penny for your thoughts
The last of the clean-out sets for now - and it's not a happy one. For that reason I've put the whole kit-and-caboodle under a Read-More, with just teaser snippets above the cut.
penny for your thoughts - set
warnings: canon-level violence, torture, blood, implied character death
nickels
He sees the truth of her - and looks away.
dimes
Lion-eater, man-tamer, heart-breaker; they always try to label her, to shut her into their comfortable boxes and set her aside wrapped up in their definitions like the contortionists, bent and stretched and almost broken.
quarters
In the soaring catwalks there was no time to think, no time to retreat, only the dance of blade and body as Saied ducked under the soldier’s knife and kicked out the whip-thin woman’s legs from under her.
silver dollars
“I can’t stand for this, sir.” Abrams spoke into the silence, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. “It’s not right. It’s not what SHIELD was meant to do.”
Nickels
He sees the truth of her - and looks away.
Natasha swallows, tries to cope with the burgeoning knot in her chest; she had known, had expected, and looking in the mirror had herself flinched - but standing here, raw and naked in a way her childhood tormentors never could have achieved, it burns like fire, like acid, like truth.
“You think that’s bad?” He asks, breaking the leaden silence following the Nemir’s words, and Natasha winces, flinches in confusion at the sound of it. “You think she’s got blood on her hands?” And his shadow is lengthening, is stretching impossibly far behind him, as though a star a thousand times larger than the sun is rising in the sky. “You haven’t seen anything.”
And tendrils of dark ink spill out from the edges of his shape, twisting in script and letters and the brushed police outlines of corpses, sprawled and thrown and shattered on the furious red sand. In the telling of his story, in the kill count marked indelibly in his psyche and the lines of his palms, in the growing tide of black stories and splattered arterial sprays, Natasha realizes she loves him.
Dimes
Lion-eater, man-tamer, heart-breaker; they always try to label her, to shut her into their comfortable boxes and set her aside wrapped up in their definitions like the contortionists, bent and stretched and almost broken. She drinks whiskey and smokes cigars and cracks her whip to catch them on their liars’ mouths, snarling like the lions she circles with under the circus lights, under the wide eyes of the spellbound audiences. In her sleek shirts and ripped pants, twisting and turning with each arching breath to hold the amber eyes of her prey (every relationship reversed, every rule broken like it was meant to be), she holds their gazes, holds their admiration, holds the edges of her wounds together with bare hands and sweat.
They want her, the taste of her, the blood of her, the sweet heart under ivory ribs and a cracked breastbone, and animal and man alike go wanting, lusting, respected or rebuked. The beasts she understands and forgives; they have been taken from their dusty savannah ranges, from the shade of the acacia trees and the freedom even death can grant. Their captors, their owners, their boasting betters and puppet-makers - she condemns.
Under the hot white spotlights of the Big Top she dances, always close to letting the lions catch her, always one step ahead; never more alive, never more free than when circling in cages of steel and canvas and culture.
Quarters
In the soaring catwalks there was no time to think, no time to retreat, only the dance of blade and body as Saied ducked under the soldier’s knife and kicked out the whip-thin woman’s legs from under her. She crashed onto the grating and stayed down when he drove his own knife into her heart. In another smooth motion he turned, spotted the tattooed, mean-eyed soldier clambering onto the catwalk, and sent his knife flying.
The wiry man gurgled, collapsing forward onto the narrow path, and didn’t get up.
Chest heaving, the newly minted Level 3 agent paused to catch his breath. The rafters were clear; the only battle going on now was on the ground floor below. In the closest arena to his perch, Natasha duked it out the only soldier left standing with punches and kicks that had Saied wincing. The dark-skinned man went down seconds later - and while the Widow was standing over his limp frame, another camo-clad figure darted out of the shadows and made for the door. Natasha drew her last knife and threw it one smooth motion, leaving her empty-handed in the middle of the carnage. Only once her target crumpled did she pause to look around much like Saied had, waiting to see if anyone else would try to make it past her.
The muted rattle of someone crossing the catwalk drew Saied’s attention back to his own situation. Agent Barton, working his way down the railing, crouched by the dead man and grabbed Saied’s knife. He moved low and sure over the metal grating, pausing to offer the blade hilt-first to Saied.
