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Title: along the heart-lines of this land
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sweetwatersong
A Gift For:toscaterrier
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Assassinations, suicide, sensuality.
Pairings: Clint/Natasha.
Summary/Prompt Used: AU? I'm a huge sucker for AUs, especially zombie, genderbend, steampunk, and crossover AU-type things. Ooh, and my brain just went 'space/time travel AU' as well, so that would be really awesome.
Things I like: Can 'general badassery' be a thing? I love it when it's remembered that hey, these are assassins, and hey, they kill people. Keeping their personalities in spite of that... is one of my favorite things about this pairing.
Authors Notes: Thank you to my wonderful beta, who hasn't told me that I'm crazy... yet. Tosca, I hope you enjoy it!
Banner byfrea_o
She feeds the stray scraps of her jerky, laughing at the way the big-pawed pup licks her fingers and wriggles with happiness. He watches her with a smile of his own, slipping his share into her pack when she isn't looking.
When the squeal of brakes and the tortured scream of crashing metal breaks the peace, she shoulders her pack and leaves the hollow without looking back.
---
They wait under a million stars he's never seen before, blazing in all their glory. He breathes in the hanging scent of honeysuckle as she runs her fingers through his hair, murmuring Russian names for the constellations only she knows. So they doze through the warm summer hours, until the slave emerges from the hedges around the field, panting and clutching his side and one step in front of the death behind him- but not the one ahead.
As soon as the slave owner wrestles through the bushes, he shoots the kneeling figure without pause, and never notices how deep the knife wound has strangely become.
---
The shock of the jump vanishes and all he has time to see is the confused faces of people around him, sirens in the distance, the bite of a December wind tugging on his jacket -
Natasha cries out, hands covering her mouth as she reacts to the figure wavering on the bridge rail, and he takes his cue to lunge forward as if he means to grab the teenager. He hits the red Converses instead, covering the motion with an attempt to clutch the thin sweatshirt when the kid plummets forward, off balance. His pale face is startled and surprised as he falls the hundred feet into the river below, precious minutes sooner than he would have on his own.
"Oh my God!" Natasha shrieks, pulling back into the shocked crowd. "Oh my God, he actually did it!" She bursts into tears and leans into Clint, who has stepped away from the edge to hold her.
The police and reporters looking for them later can't find anyone matching their description.
---
"Next time," Clint says with disgust, "I'm leaving the swamp ones to you."
Natasha shushes him with a glare, as thoroughly done with the murk and muck as he is. Minutes they can work with, hours are fine, but days are almost unheard of, and if it weren't for the constant sounds of battle, she'd be more worried about the timing mechanism. Soldiers and Seminoles are dying all around them, but there's only one they have to worry about.
There's only ever the one.
Movement in the gloom draws their attention. She sights down the cross-hairs of her rifle, waiting until the figure moves into better light - and lets out an irritated breath as she realizes it's not the right man.
"Any more of this and I'm going to start picking all of them off," she mutters. They both know she can't, that the ripples would be too big and the costs too uncertain, but it says something about their jump that Clint briefly wishes he could agree with her.
"When we get back, it'll be hot baths and order-in dinners," he promises her. "I may even give you a massage, who knows?"
"If the only thing you give me when we get back is a massage, I will leave you in the next swamp we have to jump to," she replies darkly. He grins at her, one hand running up her spine to cradle her neck, and she finds herself leaning into his kiss, ignoring the taste of stale water and swamp.
But assassins aren't allowed the luxury of closing their eyes, even for a kiss, and she pulls away from Clint as another stumbling figure catches her eye.
"It's him," she whispers, catching her breath, and settles down to her scope. A few feet farther, just a little more...
No one hears the echo of one shot above all the others, and no one but them sees the Seminole collapse into the dark water. It's the work of a few minutes to weigh his body down so he will never be found, just as history records; but it was the work of days to make sure he wasn't stolen to the future, as their memories remember.
---
Their apartment is clean and white and faintly scented, like the streets of the city outside, and they don't have the energy to feel like strangers when they drop their mud-covered bags on the carpet, leaving dusty fingerprints on the switches and faucets.
The blood-colored clay sinks into their bootprints and stains.
---
"It's not going to last," Clint warns the squat official, rising from the conference table with his duffel in hand. "Someone's going to do the math and figure out that there are too many bodies."
"They have no way of knowing what's actually outside the Domes," Britt replies, frowning. "The government's kept everyone in dark all this time about what you actually do; why should it be any different now?"
"People don't always swallow what the politicians feed them," Natasha says over her shoulder. "Most people, anyway."
He flushes, stiff mustache bristling, as outside the window a neighboring skyscraper flashes with vids of the two apparently slaying infected walkers.
