galaxies in our halos and hands
galaxies in our halos and hands
rating: PG
characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
pairings: slight Clint/Natasha
warnings: Injuries
summary: He has faith in miracles. The white horse and the woman who rides him can be nothing less. [Circus AU]
author's note: For videos of dressage, the type of riding that Natasha and San Domingo demonstrate, youtube is a great place to start. :)
Sometimes there are connections you can't explain, can't understand. Five months ago, watching Natasha examine the new horse, Clint had known there was a story there he'd never learn, a bond that he had no claim to. It was clear in the way that she had studied him, fingers running across the tangled forelock, hands cupped so she could blow into his nostrils. Maybe the pair had never met before, but the archer and aerialist could recognize kindred spirits when he saw them. After all, that was how he had loved Natasha before he even knew her name, one leg hanging off the tightrope, an apple in her hand the color of her hair and a laugh on her lips that he had wanted, suddenly, irrationally, to hear again.
There were always stories, not always good ones, not always bad, and Clint knew better than to think he had any right to hear them.
One night, he has the grace to see one instead.
---
It's never hard for a show to go into the red, no matter how good things look. Circuses are all about the performance and parade, after all, the razzle and dazzle. This year has been bad, worse than he's ever seen, and it's all come down to their last hauls to stay above the water. So when Clint hears a strangled cry from the direction of the temporary stables, his heart stops for more reasons than because he knows who is hurt.
She's holding her ankle, face twisted in pain, when he makes his way through the tents and trucks in the back yard to her side.
"Get back!" Marvin snaps, then realizes who it is and waves him through the circle of circus folk with an irritated scowl. "It's broken."
"I'm fine." Natasha grits, her white knuckles giving away her lie. "I can - fuck! Don't touch it!" She closes her eyes, lips pressed together to stop the hiss of agony.
"We're finished," one of the cirkys breathes in the shadows of the tent, echoing what everyone knows. Her act is one of the most popular with the children and women, drawing more than a small chunk of their tickets. If she can't perform tonight, perform in any of their remaining shows...
"You're not riding," Clint tells her brusquely, ignoring the fear in his gut to run calloused hands over the smooth silk of her shoes. Contrary as the mule they named after her, Natasha opens her eyes and stares at him, sweat rolling down her face. She knows what's at stake too.
"Just get me on a horse. Get me on San Domingo."
"Tasha-"
"Horse, Barton," she grinds out, her fingers digging into the straps of her slippers, and the lights of the fair catch in her hair like stars.
----
The Big Top quiets, the audience settling down in anticipation after the aerialists bow their way out. Miguel steps up onto his soapbox, turns as if he can meet the eyes of everyone watching him eagerly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have seen the best and the brightest, the most daring acts, the breath-taking thrills that this circus has to offer. And now I offer you our last act, and, truly, our most beautiful. Please, welcome the Ballerina and her partner, the White Ghost." He bows; the lights flash and run towards the back door, drawing the gazes of those watching. The music swells, the quiet dignity of the violins and cellos a marked contrast to the brash, pompous music of the other acts. For a moment there is only darkness in the tunnel and Clint's heart in his mouth.
Then Natasha enters, swept by San Domingo with gravid solemnity into the spotlights. Clint's breath catches when he sees her sitting across the gelding's back, the spangles of her costume glittering until she shines like the white horse that carries her. For a moment, even knowing how much pain she's in, even wondering how she can possibly pull this off, he thinks, she's beautiful.
And from the hushed inhalations from the audience, they do too.
This is not how the act goes, the circus folk know. Natasha's horseback gig has always been the trick riding, balancing on the wide rumps of the draft crosses, spinning and somersaulting from dappled back to dappled back. Not seated, not stationary, not still and serene as she is now. Clint doesn't have the answers, following her stately progress into the ring; he doesn't know what she will do. What he does know is that somehow the pair looks more alive, more connected than they ever were before; that through the flash and glitter there is something more real than anything he's seen when he holds her in his arms.
San Domingo canters to the center of the ring and comes to a halt, holding himself perfectly still. Astride his back Natasha appears to look beyond the circus-goers, into some distant field invisible to their eyes. But even from the shadows he catches the thin lines around her mouth, the beads of sweat making stray wisps stick to her cheeks.
Then the gelding begins to move again, and Clint forgets all thoughts of her injury.
