OK so I'm posting this now because I'm probably going to miss the majority of the fun tonight as I'll be at work.

This will contain very vague spoilers for Agents of SHIELD. But only very vague ones, as I myself have not yet seen Agents of SHIELD (it airs tonight in the UK). It stems from vairous people's complaints about how throughout the show, different people belittle Natasha's abilities somewhat. This is my take on why.

(All this is based on second hand knowledge so the whole thing could be highly inaccurate. I also know nothing much about any of the characters, thought I do already know that I'll like Melinda May)

Fighting Talk
(Avengers/Agents of SHIELD, G, implied Clint/Natasha, no warnings)

In was, in fact, something Clint had started, and the first victim - Agent Melinda May - was now part of Coulson's team, as well as being in on the joke. Coulson had just liked it enough to carry it on.

It happened while Clint was suspended from active duty for bringing the Black Widow back alive, rather than killing her. He was overseeing some new recruits doing higher level combat training, and when Agent May had taken down Agent Spalding in record time, Clint had glanced over at Coulson and said, just loud enought to be heard; “Huh, that’s Romanov standards, that is.”

Coulson was just about to open his mouth to say something to the effect of ‘are you kidding? Romanov standard is light years ahead of that, however good it was’ when Clint widened his eyes slightly in a clear ‘shut up you idiot’ way.

Coulson swallowed his words just in time to catch the very pleased look on Agent May’s face.

Even then, everyone had heard of Agent Romanov in the New York office. And everyone knew she was good.

A few weeks later, Agent May was thrown down unceremoniously by Agent Romanov in a demonstration of even higher level combat skills. To be fair to Agent May, she took the minor humiliation well, and went on to become one of the best close quarter combat agents SHIELD had. After Romanov, obviously.

Agent Melinda May didn’t much care for Agent Barton though.

Since then it had become something of a tradition, and Agent May became particularly adept at singling out the best ‘candidates’. They were always people who could take it, always people SHIELD thought capable of actually becoming an agent and always people who needed knocking down a peg or two. Not that that caveat had applied to Agent May - she was just blind luck - but that was the part Natasha loved, especially if they were smug, six foot men.

Clint hadn’t met this year’s chosen recruit yet. He’d been on enforced downtime, having therapy and psych eval after psych eval until he was pretty sure his therapist knew more about his life than he ever had. This was his first time back at the New York base since… well, everything. New York and the Mandarin and the Winter Soldier and that alien SNAFU in London and, despite everything, Clint was looking forward to seeing his so-called team – even Tony. (Natasha he’d seen as often as she could manage, which wasn’t enough really but they held each other tighter now, and their kisses seemed to mean more).

But he hadn’t forgotten SHIELDs new recruit tradition, so before stopping by Stark Tower, he went to see this year’s chosen rookie.

Agent Clint Barton met Agent Peter Ward in the New York base’s common room, and as they shook hands, the only think Clint could think was; oh yes, Natasha is going to love beating the crap out of you.

Edited 2013-09-27 01:34 pm (UTC)

You are my favorite. Ward was so boooooring. :) And his first name might have been Grant. But I am fully embracing this as my headcanon, up to and including May having an intense dislike for Clint Barton. Thank you!

:D Loved it! I really want all the fic that merges Avengers and Agents of SHIELD and all the combinations of characters (I really love everyone on AoS, including Ward, and it seems I'm the only one who does).

Coulson was just about to open his mouth to say something to the effect of ‘are you kidding? Romanov standard is light years ahead of that, however good it was’ when Clint widened his eyes slightly in a clear ‘shut up you idiot’ way.

Bwahahahaha! Yeeep, Clint, we can see your protectiveness. You're not hiding it very well.

OMG, I LOVE YOU.

But seriously, best. drabble. ever.

I am SO with Clint on this one. But why does Melinda not like Clint? I mean, has she seen his ARMS? You'd forgive almost anything for those, even what amounts to a sucker punch ... ;-)

Bwahahahaha.

This makes me very happy because, as a post on tumblr was pointing out, the pilot shouldn't have to put down Natasha to bring the new kids up. This definitely levels the score. :)

Also, Clint being an ass is always hysterical.

