write me a memory
So in the spirit of being, well, me, I have a surprising amount of tumblr drabbles that never made it over here. Fixing that now!
dramatic flair
rating: pg-13
characters: Clint Barton, Melinda May
warnings: none
summary: Some people know how to make an entrance (and fall on their asses). Some people prefer less showy arrivals (and stay on their feet).
author's note: For alphaflyer, who prompted, "Clint & Melinda May!" Thanks to findthesea for AOS-related assistance. :)
“Aw, c’mon, it wasn’t that bad.” Clint rubbed the back of his neck and ignored the fact that it was flaking off trickles of dried blood onto his collar. It was more important to use the gesture to avoid looking in Melinda’s direction.
Silence.
“Okay, maybe it was kind of a shit show, but you’ve seen worse.”
“I’ve seen you.” There was ice on the sharp edge of her voice.
He flinched. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that one. Look, May, I fucked up, I got that. I just - you know, never mind.”
“Barton.” The single word stopped him in his tracks, a command that bypassed his conscious brain and went straight to his nervous system. Clint paused. When nothing else was forthcoming, he turned slowly to meet her gaze.
Against all expectations, there was nothing akin to reproach in her grime-streaked expression.
“Next time you go in to save the civilians, don’t go in alone. That’s where you get into trouble. Your messes are easier to clean up if someone can do some damage control beside you, not behind you.”
Clint read between the lines, read between the words, and was silent for a long moment. Then he grinned crookedly, rocking back on his heels as his empty quiver swung on shoulders that fell to their familiar slumped position.
“Aw, and miss the chance to say, “Here comes the Calvary?” I’m a carnie, May, showman to the bone, you can’t expect me to pass up priceless lines like that.”
“I expect you to follow orders, too, and look where that gets me.” She stared expectantly at him, her lips thinned, for all the world unamused.
“You and the bogies, but you know what they say about the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Go get your head checked,” May told him flatly. He gave her a salute with two ash-covered fingers and headed for the hangar exit, whistling softly under his breath.
If she recognized the tune to Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, she didn’t say.
reweaving
rating: g
characters: Melinda May/Maria Hill
warnings: none
summary: Some things won't stay hidden.
author's note: For sugar_fey, who prompted, "Maria & Melinda (or Maria/Melinda, whichever you prefer): "I thought I told you not to mention Bahrain."" Thanks again to findthesea for AOS questions.
“The last time we went to meet informants of yours, I had to crash-land us in the Persian Gulf. The Pacific Northwest isn’t an improvement.”
“I thought I told you not to mention Bahrain.”
“And I thought you said you’d get those files in California sealed.” Melinda ignored the ache of her bruised ribs as she kept her head in Maria’s lap, her dark eyes running over the Assistant Director’s face to catalog the scrapes and bruises. Maria’s lips twitched into a frown, an expression so familiar that it seemed to be her default, but Melinda had coaxed those lips into smiling, laughing, had watched them ghost over her skin and trace the battle scars she had accumulated. They would each have a few more, if they survived this.
“Apparently bribery and veiled insults will only get you so far in the West Coast legal system.”
“Just like everywhere else, then.”
Hill’s ribcage flexed against her ear, the only sign of her huff as she turned her face away, but her hands were steady as they held May’s head still.
“Some things just won’t stay hidden.”
Melinda watched Maria, aware once more of the curving edges of the Gordian knot that lay between them, the history and choices that had woven its rough cords into an impossible tangle they could not undo. The truth of an ex-spouse under the lie of an ex-husband, the reality of their missions against the people they had been once. And were still; the warmth of Maria’s body was a comforting buffer against the chill inside the downed Quinjet, the lines of her thigh and hip fitted against the curve of Melinda’s cheek. She closed her eyes, unable to turn her own head aside for the necessity of keeping her spinal cord immobilized, and exhaled evenly.
“No. They won’t.”
