[ Бог дал, Бог и взял ]
WHO: deadlieststing and nailsthetarget. Part 2.
WHAT: The second stop on Clint's Seattle tour
WHERE: outside of a bar in Seattle
WHEN: Shortly after this log.
WARNINGS: Attempted murder, breaking of things, cursing, shit being flipped
SUMMARY: With Clint, good luck and bad luck look almost the same. He finds the other woman that he's looking for, but he bites off more than he can chew.
The frustration roared in him, soundless and deafening. He'd left Natasha without securing any hard evidence that she was the right fucking woman or making sure that he'd killed her. She'd fallen, hard, but he hadn't been able to stick around long enough to watch her bleed out or wait for her pulse to weaken and fade.
He'd needed that satisfaction. He'd needed it more than air and he'd been cheated. Clint wanted to put his fist through a wall, so he focused instead on breathing through his anger and pain. The kid had seen his face. It was only a matter of time before some form of authority or do-gooder started aiming for him.
He pressed his fingers into the sluggishly bleeding wound in his right thigh. It was starting to clot, but it was nasty---nastier even than the bullet wound. He'd already dug a bullet out from near his shoulder. He knew he'd gotten lucky on that one, because it'd hit the deltopectoral groove, and though he felt weak from the blood loss, he still had use of his arm. That was a fucking miracle. He'd have to field dress and hope to God that he didn't bleed to death, but Clint had been through a hell of a lot worse.
He had exactly twelve hours until the next train came. He was already thumbing through options in his head, deciding how he'd get himself cleaned up enough to get back without a hitch. Camped in a narrow alley, he only half-heard the din of bar-goers. It took him only a few minutes to emergency-dress his wounds and pull on a jacket over his uniform, quiver, and bow. The bandages on the tips of every finger, covering where his nails had been, were stained with his own blood---and a little of hers, too, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction. He drank half the bottle of water he'd brought with him in two ragged gulps, willing his lightheadedness away.
That's why when he saw her, he almost thought that he was hallucinating. You've gone and done it now, Barton, Clint told himself, staring at her. You're seeing shit. You know that's a bad sign. That's the worst fucking sign. So buckle up, sport: you'll be seeing Laura and the kids soon.
Her hair was longer and darker, but he knew her. At a gut instinct level, Clint would always recognize Natasha.
WHAT: The second stop on Clint's Seattle tour
WHERE: outside of a bar in Seattle
WHEN: Shortly after this log.
WARNINGS: Attempted murder, breaking of things, cursing, shit being flipped
SUMMARY: With Clint, good luck and bad luck look almost the same. He finds the other woman that he's looking for, but he bites off more than he can chew.
The frustration roared in him, soundless and deafening. He'd left Natasha without securing any hard evidence that she was the right fucking woman or making sure that he'd killed her. She'd fallen, hard, but he hadn't been able to stick around long enough to watch her bleed out or wait for her pulse to weaken and fade.
He'd needed that satisfaction. He'd needed it more than air and he'd been cheated. Clint wanted to put his fist through a wall, so he focused instead on breathing through his anger and pain. The kid had seen his face. It was only a matter of time before some form of authority or do-gooder started aiming for him.
He pressed his fingers into the sluggishly bleeding wound in his right thigh. It was starting to clot, but it was nasty---nastier even than the bullet wound. He'd already dug a bullet out from near his shoulder. He knew he'd gotten lucky on that one, because it'd hit the deltopectoral groove, and though he felt weak from the blood loss, he still had use of his arm. That was a fucking miracle. He'd have to field dress and hope to God that he didn't bleed to death, but Clint had been through a hell of a lot worse.
He had exactly twelve hours until the next train came. He was already thumbing through options in his head, deciding how he'd get himself cleaned up enough to get back without a hitch. Camped in a narrow alley, he only half-heard the din of bar-goers. It took him only a few minutes to emergency-dress his wounds and pull on a jacket over his uniform, quiver, and bow. The bandages on the tips of every finger, covering where his nails had been, were stained with his own blood---and a little of hers, too, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction. He drank half the bottle of water he'd brought with him in two ragged gulps, willing his lightheadedness away.
That's why when he saw her, he almost thought that he was hallucinating. You've gone and done it now, Barton, Clint told himself, staring at her. You're seeing shit. You know that's a bad sign. That's the worst fucking sign. So buckle up, sport: you'll be seeing Laura and the kids soon.
Her hair was longer and darker, but he knew her. At a gut instinct level, Clint would always recognize Natasha.