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alphaflyerA day late, but sometimes RL just gets in the way. (This week, it was Annoyingly Present throughout.)
But -- here we are, better late than never! I had twelve trick-or-treaters, so two 5+1 stories seemed the logical way, and then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
topaz119 reminded me of the virtues of the 100-word drabble. Each little piece is a separate "treat" for six of my LJ friends -- collected here for easy reference. The second batch will (hopefully) follow tomorrow! :-)
One: Rabat
She is walking down one of those narrow, winding streets in the Medina when she becomes aware of a presence. She can’t see his face, but judging by the way he moves, he’s lithe and not particularly tall; not one of those steroid-and-PCP-soaked killing machines the Red Room has been sending after her. Good.
Natasha dives into the crowded bazaar, immediately aware of the hesitation in his step. American or European, then – they have that … thing about innocent bystanders. He won’t shoot here.
She smiles and drives the knife into her mark’s neck, before melting back into the crowd.
Two: Tbilisi
The Red Room has lost her trail, it seems; she is finally free to pursue her own goals. Then why does every new contract make her feel emptier than the last? Maybe a beer will rinse out the sour taste in her mouth.
There’s a man at the bar in MacLaren’s Irish Pub -- expat, not Georgian. Dirty-blond hair, handsome, interested -- but there’s no time for that kind of forgetting. She withdraws into a dark corner.
When he stares at her a day later, his bow drawn taut, she wonders, briefly, whether he would have killed her in bed.
Three: Tirana
“You’re supposed to call for back-up when you need help, Romanoff.”
“I would have. But I didn’t. Not yours, anyway, Barton.”
“And when your teammate asks if you’re okay, you’re supposed to respond. Even just to tell me to fuck off.”
“I was busy. What does it matter, anyway? You were supposed to kill me, remember? The Council will be happy.”
“That was then. And they expected me to do it, not the Albanian mafia. Let me see that. Those guys were fucking filthy.”
“I’ll pour some raki on it.”
“It needs stitches.”
Maybe. But …
Nobody touches her head.
Four: Budapest
“I told you not to come back for me.”
“We’re partners, Clint.”
“You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t, was I? Besides, wasn’t it you who told me we’re supposed to call for back-up?”
“That’s … different.”
“Sure. When it’s the girl that’s in trouble?”
“That’s not what I said. Don’t twist my … ouch.”
“Just shut up and lean on me. Pretend you’re drunk. Coulson’s meeting us at the Oktogon in ten.”
“No medics though, ‘kay? Sitwell’s a hundred bucks on who gets shot next and I don’t…”
“You’re kidding, right? Three bullets, Clint. I’ll pay him myself.”
Five: London
The mission had been an unqualified success; even Hill had texted a “Congrats!” All things considered, an evening at the Lamb and Flag seems like a reasonable thing to do.
Four pints in, and Clint is mellower than she’s seen him in months.
“I always thought you preferred vodka, Romanoff.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I live to subvert clichés.”
The bar is crowded and they’re already close, but he moves even closer.
“Anything else you feel like subverting tonight, Tash?”
She shivers involuntarily, but recovers quickly.
“If you expect me to do your paperwork again, you’re drunker than I thought.”
+ One: Venice
Swinging across the Canale Grande on one of Clint’s grappling arrows is bad enough. Doing so holding on to him is … disconcerting.
A canned O Sole Mio wafts across the water as they land in an empty courtyard, her body pressed to the length of his. The smell of leather, sweat and cordite might as well be distilled pheromone.
She leans in and …
He groans -- not in pleasure.
“What?”
“Quiver …”
Natasha rolls off, cheeks hot with mortification. But Clint just shucks the quiver and flips over, pinning her with his arms.
“So. Where were we?”
Here.
But -- here we are, better late than never! I had twelve trick-or-treaters, so two 5+1 stories seemed the logical way, and then
topaz119 reminded me of the virtues of the 100-word drabble. Each little piece is a separate "treat" for six of my LJ friends -- collected here for easy reference. The second batch will (hopefully) follow tomorrow! :-)One: Rabat
She is walking down one of those narrow, winding streets in the Medina when she becomes aware of a presence. She can’t see his face, but judging by the way he moves, he’s lithe and not particularly tall; not one of those steroid-and-PCP-soaked killing machines the Red Room has been sending after her. Good.
Natasha dives into the crowded bazaar, immediately aware of the hesitation in his step. American or European, then – they have that … thing about innocent bystanders. He won’t shoot here.
She smiles and drives the knife into her mark’s neck, before melting back into the crowd.
…..
Two: Tbilisi
The Red Room has lost her trail, it seems; she is finally free to pursue her own goals. Then why does every new contract make her feel emptier than the last? Maybe a beer will rinse out the sour taste in her mouth.
There’s a man at the bar in MacLaren’s Irish Pub -- expat, not Georgian. Dirty-blond hair, handsome, interested -- but there’s no time for that kind of forgetting. She withdraws into a dark corner.
When he stares at her a day later, his bow drawn taut, she wonders, briefly, whether he would have killed her in bed.
…..
Three: Tirana
“You’re supposed to call for back-up when you need help, Romanoff.”
“I would have. But I didn’t. Not yours, anyway, Barton.”
“And when your teammate asks if you’re okay, you’re supposed to respond. Even just to tell me to fuck off.”
“I was busy. What does it matter, anyway? You were supposed to kill me, remember? The Council will be happy.”
“That was then. And they expected me to do it, not the Albanian mafia. Let me see that. Those guys were fucking filthy.”
“I’ll pour some raki on it.”
“It needs stitches.”
Maybe. But …
Nobody touches her head.
…..
Four: Budapest
“I told you not to come back for me.”
“We’re partners, Clint.”
“You could have been killed.”
“But I wasn’t, was I? Besides, wasn’t it you who told me we’re supposed to call for back-up?”
“That’s … different.”
“Sure. When it’s the girl that’s in trouble?”
“That’s not what I said. Don’t twist my … ouch.”
“Just shut up and lean on me. Pretend you’re drunk. Coulson’s meeting us at the Oktogon in ten.”
“No medics though, ‘kay? Sitwell’s a hundred bucks on who gets shot next and I don’t…”
“You’re kidding, right? Three bullets, Clint. I’ll pay him myself.”
…..
Five: London
The mission had been an unqualified success; even Hill had texted a “Congrats!” All things considered, an evening at the Lamb and Flag seems like a reasonable thing to do.
Four pints in, and Clint is mellower than she’s seen him in months.
“I always thought you preferred vodka, Romanoff.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I live to subvert clichés.”
The bar is crowded and they’re already close, but he moves even closer.
“Anything else you feel like subverting tonight, Tash?”
She shivers involuntarily, but recovers quickly.
“If you expect me to do your paperwork again, you’re drunker than I thought.”
….
+ One: Venice
Swinging across the Canale Grande on one of Clint’s grappling arrows is bad enough. Doing so holding on to him is … disconcerting.
A canned O Sole Mio wafts across the water as they land in an empty courtyard, her body pressed to the length of his. The smell of leather, sweat and cordite might as well be distilled pheromone.
She leans in and …
He groans -- not in pleasure.
“What?”
“Quiver …”
Natasha rolls off, cheeks hot with mortification. But Clint just shucks the quiver and flips over, pinning her with his arms.
“So. Where were we?”
Here.
