FICLET: Mountain Interlude (T)
Apr. 26th, 2014 07:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alphaflyerWritten for the PicFic Contest on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rennerobsession, for a pic I have, quite frankly, been considering quite frequently as we all chew our collective fingernails waiting for Age of Ultron. (I ignored the heads of the film crew/civilians stuck in the forefront).
Rules are, no longer than 600 words. I managed to come in at 598. Go, me! There were two other great ficlets posted in response to the challenge, so I'm planning on just being content with having finally gotten some emerging head canon off my chest (to wit, that Clint rescues Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver from that HYDRA facility where we see them imprisoned in the post-credits scene in CA:TWS, and that said facility is in the mountains of Serbia).
And here's the ficlet:
Mountain Interlude
Sometimes, being human really sucks.
Okay, given what Clint does for a living and how that would be a lot easier if he could fly or throw a house, being human sucks pretty much 24/7. He spares a glance at the pretty girl gesturing beside him – yeah, he shouldn’t call a woman that but dammit, this one can’t be older than fifteen -- even she can do shit that isn’t in the Barton family specs.
Good thing the twins are on his side (and grateful to him for getting them out of that HYDRA pit), because that metal behemoth is now heading straight for them. As he nocks his last remaining explosive arrow, Clint bemoans the days when the worst thing he ever had to shoot was goons with lousy tattoos.
Fuck, this is getting old. Run, shoot, stare in disbelief at the lack of visible impact, repeat. His shoulders hurt where he got hit by a rock, and his arms are on fire from pulling the bowstring a hundred times. And he’s not even getting paid for this shit anymore, not since Rogers closed down SHIELD, hosed it out and took the light bulbs. (Small consolation – turns out, most of those jerks in Finance really were Nazis; must remind Tasha he was right about that.)
Natasha. It’s been too long.
The machine slows down somewhat, thanks to Wanda -- thank God for competent women – and Clint finally gets the shot he needs; the arrow buries itself in the thing’s eye slit. (Just why does an Imperial Walker need eyes anyway? Although right now, the designer’s fondness for anthropo… human design comes in handy.)
Focus, Barton. He clicks the remote detonator. One, two, three – boom.
An electrical spark crackles all around the metal chassis; Pietro races around the thing a few times to create a kind of vortex (guy’s an arrogant little shit with a dorky call sign, but he can sure move). The machine falls over, twitches a couple of times and stops moving; an eerie silence descends over the village square. Three cheers for teamwork.
One down, who knows how many to go; they’re all over, according to CNN, and now even in Disneyesque mountain villages. What they need is to find the spawning grounds, not take the suckers out one at a time.
Clint has barely finished that thought when his sat phone rings.
“Hawkeye. You done there? Doing anything tonight?”
Tasha?
“Tell me you’re in touch with Fury and Rogers and the others, and that there’s a plan. ‘Cause this game of whack-a-mole really, really sucks.”
“I missed you too, Clint.”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “Adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet. Plus, I’ve got rubble in places where it has no business being.”
There is silence at the other end of the phone. Then, “So. About tonight?”
Wanda and Pietro are giving him funny looks, and Clint points apologetically to his phone, mouthing something about home base. But the locals are emerging from behind shuttered windows, and it’s time to go.
“Absolutely. Name the place. As long as it’s not here.”
He assumes she knows where here is; probably has eyes on the place, thanks to some residual S.H.I.E.L.D. tech.
“You should be able to make Belgrade by eight. And yes, there is a plan.” He can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, “But with any luck, there’ll be time to get the rubble out of your uniform and give you a nice backrub.”
He snaps the phone shut with a grin. Backrub. Maybe being human isn’t that bad after all.
Also here on AO3, if you prefer to read it there (as Chapter 8 of "Moments").
rennerobsession, for a pic I have, quite frankly, been considering quite frequently as we all chew our collective fingernails waiting for Age of Ultron. (I ignored the heads of the film crew/civilians stuck in the forefront).Rules are, no longer than 600 words. I managed to come in at 598. Go, me! There were two other great ficlets posted in response to the challenge, so I'm planning on just being content with having finally gotten some emerging head canon off my chest (to wit, that Clint rescues Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver from that HYDRA facility where we see them imprisoned in the post-credits scene in CA:TWS, and that said facility is in the mountains of Serbia).
And here's the ficlet:
Mountain Interlude
Sometimes, being human really sucks.
Okay, given what Clint does for a living and how that would be a lot easier if he could fly or throw a house, being human sucks pretty much 24/7. He spares a glance at the pretty girl gesturing beside him – yeah, he shouldn’t call a woman that but dammit, this one can’t be older than fifteen -- even she can do shit that isn’t in the Barton family specs.
Good thing the twins are on his side (and grateful to him for getting them out of that HYDRA pit), because that metal behemoth is now heading straight for them. As he nocks his last remaining explosive arrow, Clint bemoans the days when the worst thing he ever had to shoot was goons with lousy tattoos.
Fuck, this is getting old. Run, shoot, stare in disbelief at the lack of visible impact, repeat. His shoulders hurt where he got hit by a rock, and his arms are on fire from pulling the bowstring a hundred times. And he’s not even getting paid for this shit anymore, not since Rogers closed down SHIELD, hosed it out and took the light bulbs. (Small consolation – turns out, most of those jerks in Finance really were Nazis; must remind Tasha he was right about that.)
Natasha. It’s been too long.
The machine slows down somewhat, thanks to Wanda -- thank God for competent women – and Clint finally gets the shot he needs; the arrow buries itself in the thing’s eye slit. (Just why does an Imperial Walker need eyes anyway? Although right now, the designer’s fondness for anthropo… human design comes in handy.)
Focus, Barton. He clicks the remote detonator. One, two, three – boom.
An electrical spark crackles all around the metal chassis; Pietro races around the thing a few times to create a kind of vortex (guy’s an arrogant little shit with a dorky call sign, but he can sure move). The machine falls over, twitches a couple of times and stops moving; an eerie silence descends over the village square. Three cheers for teamwork.
One down, who knows how many to go; they’re all over, according to CNN, and now even in Disneyesque mountain villages. What they need is to find the spawning grounds, not take the suckers out one at a time.
Clint has barely finished that thought when his sat phone rings.
“Hawkeye. You done there? Doing anything tonight?”
Tasha?
“Tell me you’re in touch with Fury and Rogers and the others, and that there’s a plan. ‘Cause this game of whack-a-mole really, really sucks.”
“I missed you too, Clint.”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “Adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet. Plus, I’ve got rubble in places where it has no business being.”
There is silence at the other end of the phone. Then, “So. About tonight?”
Wanda and Pietro are giving him funny looks, and Clint points apologetically to his phone, mouthing something about home base. But the locals are emerging from behind shuttered windows, and it’s time to go.
“Absolutely. Name the place. As long as it’s not here.”
He assumes she knows where here is; probably has eyes on the place, thanks to some residual S.H.I.E.L.D. tech.
“You should be able to make Belgrade by eight. And yes, there is a plan.” He can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, “But with any luck, there’ll be time to get the rubble out of your uniform and give you a nice backrub.”
He snaps the phone shut with a grin. Backrub. Maybe being human isn’t that bad after all.
Also here on AO3, if you prefer to read it there (as Chapter 8 of "Moments").