“Never throw away your last weapon,” he told the younger operative seriously. Saied blinked, then glanced over the railing at the battle down below.
“But Agent Romanoff-“
As the words left his lips, a hunched figure rose from its hiding place and laid down a spitting blast of gunfire. Natasha ducked, rolling out of the way until she was covered by a stack of oil drum. Once more her hand pulled away from her body with a gleaming knife that flew straight and true. Saied stared for a moment, trying to work out where the knife could have come from. It wasn’t like there was that many placed she could hide it on her suit-
“Never assume Romanoff is down to her last weapon,” Clint said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Five missions later, Saied made the call to track Natasha when she shut down SHIELD’s arguments and went to the meet without back-up, intentionally leaving herself exposed to the black market group she needed to negotiate with. For two hours the talks went smoothly while he waited high in the darkness, fingers tight on the grip of his gun in anticipation of things going south. When they finally did he was ready, firing steadily from the rafters to pick off bodyguards and dealers alike until the standby team air-dropped and arrived to help.
Barton found him still in his perch once the shoot-out had finished, watching Natasha while she surveyed the damage and counted the bodies.
“She left herself open,” Saied said through numb lips, the strain of the terrifying shoot-out beginning to press down on him. A Level 7 agent, fifteen enemy operatives, and the imperative to keep her alive, to keep her from being pinned down or cornered - “She left herself wide open, no weapons, no back-up-“
“She had you,” Clint pointed out. Saied stared dumbly at him, knowing as well as Barton that he shouldn’t have been there, that she couldn’t possibly have known - and then, far below them, the head of red curls tipped upwards, a cool gray gaze pinpointing them without hesitation. Saied felt the shock roll through him as she met his eyes and nodded in acknowledgement.
“She- she knew I was here?”
“See?” The archer said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I told you; she’s never down to her last weapon.”
Silver Half-Dollars
“I can’t stand for this, sir.” Abrams spoke into the silence, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. “It’s not right. It’s not what SHIELD was meant to do.” His dark eyes stared straight ahead, never wavering towards the Avenger on his right, but deep grooves marked the corners of his full mouth. “Whatever you want to do, I’m not going to be a part of it.” With that he lifted his head and turned, striding towards the exit. As the agents in the way belatedly started to shift aside, Forbes whipped around, the knife a bright blur as it arced end over end in the florescent light. Abrams was dead before he hit the grating, eyes staring blankly at the boots surrounding him while the hilt of the blade winked from his back, mirror bright.
The atmosphere in the room altered in that moment, the gazes of the silent agents turning from Abrams to Forbes. Years of training meant their thoughts were not betrayed by their eyes, their lips, but in the multitude of staring faces Forbes saw more blank looks than he could be comfortable with.
“Well, that was stupid,” Clint quipped, strolling around from behind his left shoulder. “You know you just told them that anyone who disagreed
with you is a dead man, right? And you think that these guys will put up with that, let alone these women? On a scale of one to dumbass, that has to take the cake.”
Forbes regained his breath, trying to shunt aside the sensation of being on a precipice, open air inches away from his toes, a yawning, gaping space waiting to embrace him with jagged arms. He drew himself upright, spine straightening until he could lift his chin and feel in control again.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but SHIELD isn’t a dictatorship.” The phantom archer shoved his hands in his cargo pockets, leaning back to survey the crowd thoughtfully. “Even Fury wasn’t that insane. He demanded, sure, but he never tried to run this place like a one-man show. Of course, you could say that’s why he’s dead, but…” He shrugged while Forbes ran his tongue over his lips, holding onto his hardened expression with an effort.
“Dismissed,” the director told the watching crowd, and only once they began to file out did he flick his hand to bring Dominic and Jason in. “Take care of that, will you?” Without waiting to see how they would try to clean up the corpse, he deliberately switched back to study the Avenger shackled to the wall. Rogers met his look with a clear and damning blue gaze, the strong lines of his face severe in the carrier’s light. He didn’t say anything, but then again, he didn’t have to.