Whoa. A thousand words? For me, that's no drabble. Far from it. That's a long fic. I am a drabbler by trade, so to speak, and a drabble leaves a zero off that number. Drabbles are 100 words for me. Double drabbles are 200 and if one uses the term, triple drabbles are 300 (but that's pushing ficlet/vignette categories for me). A thousand words is a full fic for me. That's generally what I write and read, though I'll make an exception and read a long fic every now and then. And by long I generally mean 5K. Once in a Blue Sun Job, I'll read a crazy long one (that fic is 170K, and I loved it), but that's a very rare thing indeed.

I have to run today (literally) before it gets too hot (literally), but I just might try my hand at this later. I wanted to write today anyway. :)

Prompt -- Clint's the little spoon.

I hope everybody has a GREAT Friday!

So this turned out more angst than I think you wanted... Sorry.

now I lay me down to sleep

He's strong. Fuck, he's smart and fast and can crawl down a ventilation shaft in fifteen seconds, over a barbed wire fence in three. He knew how to withstand torture long before SHIELD got their claws in him, dragged him into a world where he does the hunting instead of being hunted. Broken bones, broken promises, broken people; in the dark nights he makes them, shapes them them, shakes them. His fingers have taken lives, blows, counts of corpses on the floors. And Clint’s strong, he can do that, but living with it – living with it is another thing entirely.

*

The light pours over his shoulders into the cramped bedroom, lighting up the tiny space with fluorescent blatancy, and Coulson wonders what he’ll find this time, if the bleeding hasn’t stopped or the nightmares have begun again.

But the cheap duvet is unstained, draped neatly over the bed, and Natasha lifts her head, looking at him with knowing gray eyes.

He nods to her, shutting the door with gentle fingers, and stands there for a heartbeat before turning. In moments he ghosts through the battered apartment, setting the locks behind him, and begins the long, lonely walk back to HQ.

*

In the quiet bedroom Natasha returns her attention to her partner, settling her chest against his back, her face against his bent neck. He sleeps like a dead man, his head bowed and the lines of his face drawn with exhaustion, his body tucked into her embrace as though she is a shield against the world’s evils.

If only it was that simple; if only it was an outside threat she could protect him from.

Natasha holds onto him, holds him together, murmuring Russian lullabies into the sweaty curls of his hair, and through the long, endless night stands guard.

*

Clint sleeps, weary and broken and drained, and if he dreams, he does not remember it when the morning light wakes him.

Meh, change of plans. Ripped off a quick double drabble for you all. Now I'm off to run, but I'll likely be back to play more later. Drabbles are my stock in trade!

No warnings, no triggers, safe for work. A bit shippier than most of my stuff.

---

Natasha tilted her head sideways and stared over Clint’s shoulder.

“Where did you get that picture?” she asked, nodding toward something behind him in his apartment.

Clint turned to look, then swallowed big.

He turned back a moment later, all nervous energy. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Natasha leaned crossed her arms and lifted one eyebrow.

“Well?”

Clint grinned. “I plead the fifth.”

“This isn’t a court of law.”

“Feels that way,” muttered Clint. He licked his lips nervously, then seemed to reach some sort of decision. He suddenly took a deep breath, then invaded Natasha’s space with one long stride.

As his lips met hers in a fiery kiss, she gasped.
She’d never imagined that this was how their first kiss would happen, but maybe she should have. After all, why not use physical distraction to avoid uncomfortable topics? It was very them.

As Clint pulled back for air, Natasha smirked. He took that as permission to continue his ministrations, and she did not object.

She still wanted an answer to her question, but as far as avoidance tactics went, she had to admit Clint’s idea was a good one. She’d take it.

For now.

Nice one! (Wrote a sort of karmic sequel for it, further down ...) ;-)

This is awesome and fun and sexy. I want to know what the pic is!!!

Ha! It's only a temporary distraction. Natasha WILL get her answer whether he likes it or not! XD

And a while ago, I played with ten word fics. So much fun!

