Rather a Story

Just in case...

2017-01-08T01:27:08Z

Hi everyone!

*waves*

I'm still alive. I hear LJ is getting turned over to Russia, and that means that there's a non-zero chance that my journal and everything contained therein could face deletion (because slash fiction) or whatever else.

So, anyway, I've had a back-up at Dreamwidth for a while, under the same name. If I disappear from LJ, you can always find me on DW, with the only thing missing being many of the lovely comments people have left for me over the years (alas).

Okay, that's it for my PSA. While I'm here, who-all is going to ConfabCon in May? I shall be there, and I want to make sure to see as many of you as humanly possible! Speak up if there's even the slightest chance that you'll be there!

This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/462499.html, where there are : comments, currently. Feel free to comment wherever you'd like! ♥

Halp! Does anyone still have my podfic?

2017-01-02T15:13:51Z

Hi all!

I know it's been a while since I was here. I can't promise I'll be back and writing any time soon, because burnout sucks. I do have a favour to ask of you all, though. A few months ago I had Harddrive Issues(TM), and I lost all my podfic. Since my stuff was archived in a place which is now down for the count, it means that unless some lovely and enterprising fangirls kept my podfic, it's gone forever.

Can anyone help me out? Even if you have only one podfic that I recorded, that would be awesome. Thank you!!!

Lest we forget...

2016-11-11T11:05:09Z

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~Major John McCrae

tap tap This thing on? aka ratherastory wrote a (small) thing.

2016-07-30T21:35:03Z

*blows dust off LJ*

I maybe wrote a small thing. rainylemons told me about Killjoys, and so I'm sweeping the cobwebs off my keyboard and seeing if I can manage to write something that isn't pure crap.

Title: Killjoys in 100 words
Summary: One drabble for each episode in Season 1. I'm going to keep going with Season 2, just haven't started yet. I'm trying to see if I can capture the characters' voices before I venture into anything bigger.
Characters: Almost everyone? Dutch, Johnny, D'Avin, Lucy, Pree, Fancy Lee, Alvis, Turin, Hills
Wordcount: 1,000 (10 drabbles, 100 words each on the nose)
Rating: PG (minor swearing)
Spoilers: Through the end of the Season 1 finale
Warnings: Show warnings apply, nothing major I can think of
Neurotic Author's Note: I don't have one this time? Maybe this:

Episode 1: Dutch

The red box sits stolidly where Dutch placed it on the dresser in her room. It’s just a box, regardless of what Khlyen said. She’s had altogether too many people lecture her about duty. Turin calling her an oathbreaker was bad enough, but this ghostly reminder of vows made when she was too young to understand what giving your word meant is both galling and terrifying. That life is far behind her now. The box means nothing.

“Lucy, start up the incinerator, would you? I have shit to burn.”

But the next day, the box remains where she left it.

***

Episode 2: D'avin

“Do you trust me?”

D’avin regrets the words the moment they leave his lips. Dutch can’t possibly trust him. In her position, he wouldn’t. When they met, he was hiding on a slaver ship under an assumed name, trying to pay off a debt that wasn’t his. She’s heard him scream in his sleep, and watched him shoot his way out of trouble. Nothing about him says: “trust me.”

She gives him an easy out, and relief jolts through him like electricity. It’s easy to tell the truth now, even if they both know it won’t truly earn her trust.

***

Episode 3: Johnny

“I’m allowed to be conflicted for a day.” Johnny can hear the resentment in his voice.

Dutch tries to reassure him, and he takes it as the peace offering it is. She means well, means the world to him, and he doesn’t know how to begin explaining to her that he’s not jealous of D’avin being a Level Four. That’s not it. Dutch must know he likes working with her precisely because, even though she’s a Level Five, she never takes kill warrants.

Johnny may be a Level Three, but that’s because he’s deliberately never applied to go any higher.

***

Episode 4: Dutch

D’avin has learned all the girls’ names in the time it took Dutch to perform a sweep and assess the danger. Johnny doesn’t seem all that surprised, and it makes Dutch wonder why she finds it surprising. It never occurred to her to learn their names. They’re just a job, she tells herself, best to keep things strictly professional, but it’s more than that: they’re vessels, barely more than chattel, beneath her notice.

Try as she might to leave that life behind, she more often than not finds it staring back at her from the other side of the mirror.

***

Episode 5: Lucy

“Approaching vessel, identify yourself!”

Lucy is a systems computer. As such, she can’t be surprised, it’s not in her programming, but if she could be, she would be surprised now. She wasn’t expecting the derelict vessel to have many operational systems, let alone a working AI.

“I am Lucy, owned and operated by RAC team 25698-A, presently executing a claim-and-clear warrant aboard your vessel.”

“Vessel denomination not recognised. Intruders will be subject to interrogation. Unidentified vessel, surrender yourself for scanning.”

Lucy can’t be frightened, either, but she knows how to recognise danger. There’s only one option now:

“Initiating quarantine procedures.”

***

Episode 6: Fancy Lee

Lee comes from a culture that values sophistication, so much so that his own worldview was considered too simplistic. Being a Killjoy is the best and worst of both worlds. Even here, he’s an outsider.

Joe nicknamed him “Fancy” as a term of endearment. The others picked it up and added a derisive edge to it. It was Joe who picked him out of the, and showed him the life. It seems only fair that Lee should be the one to honour his mentor one last time, and do as Joe taught him from day one.

“The warrant is all.”

***

Episode 7: Pree

Johnny Jaqobis is the most open-hearted man Pree has ever known; it’s what he likes best about him. When they met, Pree learned more about Johnny than he ever knew about his first husband by the time they divorced. There’s something about Johnny that’s comforting—a sense that, if you let him, he’ll keep your heart safe, cradled in his hands.

No one questions Pree’s presence at Johnny’s bedside after the surgery, and he isn’t jealous when Johnny asks after his brother first. Instead, he takes his hand, and is rewarded with a smile that’s all love.

“Welcome back, gorgeous.”

***

Episode 8: Alvis

Alvis can feel Johnny’s eyes on him as he takes his place by the bedside of Hector Feraanz. They burn into him worse than the black rain did only a scant half hour ago, and he has to resist the impulse to shield himself.

He bends his head toward his charge. There’s no blessing required, here, though he’d be willing to give one if asked. Alvis has learned how to hold irreconcilable beliefs in his heart, though he can feel it breaking.

He thinks it might not be a coincidence that he’s found someone who is good at fixing things.

***

Episode 9: Turin

If asked, Turin would readily admit that what galls him the most about Dutch and her team is their blatant disregard for authority. The RAC has been around for longer than any of these kids was even alive, and Turin was a Killjoy when they were still shitting their pants. Killjoys serve the warrant, and they certainly don’t turn on their own like they have.

Even as he feels the knife slide between his ribs, Turin knows he’s going to make it, and swears with his last conscious thought that he’ll find the truth, even if it damns them all.

***

Episode 10: Hills

Hills never gave much credence to the saying that there comes a time in every man’s life when he has to decide what sort of man he wants to be. He was raised by fourth generation parents who told him, if he played by the rules, his grandchildren would have a better life than the meagre existence their family was eking out. When he was twelve, it felt unfair. When he had, it felt like hope.

Now, with his grandchildren on the verge of adulthood, he knows a cheat when he sees one. He doesn’t hesitate before sounding the alarm.

***

Lest we forget...

2015-11-11T16:04:28Z

Wee Update, and Wincon!

2015-09-01T04:44:30Z

Hi LJ!

*waves*

Long time no see! That's because I haven't been writing, and I pretty much only use this LJ for my fanfiction. No fanfic, no post, you see how that goes? I stopped writing because writing was making me hate myself, and so far I haven't regretted that decision, even though I still feel guilty about not writing. Of the lose-lose scenario, this one was the least painful.

On a much brighter note, I am going to Wincon, thanks to the generosity of valtyr who bought me a pass last year when I was broke! \o/

So, who else is going? I want to meet as many of you wonderful people as possible! (And then, quite possibly, I will be peopled out and spend several hours hiding under a table, but you're all cool with that, right?)

Speak and be heard!

Five Years of Ohsam!

2015-02-22T17:23:58Z

We are having a fanworks challenge! Come and play with us! You know you want to...

A Sam-focused h/c challenge!

If There Is A Flame, Don't Snuff It Out (Garden 'verse, Part 6)

2015-01-05T15:52:01Z

Title: If There Is A Flame, Don't Snuff It Out (Garden 'verse, Part 6)

Summary: Dean approaches Lisa with a problem.
Characters: Lisa Braeden, Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,247
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Neurotic Author's Note #1: So, uh, hi folks! I'm still here. I told you I had plans for this 'verse, didn't I? So, here I am, continuing those plans. I have other stories to tell, and they'll likely end up out of order, just like in Fusion. This is the story that wanted to be told today. It's set a few years after The Kids Are Still Alright.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: It's my birthday! The universe rewarded me with crippling vertigo, but since I was almost done with this story, I figured a birthday fic would be a nice way to mark the day. Once this is posted, I'm going to turn over in bed (yay laptops!) and have a nap. :P
Neurotic Author's Note #3: You'll have to forgive how rough this is. It honestly feels like I've forgotten how to write in the past year and a half. I'm hoping that if I practice more, I'll get my mojo back properly. This isn't beta'd, either, because I don't want to chicken out before posting it. ;)

Worry is an emotion that has come second-nature to Lisa ever since she became a mother. Even now that Ben is grown and off to college, she still finds ways to worry about him, about whether he's homesick, whether he's keeping safe, whether he's keeping his grades up. Nowadays she doesn't reserve her worrying for Ben alone. The perks of being a wife (common-law only, but it still counts in her mind) and mother to two kids, even if Dean isn't biologically hers, means that now she gets to worry about three people instead of just one.

She rarely worries about herself anymore. Nearly ten years of being a single mother and struggling to make ends meet for at least four of those years served to teach her that there's very little she can't survive. Still, it doesn't mean she's immune to worry, and Sam and Dean sometimes give her more reasons to worry than she can shake a stick at.

There's one cure for worry that has almost never failed her, and that's tea. Sam isn't due home for at least a few hours, and it's not like they're going to get any answers today anyway. While she waits for the kettle to boil she pulls out her box of assorted teas, rummaging through it idly, leaning with her back against the counter, undecided as to which kind might be called for today. It's still early enough that having a black tea won't keep her up all night, but she's been neglecting her green teas of late.

