2013 - here's to you
In honor of 2013 and my New Year's Eve goal to wrap up lingering tasks, I thought I'd put up snippets from fic pieces I'll never publish. I clearly hit a dead-end on the post-a-thon (oops), so this is a small way to sweep out the 'cobwebs' from my hard-drive.
Happy New Year, one and all! :)
January
“So all of our knowledge about the monsters we’re about to face outside that door comes from a twenty-two year-old with a poli-sci background and a thing for indie songs,” Tony summarized.
“Hey!” Darcy sat upright, sneakers swinging off of the counter to rattle against her chair legs. “Most of my songs are classics.”
It was easy to hide her hurt under a pretense of indignation. He really was only telling the truth, but the implication that she was somehow less than reliable stung. Wasn’t like she had already gotten them past the druirs or wheyrks already, or anything…
“She’s already been more help today than you have, Stark,” Natasha said from her seat at the dining table, warning in her tone and blunt gaze when she looked up from the knife she was polishing. He glanced at her, eyebrows lifting dangerously, and abandoned whatever remark he had been about to make.
“You’re the best thing we’ve got, Darcy,” Clint told her, turning the group’s attention away from dangerous ground. “But that means you’ll need to be out there with us, in the battle, to give us good IDs. Think you can do that?”
She swallowed, fingers toying with the empty soda can. Fighting with the Avengers had never been her style; heck, fighting at all was pretty much out of her league. And sure, she wasn’t going to balk at the chance to help them, but…
“Ms. Lewis.” Steve’s gaze is understanding when she meets it. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Course I do,” she replied, her tone as chipper as it had ever been. “You guys would be lost without me.”
“That’s true,” Bruce murmured, and really her decision wasn’t as hard as it seemed.
Darcy stood, grabbing her Nerf gun and lifting her chin.
“All right, let’s get these sons of bitches.”
February
He had every reason, every right to give up and sink down, down into the chilling Alaskan water, down into the dark depths he and Yancy (Yancy, Yancy, Yancy) had walked through only so little time ago. It would be easy, his arm on fire (and sparks, were there sparks coming out of his veins, or were they going into them?), his mind echoing and silent, his grief too bitter and salty to choke down. But when Raleigh was about to let the ocean swallow him - them. Them, him and Gipsy (no Yancy, oh God oh God oh God). Him they could do without, him they didn’t need (who wants a broken half of a whole? who wants a broken brother?). But Gipsy - Gipsy -
When Raleigh Becket had every reason to let himself die, it was his Jaeger that saved his life.
March
Mr. Muscles jerks his chin towards the squat building just to their left, his meaning clear. 'Move it, sister,' Darcy dubs in her head as she stumbles meekly forward, not bothering to wipe her mouth with her cuffed hands. They're definitely more relaxed about pushing her around now. Why should they be worried? Between her own unsteady appearance and the sea splashing against the rocks, the dock not thirty feet away, there's no place for her to run. Middle-of-nowhere, New England, with snow everywhere and ocean around them? A fragile daisy like her wouldn't last five minutes.
But she doesn't need to last that long.
A door opens ahead of them, propped open by another black-outfitted guard. Light spills from the interior of the building, adding to the spotlights on the dock and the corners of the roof. Inside she will be safe from this freezing weather, will be able to wait and pray and hope because her friends are the Avengers and they won't leave her here.
Inside she will be the perfect bait for the trap these bastards have laid.
Ten feet from the entrance, Darcy stops abruptly and smashes her elbow into Mr. Muscles' groin, slamming her foot into his instep and her head into his nose. Muscles lets her go for a split second, grunting with pain, and she sees her chance.
Takes it.
Her sneakers squeak absurdly in the gravel-littered snow as she bolts, heading straight and true to her destination. There's shouting behind her, and yelling, and thank God nobody's thought of shooting her yet, but it's just five feet now and her arms come up reflexively, stretching over her head in a perfect line despite the cuffs when she hits the water and slips under.
The freezing cold smashes into her, stealing her breath when she gasps instinctively, numbing her thoughts as even she thinks, Good, the light's too far away, thinks they won't be able to find her quickly. She feels herself start to slow in her descent and kicks, kicks again, heading deeper into the darkness.
Come and get me if you can, you bastards.
No time to think of who she's leaving, what she's doing, just the ice and the black sea and flaring spots in her vision.
And after long, chilling seconds, everything goes blissfully, thankfully black.
April
This is how you will write their story, in the dark with only a few candles for light, the yellow gleam warm even as they flicker. And you will do this because you think you should do this, for a story filled with pain and terror and woe cannot be written any other way.