Here's a few from this fandom:

Prompt: any, any, Nothing scares me anymore.
Response: Avengers, Hawkeye
Loki's best (and worst) leftover: Nothing else scares me anymore.

Prompt: any, any, inevitable packing mistake.
Response: Avengers, Black Widow.
Clint usually sufficed. But right now, Natasha craved a crossbow.

Because really. I'm a tiny fic writer! ;)

Tiny fics are wonderful! :D I applaud people who can manage them because words are inevitably my downfall. (For someone who doesn't write more than 1k normally, I love to describe far too much.)

And that second one made me laugh. ;)

“Pretty sweet digs, Phil,” Natasha said, opening the mini-fridge in the lounge and raising her eyebrows at the selection. “While I apparently now live in the superhero dorm, you get to live in the mobile government agency plane dorm.”

Coulson grinned. “Superhero dorm?”

“Stark installed a pool table last week. And so, apparently, did you.” Natasha nodded at the pool table, which of course had a SHIELD logo on its untouched felt surface and all of the pool balls neatly racked and ready.

“So your qualifications for dorm life are a pool table?” Clint, who’d already climbed on top of a cabinet and was perched there, drummed his heels idly against the furniture.

“Of course. And a shared kitchen, frat-boy-like presence of a bunch of sometimes-drunk men, and random explosions.”

“Point. Though the drunkenness was Bruce’s fault. Scientists, man. They know all the tricks. You got any frat boys yet, Phil?” Clint asked.

“Just May,” Coulson said, smiling. “We’ve got a shared kitchen, though, and the random explosions down to a science—or I should say scientist. Or two scientists.”

“How are Frick and Frack, anyway?”

“Arguing, mostly. Simmons named the newest batch of prototypes. She’s switched to Tolkien, which Fitz of course finds low-class, so she’s picking names from the movies rather than the books. Tauriel promises to be quite the weapon. Not quite up to the standards of your Widow’s Bite, of course, but they’re coming along.”

“Hm,” Natasha said, tilting her head.

“Fitz is…the guy,” Clint said, brow wrinkling.

“He designed your quiver,” Natasha pointed out. “You should really know who he is.”

“Oh, that Fitz. Right. I should drop in on him, see if he’s fixed that issue with the—”

Coulson stopped him from jumping down with a raised eyebrow. “Nobody knows you know about this team, remember?”

“Aw, secrets, no,” Clint said, frowning. “We’re Level Seven, too, you know. It says so on our badges and everything. Why can’t we come along on the Funderful Flying Dormitory for Coulson’s Ragtag Group of Scallywags? We were the originals, you know.”

“Because you need to watch Stark and Nat needs to watch Rogers. You know those two will get in trouble without proper adult supervision.”

Natasha tilted her head at Clint: he has a point. After all, Clint had let Tony out of his sight for one weekend and the President had nearly been blown up because of it. And Steve was acclimating to the twenty-first century really well, but he needed a friend, and Natasha was beginning to like the old costumed hero.

“Fine,” Clint said, grumbling as he hopped down. “But I have one important question before you shoo us off your little funmobile.”

“And what could that possibly be, Agent Barton?”

Clint picked up a pool cue and twirled it easily. “Solids or stripes?”

:DDDDD

Frick and Frack. *giggles* You know that Fitz - Simmons references make me happy, right?

That was loooovely. And man, SHIELD surely loves its agents and sometimes pampers them. :)

Hehehe, this is fun and just what I though happened off screen ;)

So i was just working on a fic (three of them), and I skipped ahead to write part of the plot I wanted to share. This one combines Avengers and CA2 speculation, and a certain arrow necklace. Warnings for language and canon compliant violent things, such as brainwashing. Established Clint/Natasha.

*

Clint's week is already shittastic as it can be, or at least that's what he thinks. He is freezing his ass off on a roof in Bulgaria, waiting for a mark that probably won't be showing up when his comm link buzzes in his ear.

They tell him to abort the mission, because there's a lunatic raging through New York that needs to be gunned down.