A soft scuffling sound from the doorway to the kitchen catches her attention. She looks up, the box still in her hand, to find Dean hesitating at the threshold, one hand gripping the door frame. He's shot up over the summer. The scrawny, goofy kid is gone, replaced by a lean teenager who's getting better looking with every passing day. She knows he's already turned some heads at school, thanks to the rumour mill, but he's never talked about any girls at school. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes when she looks at him she can see the eager twenty-year-old that she first met, all those years ago. Sometimes, though, his expression shifts slightly, and she sees the haunted man he later became, and it breaks her heart all over again. Right now, though, he's all limbs and feet, the same awkward teenager who's only beginning to figure out what to do with his body.

She smiles. "Hi, sweetie, I didn't hear you come in. I thought you had cross country practice today?"

Dean shakes his head, not moving from where he's standing. "They switched it to Thursdays. It conflicts with football, so they moved us. Where's Sam?"

"Still at the hospital. They're running some more tests, taking samples. The usual. He'll be back by dinner time."

"Right," he stares at the floor, scuffing at the door jamb with the toe of his sneaker.

There's obviously something bothering him, but she's gone through a decade of teenaged years with Ben already, and knows better than to try and force it out of him.

"Want a cup of tea? I just put the kettle on, and couldn't make up my mind about which kind I wanted. I could make Lapsang Souchong, we haven't had that in a while. Why don't you grab the biscuits out of the pantry?" she asks, all but taking the decision out of his hands.

His shoulders straighten a little now that he's been given a purpose in the kitchen. He pulls out not only the box of social tea biscuits from the pantry, but also her favourite green teapot and two mugs from the cupboard without being prompted. While she swirls hot water in the pot to warm it he sets out two spoons, the sugar dish and the jug of milk from the fridge, and drops into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, hooking his ankles around the legs.

She joins him a moment later, and pours the tea into both their mugs. She adds a splash of milk to hers, and watches with amusement and also a small pang of sadness as Dean scoops several spoonfuls of sugar into his. Having tea together has been a ritual of theirs since Dean was seven, and asked if he could taste her tea one afternoon. Back then he was a lot more uncertain not only about his place in the household, but also about his own identity, his mind still torn between the new life he was coming to accept, and the old life which kept resurging in confused memories. It had taken a lot of coaxing and multiple tries before he'd let himself put the amount of sugar he really wanted into his cup, because one of his latent memories told him that sugar was expensive and wasn't to be wasted. Sam is the same way, although nowadays he allows himself the one luxury of putting flavoured creamer in his coffee in the morning.

Dean stirs his tea with his spoon well past the point where the sugar would have dissolved. After a moment, he clears his throat, but keeps staring intently at his spoon.

"Mama Lisa, can I ask you about something?"

There it is, she thinks. "Of course, sweetie."

There's a long pause while he fiddles more with his spoon. Must be serious, then. Dean has never been the most open kid, although he's not the type to keep secrets for long, either. She sips at her tea, waiting for him to work up to whatever it is he has to say, and trying very hard not to come up with worst case scenarios.

Eventually he sighs and puts down his spoon. "How do you know if you're in love?"

She has to clamp down very hard on her instinctive reaction to clap her hands and hug him in quick succession, but she can't help but smile until she thinks her face will split right in two. "That's a good question. I think it's different for everyone. Somebody once told me that you'd know you were in love when all the songs about it started to make sense."

"Oh."

Judging by the disappointed look on his face, it's not the answer he was expecting, or wanted. She takes another sip of tea, trying to choose her words more carefully. Surprisingly, Ben never asked her about love, specifically. He asked her about girls, sure, and about what you should do if you liked a girl and wanted her to like you back, but actual love? That was a new one on her.

"In my experience, being in love at first is really wonderful. You find someone you both like and find attractive, and all you want to do is spend as much time with them as possible. Everything about them seems fantastic, and just the thought that they're around somewhere in the world makes everything that much better."

Dean nods, as if what she's saying makes perfect sense, and dunks a biscuit into his tea. She leans forward a bit.

"Has a girl caught your eye?"

He goes bright red, his eyes cutting away from her, and he wipes his hand over his mouth. She's seen that gesture a thousand times before, although he used it more as an adult than as a child. There's something missing from the picture, though she's not quite sure what it is.

"You don't have to tell me yet if you don't want to, but you know, if it's important to you, then it's important to me and Sam, too. We'd love to meet her, if you want to have her over sometime, or—"

"It's not a girl!" Dean blurts.

Lisa stops. Dean is hunched over in his chair, both hands wrapped around his mug, holding it between them like a warding talisman. She can't see the expression on his face, but judging by how red his ears are she's sure his face must still be badly flushed. He looks as though he's braced for a blow, or maybe for some sort of explosion from her, the kind of emotional outburst that his late father sometimes had.

"It's not?" she asks mildly.

He shakes his head, apparently tongue-tied now that he's made his admission.

"I'm guessing it must be a boy, then," she ventures, and he nods. "Does this boy like you back?" Another nod. "Well, okay. We'd still like to meet him, if you want to invite him over. He must be pretty special."

Dean raises his head cautiously, like he's not sure whether this might not be some sort of trap, and her heart breaks for him all over again. "Um, yeah."

"So, tell me about him. What's his name? Do we know him?"

"Um, it's Colin. Colin Murphy. He was in Senior League with me last year… you're not mad?" he seems honestly perplexed.

"Why would I be mad? I'm happy you've found someone who makes you happy." There's going to be a lot more to it than that, of course, but that can wait for another conversation, on another day.

"I just… I thought maybe… I mean, you and Sam…" he stumbles over his words. "I thought you might be mad. That I like boys too."

This probably isn't the time to tell him that she's known for a long time that he's bi. She doesn't remember the exact date when Sam told her about what little he knew of his brother's romantic proclivities, but it's been several years. As far as she knows, Dean never told anyone as long as he was alive. Sam had found out entirely by accident, and had preferred to respect his brother's desire for privacy rather than push him about it. And then, of course, he'd died, and come back, and everything else had gone—sometimes literally—to hell. Somehow, discussions of sexuality had seemed unimportant, then, in the grand scheme of things. Now, of course, it's a whole different kettle of fish.

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "Never. We would never, ever be angry or disappointed because you're in love with someone. I'm sorry you had to worry about that, Dean. It means we never made it clear to you that there is nothing you can say or do that will make us stop loving you. Okay?"

It's like watching a balloon deflate. Dean lets out the breath he's been holding this whole time, nods and swallows hard, his eyes bright. He turns his head away so she won't see the unshed tears there, obviously embarrassed. Lisa and Sam always encouraged him not to keep things bottled up, but there are some habits that are hard to break, even after starting over. She pushes her chair away from the table and gets to her feet.

"Come here, sweetie," she says, holding open her arms.

That's all it takes for him to scramble to his feet and throw himself into her embrace, letting her wrap both arms around his shoulders and squeeze for all she's worth. She can feel his breath hitching a little, but she's pretty sure this is all just relief after holding his doubts and fears tightly inside. She plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"Take a deep breath in," she tells him, and waits until she feels his rib cage expand against her. "That's it, good. Hold it for a second, now let go."

They've been doing breathing exercises together ever since he was a little boy. At first it was simply to soothe him after nightmares and panic attacks, but with Sam working long hours at various construction sites over the years it became a habit for Dean to come hang out at the yoga studio with her after school. Ben was never particularly interested in yoga, but he has his own activities, whereas Dean immediately took a shine to it. When he was very little he was fascinated by the mats and all the funny positions, and as he'd grown older the fascination had matured into real interest. Yoga is her passion, but it's been nice to have something that she shares with Dean other than a complicated past.

After a minute or so he pulls back a little and scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve. "Sorry."

She smooths his hair away from his forehead . "You never have to apologise for needing a hug, baby."

That earns her a scowl. "Not a baby," he mutters mutinously, and she laughs and kisses his cheek.

"You'll always be my baby."

He takes another deep breath. "What about Sam?"

"What about him?"

"Do you think I should tell him? Maybe I should wait. I mean, he's got a lot going on..."

She nods. "I think you should, whenever you feel ready. There's nothing more important to him than you, you should know that. No matter what else is going on in his life, he's always going to want to know what's happening in yours."

"And you think he'll be okay with it?"

She pulls him back into another hug. "I know he will. Sometimes you don't give him enough credit."

Dean sits back down in his chair. The tea is cold now, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He picks up his mug and gives her the widest grin she's seen on him in weeks.

"Thanks."

She smiles back, and sits down to face him. "Anytime."
</div> This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/236285.html, where there are : comments, currently. Feel free to comment wherever you'd like! ♥

Wincon: 24 Hours Left!

2015-01-04T05:17:59Z

Guys, Wincon is in trouble! They need a little under $1,700 before midnight, EST, on January 4th, or else they'll be shutting down for good!

The good news is that their indiegogo campaign is offering some seriously awesome perks! Go check it out!

www.indiegogo.com/projects/wincon-2015#home

Okay, I tried to link with an embedded file and it totally failed, so above is just the plain link so you can go contribute!

<i>:::ETA:::</i>

Heck, if anyone is up for it, I can treat this like a fandom auction thing, and offer fic if you're inclined to support the con. This is NOT officially associated with Wincon, not in the slightest, but as of my ETA they are even closer to their goal, so I'm happy to offer extra unofficial incentive. It would be a prompt of your choosing, and, uh, say, 100 words for every $1 you contribute. So $1 gets to a drabble, $5-$10 gets you a ficlet, etc. PM or email me if that's something you'd be interested in, and we can work out details.

This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/235815.html, where there are : comments, currently. Feel free to comment wherever you'd like! ♥

Happy New Year!

2015-01-01T20:33:12Z

Goodbye, 2014, I will not miss you. Here's to kicking ass and taking names in 2015.

I hope the year is treating everyone well so far!

Things are finally starting to settle into a semblance of normalcy over here at casa ratherastory. I still haven't unpacked all my boxes from when I moved from Montreal to Ottawa back in November, but all the important things are unpacked. Work is calming down, the dog is calming down, and the kitten is never calm anyway. ;)

2014 was really rough on me physically, emotionally and financially. Between the end of my relationship, the death of my cats within a week of each other (one of them highly traumatic), the renovations on my old house, the sale of my house, the move to another city, having the dog and my new kitten each have a bunch of health issues, and then needing repairs on my car, I'm kind of glad the year is over. That's only my personal problems, not even counting the murders of the RCMP officers in June, the terrible events of Ferguson and everywhere else, the honour guard murdered in Ottawa in October, and the summer of constant, unrelenting online misogyny and violence against women and trans people and people of colour. Almost everyone I know suffered personal losses and crises, one after the other. In short, 2014 sucked. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

I have a number of things I would like to get accomplished in 2015, some of them writing-related, and all of them designed to make my overall quality of life infinitely better. I won't bore you with the personal goals, but since this is my fic journal, I will list the few but important goals I have for my writing this year.