You Are Safe Inside the Dome.
---
Natasha unlocks the vortex from around her wrist and hands it to the technician, her eyes meeting Clint's as he follows suit. Unspoken, the words cross between them.
"Do you think they'll ever run out of juice and leave us stranded?" She asks, leaning against the wall of the cave. It's not something they ever talk about under the Dome, in the sterile and cheerfully oblivious landscape of the city; too many eyes, too many ears. Only outside the Dome - or outside of their own time - do they bring up the uncomfortable questions.
"I think the paradoxes will get us first," he replies. "After all, the bastard only has to jump them forward; we have to get there ahead of his anchor point and then back again."
And she looks at him in the flickering firelight, her unguarded expression telling him what she wouldn't say.
He kisses the imprints left in her skin once they're back in their apartment, lifting her arm and working down it until she is sweaty and breathless beneath him.
The bruises take longer each day to fade anyway.
---
"Have you noticed?" She asks, a mug of hot cocoa cupped in one hand, the pages of a book spread with the other.
Clint looks up from his Sudoku and studies her, catching the numbers laid out in the book before her.
"Yeah," he says, all he dares to, and she nods as her fingers tap on a section of dates.
---
Instead of a video clip and a tech detailing the time signatures associated with the walkers, a file lands on their desk in the morning: a picture of a journalist who's a little too bright and a little too inquisitive. They read the outlined assassination in silence, their faces blank under Britt's scrutinizing gaze, and grab their gear bags.
Before they head out into the bustling streets, where the view of the mountains is blocked by skyscrapers and the burning blue sky is hidden by the glitter of the Dome, they stop by the tech floor and check out their vortexes.
---
They jump back just far enough, settling into a house and a dog and a normality that will vanish in a decade or so, lost with half of the world's population and an infection that makes monsters out of men. They haven't decided if they'll go hunting the bastard that sends the walkers after the Domes, pulling innocents from the past and making them into weapons; after all, they are more than capable of staying out in the wilderness and surviving. Those are choices they'll have to make in the future, but then again, they have years to go.
So for now, Natasha feeds table scraps to a big-pawed mutt and laughs when Clint kisses her, nearly knocking the fresh flowers and honeysuckle off of the counter as he picks her up.
They have time; that's all they've ever needed.
Author:
sweetwatersongA Gift For:
toscaterrierRating: PG-13
Warnings: Assassinations, suicide, sensuality.
Pairings: Clint/Natasha.
Summary/Prompt Used: AU? I'm a huge sucker for AUs, especially zombie, genderbend, steampunk, and crossover AU-type things. Ooh, and my brain just went 'space/time travel AU' as well, so that would be really awesome.
Things I like: Can 'general badassery' be a thing? I love it when it's remembered that hey, these are assassins, and hey, they kill people. Keeping their personalities in spite of that... is one of my favorite things about this pairing.
Authors Notes: Thank you to my wonderful beta, who hasn't told me that I'm crazy... yet. Tosca, I hope you enjoy it!
Banner by
frea_oShe feeds the stray scraps of her jerky, laughing at the way the big-pawed pup licks her fingers and wriggles with happiness. He watches her with a smile of his own, slipping his share into her pack when she isn't looking.
When the squeal of brakes and the tortured scream of crashing metal breaks the peace, she shoulders her pack and leaves the hollow without looking back.
---
They wait under a million stars he's never seen before, blazing in all their glory. He breathes in the hanging scent of honeysuckle as she runs her fingers through his hair, murmuring Russian names for the constellations only she knows. So they doze through the warm summer hours, until the slave emerges from the hedges around the field, panting and clutching his side and one step in front of the death behind him- but not the one ahead.
As soon as the slave owner wrestles through the bushes, he shoots the kneeling figure without pause, and never notices how deep the knife wound has strangely become.
---
The shock of the jump vanishes and all he has time to see is the confused faces of people around him, sirens in the distance, the bite of a December wind tugging on his jacket -
Natasha cries out, hands covering her mouth as she reacts to the figure wavering on the bridge rail, and he takes his cue to lunge forward as if he means to grab the teenager. He hits the red Converses instead, covering the motion with an attempt to clutch the thin sweatshirt when the kid plummets forward, off balance. His pale face is startled and surprised as he falls the hundred feet into the river below, precious minutes sooner than he would have on his own.
"Oh my God!" Natasha shrieks, pulling back into the shocked crowd. "Oh my God, he actually did it!" She bursts into tears and leans into Clint, who has stepped away from the edge to hold her.
The police and reporters looking for them later can't find anyone matching their description.