It must be a hell of a lunatic, Clint thinks, hoping for better weather in New York and some sleep between Sofia and New York. A stack of weapons and his secondary bow are already waiting in a jet filled with twitchy looking agents. Markham hands him a stack of files and thankfully, Clint is already sitting down when he flips it open.

The first photo in there is a grainy shot of a man running down the street, chasing after familiar figure of a woman with red hair. Clint looks at Markham, who shakes her head.

“Last time we heard from Romanoff, she was fine,” she says. Clint nods, sets his lips and looks at the next photo. The man on it has untidy, shoulder long brown hair and some kind of a mask. Two photos later, he is unmasked and the photograph is clear enough for recognition.

“Well, shit,” Clint says, because it's not every day that he's asked to kill a dead guy.

“The resemblance is remarkable,” Markham says, but Clint knows whom he's looking at. He saw pictures of Howling Commandos enough times in history class, and he doesn't forget faces. Ever. The company's decorated sniper and best friend to Captain America somehow survived the fall from a moving train and turned up as a masked killer.

“That's not just resemblance,” Clint says. It's not. It's the same guy. It shouldn't be possible, but it is, and that's the kind of shit that happens to him – demigods, monsters, space aliens and people who didn't age a day in last eighty years.

*

He opens the door and sees her sitting on a chair in the far corner, looking like she's curled in on herself. She barely spares him any attention, but then her eyes catch the familiar pattern of motions, or perhaps it's the bow he is holding that tells her it's him. The hand pressed to her throat moves away and her body uncoils. She stands up and Clint notices the tightness of her movement, certain that her muscles scream for rest, despite her remarkable endurance.

Clint nears her and steals a glance at the one way window to the other room inside the med bay. The man strapped to bed looks like something flood had washed out, used and ruined. He briefly wonders what he himself looked like after Natasha knocked Loki out of him. From here, the Winter Soldier doesn't look as formidable and dangerous as he did through sniper's aim; but mostly like a boy who'd gotten lost in woods of war, without the threads of mind control that held him prisoner.

Clint catches the tiny glint around Natasha's neck – a tiny silvery arrow, something new; and notices how her hand returns to it, fingering the pendant with agitation that speaks of exhaustion, emotional more than physical.

He hesitates for just another second and then silently reaches out to pull her to him. Natasha might be a hard person to read, but he knows Natasha, her memories and scars that her past didn't spare her. She's tired enough to stand here in flats, and like this he can lean his chin on top of her hair and pull her really, really close. Her fingers that had been holding the little arrow close around his shoulder, replacing the symbolic substitute with the comfort he can offer her. He looks at the man sleeping behind the glass and wonders what he brings to Natasha, and why her past seems to come back. He knows that wallowing in thoughts is futile, but for now he just contemplates it, how she had to face what was done to her (again) when he woke up after Loki's nightmare, and how it's coming back now, wearing another face she held fond in her memories.

“You okay?” he asks, lips brushing against her hair that's starting to curl after being exposed to humidity and rain. She nods and he accepts her answer with reserve. It probably means she isn't injured, but even in his arms she feels drained of energy, of worry and disbelief and fear, leaving, possibly, only numbness in its wake. He remembers the night after New York well, and her arms around his middle, her front against his injured and bruised back when she made her way into his hospital bed. (Nobody bothered to separate them, and he was thankful, holding onto her hand like a single thing that was certain in the world).

Clint unfolds his arms from around her and pulls back gently, noticing how she reaches for her pendant, like it's grounding her better than anything else. “Want some shower?” he asks. Natasha looks at him and then glances at the man behind the glass. There's briefest hesitation, and a flash of guilt behind her eyes, but Natasha doesn't let it spread.

“Shower, you say?”

“Long and warm. And a strawberry soap.”

Her lips spread thin and tired, but when she looks at him, he sees a glimmer that reminds him of that time when he woke up and the only thing that mattered to her was that she had him back.

“Strawberry soap?”

“The one,” he says.

She comes near, curling her fingers around his.

“You'll be smelling of strawberries,” she says. Clint is the one who offers a reassuring smile this time. One that says, you're here and that's all that matters. We'll get through everything else together.

“Things I do for you,” he says.