Writing Goals:

Figure out how to write for the sheer, unadulterated joy of it again

Update some of my 'verses. In particular Fusion, because I love that 'verse, and the Garden 'verse, because I know where I want that 'verse to end, and I'm not there yet.

Write, edit and submit a novel for publication

Outline all my current novel projects (I have four in various stages of conception and writing)

Write every day in my "Morning Pages" journal, which is the best creative tool I've found for myself thus far

Write 300,000 words by the end of the year (I signed up for gywo with this goal in mind)

I've also given myself a moratorium on signing up for challenges and exchanges this year. They used to be a great source of motivation for me, but this year I found that, because I was already pretty burned out, all they did was ramp up my anxiety issues and make me hate myself and my writing. So this year will be devoted to writing things only when they bring me joy.

If you would like, you may leave me prompts for any of my existing 'verses in any fandom (not that I have that many), or request time stamps/whatever for anything I've already written**.

**I am going to be SUPER picky about which prompts I accept for Fusion, so don't take it personally if I don't end up writing your prompt specifically. I get a lot of "Sam freaks out and Dean comforts him" prompts for that 'verse which, well, is not a useful prompt, since it basically describes over half the stories in the 'verse. ;) But if you have things you'd like to see, themes you'd like to have me explore, then please toss your hat in the ring! I have a big old playground and everyone is welcome!

Parting Shot 2/2

2014-11-12T02:16:00Z

Part 1

Clint half-expects to die, riddled with bullets, the moment he sets foot on the steet by the burning building. Already the flames are billowing up into the sky, the windows belching smoke into the chilly evening air. He's got Petar's good arm slung over his shoulders, though at this point it's anyone's best guess as to who is holding up whom. Petar's in better shape than Clint, overall, but he's rattled and his arm is badly burned. Even in the dim light Clint can see where the fabric of his shirt has been seared right into his flesh.

Miro is waiting for him, and with Katya's help pulls both him and Petar along the street until they can take refuge in an alley a block or two further away.

Clint leans heavily against the wall, coughing convulsively to get the remnants of smoke out of his lungs. "Stoyan?" he manages to ask between bouts of coughing, and Miro shrugs.

"I think he has more important thing to do. He's gone, for now."

Clint looks down at Petar's prone form. Stoyan's henchmen is moaning audibly, his injured arm cradled to his chest. It's obvious he needs a hospital, but there's practically no way to get him there without getting all of them killed. Clint glances at Katya, huddled in Miro's arms, and shrugs. Gingerly he kneels next to Petar, and when the pain in his knee makes that position impossible to keep he drops to sit on his ass on the cold concrete.

"Okay, Petar, here's the deal. That burn needs a hospital--not even Stoyan's illegal doctor can patch that up for you. That's supposing Stoyan even lets you see his doctor, because, let's face it, you were left in that building to make sure I never came out alive, am I right? As far as our buddy Stoyan is concerned, you should have let yourself burn before letting me get away. So, best case scenario, you're going to need skin grafts, some sort of advanced treatment. Otherwise it's going to get infected, and you're going to die in a lot of pain, and Stoyan is going to be pissed at you no matter what. You hear me?" Petar doesn't answer, but he nods. "Good, okay. I hate the idea of leaving you to die like an animal--I'm a soft-hearted guy, believe it or not. So we're going to find a way to drop you off at a hospital, but you've gotta help us first. Help us to help you, you get me?" That gets another nod. "Good boy, I knew you'd see reason. So, first, you tell me what Stoyan's got planned. I know something's happening, but you need to tell me what it is."

Petar coughs and moans, and whatever explanation he gives comes out in a jumbled mess of pained Bulgarian. Clint sighs, and turns to Miro, whose face has gone pale, even in the dark of the alley.

"What did he say?"

"He says the arms deal has been moved up. That it is in a few hours. That's why Stoyan left, he has to be at docks on time, and there are preparations. Stoyan worries that, if you are a spy, you will try to stop the shipment. You are spy, Clint?"

Clint gives him a sheepish smile. "That's a really fancy word for what I am. Makes me sound like James Bond. But yeah, I guess. I'm more of a... well, I'm an agent. I used to be, anyway. S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But S.H.I.E.L.D. just imploded, from what I've heard."

Miro looks pained at that, but he shrugs. "Well, so it goes. Petar," he nudges the thug with the toe of his boot, making the man moan with pain again, and starts questioning him in rapid-fire Bulgarian. When he seems satisfied with his answers, he turns back to Clint. "Stoyan hears last night about S.H.I.E.L.D., finds out about you. You are on internet. The arms shipment is tonight, because there is... more weapons? Yes? Also, different weapons. I don't know word in English, but is a kind of bomb, with radiation."

Clint's blood runs cold. "A dirty bomb?"

Miro nods. "Yes, dirty bomb. There is confusion, no international agencies in place to interfere while S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone, da? So they make shipment of three, four times normal size. Smuggle weapons that cannot be smuggled."

"Shit, that makes sense. They're using the chaos to cover up what they're doing. Fucking Hydra."

"Hydra?"

Even Miro, it seems, has heard of them. Then again, if he's a fan of Captain America, that's probably not all that surprising. "Yeah. You know how you thought you were working for TIM? If that wasn't bad enough, you've actually been working for Hydra this whole time. They're the ones who've been Stoyan's financial backers from the start, laundering their money through TIM and all the other crime groups in Eastern Europe. All over the world, knowing them, but TIM's the only one I know about first hand."

Miro swallows hard. Katya's face is unreadable, may as well be made of stone for all the emotion she's showing, and Clint is pretty sure he doesn't want to know what's going through her mind at all right now.

"We need a car," Clint says, before they can get too deeply involved in the problem of which-bad-guy-did-what-when. They can deal with that later. Right now they're stranded next to the burning remains of everything Miro and Katya have in the world. "Petar, you're going to help us. Do you have a car near here?"

Petar moans and shakes his head. "Ne... Stoyan took car."

"Then we need mine. I can't get there on foot, but one of you can. I doubt my apartment's locked, you can get the keys there. I don't know if they'll have left anyone to look for me, but maybe we can distract them."

Miro shakes his head. "No, too much risk. Too far, and what will you do if Stoyan comes back?"

Katya breaks in, speaking quickly in Bulgarian, and Miro nods in apparent agreement.

"We take Katya's car. She goes, we stay here until she comes back."

Clint winces, but he has to concede the point. There's no telling what could happen in the time it would take even a healthy guy like Miro to run back to his apartment, find his keys and bring back the car, even if the place isn't being watched anymore, for which there's no guarantee. "Yeah, okay. Thank you, Katya."

"Za nishto," she says, then takes off at a run as the wailing of sirens in the distance grows louder.

He leans back against the cold wall of the nearest building, feeling his stomach perform another backflip as the last of the adrenaline deserts him, and a moment later he pitches to one side in order to vomit. It's mostly bile, since he still hasn't had the opportunity to eat today, but it still burns like hell coming up. He dry-heaves for what feels like an eternity until the gag reflex finally subsides, leaving him drained and shaking. His head and leg are throbbing in time with his pulse, and although the wound in his side doesn't hurt quite as much as before, the pain hasn't entirely let up, either. Miro crouches next to him and puts a hand carefully on his shoulder.

"You don't look good, my friend."

He manages a ghost of a smile. "I feel worse than I look. I'll be fine, I just need a minute or three to recover a bit."

"You need a hospital."

"No, Petar here needs a hospital. I need a shower, a bed, and maybe a bottle of vodka, not necessarily in that order."

Miro lets out a brittle laugh. "Before tonight, I could offer you all three. You make sure your contact knows we help, yes? When you call him?"

The message is clear. If Clint doesn't see them all through this, Miro and Katya may as well give up now. Their lives are forfeit, as far as Stoyan is concerned anyway, for helping a known spy. He's saved from having to answer by the rumble of a car engine coming up to the end of the alley. A moment later he hears Katya's voice--at least, he hopes it's her--calling to them. "Come now!"

Miro moves to help him up, but Clint waves him off. "Get him! I'm okay," he lies, and uses the wall to push himself to his feet.

Miro grabs the all-but-unconscious Petar by his arms and pulls him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, leaving Clint to limp behind him as best he can. Even slowed down by his burden, Miro reaches the car first and bundles Petar unceremoniously into the back seat before climbing in beside him. Without any prompting Clint drops into the front passenger seat, not bothering to buckle his seat belt before Katya presses on the accelerator and takes off in what he assumes is the direction of the hospital.

She drives slowly, or maybe that's just Clint's perception, but he resists the impulse to tell her to hurry the fuck up, already. For one thing, she's not trained to drive at top speeds, and a speeding car would attract too much attention at a time like this. Better to stick to the speed limit for now and fly under the radar... or drive under the radar, he corrects himself, and laughs at his own joke. Katya shoots him a worried look, and he can't quite find the energy to explain the humour in the situation to her. It's probably not all that funny anyway, he decides.

He loses track of things after that. The city goes by in a blur of white, green and red lights, of cars and muffled horns and anxious voices which he thinks he recognises. The car stops and goes, veers around corners so sharply that he sometimes lists against the car door before he's able to shove himself upright again. He should be paying attention, he thinks muzzily, keeping track of where they're going, counting the turns, but everything feels a little distant and fluid, and he can't quite bring himself to care much anymore. Finally the car lurches to a halt, and he almost breaks his nose on the dashboard. Katya shakes him hard by the shoulder, and he can't quite hold back a moan of pain as the movement jolts all his injuries again.

"Clint! You not sleep. Wake up!"

"'m not sleeping," he protests. "''m fine."

"Like hell you are, my friend," Miro says from just beside him, and Clint starts, because he never heard him get out of the car.

Miro opens the door, grabs him by the arm, and hauls him up without so much as a warning. That's probably a good thing, Clint decides, because otherwise he might have protested at the idea of getting up. The car seat was pretty comfortable. "I call Maria, we stay with her for now, until we have new plan."

Cint nods dazedly. "Yeah, okay. New plan. I'm working on it," he promises, right before his eyes roll back in his head, and the world goes dark again.

~*~
#
There's a weird murmuring sound around him. Clint can't quite make out what it is. Maybe if there weren't that annoying whistling noise in his ear he'd be able to get a better idea of what's happening. He tries to turn his head, get a sense of where he is and what's happening, and immediately regrets it when pain shoots right up into his head like a bolt of lightning. He swallows the cry of pain that threatens to bubble up in his throat, and struggles to sit up.

"Shh," a soft voice urges, just as strong hands pin him back down. "Tiho, Clint."

"You are safe here," another voice adds.

He blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it again, and waits for the world to come back into focus. He's lying on a bed in a small, sparsely furnished room. The only light is coming from a small lamp on a far table, for which he's grateful, because even that feels like it's uncomfortably close to blinding. There's a pretty woman hovering over him, all dark blue eyes and black hair trimmed to a bob that's falling in her face, her expression screwed up with concentration, or maybe worry. The resemblance with Katya is uncanny. He tries to remember how to smile like a normal person. By the looks of it, he doesn't succeed.

"Hi, Maria. Uh, long time no see."

She rolls her eyes, but pats his arm. She doesn't speak a word of English, he remembers belatedly, but he's pretty sure his brain is too scrambled to come up with anything decent in Bulgarian.

"How's Tomas?" He's half-expecting the little boy to come bouncing into the room, but the place is deadly quiet.

"He is with his grandmother, for now," Miro answers. He's sitting in a chair next to the bed, and he holds out a packet of frozen peas--a staple in all households, apparently. "Hold this to your head. You have a bad concussion. I thought you might not wake up."

This time no one tries to stop him when he pushes himself upright and accepts the makeshift ice pack. He winces as it puts pressure on his palm, and glancing down, he notes that both his hands have been bandaged with gauze. "I have a hard head."

"Katya says your hands are not too badly burned. You will have scars, but they will heal."

Clint nods, wishing the world would hold a little more still. Maria rises from where she was perched next to him on the bed, says something he doesn't catch, and steps out of the room.

His hearing aid is still whistling, which likely means nothing good at this point. He puts down the ice pack, carefully removes the aid and holds it up to his face, trying to see if it's been damaged. A moment later he starts when Miro taps him on the leg to get his attention. He turns in time to see Miro's mouth moving, but he can't make out the words, so he holds up a hand in a clear signal to wait.

"I can't understand you."

There isn't any visible damage or dirt, which means either it just got knocked loose during all the excitement, or something inside the electronics is irretrievably damaged. He sighs and inserts it back into his ear, hoping for the former, resigned to the latter.

"What did you say?" The whistling seems better, but everything else is still muffled, which is definitely not a good sign.

"I ask if your..." Miro makes a vague motion with one hand, "device is broken."

He shakes his head. "Not completely. Well, not that one. The other one is kaput, which is a pain in my ass, but this one seems mostly okay."

It's not a secret to anyone that he's deaf. He'd agreed long ago with Martin that pretending he was hearing would be more of a liability if the truth ever came out, than if he played it straight from the beginning. The fewer lies you have to keep track of, the better, especially in this line of work. No one had really seemed to give a damn if he was deaf or not, so long as he got the work done. Not all that different from S.H.I.E.L.D., when it came down to it. The thought isn't a comfortable one.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Not long," Katya answers from the doorway. "One hour since we get here. Petar is in hospital," she adds, as if he'd just asked about the guy's welfare. Unlikely, since Petar did his best to gun him down not even two hours ago. "He says deal is at two o'clock."

"In the morning?" Clint sits up further, which only makes his head throb more. "Dammit."

Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing Phil Coulson were here. Not only because Coulson was always better at planning and logistics, but because you could always count on him to come through in a pinch. No matter how bad things were, no matter how deep in the shit you were, you could always count on him to come pull you out, to turn that sow's ear into a silk purse against all odds.

"You know how bad I am at plans, Phil," he mutters.

"Who?"

He shakes his head. "It's not important... he's dead now, anyway. Look, Miro, you've done more than I could ever ask of anyone. I gotta see this through, but you and Katya... if you want out, I'll understand. I'll give you my contact right now, and if I don't make it out..."

Miro breaks in before he can so much as finish his sentence. "Amerikanets," he snorts. "You are incredibly stupid sometimes, you know that? You think me and Katya, we turn our backs on you now?" he turns to Katya and asks a question that Clint doesn't really understand, except that he's pretty sure Miro was asking for her agreement. She rolls her eyes, nods, and replies with a long string of rather acid-sounding Bulgarian. Miro looks back at him, grinning. "You see? She thinks you are stupid too."

Clint finds himself grinning back. "I'm glad we've found something we can all agree on, then. Uh, okay," he ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck with a bandaged hand, hoping they won't see him blush. "Like I said, I gotta see this through. You understood Petar better than I did. He tell you where this deal is going down, other than the docks? Because that's a pretty big search area for the three of us."

"I have address. It's a warehouse that belongs to TIM. No one is using it right now, and it is right next to water. Perfect for sending and receiving large shipments, da?"

"Da," Clint agrees. "Okay. In that case, we better get going. You think we can still use your car without getting spotted?"

Katya puts her finger to her lips, then turns to her sister and speaks to her in an urgent undertone before shooing her from the room. When she turns back, she gives a rueful half-shrug. "She not know, she not tell."

"Good point."

Miro gets up from his chair and moves to close the door. "So, we are wounded spy, mechanic with no job, and nurse. We have my car, my cell phone and my pistol. Do you have a good plan?"

"I have a plan. Can't promise it's a good one." Clint grimaces. "We'll need at least a little money, and more weapons than your one gun. Katya, do you even know how to fire a gun?"

She gives him a look that suggests he's not much cleverer than the average bit of pond scum. "I live with Miro for five years. I know how to use gun."

"Okay, then. We need weapons for the three of us, and... I don't know, maybe something to use as a distraction. I work better from a distance, anyway. It's kind of what I did best, before I started the undercover gig. Let me tell you," he adds wistfully, "being a sharpshooter is a much simpler way of life than all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit."

"Sharpshooter?" Miro asks, looking puzzled.

"Like a sniper, sort of," Clint mimes pulling back the string on a bow, and Miro's eyes grow wide.

"Bozhe moi!" he exclaims. "You are Hawkeye!"

Clint winces and flaps a hand at him to keep quiet. "Jesus, Miro, don't yell! And I don't really go by that anymore. Not... not since New York," he says, but Miro is ignoring him entirely now, chattering excitedly away to Katya in Bulgarian. The only words that Clint can make out are 'Hawkeye' and 'Avengers,' and the rest all sounds like a bunch of very enthusiastic but jumbled syllables. "Miro, Miro! Dude, if it's that exciting, I can try to get you Captain America's autograph if we make it out of this mess alive, okay? Can you please focus?"

Miro subsides a bit after that, but his face has lit up like it's Christmas morning, and it kind of makes Clint want to cry, because Miro's looking at him like he's some kind of fucking hero, and Clint is about as far from a hero as you can get without actually being a bad guy.

"We all watch on the television two years ago, in New York. You and Avengers save the city! I did not recognise you, my friend. You were very high up on the roofs. Too far to see. But you defeat Loki and his army. Very exciting!"

Clint squeezes his eyes shut as the world threatens to turn blue again. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that it was a long time ago, that Loki is long gone, that his mind is his own. No one here but us chickens, he thinks. "Yeah, well. It was a long time ago, and we've got bigger problems on our hands right now. Any thoughts?"

Miro leans forward and claps him on the shoulder. "For Hawkeye, I have perfect thing! You come, we go visit my cousin Georgi. He has electronics shop, but he sells weapons as a side business."

"Of course he does."

Both Katya and Miro have to prop Clint up between them to get him down the stairs from Maria's apartment and back into the car. Neither of them say anything, but he's pretty sure they both have serious doubts about his ability to take down a criminal organisation in his current state. By the time they get outside, though, his muscles have loosened up enough that he's able to walk on his own mostly unassisted, even if his gait leaves something to be desired in the balance department.

It turns out the 'perfect thing' is a longbow. It's an old wooden one, but good quality and kept in impeccable condition by Miro's cousin, who's an old-school archery buff. It's beautifully balanced, and for a few moments Clint allows himself the luxury of going through the motions of shooting, though without actually releasing the string. It has a good heft to it, and the grip has been lovingly carved and maintained. It takes concerted efforts by both Katya and Miro to keep Georgi from alerting the entire damned neighbourhood that they're there once he learns who will be using his longbow. So far they've been lucky, Clint knows. For whatever reason the people in Bulgaria are among the nosiest he's ever met, everyone constantly poking into everyone else's business, and he keeps expecting neighbours to come barging in at any moment, demanding to know who he is and what he's doing there. Thus far, though, they've been left almost completely alone.

Georgi wrings Clint's hand so hard that he yelps and pulls back--even without the burns on his palm he's pretty sure it would have hurt like hell--and that elicits a flood of apologies in rapid-fire Bulgarian. Luckily--or maybe unluckily--Georgi doesn't speak a word of English, and Clint is exhausted enough that he can't summon the concentration to string together a coherent sentence in a foreign language. He carefully offers his hand again to shake, and this time Georgi is a great deal more careful with him.

"Blagodaria," he says, with all the warmth he can muster. "Miro, you tell your cousin I owe him one, okay?"

"He says that the honour is his to help out the greatest archer in the world, and that you and he someday should go shooting," Miro translates the very enthusiastic reply, and Clint smiles wanly. His hand is throbbing, but he can still move all his fingers, so it's a win in his books.

"Sounds great," he manages, even though it's another promise he's probably going to have to break, sooner rather than later. "Okay, let's blow this popsicle stand."

Miro shoots him a slightly puzzled look--he probably doesn't get the idiom--but doesn't hesitate. He puts out a hand to help Clint back to the car, but Clint will be damned if he's going to let himself be carried on his own mission. Coulson would be furious with him for going like this, wounded and with no back-up, but it's not like he has a choice, here. Even Phil would have to agree that it's not like he can just let the terrorists ship a bunch of weapons and a dirty bomb to boot without at least trying to stop them.

"So what is the plan?" Miro asks as he helps Clint to load the considerable arsenal Georgi provided them with from the cellar below his otherwise innocuous-looking shop. They've got enough now to pose a credible threat, if they play their cards right.

Clint pauses, one of the pistols held gently in both hands, his fingers nowhere near the trigger for now, and chooses his words carefully. "We don't have time for a sophisticated plan. We have two things on our side: speed and surprise. We know where they'll be, and when. They, on the other hand, don't know we're coming, and that's to our advantage. So the plan is to get there as fast as possible, beat them to the punch, and lie in wait. Then when the deal goes down I do what I do best, and start picking them off one by one. People like these dealers, they don't like surprises. They spook easily. So the goal is to get them to back off, take their toys and go home."

"We leave them with the weapons?"

Clint lays the gun in the trunk of the car with the rest of the weapons and nods. "I hate to do it, but it's our best play. We're not going to be able to take down the whole gang, not the three of us, and not like this. Best we can hope for is that they delay the shipment, give us enough time to warn the authorities, and have people with better firepower take care of it then."

In spite of Katya's protests he takes the wheel of the car. "We have to go fast," he tells her, trying to meet her gaze so that she doesn't get offended, or anything. "I might be banged up some, but I've got the training for this--you don't."