He dances across the sandy expanse; that's the only word for it. Neck arched, head tucked, no reins to hold him steady or saddle to keep her in place, the white horse moves as if to the accompanying music. With no signal Clint can catch, he crosses to the edge of the ring in a smooth canter, seeming to flow sideways and forwards. Then, just before reaching the token barrier, he curves, stretches out until the length of his stride swallows up the ground even as he hangs in the air.
A pause, a careful parade in place, each hoof set exactly where it had been; a circle, a strut, forelegs snapping out impossibly far in front of him. As San Domingo rocks back on his haunches and rotates, rising with each quarter turn and lifting into the air, Clint takes a breath past the tightness in his throat.
Washed out in the pale glare of the tent lights, Natasha's face is beatific.
They dance, the rider and the horse, a lightness in their bodies unmatched by the gravity of their movements. Utterly entranced, the Big Top is completely quiet for the four minutes they move, free and real in the illusion of the spotlights.
At last, an eternity later, Natasha halts San Domingo in the center of the ring and untangles her hands from his mane, shifting them to her thighs as she inclines her head. The applause and cheers that follow when the spell is broken only make the gelding flick an ear forwards, his attention, like that of their watchers, focused entirely on the woman on his back. She smiles for her audience, the hair at her temples dark with sweat, and sends him forward, circling through the ring back to the back door.
As soon as they're in the safety of darkness, she leans forward and clutches Domingo's mane again with an agonized gasp. Clint's there with a dozen other people to help her down, to take her to the truck waiting outside and the hospital ten minutes away. Natasha doesn't seem to notice them, instead pressing her face into San Domingo's foam-flecked neck and slumping into the steady support of his body. Clint watches her lips move as they lift her off of the gelding's back into his arms.
Good boy. Good boy.
The horse curves his head around and blows into her limp hands as if he understands. And maybe he does; Clint believes in things he can't explain, in a ballerina of the air and ring who dances without a single step. He can believe in fate, too. Then someone grabs hold of San Domingo's halter, someone else pushes Barton towards the exit, and as the lights in the Big Top fade and are replaced by the pickup truck's brakes, Natasha feels just a little more real in his arms.
rating: PG
characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
pairings: slight Clint/Natasha
warnings: Injuries
summary: He has faith in miracles. The white horse and the woman who rides him can be nothing less. [Circus AU]
author's note: For videos of dressage, the type of riding that Natasha and San Domingo demonstrate, youtube is a great place to start. :)
Sometimes there are connections you can't explain, can't understand. Five months ago, watching Natasha examine the new horse, Clint had known there was a story there he'd never learn, a bond that he had no claim to. It was clear in the way that she had studied him, fingers running across the tangled forelock, hands cupped so she could blow into his nostrils. Maybe the pair had never met before, but the archer and aerialist could recognize kindred spirits when he saw them. After all, that was how he had loved Natasha before he even knew her name, one leg hanging off the tightrope, an apple in her hand the color of her hair and a laugh on her lips that he had wanted, suddenly, irrationally, to hear again.
There were always stories, not always good ones, not always bad, and Clint knew better than to think he had any right to hear them.
One night, he has the grace to see one instead.
---
It's never hard for a show to go into the red, no matter how good things look. Circuses are all about the performance and parade, after all, the razzle and dazzle. This year has been bad, worse than he's ever seen, and it's all come down to their last hauls to stay above the water. So when Clint hears a strangled cry from the direction of the temporary stables, his heart stops for more reasons than because he knows who is hurt.
She's holding her ankle, face twisted in pain, when he makes his way through the tents and trucks in the back yard to her side.
"Get back!" Marvin snaps, then realizes who it is and waves him through the circle of circus folk with an irritated scowl. "It's broken."
"I'm fine." Natasha grits, her white knuckles giving away her lie. "I can - fuck! Don't touch it!" She closes her eyes, lips pressed together to stop the hiss of agony.
"We're finished," one of the cirkys breathes in the shadows of the tent, echoing what everyone knows. Her act is one of the most popular with the children and women, drawing more than a small chunk of their tickets. If she can't perform tonight, perform in any of their remaining shows...
"You're not riding," Clint tells her brusquely, ignoring the fear in his gut to run calloused hands over the smooth silk of her shoes. Contrary as the mule they named after her, Natasha opens her eyes and stares at him, sweat rolling down her face. She knows what's at stake too.