I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to drabbles and love the challenge of hitting that 100 words exactly. I also love the prompts and...

yeah.

prompt: a full tank of gas
title: Wherever You Go
wordcount: 100 :-)

Sometimes she needs to be... alone. Normality has never worked, not for Natasha. So sometimes she has to leave. Be elsewhere.

It's six months since New York. Since she put everything on the line to save one man. Six months since she took that man into her bed. Into her heart.

She wakes and knows.

It's time to be somewhere else.

She doesn't pack. Doesn't say goodbye.

Her car smells like him. She breathes in his scent and knows that normality is overrated. the door opens and he slides in.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Wherever you're going." She smiles.

Love this! (And so jealous of your ability to nail that 100 word mark!)

Double drabble (200 words on the dot), total fluff, prompt is self-evident. (Greetings from Berlin, everyone!)

_______________________________

“Flip you for it,” he says with one of those facial expressions that people insist on calling a smirk, when it’s really just a grin.

“In your dreams, Barton,” she scoffs, and relaxes her stance on the mat. “Last time you flipped me was after that bug I caught in Algeria. I hadn’t had anything solid to eat in three …”

He attacks without warning and she almost – almost – falls for it, but when he tries to scissor her legs out from under her, she sidesteps instead, catching him with his weight on the back foot. She pushes, expecting that he’ll fall and he does, but he grabs her hand and pulls her down with him by her own momentum. His foot in her crotch, he heaves.

She groans even as she flies over his head. Cheapest trick in the book, the old feint-disengage. What the hell is wrong with her that she didn’t think of it?

She’s on her back for less than one-tenth of a second when the solid, warm mass of Clint Barton lands on top of her body.

“I win,” he says, and this time it really is a smirk.

“We’re getting married tomorrow, not Friday.”



Edited 2013-09-27 08:19 pm (UTC)

Oh my God this is ridiculously awesome-and-them. :D

title: Sometimes He Flies
prompt: at the very top
(with apologies/thanks/awe to Neil Gaiman)
wordcount: 100

Stark might think he knows how to fly but Clint knows how to fall. To stand on the precipice and launch himself into the void knowing there's nothing to catch him - no safety net, no harness, no genteely-spoken AI.

Nothing.

To fall. To know no way out. This is freedom. This is living.

But Clint never lets himself fall. Not until the day he makes a break, escapes the crowd and retreats to the top of Stark Tower.

And she's there. Waiting.

This is falling and living and dying.

Clint falls.

And this time, he flies.

OH MY GOD I got that immediately and OH SANDMAN and YES PERFECTION and I've waited a long while for Neil Gaiman inspired C/N fic and I didn't think it would be Sandman but SOD IT this is wonderful. :D

ETA: inkvoices!! It has happened!! It's not American Gods but who cares? It's happened. *dances*

Edited 2013-09-27 10:31 pm (UTC)

Clint suffers from nightmares, Natasha helps him regain his footing.

I used a few of the prompts, can you find them all???


Familiar sounds woke Natasha from a deep sleep; a whimper, a snuffle, the scratching of fingernails clawing at the sheets. The broad back against her front was wet with sweat, the man she loved shivering with something more than fear. She wrapped her arms more securely around him, willing her warmth to infuse him with strength. He woke with a start, gasping her name and she splayed her hand across his heavily beating heart, rubbing soothing circles in the clammy skin.

She kissed his neck and whispered quiet encouragements as he wrapped his hand around hers, entwining their fingers and squeezing tightly. His ragged breathing slowed as she held him tight, yet he didn’t stop shivering. “So cold, Tasha.”

“Shower?” she suggested the tried and true remedy. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken her in a cold sweat, nightmares eating away at his psyche and like all previous times, he gave a tight nod and clambered from their bed, wrapping the comforter around himself. She went ahead, got the shower running hot, waited for Clint to make his way to her. He shuffled in and dropped the blanket, shivering despite the warmth of the bathroom. Dropping his boxers, he stepped into the shower stall. Natasha followed him, having shed her cami and shorts while she waited for him.