She relents, but it's obvious she's not happy about it. Come to think of it, he wouldn't be happy to have the concussed guy behind the wheel either, but it's not like they have much of a choice at this point. He takes the first few turns more slowly than he'd like, getting a feel for how the car handles, then jams his foot against the gas pedal as hard as he can and sends up a thought that's halfway between a silent apology to Katya's car and a prayer that the transmission will hold out until he can get them to their destination. Katya, visibly terrified, buries her head in her arms in the passenger seat, and he has to give her props for not screaming. Miro, at least, is a little more used to being in the thick of things. Clint catches glimpses of him in the rearview mirror every so often, busily loading a pistol that he appropriated for himself. The last time Clint looks back at him, Miro grins and gives him a thumbs-up.

"Score one for the good guys, yes?" he says.

Clint opens his mouth to reply, but before the words leave his lips the world explodes in a welter of shattered glass and the shrieking of metal grating against metal. The car spins, lurches, and Clint's head snaps to the side to collide hard with the door frame, and his last conscious thought is to wonder how many times a guy can get hit in the head in the same day before it causes some sort of permanent damage.

~*~
#
Clint figures he should be getting used to his whole body feeling like he's been beaten with several baseball bats. Even without opening his eyes he can tell he's been tied to a chair, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. At least his wrists are bound with rope this time, easier to get out of, provided he's given enough time to work. His head is hanging at a painful angle--if he ever gets out of this he's going to need an army of chiropractors--but he risks peeking through his eyelashes in order to get a glimpse of his surroundings, hoping that whoever has him tied up this time, they're not watching him too closely.

It's a warehouse. Probably the warehouse, knowing his luck. It's mostly empty, whatever cargo or machinery was stored in here long since dismantled and taken away. It appears to be under construction, though for what purpose he has no idea. There are three men standing just on the edge of his peripheral vision, and he immediately recognises Stoyan and Dimitar, engaged in what looks like a pretty intense conversation. Even from a distance Stoyan is easy to recognise. The man is built like a bulldog, short and stocky, with a shock of steel grey hair that always looks like he's in need of a haircut. Over to the right he spots a large hole dug in the floor next to what looks like a cement mixer, it's huge barrel still rolling slowly in order to keep its contents wet, not that he has a particularly good view of it. He doesn't dare raise his head to look around, get a better view. The only way he stands any chance of getting out of this alive is if he manages to maintain what little element of surprise he has. Not that it's much, what with being tied to a chair without a good idea of how badly he's injured now.

He has to bite back a groan of pain as even the slightest movement makes him feel as though white-hot knives are being jabbed into his spine. He wriggles his toes inside his sneakers, and is relieved when it hurts like a son of a bitch. Whatever happened in the car, it didn't leave him paralysed. It's little comfort, since it's more than likely both Miro and Katya are dead. There aren't any other people here that he can see, no one tied up next to him, which can only mean one thing, in his experience. He swallows, throat threatening to close up on him, eyes stinging. This is all his fault, he knows. He shouldn't have dragged them into his business. He flexes his hands, wriggles his fingers, and even though the slightest movement makes stars dance in front of his eyes. He clamps his teeth down on his tongue until he tastes copper, trying not to make any sound that might be heard above the ambient noise.

In spite of his best efforts to look like he's still unconscious, his acting skills must be rusty, because a moment later Dimitar says something to Stoyan and jerks his head in Clint's direction. Leaving behind the third guy--Clint doesn't recognise him, but that's not altogether surprising in this line of business--they make their way over. Stoyan pulls a pistol from his belt and uses the tip of the barrel to force Clint's chin up.

"You disappoint me," he says by way of introduction. "Martin, he told me that perhaps you were one of us, but I see now we were both wrong."

Clint shifts in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position now that he doesn't have to play possum anymore, and spits blood onto the ground. "Gotta be a hobby," he says to no one in particular.

"What?"

"Getting beaten all to hell," he supplies, forcing himself to smile. Judging by the look on Stoyan's face, he doesn't make a good impression. "See, I'm not getting paid for it, but I do it on a regular enough basis that, if I'm not making a living at it, it means it's a hobby. I need a better one. Something safer, like knitting. I could use more scarves in my life."

Stoyan isn't one to waste words when he can use his fists, Clint knows this about him, so he isn't surprised when his former employer smacks him hard across the face. He spits out another mouthful of blood, and pokes gingerly with his tongue at what feels like a loose tooth. Things are starting to make sense, though. At least all of the bad guys he's had to deal with lately seem to have a fondness for monologuing. The good part about human bad guys is that they're limited to guns. No freaky mind-control powers.

"So... you're Hydra too, huh? You guys are freaking everywhere."

"Cut off the head--"

"Two more grow back," Clint rolls his eyes, even though it makes his head hurt more. "I know, I know. Except if you burn the head, that much I remember from my Greek mythology. I don't suppose you'd do me a favour and set yourself on fire? Save me the hassle of having to get free and do it myself?"

Stoyan turns a calculating look on him, and a chill runs down Clint's spine. For a second he let himself get complacent, forgot that Stoyan isn't some mindless goon that he'll be able to take out without a second thought. Stoyan is one of the leaders of TIM, maybe not the top guy, but he's close enough to the top that it means he's earned his way there. And in organisations like this, you don't earn your way to the top by being soft. Stoyan slowly and deliberately uses the barrel of his pistol to lift Clint's chin again.

"You think you are alive now because you are talented? Good at what you do?" he laughs mirthlessly. "You are alive because I want it so. I needed to know who was helping you, and now I do. The only reason I keep you alive now is to make sure there are no more surprises tonight. You got away once, so now I make sure that you don't interfere with my other plans. How does that expression go? If you want something done right, do it yourself. So tonight I take care of business first, take care of you second, and when I am done with that I track down your accomplices and take care of them, too."

It takes all of Clint's self-control not to jerk in surprise. "They got away?"

"They are not important," Stoyan shrugs. "I find them and deal with them later."

If Stoyan isn't gloating about killing Miro and Katya, then it must mean they got away. Clint can't let himself think of that, not now. It could be another ruse, just another of the kinds of mind games Hydra likes to play. Keep everyone off-balance. The car crash was a bad one, the kind that happens only when your car gets deliberately targeted by a much bigger, much heavier vehicle. He can't remember most of it, but he's pretty sure the other vehicle came at them from the driver's side, and he has to clamp down on the little flutter of hope in his chest before he loses control entirely. If Miro and Katya were able to get away, it might be the only good thing to come out of this whole mess.

"Stay put," Stoyan tells him, as though he has any choice in the matter. "When the deal is over, you and I will have a long talk about S.H.I.E.L.D., and what you have been telling them about me all this time. Maybe after that I will kill you, if I am feeling generous. Or maybe I will hand you over to Hydra interrogator, and let them extract all the secrets from your mind in ways that are too terrible for me to even imagine."

Clint shudders in spite of himself, and bites his tongue before he can say anything he'll regret. If you're caught, you stay silent, Barton, Phil used to tell him before every mission. Every time you open your smart-ass mouth you're giving them an opening, showing a weakness they can exploit. They're looking for what makes you react, and sarcasm is a reaction. So you shut up, you sit still, and you don't make eye contact. You sit tight until I work out a way to extract you. Got it?

"Got it," he mumbles under his breath.

Except this time there isn't going to be an extraction. He slumps in his seat, and for a moment he's tempted to sit there, to simply wait until it's all over. His head is throbbing, his whole body aches and burns by turns, and his hands have gone numb where the ropes securing him have cut off his circulation. It would be easier to give up, that much is for certain.

There's a loud metallic clanging as one of the cargo doors opens on the far side of the warehouse. He looks up in time to see a large grey truck trundle inside and come rattling to a halt about twenty yards away. The driver hops out, leaving the engine idling, and four other men clamber out of the back, each more heavily armed than the last. Clint winces, watching as the odds of him getting out of here in one piece dwindle down to less than nothing. This isn't your ordinary weapons sale, that much is obvious. He hasn't seen this much firepower gathered in one place since... well, in a really long time. Two of the men, their weapons slung over their shoulders, are carrying a metal case between the two of them. It doesn't look especially heavy, but given the way they're holding it gingerly, as though it might come alive and bite them at any time, leaves little doubt in Clint's mind as to its contents.

There's the smoking gun, Phil, he thinks. That's what I've got to take care of. The rest isn't all that important.

Stoyan and Dimitar have already moved forward to greet the new arrivals. They're too far away for Clint to be able to make out their faces, not that he's all that good at lip-reading in Bulgarian anyway. His hearing aid is still whistling intermittently, and he still can't feel his fingers, but knowing what's inside that box has banished from his mind any thoughts of giving up. He tugs at the rope binding his wrists, feels it chafe against raw skin on one wrist, but the other hand is too thickly bandaged for him to feel anything. He chews on his lip for a moment. He can't slip free, not with his hand wrapped in bandages, but if he can get the bandage off it might work. It's either that or dislocate the thumb on his uninjured hand, which will leave him even worse off than before. He needs at least one hand to be somewhat functional in order to have a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this alive.

Katya, bless her soul, is unfortunately really good at what she does. After a few minutes of fruitlessly picking at the edges of the bandages, Clint resigns himself to the inevitable. There's no way he's getting out of these ropes without doing himself some extra damage. Dimly he's aware of some sort of argument between Stoyan and the sellers, but he can't afford to pay too much attention to that now. Even if he could make out what they were saying, there isn't much chance he'd be able to use any of it to his advantage. Coulson might, if he were here, but he's not, and Clint knows enough to play to his own strengths. He takes a breath, steels himself against the oncoming pain, and takes hold of his thumb as best he can, praying he'll have enough leverage to see this through.

Something collides with the heel of his shoes. Startled, he looks down at his feet and sees a knife there, the blade glinting dully in the dim light of the warehouse. For a moment he stares at it incredulously, then looks up and around to try and figure out where the hell it could have come from. A moment later he spots the source: Miro is crouched about a hundred yards away, almost completely hidden from view behind some crates. Clint grins, his heart soaring in spite of himself as his friend gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up sign with both hands.

The odds are still stacked against them both, but suddenly Clint is convinced that, if he needs to, he can damned well grow wings and fly out of here.

~*~
#
It still takes longer than Clint would like to toe off one of his shoes and use his toes to pick up the knife. It hurts like the fires of hell to contort his body enough to shift the knife to his hand, but eventually he manages to get it properly positioned to saw determinedly at the ropes. The blade bites into his skin on more than one occasion, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to keep going, the handle of the knife now slippery with blood.