“And, by the way? Fifty extra points for torturing him.” Clint stepped into the corner of Forbes’ vision, likewise looking at Steve. “I’m looking forward to seeing you when you get to Hell, just for that.” As those grim words floated in the air - or inside his mind - Barton vanished.
penny for your thoughts - set
warnings: canon-level violence, torture, blood, implied character death
nickels
He sees the truth of her - and looks away.
dimes
Lion-eater, man-tamer, heart-breaker; they always try to label her, to shut her into their comfortable boxes and set her aside wrapped up in their definitions like the contortionists, bent and stretched and almost broken.
quarters
In the soaring catwalks there was no time to think, no time to retreat, only the dance of blade and body as Saied ducked under the soldier’s knife and kicked out the whip-thin woman’s legs from under her.
silver dollars
“I can’t stand for this, sir.” Abrams spoke into the silence, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. “It’s not right. It’s not what SHIELD was meant to do.”
Nickels
He sees the truth of her - and looks away.
Natasha swallows, tries to cope with the burgeoning knot in her chest; she had known, had expected, and looking in the mirror had herself flinched - but standing here, raw and naked in a way her childhood tormentors never could have achieved, it burns like fire, like acid, like truth.
“You think that’s bad?” He asks, breaking the leaden silence following the Nemir’s words, and Natasha winces, flinches in confusion at the sound of it. “You think she’s got blood on her hands?” And his shadow is lengthening, is stretching impossibly far behind him, as though a star a thousand times larger than the sun is rising in the sky. “You haven’t seen anything.”
And tendrils of dark ink spill out from the edges of his shape, twisting in script and letters and the brushed police outlines of corpses, sprawled and thrown and shattered on the furious red sand. In the telling of his story, in the kill count marked indelibly in his psyche and the lines of his palms, in the growing tide of black stories and splattered arterial sprays, Natasha realizes she loves him.
Dimes
Lion-eater, man-tamer, heart-breaker; they always try to label her, to shut her into their comfortable boxes and set her aside wrapped up in their definitions like the contortionists, bent and stretched and almost broken. She drinks whiskey and smokes cigars and cracks her whip to catch them on their liars’ mouths, snarling like the lions she circles with under the circus lights, under the wide eyes of the spellbound audiences. In her sleek shirts and ripped pants, twisting and turning with each arching breath to hold the amber eyes of her prey (every relationship reversed, every rule broken like it was meant to be), she holds their gazes, holds their admiration, holds the edges of her wounds together with bare hands and sweat.
They want her, the taste of her, the blood of her, the sweet heart under ivory ribs and a cracked breastbone, and animal and man alike go wanting, lusting, respected or rebuked. The beasts she understands and forgives; they have been taken from their dusty savannah ranges, from the shade of the acacia trees and the freedom even death can grant. Their captors, their owners, their boasting betters and puppet-makers - she condemns.
Under the hot white spotlights of the Big Top she dances, always close to letting the lions catch her, always one step ahead; never more alive, never more free than when circling in cages of steel and canvas and culture.
Quarters
In the soaring catwalks there was no time to think, no time to retreat, only the dance of blade and body as Saied ducked under the soldier’s knife and kicked out the whip-thin woman’s legs from under her. She crashed onto the grating and stayed down when he drove his own knife into her heart. In another smooth motion he turned, spotted the tattooed, mean-eyed soldier clambering onto the catwalk, and sent his knife flying.
The wiry man gurgled, collapsing forward onto the narrow path, and didn’t get up.
Chest heaving, the newly minted Level 3 agent paused to catch his breath. The rafters were clear; the only battle going on now was on the ground floor below. In the closest arena to his perch, Natasha duked it out the only soldier left standing with punches and kicks that had Saied wincing. The dark-skinned man went down seconds later - and while the Widow was standing over his limp frame, another camo-clad figure darted out of the shadows and made for the door. Natasha drew her last knife and threw it one smooth motion, leaving her empty-handed in the middle of the carnage. Only once her target crumpled did she pause to look around much like Saied had, waiting to see if anyone else would try to make it past her.
The muted rattle of someone crossing the catwalk drew Saied’s attention back to his own situation. Agent Barton, working his way down the railing, crouched by the dead man and grabbed Saied’s knife. He moved low and sure over the metal grating, pausing to offer the blade hilt-first to Saied.