Clint stood in the scalding water’s spray; head hung low, hands braced against the tiles as if he needed the added support. Natasha took the sponge, lathered it up with the chocolate and chili shower gel that Clint favored when he got like this. His legs were shaking with tremors and she could hear his teeth chattering.

“What was it this time?” she asked as she rubbed his back, his chest, his arms, slowly massaging warmth back into them. He turned around, facing her, tracing the deep purple bruising on her chest.

“You. That bullet didn’t hit your Kevlar. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything.”

She dropped the sponge and cupped his cheeks, raising his head to meet her eyes. “I’m still here. Nothing happened.” He raised an eyebrow as if to say Really? That’s nothing? and she grinned sheepishly. “You know what I mean.”

She kissed him gently, noticing that he’s not trembling anymore as she wrapped her arms around him and molded herself to him. He returned the kiss passionately and Natasha’s heart soared as she felt his spirit return.


Edited 2013-09-27 10:00 pm (UTC)

The Queen of H/C strikes again! Loved. :-)

PS: Incidentally, I'm shivering and contemplating that lovely rain shower in my hotel ... except I have to get up in 5 hours and catch a plane to meet ... the Queen. ;-)

This is the shortest fic I've ever written. I loved the challenge! Hope you like it.

No warnings, although there is mention of beer in case that's a trigger for anyone; rated PG only because of mention of beer.

Did I mention beer? Because I am enjoying the heck out of a few tonight...


Disheveled and tired. That’s what she thought of her appearance as she passed the large mirror. Finally at Stark Tower, the three battle-worn Avengers exited the elevator and walked down the hallway to the common area – more specifically, the bar. The Black Widow trailed behind a wobbly Tony Stark and in front of a sleep walking Hawkeye.

“Going to kill Fury… but tomorrow,” stated the weary Stark. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Please tell me you had the refrigeration system repaired,” said Natasha almost pleadingly. “There’s nothing I want more than a cold beer. Except, maybe, a hot shower.”

Suddenly Tony stopped walking. As testament to her exhaustion, Nat actually ran into him. “What the hell, Stark?”

“Umm, well, the beer frig should be ice cold. But, it’s probably empty,” and he winced.

Without a word or sideways glance, Natasha glided over to the appliance in question. As she swung the door open, she was greeted to the sight of a single brown bottle.

“Ladies before gentlemen,” quipped Clint from behind her. “You should let the lady have the last beer, Stark.”

Both Tony and Natasha turned to glare at the archer. “What?” Clint asked.

They continued to stare at him with looks that simultaneously echoed 'who you callin lady?'

“Ok, ok,” he relented with hands in the air. “Let the record show that chivalry is dead.”

As Tony and Natasha turned their attention to the lone, frosty bottle, Tony snapped his fingers. He turned to Natasha. “There’s only one fair way to settle this, Widow. I’ll flip you for it,” he said excitedly with a huge grin on his face.

Both Natasha and Clint stared at him with jaws agape.

“Stark, you’re so tired that you’ve lost your mind,” said Clint.

“No way, Arrow. I figure it’s better to be lucky than good. But, when you’re me, you’re both. Or… I’m both… whatever! It’s settled. I’ll flip you for it.” And he turned to face Natasha.

“Fine. I could just kill you where you stand as I drink the beer, but we’ll do it your way. On the count of Barton’s three?”

“Sure,” said Tony as he reached in his pocket.

Barton began the countdown. “One.”

Nat stood still as Tony put his hand in his front pocket.

“Two.”

Nat took a cleansing breath as Tony took his hand from his pocket.

“Three.”

As Tony threw a coin in the air, Natasha grabbed the arm he held out, swept his legs out from under him, and flipped him over.

As Tony stared up at her with disbelieving eyes, her smile faded as she caught sight of the silver quarter rolling across the poured concrete floor and spinning to a stop about six feet away. Clint’s laughter filled the room.

As recognition dawned on her, all the Black Widow could offer was a quiet “Oh…” as she twisted the cap off of the bottle and downed the frigid beverage in a few satisfying gulps.

Haha!! LOVE IT. LOVELOVELOVE. LOVE.


LOVE!