A moment later and he's free. He's right out in the open, there's no way for him to slip away without anyone seeing him. There's no choice but to abandon any hope of subtlety. All he can do is hope that the element of surprise will be enough to see him to the other side of the warehouse, where there's cover. A glance over at Stoyan and his buddies tells him that his little escape artist act so far has gone unnoticed. He turns to look back at Miro, jerks his head in what he hopes is an obvious indication for him to change positions. Luckily Miro seems to get the message, gives him another thumbs-up, and promptly disappears from view.

This is it, Clint tells himself. He shoves his foot back in his sneaker, tries to discreetly work the kinks out of his muscles, then gathers himself, and takes a deep breath. The graceful leap he was planning from his seat doesn't go exactly as planned. He gets his legs under him, but his wrenched knee promptly buckles and sends him sprawling. His foot catches the leg of the chair on which he was sitting, sending it crashing to the floor. A chorus of yells erupts from off to the side, and his heart leaps into his mouth. He scrambles to his hands and knees, pushes himself back to his feet and forces himself to run, to close the distance between him and the crates on the far side of the warehouse, even as he hears the first bullets whistle by his head. He resists the urge to duck--he knows the bullets are already well past him by the time he hears them, and ducking would only slow him down even more. His leg is screaming at him, but better that than it not hurting at all anymore after he's dead, he supposes. He throws himself at the crates, remembering his old drill instructor's directions--never be afraid to hit your cover; bounce off it if you have to, but never stop before you reach it, otherwise that last-minute hesitation will be your last minute. He hits harder than he intended, ears ringing, but at least for now he's out of the direct line of fire.

Miro, bless him, left him a pistol and the bow and arrows they got from cousin Georgi. He slings the bow and the quiver over his shoulder, ducks around the crates even as he's scooping the pistol up from the ground. He can feel rather than hear more bullets impacting against the wooden crates, mere inches from where he was a few seconds ago. He risks popping up over one of the crates in order to return fire, and sees one of the seller's guys go down, although he's knows it wasn't his bullet that did it. Miro has to have circled around.

Stoyan strides to the middle of the warehouse, and Clint ducks back almost out of view. Clint has to hand it to him, the guy has balls of steel to walk into what's essentially the middle of a firefight with no apparent concern for his own physical well-being. He holds up one hand, and everyone, Clint included, holds their fire.

"Barton! You come out now, and I promise that I will kill you quickly. You keep up your little game, and I will make sure that you die slowly, and not well. This is my only offer!"

The metal container is lying unguarded now, the men who accompanied it having taken up positions behind the truck in order to shield themselves from any bullets that might be coming their way. There's no way he can take them out from where he is, not even with Miro's help. Get to high ground, Clint, he can hear Phil tell him. I want eyes on the whole floor in thirty seconds!

You got it, he promises, and starts scanning the place for a vantage point, an access, anything. He finds it a moment later, a spot where the crates have been piled high enough that, with a little bit of skill and a whole lot of luck, he might be able to swing up to a catwalk. There's a rope and pulley at the other end of the catwalk, and he grins to himself. Access and egress. Easy peasy. He pops up again empties his entire clip in the direction of Stoyan and his men, although they've scattered enough that he knows he won't be able to get more than one or two, and is gratified when he hears a scream of pain loud enough to penetrate the whistling from his hearing aid. He leaps up onto the first crate, then the next, ignoring the burning, tearing sensation in his knee, finds himself flailing as one of the crates teeters under his weight, threatening to send him crashing to the floor. His arms windmill for a few heart-stopping seconds, and at the last moment he makes a desperate lunge as the crate shifts again under him. He catches the edge of the catwalk with his fingers, hoists himself up even as a bullet ricochets against the metal railing a scant few inches from his hands.

He doesn't pause to so much as catch his breath, is up and running seconds later, pulling the bow off his back and nocking an arrow in one fluid motion. Guns still require concentration, but archery is like breathing. He settles into the familiar stance, back straight, hand aligned with his jaw, and feels his spirits soar as the first arrow sails through the air to bury itself in the throat of Stoyan's henchman, the one whose name he never learned. He takes off at a run again, twists as he does so in order to loose another arrow, and watches a man crumple to the ground. A third arrow, a third target collapses. Stoyan is nowhere to be seen, finally gone to ground in order not to get shot like a rat at the bottom of a hole. It's too bad, really. Clint would dearly have liked to put an arrow through him as well. He can see where Miro has taken cover over on the other side of the warehouse, betrayed by the muzzle flash of his pistol, although Clint is pretty sure no one else has spotted him yet. It's only a matter of time before he's caught, though, which means Clint has to act fast.

He sprints along the catwalk, heedless of the shots being fired below him, intent only on the rope and pulley ahead. He slings the bow back over his shoulder, lunges at the rope and tries to keep himself from getting too badly rope burned as he lowers himself to the ground as fast as the pulley mechanism will let him. He lands hard, the impact spilling him onto the floor, but he's still managed to catch them all off-guard. The main advantage of working with Phil Coulson as your handler for years, is that you learned to think outside the box. Anything can be a weapon, anything at all can be used to give you an edge, if you know what you're doing. That's what he taught Clint, and today Clint's life depends on those lessons like it never has before.

The bow falls to one side, the quiver goes rolling across the floor, but there's no time to recover either of them. The impact must have jarred his hearing aid loose, because the only thing he can hear now is a high-pitched whine in his right ear. He keeps his eyes fixed on the grey box, now only a few yards away. Nothing else matters, except getting that box out of play. He can't just destroy it, blow it up the way he would any other bomb. Its contents would contaminate the entire port sector of Varna. Out of the corner of his eye he spots the cement mixer, and a desperate plan half-forms in his mind. He stumbles forward, grabs the box with both hands and nearly drops it. He curses loudly, hugs it to his chest. It's deceptively light, and he almost laughs at how ludicrous it is, that this box he can lift with just two hands could kill hundreds or thousands of people, or even more.

Clint doesn't know how he manages to make it all the way to the cement mixer without getting shot--he decides he probably has Miro to thank for that--but make it he does. There's no time to finesse this. He drops the box into the hole by the cement mixer, winces as the lid comes off and some of the components come spilling out onto the ground. There's nothing for it now but to hope he hasn't fucked everything up completely and keep going. Stay on target, Barton. Phil's voice is in his mind again, egging him on. Stay on target. He climbs up into the control booth, sends up a prayer of gratitude to whatever divinity decided to leave the cement mixer running, and starts tugging at the controls. Cement mixers aren't part of his training, but hell, he's driven every vehicle and flown pretty much every bird S.H.I.E.L.D. dad to offer at some point or another, he figures this thing can't be all that different. His heart is hammering in his ribcage, and he can feel where the bullet wound in his side has reopened, blood seeping warm and wet against his shirt. For all he knows he's already surrounded, seconds away from getting a bullet lodged in his head, but he can't afford to turn around and look to see what's happening. Stay on target. The world is starting to swim in front of his eyes--blood loss, he thinks vaguely, even as he locates the lever that will release all the contents of the barrel down the chute. He can't see the dirty bomb, just has to trust that it worked.

He slumps in the seat, and isn't surprised when, after he presses a hand to his side, it comes away crimson. The whistling in his ear has stopped, replaced by strange, muffled noise that's familiar and all the more maddening because he can't figure out what it is. He should get up, should go help Miro, try to get them all out of this alive, but his legs have different ideas on the matter. His head lolls to the side in time for him to spot one of the arms dealers, a man whose face means nothing to him, coming at him with his gun pointed directly at Clint's face.

"Sorry, Phil," he mumbles. "But hey, on the plus side, we saved everybody."

He lets his eyes close, figuring it doesn't really matter if he doesn't look his death right in the face. He's too tired to care. The mysterious sound gets louder, which makes no sense because he's sure his hearing aid isn't working at all. His last thought before he loses consciousness is that, in the end, it's pretty ludicrous to be hallucinating the sound of a helicopter approaching.

~*~
#
For the first time in recent memory, Clint isn't in pain when he awakens. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at a set of off-white ceiling panels with pin-prick holes that form no discernible pattern. Even without the metal railing on the bed and the IV snaking out of his arm, the smell alone tells him that he's in a hospital. The world is silent, but he's pretty sure that if he had his hearing aids in, that he'd be able to hear the steady beeping of a heart monitor. He raises one hand to check for his hearing aid only to find the hand swathed in bandages and functionally useless.

Another hand, small and well manicured, catches him by the wrist. His gaze travels up, and he winces a little when he sees the expression on Natasha Romanov's face.

"You changed your hair," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. "I like it. It suits you."

It's more of a croak than a compliment. His throat is dry, and his mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. Natasha doesn't say anything, just holds a plastic cup of water with a straw to his lips and waits for him to drink. Barring the tumbler of very expensive scotch that Tony Stark offered him and all the other Avengers after the events of New York two years ago, it's the best thing he's tasted in his entire life. Natasha puts the cup down and glares even harder at him.

You're an idiot, she signs angrily.

He grins at her, now secure in the knowledge he's already been forgiven. "Thank you for coming for me, Tasha."

I am really, really mad at you. You picked up a dirty bomb with your bare hands! Idiot!

He raises his bandaged hand and rubs it in a circle over his chest. "It was in a box. And I didn't die of radiation poisoning, so it all turned out okay. I didn't have a choice. I'm sorry, really."

You're going to make this up to me for the rest of your life.

"My hand to God," he promises. He searches out her gaze and holds it. "Tasha... what the hell happened?"

She looks away, just for a second, but he's known her long enough to know that expression on her face, and his heart skips an uncomfortable beat in his chest. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's seen her look absolutely shattered, and the last time was when Nick Fury told them both that Phil Coulson was dead. Clint braces himself, tells himself to wait until she's had a chance to explain before he starts jumping to conclusions. When she turns back to him, she faces him head on so he can read her lips.

"I didn't have a choice either. I'll explain everything, I promise, but not yet. You need to rest, and it's a very long story. Besides, there are people who want to see you," she adds with a small smile.

Clint feels a grin spread over his own features when the door opens and reveals Miro, pushing Katya in a wheelchair. Her face is bandaged and one leg is encased in a cast to her knee. She's covered in bruises, but she's smiling, and so is Miro. He wheels her all the way up to the bed, starts to speak, but whatever he's saying is lost as he bends over to lock the wheels on Katya's chair.

"I can't hear you, Miro," Clint tries to tell him, fumbling with the button that will let him raise the bed. "I don't have my hearing aids. You have to look at me when you talk. You're okay?"

Miro straightens up and beams at him. "I was saying, it is good to see you awake, my friend! Your colleague, Black Widow, she told us you might not... that your head injuries were very bad. You are feeling better, da?"

