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February 2017

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alphaflyer: (Hawkeye Aja silhouette)
Title:  Hello Darkness
Rating:  T (PG-13)
Warning: none really, except for some swearing and reference to canon-consistent past child abuse
Characters/Pairing: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Summary:  The worst thing is the silence.

Note: This was written for [ profile] sgteam14283, for the [ profile] be_compromised Secret Santa. I originally had another of her prompts in mind, but somehow that request for ‘anything deaf!Clint related’ would not be denied. It’s perhaps a tad angstier than usual for a holiday exchange, but that’s the story that wanted out. To compensate, I gave a bit of a nod to her other request – Clint and Natasha on a mission, being the awesome spies they are.

This story is indebted to Fraction’s brilliant “Hawkeye #19” (but not really comics ‘verse); the title is drawn from Simon & Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence.” It also echoes the events in "Locust Wind", but you’d have to squint pretty hard to make things fit.  Thanks to my awesome beta, [ profile] shenshen77, and to [ profile] ohmydarlingdear for the great banner.

Read it here on AO3

In other news, I finished a piece for [ profile] igrockspock's friends exchange today so I'm kind of creatively spent.  I owe a couple of days on my December meme but will try and catch up with the requests tomorrow, especially since they're really good ones!
alphaflyer: (Barton)
Author's Note:  So I polished up the Coda to "Second Mouse" that I had written for [ profile] crazy4orcas as a Hallowe'en treat, and posted it under the title "Loose Ends".  Immediately, the plaintive reviews and PMs started: Yeah, that's nice, but we wanted to see Bond meet Clint and Natasha ...
[ profile] sugar_fey asked particularly nicely, so I stuck this into a comment for her.  I'll probably put it into a comment fic compilation at some point; in the meantime, dear Flisters, here it is, special delivery.


She walks into the bar with a purposeful stride, ignoring the appreciative stares from the other patrons as she heads straight for Bond’s table.  She inclines her head in a silent greeting and allows him to pull out a chair for her.

He clears his throat when it becomes obvious that she isn’t going to say anything.

"And a good evening to you, too ... Natasha, it is now?"

She looks at Bond in a way that would be down her nose if she wasn't half a head shorter than him -- even in heels -- and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow as she sits down.

"And you are ...?"

Bond is momentarily rendered speechless.  Surely she cannot have forgotten …  Those red curls look just as soft and burnished as they did on his pillow in that lodge on Skye, where she screamed his name …  But she obviously expects an answer to her question.  Her fingers are strumming impatiently on her hips now and so he gives in, raising an eyebrow of his own in what he hopes is a solid imitation of M-grade superciliousness.

“Bond.  James Bond.”

She nods, and extends her hand.

That James Bond?  The one who sends Clint a case of beer several times a year?”

He exhales slowly, patiently.  So that’s how she wants it?  His smile is polite, his voice non-committal as he takes her hand and grips it firmly.  Two can play at this game.

“The very one.”

“Good beer,” she nods approvingly.  “I suppose you two must have worked pretty closely together at some point.”

“You could say that.”  If she asks him where, he might just strangle her.  Luckily, Barton chooses that moment to saunter up to their table with his usual I’m-only-refraining-from-killing-you-because-I-can’t-be-bothered-just-now expression.

“Bond,” he says in his usual off-handed manner.  “Good to see you.  I see you’ve met Natasha already.”

Not him, too?  Bond had expected territorial stakes being drilled into the ground here; instead, Barton couldn’t seem to be able to care less.

Time to cut the bullshit.

“Yes, we have.  Met, I mean.  Quite some time ago, in fact.  Surprised you don’t seem to remember.”

Barton and Romanoff exchange a glance that seems to cover a whole encrypted conversation in under a second.  At the end, he shrugs in a way that seems to say, your call.

“Some lives, Mr. Bond,” she says, having come to a conclusion, “lend themselves better to continuity than others.”

Bond digests that thought with a sip of his martini, then fishes out the olive and lets it roll around in his mouth for a moment.  She’s not wrong -- and suddenly he wishes his own powers of reinvention were as finely honed as those of the woman before him.  It’s a skill that would come in handy from time to time.

He watches the two agents before him exchange another conversational look, which ends with a little gleam in her eyes and a slightly curled lip on Barton’s part, and tries to dissect the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he bites down on the olive.  No – not jealousy.  Envy, perhaps?

“And now?” he can’t help himself asking.  “Who are you now?”

Barton turns to him, his face as open as Bond has ever seen it.

“Partners,” he says simply.  “It’s really not that complicated.”

A response is clearly called for, and so Bond raises his glass.

“Well, in that case,” he says, “I hope you only live twice.”
alphaflyer: (Bond Hawkeye)
... quoth hubby as he located the ur-root of the false bamboo that has been sprouting up all around (and through and out of) our deck for a decade.  (He dismantled the step from the dining room to get to it ...)  Personally, I think he's being optimistic and all he got was a piece of the White Tower ...  But man, it was a lot of work pulling that shit out.  Mama Bamboo and a thousand babies.  My back is killing me.

The neighbours took down the old fence and this weekend was the sweet spot before the new one goes up, so we had unique access -- minus the bit where the post holes have been dug, so it was a bit like mining an asteroid, craters and all, and mind your step, dear.  We doused any remaining shreds of possible false bamboo root with our precious single leftover litre of Round Up.  (The stuff is now illegal in Ontario; we Canadians are a polite people, and apparently don't believe in something that is Effective At Killing Things.)  I can only hope that hubby followed instructions and did NOT allow it to get near the good shrubbery....

A thing I learned:  don't wear a woolly sweater when weeding.  I must have picked a trillion seeds out of mine.

Oh, kidlet is sick and I have to get up at 4 am to catch the 6:30 flight to New York.  My life is pure bliss.
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