But there are moments you will miss, chances filled with sunshine and birdsong and the scratching of a turn table as old tunes spill out from the speakers. The nights when she murmurs the Russian names for the constellations burning clear and bright above them, her fingers running through his hair, the scent of honeysuckle and her drifting around him like an embrace. The moment in Santa Fe when he toasts her with a chipped glass of red wine, holding it in his dusty hand like a token of their achievement, their survival, the rest of it leeching into the dust and drying like a slow death. Even the most terrible stories have their redeeming moments, their quiet salvation; for without them, who could bear to listen?
More importantly, who could bear to live them?
May
For centuries you have done battle, have waged war against foes uncountable and unthinkable, striving to be better, to breathe, to be reminded that life is precious and can be taken from you at any moment. But now, here, on this strange little world so sure of itself and so clueless about the enormity of space, you find... absolution. Here, beside friends as strange as the stars you have wandered among, you find that each battle is fought grimly and savagely and not without joy, but not with the same shining brightness of your many years gone by. Once, you courted war; now you contend with it, picking only those that must be waged, must be won for the good of these people.
June
“You’re right, Doc.” The hand she puts in his is cold and white when he helps to get her to her feet. “Sorry you had to see me like this.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he tells her, one corner of his mouth quirking, and there is finally a wry warmth in her eyes when she glances at him.
“Let’s go scare the others,” Bruce suggests, bending to scoop up a double handful of snow. “All nice and cozy in there, I think we should bring some of the winter festivities in.” Natasha watches his broad hands compact the snow into balls, and smiles with genuine warmth for the first time in too long.
Tony, by unspoken agreement, is the first one to get a snowball down the back of his shirt.
July
"Damn it, Romanoff," he breathes as he slides towards her, checking the shadows for any threats. When he's reasonably sure there's no one else he drops to his knees, cataloging her injuries while she struggles to breathe.
"You're not the only spy who can creep up on me, Barton," she says as he lifts her torso up, and he can't read anything into her tone.
August
How do you put into numbers the hours and effort and exhaustion, the missed opportunities and the failures and the painstaking process fo starting all over again, from square one? Cuts, scrapes, gunshot wounds; fear, anger, rage... How did you sum it all up and name a figure?
She raised her eyes from the diner menu, meeting his gaze.
"Two hours of your time," she said, and he laughed as if he had known she would ask.
September
Natasha barely spares a glance out the stall window as another princess from one country or another arrives. It's become commonplace for princesses - and even some princes - to visit Fredomia, willing to try his or her luck at waking their sleeping monarch.
"Are you going to try?" Clint asks, suddenly realizing that he doesn't want her to kiss the sleeping prince, that something in him twists at the image of her in a crown, away from the stalls and the stable. It's uncomfortable, this sudden desire for her to stay, the thought that she means more to him than he understood.
She snorts a laugh, picking out another manure pile.
"Are you kidding me? If I woke him up, I'd have to be queen and spend the rest of my life in stiff, embroidered dresses and listen to nobles all day. God, that would be horrible."
He smiles with relief and amusement before wiping the expression off his face, hoping she hasn't seen. She heaves the full load into the wheelbarrow, fortunately still focused on her task.
"Do you hate them that much?"
"They have no concept of reality," she says matter of factually, contempt leaving telltale traces in her voice. "They want horses but not horseshit." To emphasize her point, she sends another forkful flying, sawdust swirling in the air.
"Sounds like a noble," he replies, grinning. She looks up at him, the mischief in her eyes asking if he means her explanation or the horseshit. Then she smiles, slow and bright and conspiratorial as she figures out his intent, and Clint can’t help but smile back.
October
In the almost darkness she studied their faces, looking from one to another with her own giving no hint of what she intended. Rogers was apprehensive, unsure of what she wanted but, with soft mouth and gentle creases around his eyes, willing to follow her; Barnes… Barnes looked at her with a sharper eye, as though he had some guess at her thoughts. Such familiar faces, and so beloved; and that, if there was anything left unsettled, settled it.
“This is ridiculous,” she told them, her fan in the hand she brought up to wave almost impatiently. “There can’t be any confusion about how I feel, and God knows you two have been clear enough. Damn society and propriety; it’s not like I had any loyalty to them anyway.”
“We noticed,” Barnes murmured, a smirk pulling on his lips. She raised an eyebrow at him and he quieted, still smirking.
November
“Can you-“
“No.”
“But you’re-“
“No.”
“If I thought women were scary during ‘that time of month’ before…”
"You know she can still hear you, right?"