He nods, a little more carefully this time, now that the spectre of head injury is looming over him again. "Yeah, I'm guessing they've got me on the good stuff. Feeling no pain at all. How about you? You're looking pretty good."

"Me? I am tough old bird. So is Katya," Miro gives her a fond look, and she rolls her eyes. "As soon as we are able, we will go to America. There is a plane to take us. Some sort of jet, Black Widow says."

Clint reaches out to take Katya's hand between his own bandaged ones, and she lets him. "I'm really glad you're all right. When the car crashed, I thought..."

"We are both fine. Truly," she pats his arm with her free hand. "Don't feel bad."

"There are medical facilities waiting for you there, now that you're out of the woods," Natasha says, making sure he's watching her when she speaks. "You're going to need a lot of rehab. And no skipping out, this time. I'll sit on you if I have to. We didn't come out all this way just to have you die from a subdural haematoma."

"We?"

"Your boss, he says he has job for me and Katya, when we go to America," Miro says, seemingly out of nowhere. "He is good man, like you. He was very worried you might not wake up."

Natasha moves forward to put a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Clint. Take it easy."

Clint is pretty sure he's forgotten how to breathe. His chest is burning from the lack of air, and he has to resist the impulse to claw at his hospital shirt, the thin fabric feeling as though it's going to smother him right here in this bed. He feels his mouth working to produce sound, but his throat has closed up, and when his dead former handler steps into the room, looking exactly the same in his familiar black suit as the last time Clint saw him, the whole world starts to swim before his eyes.

Natasha says something, but he can't see well enough to make out her words. She ushers Miro and Katya out of the room, leaving him alone with his former handler.

Clint, Phil signs his name, then clasps him gently by both shoulders for a moment before signing again. Clint, take a breath.

He manages to pull in a thin, wheezing mouthful of air, dizzy with the sudden rush of it all. His eyes are burning, but he's pretty sure Coulson won't hold it against him if he passes out right about now. All the death-defying heroics have probably bought him a little leeway in the falling-apart department.

Phil rubs a fist in a circle over his own chest. I'm sorry. I really enjoy these dramatic reveals too much for my own good. I should have stopped to think... "God," he says aloud, "Natasha's going to kill me." He switches back to ASL for the rest. Forgive me? Before she gets back?

"Christ," Clint chokes down a sob, can't even bring himself to laugh at the obvious joke. "Fuck, Phil. Phil..."

He can't think of anything else to say, but it doesn't seem to matter, because his old handler pulls him into a hug. It's not exactly protocol. He and Phil were friends, but they weren't exactly the hugging, share-your-feelings type of friends, not even when they'd been at their closest. After a moment Phil shifts his weight a little, from one foot to the other. Clint can feel the vibration that tells him Phil is speaking, pulls away slowly so he can focus on his mouth, on the way his lips are moving, scrubbing at the tears that keep streaming down his face.

"... wanted to tell you," Phil is saying, even though it doesn't explain a damned thing. "Everything just moved so fast, and by the time I was able to, you were gone, and the world thought I was dead. We didn't want to compromise your cover."

Clint pulls in another shuddering breath and nods. "I don't care."

"What?" Phil rocks back on his heels, and Clint realises he misunderstood.

"No, I mean, I don't care why. I don't care. I just... you're alive, you're here. I don't care about anything else. Fuck, Phil, I thought you were--" he stumbles on the words. "I thought I'd killed you."

"Never. It was never your fault, I know that. Everyone knows that." The relief is evident on Phil's face. "Okay. We can deal with the rest once we're home again. I'll explain everything, I promise."

"I feel like there's a lot I missed."

"Nothing we can't get you caught up on. If--if you still want to be part of this, I mean. You've been through a lot, and S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't exist anymore, not the way it was. There's just a handful of us left, so if you want out, now's as good a time as any--"

"To hang up my bow?" Clint shifts in his bed and winces as the movement pulls at his side. "Well, I always did want to have my own farm..." he grins at the expression on Phil's face. "Give me a break, Coulson. I wouldn't know what to do with a cow if it bit me."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Phil's lips, the way it always does when he's trying not to let on that he finds Clint's humour too funny. "So, you're with us, then?"

"Always have been, always will be."

This time, Phil smiles in earnest. "Good. Then let's get started."

~The End~

Parting Shot 1/2

2014-11-12T02:13:19Z

Title: Parting Shot
Summary: Two years after the events of New York, Clint Barton is deep undercover in Bulgaria. When the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier reveal his identity to the organised crime syndicate he's infiltrated, he finds himself stranded in Varna with no allies and no resources. Moreover, the local mafia are about to enact a plan that could put the entire region at risk. With Hydra hot on his heels, Clint must rely on his wits and a few local friends to put an end to the plot and get out alive.
Written for the marvel_bang. I was lucky enough to be picked by the lovely and talented branquignole, who made a fantastic playlist that can be found here.
Characters: Clint Barton, OCs, brief appearances by Natasha Romanov and Phil Coulson
Wordcount: 20, 682
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything up to and including CA:TWS
Warnings: Lots and lots of violence, blood, fire, gore. Nothing worse than you'd find in a typical MCU film.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: My undying thanks and gratitude and a giant bouquet of flowers to branquignole, who was extraordinarily patient with my while my life blew up in my face this year. I moved, got eye surgery, had a million veterinary emergencies, and generally was a giant pain in the ass for my long-suffering artist. She is fantastic, y'all, and I hope you will go listen to the brilliant playist she made for this story! Here is the link again: Just Like Captain America (Not Quite)
Neurotic Author's Note #2: I also owe a ton of chocolate to sirona_gs, who was my go-to reference for all things Bulgarian in this story. Any resemblance to Varna and how things work over in Bulgaria is thanks to her, as is the use of actual Bulgarian in this story. I also googled and took liberties, so any and all mistakes are mine alone. She was a hero and a godsend, and walked me through geography, grammar, sociological factors, and everything in between, and without her this story wouldn't be half as good as it is.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: And a huge heartfelt thank you, last but not least, to my two intrepid betas, who rescued me from bad characterisation, weird punctuation, and some serious abuse of the English language in this. rainylemons and geckoholic, you are rock stars and deserve to have your praises sung forever and a day!

Okay, Clint concedes to himself as he stares down the barrels of what feels like all too many PSS special pistols pointed directly at his head. This looks bad.

There's only three pistols, but realistically that's three more than Clint feels comfortable having pointed at him at any given time. Since he's currently stark naked with nothing but a thin bedsheet to shield him from the bullets, this feels like a worse time than usual. He only knows one of the three guys standing in the tiny one-room apartment, but it's obvious they're all part of TIM, and that in about thirty seconds he's going to die if he doesn't do something about it.

He lifts one hand in the universal gesture of "don't shoot," the other tugging at the sheet to protect what's left of his modesty.

"Hey, uh, zdraveite, momcheta," he says, hoping he's managed to sound casual. "K'vo stava? What's with the hardware? Actually," he tilts his head toward the bedside table, where his hearing aids are sitting in their drying box, "you mind if I, uh, grab those real quick?"

Dimitar--the only one Clint's recognized, nods. "Go ahead," he says. Or, at least, Clint is pretty sure that those are the words he just formed. Lip-reading is well and good, but foreign accents are a bitch. Although he supposes that Dimitar isn't the foreigner in this room.

Clint reaches over slowly, pops open the case, puts on the hearing aids with a practiced hand, his eyes trained the whole time on the guns trained on him. He frowns when the left hearing aid whistles a little then goes silent. Damn. Living in a port town means the moisture is hell on the sensitive little pieces of tech.

There's a very quick argument in Bulgarian among the three men, most of which he misses, but Dimitar snaps at the other two guys, and that appears to shut them up. The only word he catches in there is "Stoyan," which tells him that he's in a shitload of trouble. If they were sent here by Stoyan himself to kill Clint, then there's no doubt Clint's cover has been blown sky-high. Okay, Barton, play dumb. You're just one of the guys, you have no idea what's going on or why they're here. Which isn't really all that much of a stretch, since he's totally in the dark about what went wrong.

"Dimi, what's going on?"

Dimitar is a friend, of sorts. He's also Stoyan's right-hand man, though, which means he's got a conflict of interests when it comes to Clint.

"Get dressed," he says curtly, and motions with the barrel of his gun towards Clint's closet. "Stoyan wants us to take you to him."

"And he sent an armed escort? Seems like overkill."

He might be overdoing it a little. This isn't exactly the time to be joking, but it's serving to get his heart to stop hammering in his chest. His hearing aid seems to be working a little better now, at least. There's another argument in Bulgarian behind him as he's forced to turn his back on the three men to get clothes out of his cupboard, and then Dimitar barks at the other two to speak English, for which Clint decides to be very very grateful.

"We do Stoyan a favour, and kill him now, I say," says one guy. He's short and stocky, with hair that's beginning to thin on top and recede at the temples. Clint wonders sometimes where Stoyan gets his guys. Of course, he probably wasn't hired for his hairstyle.

"Shut up," Dimitar snaps, but the third man appears to concur with the short guy. Since he's the tallest of the three, Clint decides to call him Bullwinkle, and the short guy Rocky.

"Stoyan wants him brought back, but he didn't say dead or alive. You are a spy, Amerikanets."

"A spy?" Clint sputters, injecting as much indignation into the words as possible. "You're fucking joking. How the hell would I be a spy? Hell, if I were that, I'd demand a raise. They could at least spring for a better apartment than this," he adds, gesturing to the tiny room. "No cats."

That gets a laugh out of Dimitar, which isn't really surprising. He's always had a good sense of humour, and Clint's apartment has always been a source of amusement to him. "This is small even by local standards," he'd once said to Clint. "You cannot... what is it you say in English?"

"Swing a cat around by its tail?" Clint had suggested, which had made Dimi laugh so hard tears had streamed down his face and into his blond beard. Humour was such a subjective thing, he supposed.

The fact that he'd purposely picked a small place and failed to furnish it with more than a bed, a chair and a table is sort of working against him now, though. There's nowhere to hide, no furniture to duck behind. It's a problem. Clint yanks on a pair of pants, doesn't bother with socks--he can never get them to match, anyway--and jams his feet into his shoes without tying the laces. He barely has time to pull a t-shirt over his head before Rocky gets impatient and yells at him to get moving. Well, Clint supposes that's what he yells, anyway, since it's in Bulgarian and, in spite of having lived here for nearly two years, Clint's grasp of the language is still tenuous at best. He can order food, ask where the bathroom is, and mostly not make a complete ass of himself in public, but languages have never been his strong suit. Besides, his new handler never really insisted that he learn the language properly, so long as it didn't interfere with his cover. Coulson would have been furious, if he'd known. He'd always been a stickler for details on missions, although he never ran long operations like this one. Phil was the team lead you sent in to clean up giant alien messes, not the handler of long-term undercover assets. Not unless you counted Natasha, and even she didn't do more than a few weeks in most circumstances. There was Budapest, of course, but that had been the exception, rather than the rule. If Phil were here now, he'd be reading Clint the riot act about not learning Bulgarian properly. And then he'd be talking him through an escape route.

