for I keep not time or seasons
count no days against me
rating: g
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
author's note: For hayleycreagine, who asked for "Clint was once something other than human (maybe a hawk). Natasha only finds out after her “chat” with Loki."
summary: "Your world in the balance, and you bargain for the life of one man - who isn't a man at all?"
He finds a feather growing along his forearm, pinches the shaft and plucks it to leave only human flesh behind. (Natasha braids it into her hair, tan stripes hidden among her red curls, another color in a world that has been gray walls and white wards for too long.)
She lays out the gear for his inspection, every piece kept clean and supple in his absence, while he chased lies inside his head. Her hands linger on the finger tabs until he assures her they do not remind him of jesses, of captivity. (The windows offer an unparalleled view of the city, the perfect hunting perch of his kind, and he stands there for long stretches in the morning, silent and struggling; laying down again the mantra, I am not confined.)
There is little kindness in New York’s winds, and they are cold and brutal and dangerous at such great heights - but her back is warm against him as she reads, and she says nothing when he finally shifts away from the edge. (Skin to skin to soul, touching something more than human, more than instinct, and human he remains.)
He wakes to find not wings but hands and arms around her, holding the woman who wears his secrets like a pledge, and lies rejoicing in it until dawn brings the promise of breakfast and steeping tea. (The alert slips up on their homescreen, announcing for all the world to see that pancakes are ready, slackers, come and get them before Thor wants seconds, even as she breathes slow and steady beside him.)
If there is such a thing as a simple truth in this world, it may be this: that changing is painful, and choosing is hard, and life is what you make of it.
(He keeps the name as a reminder, as a remonstration, and settles his fingers into the well-worn grip of his bow.
"Ready?" Natasha asks, bracers charged and glowing, a light inside her eyes.
“Age before beauty,” he answers with a sweep of his arm, gesturing her towards the Quinjet hatch.
"Have we talked about your death wish, Hawkeye, that is definitely a death wish," says the man wearing a flying tin suit as he shoots by, and Clint laughs in the clean summer air. The Avengers are waiting, his partner is beside him, and it feels like so much more than flying.)
To change is one thing; to remain so changed is another entirely.
rating: g
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
author's note: For hayleycreagine, who asked for "Clint was once something other than human (maybe a hawk). Natasha only finds out after her “chat” with Loki."
summary: "Your world in the balance, and you bargain for the life of one man - who isn't a man at all?"
He finds a feather growing along his forearm, pinches the shaft and plucks it to leave only human flesh behind. (Natasha braids it into her hair, tan stripes hidden among her red curls, another color in a world that has been gray walls and white wards for too long.)
She lays out the gear for his inspection, every piece kept clean and supple in his absence, while he chased lies inside his head. Her hands linger on the finger tabs until he assures her they do not remind him of jesses, of captivity. (The windows offer an unparalleled view of the city, the perfect hunting perch of his kind, and he stands there for long stretches in the morning, silent and struggling; laying down again the mantra, I am not confined.)
There is little kindness in New York’s winds, and they are cold and brutal and dangerous at such great heights - but her back is warm against him as she reads, and she says nothing when he finally shifts away from the edge. (Skin to skin to soul, touching something more than human, more than instinct, and human he remains.)
He wakes to find not wings but hands and arms around her, holding the woman who wears his secrets like a pledge, and lies rejoicing in it until dawn brings the promise of breakfast and steeping tea. (The alert slips up on their homescreen, announcing for all the world to see that pancakes are ready, slackers, come and get them before Thor wants seconds, even as she breathes slow and steady beside him.)
If there is such a thing as a simple truth in this world, it may be this: that changing is painful, and choosing is hard, and life is what you make of it.
(He keeps the name as a reminder, as a remonstration, and settles his fingers into the well-worn grip of his bow.
"Ready?" Natasha asks, bracers charged and glowing, a light inside her eyes.
“Age before beauty,” he answers with a sweep of his arm, gesturing her towards the Quinjet hatch.
"Have we talked about your death wish, Hawkeye, that is definitely a death wish," says the man wearing a flying tin suit as he shoots by, and Clint laughs in the clean summer air. The Avengers are waiting, his partner is beside him, and it feels like so much more than flying.)
To change is one thing; to remain so changed is another entirely.