A/N: This ficlet took a decidedly nonmagical turn but I think/hope it captures the spirit of the prompt. And yes, this is a small piece of a larger, yet-to-be-revealed universe. ;)

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"It’s been too long.”

Coulson puts a hand up to his ear. "The doc says we've got five minutes.”

“The doc is full of shit.”

“She can take it.”

“We don't know that."

She can take a lot of things, sure. She can take more than anyone he’s ever met, but it doesn’t mean they have to go and make a fucking list to prove it.

He stares straight ahead and fights the urge to move. The scene revealed by the two-way mirror is like some debauched fantasy, all satin sheets and gilded mirrors and heavy velvet curtains blocking out the early morning light. She’s a vision in white--white silk, white lace, barely enough to cover the miles of smooth white skin--and red. Red draped over the pillowcase and beyond, red all over her body, splashed across like the Queen’s men got caught painting the roses and left mid-stroke. She’s a portrait on the wall, a gorgeous nightmare.

She’s also perfectly, terrifyingly still.

It’s a stupid mission and an easy mission, and those are always the worst. And she’d been eager to take it, eager to prove that they weren’t wrong about her--that their trust hadn’t been misplaced. It was a starter job for for a two-bit trainee, not a redemption arc for seasoned vet and he’d told her that. He’d also told her that the drug was experimental and so far had only showed unpredictable results.

She’d just looked at him with those cool eyes and gave him a practiced smile.

“Well,” she said, "so am I.”

The man lying next to her is starting to come to. He sits up, looks around, sees the woman beside him. You can see the minute it dawns on him that she isn’t breathing, and second after that when he realizes she’s not the only one covered in blood. He stumbles backwards, holding up his hands and cursing in a mixture of English and Hungarian.

“Make the call,” Coulson says softly, eyes fixed on the cell phone lying on the bedside table.

The man just keeps whimpering like a child, huddled into a ball in the corner.

“He’s not going to do it.”

"He will."

“We don’t have time for this. You want him to talk? I’ll make him talk.” Clint reaches for the knife on his belt.

Phil’s hand shoots out and catches his arm. “I want something left over, Barton,” he says with an eerie calm. “Sit. Down.”

Clint doesn’t exactly obey but he doesn’t move toward the door either. He's saved from any further deliberating because the blood-soaked man finally picks up the goddamn phone. He dials the number, and exactly thirty seconds later their contact is at the door, comforting and consoling and promising to make it all go away so long as he cooperates.

The second they’re gone, Clint’s opening up the hidden panel between the two rooms. There’s commotion all around but he doesn’t pay attention, just goes straight for the case that’s in his pocket and pulls out the syringe. He kneels down, slips the needle in just below the crease of her elbow and waits. Her skin is cold and smooth and she’s so goddamn still.

“Come on, come on,” he chants, holding her by her shoulders, her face, her arms, as if the warmth of his skin might somehow soak into hers.

She doesn’t move.

He presses his ear to her chest and hears nothing. Wrists and neck have no pulse. He's seen her bloody dozens of times, wounded and torn but not still. Never still.

“Come on,” he says, cursing his partner for being such a stupid fucking idiot. He takes her hands in his and leans down until his forehead touches hers. “Come on.”

Her fingers tighten a split second before he hears a sharp breath. He pulls back as her eyes flutter open, watches as they slowly come into focus and rest on his.

“Did we get him?” she asks faintly.

He gives her a startled laugh and a stupid grin and lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Yeah,” he says. “We got him.”

This time her smile is real.

Ponies and rainbows and kittens and magic and glitter.

(ie, The Land Where We Keep Making Shit Up Until All These Stories Fit Together)

((but omg--such a fun ride. and addictive too))


Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeels, I have them. And what you're working on now is giving me even more Clint feels. In fact my feels are reaching critical about right now. This shit is getting real.

Edited 2012-07-24 09:57 pm (UTC)

VERY COOL. :D This is awesome! That had to be deep-down frightening for Clint to have to watch at all. Poor woobie. I can't wait to see the rest of the universe!!