They waited in the shelter of the crashed aircraft, holding out until the dispatched SHIELD rescue arrived, holding onto the trailing threads of the past that drew them together, if only for a moment; if only for now.
lost paradise
rating: g
characters: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: For bitter kids battered by a world relentlessly defining them.
author's note: For findthesea, who prompted, "tony/natasha - “i gave up nothing for everything”."
She looks like a sin, looks like a painting sitting as she is on top of the grand piano with a dress that shines and hair that gleams as red as that first apple, and Tony wonders if Adam felt this way looking at Eve. Maybe it’s more accurate to consider her the snake, the deceiver rather than the temptress, but there are so many things that are wrong with this world that he’s ready to let the simile slide.
“Are you happy?” She asks, a gesture of her chin taking in the opulent riches that are his birthright and due, his trappings and tormentors. He laughs, a rough edge to the sound that he doesn’t bother to hide this time, and tucks his hands into his pockets.
“What does happiness have to do with it?” Tony asks as a counter, grin sharp and bitter under the shade of his tinted glasses, and Natasha’s slow smile is answer enough. They have it all, they’ve always had it, through theft or trust funds or outright theatrics, and all the priceless treasures in the world aren’t enough to make things right.
Maybe he’s Adam, Tony thinks as she slides off the piano and takes the steps between them with the smouldering heat that has fooled countless marks before him, but he’s going into this with his eyes already opened.
There’s nothing about good or evil that surprises them anymore.
satisfied with your care
rating: g
characters: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton
warnings: none
summary: In the early days of Strike Team Delta.
author's note: For crazy4orcas, who prompted, "Clint/Natasha - he always seems to know when she needs a hug." And yes, it's deliberately referencing that adorable scene in Big Hero 6.
It can’t be her body language, she knows she masks any uncomfortable or uneasy emotions to the point that even her partner should be fooled.
It can’t be her speech because she is careful about intonations, delicate with diction, and the lies that pass her lips go undetected by those who should know better.
It can’t be her actions, for nothing changes between the end of the mission and their return to SHIELD headquarters that he could deem ‘out of the ordinary’. There is nothing that should give her own emotional state away.
And yet Clint shows up unannounced in her cramped office, Band-Aids covering his nose and various new scrapes, and drapes himself over her shoulders while she stares in mute fury at the uncooperative field report.
“It’s called a hug,” he tells her, body loose even as he is careful not to restrain her, not to bind her, and she continues to study the block print silently.
But the turmoil inside her breastbone eases while she breathes in the scent of burned coffee and gun oil that always seems to follow him around the building when they’re here, and the warmth of his arms is welcome against the taut nerves under her skin.
Natasha picks up the pen, ignoring the highly unprofessional and entirely unconcerned archer still enveloping her in a ‘hug’, and begins to find words for what she couldn’t elaborate on moments earlier.
chamomile
rating: g
characters: Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: For trust, mix teacups and time; add humor and let rise.
They all have their own fights, their own lives, and sometimes Bruce appreciates the quiet solitude of an empty Tower. Sometimes, though, as surprised as he might be to admit it to himself, he misses the company and comfort of the others.
Passing through the living room on one such evening with a steaming mug in hand, he’s pleasantly surprised to see the Black Widow curled in an armchair, and reading by lamplight.
“Earl Grey?” He asks softly when he notices the teacup beside her, delicate and filled with a dark liquid.
“Merlot,” Natasha corrects, bringing the cup to her lips.
There’s just something so incredibly incongruous about the picture that Bruce finds he is laughing, quiet huffs as his shoulders shake, and over the rim of the white china her eyes are dancing.
“You take your wine in a teacup?” He asks when he can do so with only a hint of a smile. Natasha gestures minutely with the cup in question.
“It’s in a teacup. Therefore it’s tea.”
Bruce nods and solemnly lifts his own mug.
“To tea.”
The Widow clinks her cup against it with a gentleness he would have found surprising, not too long ago.
“To friends to drink it with.”
And his chamomile, when he sips it, is sweeter than he would have thought.