"...shit."
December
They stared at the smoking inferno.
“So… let’s put down ‘no’ on using flight stabilizers to heat up metal lids.”
Happy New Year, one and all! :)
January
“So all of our knowledge about the monsters we’re about to face outside that door comes from a twenty-two year-old with a poli-sci background and a thing for indie songs,” Tony summarized.
“Hey!” Darcy sat upright, sneakers swinging off of the counter to rattle against her chair legs. “Most of my songs are classics.”
It was easy to hide her hurt under a pretense of indignation. He really was only telling the truth, but the implication that she was somehow less than reliable stung. Wasn’t like she had already gotten them past the druirs or wheyrks already, or anything…
“She’s already been more help today than you have, Stark,” Natasha said from her seat at the dining table, warning in her tone and blunt gaze when she looked up from the knife she was polishing. He glanced at her, eyebrows lifting dangerously, and abandoned whatever remark he had been about to make.
“You’re the best thing we’ve got, Darcy,” Clint told her, turning the group’s attention away from dangerous ground. “But that means you’ll need to be out there with us, in the battle, to give us good IDs. Think you can do that?”
She swallowed, fingers toying with the empty soda can. Fighting with the Avengers had never been her style; heck, fighting at all was pretty much out of her league. And sure, she wasn’t going to balk at the chance to help them, but…
“Ms. Lewis.” Steve’s gaze is understanding when she meets it. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Course I do,” she replied, her tone as chipper as it had ever been. “You guys would be lost without me.”
“That’s true,” Bruce murmured, and really her decision wasn’t as hard as it seemed.
Darcy stood, grabbing her Nerf gun and lifting her chin.
“All right, let’s get these sons of bitches.”
February
He had every reason, every right to give up and sink down, down into the chilling Alaskan water, down into the dark depths he and Yancy (Yancy, Yancy, Yancy) had walked through only so little time ago. It would be easy, his arm on fire (and sparks, were there sparks coming out of his veins, or were they going into them?), his mind echoing and silent, his grief too bitter and salty to choke down. But when Raleigh was about to let the ocean swallow him - them. Them, him and Gipsy (no Yancy, oh God oh God oh God). Him they could do without, him they didn’t need (who wants a broken half of a whole? who wants a broken brother?). But Gipsy - Gipsy -
When Raleigh Becket had every reason to let himself die, it was his Jaeger that saved his life.
March
Mr. Muscles jerks his chin towards the squat building just to their left, his meaning clear. 'Move it, sister,' Darcy dubs in her head as she stumbles meekly forward, not bothering to wipe her mouth with her cuffed hands. They're definitely more relaxed about pushing her around now. Why should they be worried? Between her own unsteady appearance and the sea splashing against the rocks, the dock not thirty feet away, there's no place for her to run. Middle-of-nowhere, New England, with snow everywhere and ocean around them? A fragile daisy like her wouldn't last five minutes.
But she doesn't need to last that long.
A door opens ahead of them, propped open by another black-outfitted guard. Light spills from the interior of the building, adding to the spotlights on the dock and the corners of the roof. Inside she will be safe from this freezing weather, will be able to wait and pray and hope because her friends are the Avengers and they won't leave her here.
Inside she will be the perfect bait for the trap these bastards have laid.
Ten feet from the entrance, Darcy stops abruptly and smashes her elbow into Mr. Muscles' groin, slamming her foot into his instep and her head into his nose. Muscles lets her go for a split second, grunting with pain, and she sees her chance.
Takes it.
Her sneakers squeak absurdly in the gravel-littered snow as she bolts, heading straight and true to her destination. There's shouting behind her, and yelling, and thank God nobody's thought of shooting her yet, but it's just five feet now and her arms come up reflexively, stretching over her head in a perfect line despite the cuffs when she hits the water and slips under.
The freezing cold smashes into her, stealing her breath when she gasps instinctively, numbing her thoughts as even she thinks, Good, the light's too far away, thinks they won't be able to find her quickly. She feels herself start to slow in her descent and kicks, kicks again, heading deeper into the darkness.
Come and get me if you can, you bastards.
No time to think of who she's leaving, what she's doing, just the ice and the black sea and flaring spots in her vision.
And after long, chilling seconds, everything goes blissfully, thankfully black.
April
This is how you will write their story, in the dark with only a few candles for light, the yellow gleam warm even as they flicker. And you will do this because you think you should do this, for a story filled with pain and terror and woe cannot be written any other way.
