
What you don’t see are the red petals. You remember them in great detail. In fact, the tips of your fingertips are still red from where you caressed them. But they are nowhere to be seen. Somewhere, in the night, they’ve fallen free of your grasp and you cry for what you will never have again.