“Never throw away your last weapon,” he told the younger operative seriously. Saied blinked, then glanced over the railing at the battle down below.
“But Agent Romanoff-“
As the words left his lips, a hunched figure rose from its hiding place and laid down a spitting blast of gunfire. Natasha ducked, rolling out of the way until she was covered by a stack of oil drum. Once more her hand pulled away from her body with a gleaming knife that flew straight and true. Saied stared for a moment, trying to work out where the knife could have come from. It wasn’t like there was that many placed she could hide it on her suit-
“Never assume Romanoff is down to her last weapon,” Clint said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Five missions later, Saied made the call to track Natasha when she shut down SHIELD’s arguments and went to the meet without back-up, intentionally leaving herself exposed to the black market group she needed to negotiate with. For two hours the talks went smoothly while he waited high in the darkness, fingers tight on the grip of his gun in anticipation of things going south. When they finally did he was ready, firing steadily from the rafters to pick off bodyguards and dealers alike until the standby team air-dropped and arrived to help.
Barton found him still in his perch once the shoot-out had finished, watching Natasha while she surveyed the damage and counted the bodies.
“She left herself open,” Saied said through numb lips, the strain of the terrifying shoot-out beginning to press down on him. A Level 7 agent, fifteen enemy operatives, and the imperative to keep her alive, to keep her from being pinned down or cornered - “She left herself wide open, no weapons, no back-up-“
“She had you,” Clint pointed out. Saied stared dumbly at him, knowing as well as Barton that he shouldn’t have been there, that she couldn’t possibly have known - and then, far below them, the head of red curls tipped upwards, a cool gray gaze pinpointing them without hesitation. Saied felt the shock roll through him as she met his eyes and nodded in acknowledgement.
“She- she knew I was here?”
“See?” The archer said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I told you; she’s never down to her last weapon.”
Silver Half-Dollars
“I can’t stand for this, sir.” Abrams spoke into the silence, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. “It’s not right. It’s not what SHIELD was meant to do.” His dark eyes stared straight ahead, never wavering towards the Avenger on his right, but deep grooves marked the corners of his full mouth. “Whatever you want to do, I’m not going to be a part of it.” With that he lifted his head and turned, striding towards the exit. As the agents in the way belatedly started to shift aside, Forbes whipped around, the knife a bright blur as it arced end over end in the florescent light. Abrams was dead before he hit the grating, eyes staring blankly at the boots surrounding him while the hilt of the blade winked from his back, mirror bright.
The atmosphere in the room altered in that moment, the gazes of the silent agents turning from Abrams to Forbes. Years of training meant their thoughts were not betrayed by their eyes, their lips, but in the multitude of staring faces Forbes saw more blank looks than he could be comfortable with.
“Well, that was stupid,” Clint quipped, strolling around from behind his left shoulder. “You know you just told them that anyone who disagreed
with you is a dead man, right? And you think that these guys will put up with that, let alone these women? On a scale of one to dumbass, that has to take the cake.”
Forbes regained his breath, trying to shunt aside the sensation of being on a precipice, open air inches away from his toes, a yawning, gaping space waiting to embrace him with jagged arms. He drew himself upright, spine straightening until he could lift his chin and feel in control again.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but SHIELD isn’t a dictatorship.” The phantom archer shoved his hands in his cargo pockets, leaning back to survey the crowd thoughtfully. “Even Fury wasn’t that insane. He demanded, sure, but he never tried to run this place like a one-man show. Of course, you could say that’s why he’s dead, but…” He shrugged while Forbes ran his tongue over his lips, holding onto his hardened expression with an effort.
“Dismissed,” the director told the watching crowd, and only once they began to file out did he flick his hand to bring Dominic and Jason in. “Take care of that, will you?” Without waiting to see how they would try to clean up the corpse, he deliberately switched back to study the Avenger shackled to the wall. Rogers met his look with a clear and damning blue gaze, the strong lines of his face severe in the carrier’s light. He didn’t say anything, but then again, he didn’t have to.
“And, by the way? Fifty extra points for torturing him.” Clint stepped into the corner of Forbes’ vision, likewise looking at Steve. “I’m looking forward to seeing you when you get to Hell, just for that.” As those grim words floated in the air - or inside his mind - Barton vanished.