But there are moments you will miss, chances filled with sunshine and birdsong and the scratching of a turn table as old tunes spill out from the speakers. The nights when she murmurs the Russian names for the constellations burning clear and bright above them, her fingers running through his hair, the scent of honeysuckle and her drifting around him like an embrace. The moment in Santa Fe when he toasts her with a chipped glass of red wine, holding it in his dusty hand like a token of their achievement, their survival, the rest of it leeching into the dust and drying like a slow death. Even the most terrible stories have their redeeming moments, their quiet salvation; for without them, who could bear to listen?
More importantly, who could bear to live them?
May
For centuries you have done battle, have waged war against foes uncountable and unthinkable, striving to be better, to breathe, to be reminded that life is precious and can be taken from you at any moment. But now, here, on this strange little world so sure of itself and so clueless about the enormity of space, you find... absolution. Here, beside friends as strange as the stars you have wandered among, you find that each battle is fought grimly and savagely and not without joy, but not with the same shining brightness of your many years gone by. Once, you courted war; now you contend with it, picking only those that must be waged, must be won for the good of these people.
June
“You’re right, Doc.” The hand she puts in his is cold and white when he helps to get her to her feet. “Sorry you had to see me like this.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he tells her, one corner of his mouth quirking, and there is finally a wry warmth in her eyes when she glances at him.
“Let’s go scare the others,” Bruce suggests, bending to scoop up a double handful of snow. “All nice and cozy in there, I think we should bring some of the winter festivities in.” Natasha watches his broad hands compact the snow into balls, and smiles with genuine warmth for the first time in too long.
Tony, by unspoken agreement, is the first one to get a snowball down the back of his shirt.
July
"Damn it, Romanoff," he breathes as he slides towards her, checking the shadows for any threats. When he's reasonably sure there's no one else he drops to his knees, cataloging her injuries while she struggles to breathe.
"You're not the only spy who can creep up on me, Barton," she says as he lifts her torso up, and he can't read anything into her tone.
August
How do you put into numbers the hours and effort and exhaustion, the missed opportunities and the failures and the painstaking process fo starting all over again, from square one? Cuts, scrapes, gunshot wounds; fear, anger, rage... How did you sum it all up and name a figure?
She raised her eyes from the diner menu, meeting his gaze.
"Two hours of your time," she said, and he laughed as if he had known she would ask.
September
Natasha barely spares a glance out the stall window as another princess from one country or another arrives. It's become commonplace for princesses - and even some princes - to visit Fredomia, willing to try his or her luck at waking their sleeping monarch.
"Are you going to try?" Clint asks, suddenly realizing that he doesn't want her to kiss the sleeping prince, that something in him twists at the image of her in a crown, away from the stalls and the stable. It's uncomfortable, this sudden desire for her to stay, the thought that she means more to him than he understood.
She snorts a laugh, picking out another manure pile.
"Are you kidding me? If I woke him up, I'd have to be queen and spend the rest of my life in stiff, embroidered dresses and listen to nobles all day. God, that would be horrible."
He smiles with relief and amusement before wiping the expression off his face, hoping she hasn't seen. She heaves the full load into the wheelbarrow, fortunately still focused on her task.
"Do you hate them that much?"
"They have no concept of reality," she says matter of factually, contempt leaving telltale traces in her voice. "They want horses but not horseshit." To emphasize her point, she sends another forkful flying, sawdust swirling in the air.
"Sounds like a noble," he replies, grinning. She looks up at him, the mischief in her eyes asking if he means her explanation or the horseshit. Then she smiles, slow and bright and conspiratorial as she figures out his intent, and Clint can’t help but smile back.
October
In the almost darkness she studied their faces, looking from one to another with her own giving no hint of what she intended. Rogers was apprehensive, unsure of what she wanted but, with soft mouth and gentle creases around his eyes, willing to follow her; Barnes… Barnes looked at her with a sharper eye, as though he had some guess at her thoughts. Such familiar faces, and so beloved; and that, if there was anything left unsettled, settled it.
“This is ridiculous,” she told them, her fan in the hand she brought up to wave almost impatiently. “There can’t be any confusion about how I feel, and God knows you two have been clear enough. Damn society and propriety; it’s not like I had any loyalty to them anyway.”
“We noticed,” Barnes murmured, a smirk pulling on his lips. She raised an eyebrow at him and he quieted, still smirking.
November
“Can you-“
“No.”
“But you’re-“
“No.”
“If I thought women were scary during ‘that time of month’ before…”
"You know she can still hear you, right?"
"...shit."
December
They stared at the smoking inferno.
“So… let’s put down ‘no’ on using flight stabilizers to heat up metal lids.”