THANK YOU! And sorry for the late response! I'm catching up on comments today. I'm so glad you liked and hope you enjoy the rest of the 'verse! :D

The scene revealed by the two-way mirror is like some debauched fantasy, all satin sheets and gilded mirrors and heavy velvet curtains blocking out the early morning light. She’s a vision in white--white silk, white lace, barely enough to cover the miles of smooth white skin--and red. Red draped over the pillowcase and beyond, red all over her body, splashed across like the Queen’s men got caught painting the roses and left mid-stroke. She’s a portrait on the wall, a gorgeous nightmare.

That is pure, gorgeous art. ::swoons:: "A gorgeous nightmare" is just... *such* a perfect description of the scene and also Tasha as a whole. ::LOVES::

**blushes**

Thank you. I like to think that deep down Clint is a bit of a poet. Silly knight-errant-cowboy that he is. ;)

this is just going to be my standard 'review':

I approve this message. ;)

LOL.

And thank you. :)

...Bee, just... Bee. How you do what you do? My brain so small not understand how possible. This is just great. Again. Oooh Nat and her practiced smile. And I'm assuming this is early days because of the context, but also cos he's still *getting* the practiced smile...and already he's so far gone, bless him.

I love what you ladies are doing with all this. I also kinda like that the snippets are coming out of order. I kind of like the jumping around. Feels... I dunno, arty or summat? It kind of adds an interesting dimension to the storytelling overall - like picking up a book of short stories rather than a novel. I like. Moar pls. ;)

Thank you for the lovely words, my friend. :)

You know, the one thing we still need to do is figure out how to organize this story when we put together the whole thing. We might end up playing around with the chronology, I'm not sure. I like the concept of short stories vs. novel here. I think it fits in well with this 'verse b/c you don't really want to see too much at any given time; I don't like revealing too many of their secrets. ;)

Oh, wow. This was simulatneously creepy, touching and, dare I say it, sweet.

I love protective!Clint so damn much. *hugs him*

“Come on,” he says, cursing his partner for being such a stupid fucking idiot. He takes her hands in his and leans down until his forehead touches hers. “Come on.”

Forehead press! *flailwibble*

This was simulatneously creepy, touching and, dare I say it, sweet.

That? That right there? Srsly everything I was going for in this section. EVERYTHING. I wanted the fairytale aspect, I wanted his concern to be apparent, but I also wanted it to be somehow unsettling too. This fic shouldn't give you warm fuzzies; if it does, then I haven't done my job.

**bounces up and down**

I really enjoyed this and am super intrigued by the 'verse you're creating here? Does that mean we'll be getting more??

**nods**

Yep. Bob's 'small acts of kindness' and my 'bait' pretty much spawned this entired universe in our heads, and now we're trying to line up all these stories (plus the ones we're still working on) into some kind of coherent narrative. It's kind of backwards/sideways storytelling but it's really fun.

Edited 2012-07-25 02:03 pm (UTC)

Oh, I love yet-to-be-revealed-universes! And I love the angst of this piece! Clint not being able to go to her and having to deal with a calm-as-ever Coulson when she is RIGHT THERE and NOT BREATHING! Love this!

Thank you!!!! I love torturing Clint and giving him basketfulls of angst. Like srsly.


Clearly, I have issues. :o

splashed across like the Queen’s men got caught painting the roses and left mid-stroke NNNNNNNRG. Gorgeous prose! (This is such a killer scene in M:I--I love how you used it here with C & N!)

Thank you!!! Eeeep! :D :D :D

Oh that's brilliant! You had me close to nail-biting, it was that tense for a while there o_o I was really feeling Clint's rather intense anxiety! Beautiful, vivid descriptions of the scene, too. Plus I love seeing how worked up Clint gets when he thinks Natasha is in danger, through her own doing nonetheless. Masterfully done :D

I'm glad the tension came across so well; and yes, I have a major kink for seeing all worked up, protective, angsty!Clint-- most especially when the danger is from Natasha herself. Issues. I have them.

Thank you for the lovely comment!! :D

Nice. Liked this call back to the Mission Impossible situation :)

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!!!

cursing in a mixture of English and Hungarian.

that would be something to hear. probably just once in a life time.

She’s a vision in white--white silk, white lace, barely enough to cover the miles of smooth white skin--and red. Red draped over the pillowcase and beyond, red all over her body, splashed across like the Queen’s men got caught painting the roses and left mid-stroke. She’s a portrait on the wall, a gorgeous nightmare.

I just can't with this....