"Just get me on a horse. Get me on San Domingo."
"Tasha-"
"Horse, Barton," she grinds out, her fingers digging into the straps of her slippers, and the lights of the fair catch in her hair like stars.
----
The Big Top quiets, the audience settling down in anticipation after the aerialists bow their way out. Miguel steps up onto his soapbox, turns as if he can meet the eyes of everyone watching him eagerly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have seen the best and the brightest, the most daring acts, the breath-taking thrills that this circus has to offer. And now I offer you our last act, and, truly, our most beautiful. Please, welcome the Ballerina and her partner, the White Ghost." He bows; the lights flash and run towards the back door, drawing the gazes of those watching. The music swells, the quiet dignity of the violins and cellos a marked contrast to the brash, pompous music of the other acts. For a moment there is only darkness in the tunnel and Clint's heart in his mouth.
Then Natasha enters, swept by San Domingo with gravid solemnity into the spotlights. Clint's breath catches when he sees her sitting across the gelding's back, the spangles of her costume glittering until she shines like the white horse that carries her. For a moment, even knowing how much pain she's in, even wondering how she can possibly pull this off, he thinks, she's beautiful.
And from the hushed inhalations from the audience, they do too.
This is not how the act goes, the circus folk know. Natasha's horseback gig has always been the trick riding, balancing on the wide rumps of the draft crosses, spinning and somersaulting from dappled back to dappled back. Not seated, not stationary, not still and serene as she is now. Clint doesn't have the answers, following her stately progress into the ring; he doesn't know what she will do. What he does know is that somehow the pair looks more alive, more connected than they ever were before; that through the flash and glitter there is something more real than anything he's seen when he holds her in his arms.
San Domingo canters to the center of the ring and comes to a halt, holding himself perfectly still. Astride his back Natasha appears to look beyond the circus-goers, into some distant field invisible to their eyes. But even from the shadows he catches the thin lines around her mouth, the beads of sweat making stray wisps stick to her cheeks.
Then the gelding begins to move again, and Clint forgets all thoughts of her injury.
He dances across the sandy expanse; that's the only word for it. Neck arched, head tucked, no reins to hold him steady or saddle to keep her in place, the white horse moves as if to the accompanying music. With no signal Clint can catch, he crosses to the edge of the ring in a smooth canter, seeming to flow sideways and forwards. Then, just before reaching the token barrier, he curves, stretches out until the length of his stride swallows up the ground even as he hangs in the air.
A pause, a careful parade in place, each hoof set exactly where it had been; a circle, a strut, forelegs snapping out impossibly far in front of him. As San Domingo rocks back on his haunches and rotates, rising with each quarter turn and lifting into the air, Clint takes a breath past the tightness in his throat.
Washed out in the pale glare of the tent lights, Natasha's face is beatific.
They dance, the rider and the horse, a lightness in their bodies unmatched by the gravity of their movements. Utterly entranced, the Big Top is completely quiet for the four minutes they move, free and real in the illusion of the spotlights.
At last, an eternity later, Natasha halts San Domingo in the center of the ring and untangles her hands from his mane, shifting them to her thighs as she inclines her head. The applause and cheers that follow when the spell is broken only make the gelding flick an ear forwards, his attention, like that of their watchers, focused entirely on the woman on his back. She smiles for her audience, the hair at her temples dark with sweat, and sends him forward, circling through the ring back to the back door.
As soon as they're in the safety of darkness, she leans forward and clutches Domingo's mane again with an agonized gasp. Clint's there with a dozen other people to help her down, to take her to the truck waiting outside and the hospital ten minutes away. Natasha doesn't seem to notice them, instead pressing her face into San Domingo's foam-flecked neck and slumping into the steady support of his body. Clint watches her lips move as they lift her off of the gelding's back into his arms.
Good boy. Good boy.
The horse curves his head around and blows into her limp hands as if he understands. And maybe he does; Clint believes in things he can't explain, in a ballerina of the air and ring who dances without a single step. He can believe in fate, too. Then someone grabs hold of San Domingo's halter, someone else pushes Barton towards the exit, and as the lights in the Big Top fade and are replaced by the pickup truck's brakes, Natasha feels just a little more real in his arms.