---
"Next time," Clint says with disgust, "I'm leaving the swamp ones to you."
Natasha shushes him with a glare, as thoroughly done with the murk and muck as he is. Minutes they can work with, hours are fine, but days are almost unheard of, and if it weren't for the constant sounds of battle, she'd be more worried about the timing mechanism. Soldiers and Seminoles are dying all around them, but there's only one they have to worry about.
There's only ever the one.
Movement in the gloom draws their attention. She sights down the cross-hairs of her rifle, waiting until the figure moves into better light - and lets out an irritated breath as she realizes it's not the right man.
"Any more of this and I'm going to start picking all of them off," she mutters. They both know she can't, that the ripples would be too big and the costs too uncertain, but it says something about their jump that Clint briefly wishes he could agree with her.
"When we get back, it'll be hot baths and order-in dinners," he promises her. "I may even give you a massage, who knows?"
"If the only thing you give me when we get back is a massage, I will leave you in the next swamp we have to jump to," she replies darkly. He grins at her, one hand running up her spine to cradle her neck, and she finds herself leaning into his kiss, ignoring the taste of stale water and swamp.
But assassins aren't allowed the luxury of closing their eyes, even for a kiss, and she pulls away from Clint as another stumbling figure catches her eye.
"It's him," she whispers, catching her breath, and settles down to her scope. A few feet farther, just a little more...
No one hears the echo of one shot above all the others, and no one but them sees the Seminole collapse into the dark water. It's the work of a few minutes to weigh his body down so he will never be found, just as history records; but it was the work of days to make sure he wasn't stolen to the future, as their memories remember.
---
Their apartment is clean and white and faintly scented, like the streets of the city outside, and they don't have the energy to feel like strangers when they drop their mud-covered bags on the carpet, leaving dusty fingerprints on the switches and faucets.
The blood-colored clay sinks into their bootprints and stains.
---
"It's not going to last," Clint warns the squat official, rising from the conference table with his duffel in hand. "Someone's going to do the math and figure out that there are too many bodies."
"They have no way of knowing what's actually outside the Domes," Britt replies, frowning. "The government's kept everyone in dark all this time about what you actually do; why should it be any different now?"
"People don't always swallow what the politicians feed them," Natasha says over her shoulder. "Most people, anyway."
He flushes, stiff mustache bristling, as outside the window a neighboring skyscraper flashes with vids of the two apparently slaying infected walkers.
You Are Safe Inside the Dome.
---
Natasha unlocks the vortex from around her wrist and hands it to the technician, her eyes meeting Clint's as he follows suit. Unspoken, the words cross between them.
"Do you think they'll ever run out of juice and leave us stranded?" She asks, leaning against the wall of the cave. It's not something they ever talk about under the Dome, in the sterile and cheerfully oblivious landscape of the city; too many eyes, too many ears. Only outside the Dome - or outside of their own time - do they bring up the uncomfortable questions.
"I think the paradoxes will get us first," he replies. "After all, the bastard only has to jump them forward; we have to get there ahead of his anchor point and then back again."
And she looks at him in the flickering firelight, her unguarded expression telling him what she wouldn't say.
He kisses the imprints left in her skin once they're back in their apartment, lifting her arm and working down it until she is sweaty and breathless beneath him.
The bruises take longer each day to fade anyway.
---
"Have you noticed?" She asks, a mug of hot cocoa cupped in one hand, the pages of a book spread with the other.
Clint looks up from his Sudoku and studies her, catching the numbers laid out in the book before her.
"Yeah," he says, all he dares to, and she nods as her fingers tap on a section of dates.
---
Instead of a video clip and a tech detailing the time signatures associated with the walkers, a file lands on their desk in the morning: a picture of a journalist who's a little too bright and a little too inquisitive. They read the outlined assassination in silence, their faces blank under Britt's scrutinizing gaze, and grab their gear bags.
Before they head out into the bustling streets, where the view of the mountains is blocked by skyscrapers and the burning blue sky is hidden by the glitter of the Dome, they stop by the tech floor and check out their vortexes.
---
They jump back just far enough, settling into a house and a dog and a normality that will vanish in a decade or so, lost with half of the world's population and an infection that makes monsters out of men. They haven't decided if they'll go hunting the bastard that sends the walkers after the Domes, pulling innocents from the past and making them into weapons; after all, they are more than capable of staying out in the wilderness and surviving. Those are choices they'll have to make in the future, but then again, they have years to go.
So for now, Natasha feeds table scraps to a big-pawed mutt and laughs when Clint kisses her, nearly knocking the fresh flowers and honeysuckle off of the counter as he picks her up.
They have time; that's all they've ever needed.
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