Okay, Clint, think, he tells himself sternly.

There aren't too many ways out of here. There's the front door, but that has the distinct disadvantage of not being in his bedroom. The way to it involves getting through the bedroom door, currently guarded by Dimitar and Rocky and Bullwinkle, all of whom are at close enough range that it wouldn't matter if they were all terrible shots, which he's betting they're not. He's got a gun, of course, but it's in his nightstand, and there's no way of getting to it without getting himself very permanently shot. Not that there's a way to get impermanently shot, but whatever, that's not the point, here. The point is that, no matter what he tries, it's probably going to hurt. A lot.

"You guys sure we can't just settle this with a phone call? I mean, it was a late night for everyone yesterday, and I don't know about you, but I'm still pretty hungover..."

He goes for Door Number Three, which looks like the best candidate for not immediately dying. He keeps his hands in front of him at all times in a very obvious display of non-violence, and edges carefully away from the closet and around the foot of the bed. Sweat trickles down his back as he glances through the window and down at the street below. There's a balcony directly under him, then another ten-foot drop to the street. He can make it. He's done much harder things in his time. Much harder. He shuffles forward a little bit more. He wishes, not for the first time, that he still had his bow and quiver. It would make this so much easier. Well, beggars can't be choosers. He left that life behind, long ago. You made your bed, Clint, so now you get to lie in it.

"Because I could just grab my cell phone, or you could call on you cell phone, honestly, I'm not that picky, and we could have this whole misunderstanding straightened out in minutes. I explain that I'm not whatever it is you think I am, and..."

He whirls around, catching them by surprise, knocks the guns from Rocky and Bullwinkle's hands with a precisely timed kick. Before they can recover from their shock he's coiled himself as low to the floor as possible, pushes off as hard as he can with both legs, and throws himself directly through the window, shielding his face with his arms as best he can. He feels the glass shatter around his head, the wood splintering under the impact. Dimitar's gun goes off a moment later, but between the silencer and his malfunctioning left hearing aid, Clint barely makes out the sound of the report. There's a sudden burning pain in his side, eclipsed a moment later when it feels like his whole body is about to explode when he collides with the balcony below. He lies there, stunned, for what feels like an eternity, the world swimming strangely around him, until another bullet ricochets off the balustrade. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, then scrambles to his feet, performs a leap-frog jump over the balcony and twists at the last moment to catch himself with his fingers by the wooden bars of the balustrade. He hangs in midair for a moment, legs dangling wildly, the muscles in his arms protesting the strain, his right side burning with renewed pain, then he lets himself drop the remaining few feet to the street.

His right leg buckles on impact, and he can't bite back a cry as pain shoots through his right side again. Looking down, he sees a tear in his shirt, the white fabric already turning red. It doesn't look deep, at least, though blood oozes between his fingers when he clamps a hand over the wound. Another bullet pings off the sidewalk at his feet, reminding him that now is definitely not the time to pause and take stock.

Clint takes off at a run, and doesn't look back.

~*~

It takes forever to find a pay phone.

Clint ducks into the closest alleyway he can find, and runs until his lungs are burning and his blood is pounding in his ears. He can't risk sticking to the streets just yet, because even the block or two he ended up running at first attracted far too much attention. A half-dressed man bleeding profusely from his side is bound to get noticed, especially in this area of town. He runs until the pain in his side is too much to bear, then slumps against a wall and tries to get his bearings as he catches his breath. He's run further than he normally goes in this neighbourhood, but he's pretty sure he can still find his way around if he has to. He edges along the wall back toward the street, looking for a phone booth. If he's been burned, then there's no choice now but to call this in, get ahold of Martin, and get himself extracted.

"Shit!"

He'd been close, too. He'd gotten in deep enough with TIM, the local crime syndicate that enjoyed pretending it was a legitimate operation, that they'd let him see their seedier underbelly with almost no qualms. Hell, even Stoyan hadn't suspected a damned thing up until, well, yesterday it seems. He can't figure out what went wrong, what gave him away. Nothing special happened that he can think of. So it can't be anything he did, the information had to come from an outside source. Either way, he's screwed.

He spots the sign for a phone booth outside the door of a small shop, and hurries toward it. He's attracting stares, but there's nothing he can do about that. He ducks inside the booth, leaving crimson smears on the plexiglass, and huddles inside against the far wall before taking the phone off the hook. He swears again as he realises that he doesn't have any money on him. Not so much as a coin or a bill to his name. His wallet is still on his nightstand, along with his fake ID and all the cash he has in the world.

"Good job, Clint," he tells himself, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side. His right knee is starting to throb too, no doubt the result of his jump off the balcony earlier. "Next time, you should try escaping barefoot, too, make it a real challenge!"

He wedges the receiver between his right ear--the only one with a working hearing aid right now--and his shoulder, and dials for the operator. He gives the impatient-sounding woman Martin's number, and hopes to God that his terrible Bulgarian won't get him into any more trouble than he's already in. A moment later, though, and Martin's clipped tone comes over the line, accepting the charges. Clint breathes a sigh of relief, slumping even further down in the booth.

"Marty, thank God. It's Clint. I dunno what happened, but I've been burned. They came at me with guns, surrounded me. I got out, but it's bad, I don't have anywhere to go, I've got nothing on me, no cash, nothing. I don't know how they found out, but I swear it wasn't anything I did, I didn't say anything, nothing happened that I can think of--"

"Barton!" Martin snaps. "Be quiet!"

Clint shuts his mouth so hard he feels his teeth click together. Martin Baranyi, for all that he's not anywhere near Phil Coulson's league, is still a damned good handler. If anyone can get him out of this, it's Marty. "Sorry."

"Now, you've been compromised, you say?"

"Yeah. I don't know how, though."

"We can deal with that later. For now, the important part is getting you to safety. Are you injured?"

He swallows. "Yeah, I had to go through a window, and Dimitar shot me. Doesn't look too bad, more like a flesh wound, but it's bleeding like crazy. Shit, I'm so sorry about this. We were so damned close..."

"Never mind that. Do you know where the secondary safehouse is?"

Clint racks his brain, trying to remember the protocol he memorised nearly two years ago. "Uh, I think so. The one on boulevard Slivnitsa, right? The one that's sort of near the cemetery?"

"That's the one. How quickly can you get there?"

He glances around the street. No one seems to be paying him any notice right now, given that he's in a pretty busy area, but there's no guarantee he can keep that up. "I'm not sure. On a good day, I could make it in less than thirty minutes. Today?"

"All right," Martin's tone turns brisk. "I'll head over there directly and start making arrangements. Get there as quickly as you can manage, and I'll be waiting. And for God's sake, Barton, try not to get yourself spotted on the way there!"

The line goes dead. Clint sticks out his tongue at the receiver, hangs up quietly instead of slamming it back on the cradle the way he wants to. Phil would have had someone come get him, he thinks bitterly. But maybe Marty just doesn't have the resources at his disposal that Phil would. After all, they're running a long-con here, as operations go, and it's not like S.H.IE.L.D. can have someone on standby 24/7 to pull Clint Barton's incompetent ass out of the fire. His one job was to not get caught and give the correct intel on one of the biggest arms deals in recent history, and right now it looks like he's fucked up both those objectives without even knowing how.

He looks down at his t-shirt, decides that the spreading ring of crimson on the otherwise pristine white shirt really isn't all that noticeable, and casually steps out of the phone booth. He glances both ways before crossing the street--getting hit by a car now would be the height of ignominy, not to mention that Dimi and the other two goons have had ample time to recover and come after him. Of course, finding a single man on the streets in Varna is like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but in this case it's a bleeding foreign needle in a very gossipy haystack, so he can't afford to take too many chances.

There aren't nearly enough back alleys between him and Central Varna Cemetery, he decides after a lot of walking and ducking and weaving behind buildings and garbage dumpsters. He wishes he still had his car, even if it was a piece of shit Volkswagen that barely ran even on a good day. Volkswagens are pretty dependable, even when they are shitboxes. But that would have meant sneaking back to his apartment and either trying to retrieve the key (along with his wallet) or else hotwiring his own car, and both those propositions are way too risky to even contemplate. There's no way Dimitar wouldn't have left someone to watch the place and his car, for precisely that reason.

Clint has to stop several times to catch his breath, hand pressed against his side, which feels like someone has lit it on fire. The bleeding seems to have slowed to an ooze, which is a mercy. If he were to stop moving entirely now he's sure that the wound would be able to clot on its own without too much outside help, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Martin's waiting for him, and the longer it takes him to get there, the less likely he is to be extracted back to a safe zone. His right knee is throbbing in time with his pulse, and he's pretty sure it's starting to swell up in spite of his attempts to keep moving.

If I stop now, I'm screwed.

The sun is high above his head by the time he makes it to the cemetery. He takes a furtive look around, crosses the pedestrian footpath and ducks into the trees lining the roadway, grateful that winter has long since come and gone, and the leaves have come out enough to offer a semblance of camouflage. There's no way he can stay either on the street or even on the footpath without attracting undue attention. The grass, even though it's well kept, is uneven enough under his feet that he finds the going difficult. Natasha would be laughing at him through the comms, if she were here (and if he had his receiver in, which he doesn't, because undercover operatives don't need receivers except under very specific circumstances), and Phil would likely be telling her to keep the comms chatter professional, if you please, Agent Romanov. But Phil's gone and Natasha's not here, and all Clint has are ghost voices, wafting through time, to get him through today.

By the time he's arrived at the safehouse he's completely winded, his shirt soaked through with sweat as well as blood. It's an ugly grey building, all grimy windows and filthy white garage doors, but he's pretty sure he's never been happier to see a building in his life. He lets himself half-collapse against the door frame once he gets to the side entrance, hands shaking so hard he can barely punch in the security code that will let him inside to safety. The door opens with a click that he can feel through the palm of his hands, and he wonders if it was as loud as he thinks it was.

He shuts the door behind him and leans his back on it for just a moment. "Marty?" he calls out tentatively. "You here?"

"Of course."

He swivels just quickly enough to see Martin advance on him, his mouth a grim line, taser at the ready in his hand. Before Clint can so much as bring a hand up in his own defence there's a stinging pain in his neck like a hundred hornets just got unleashed on the same spot. Every muscle in his body seizes up and he crumples gracelessly to the floor.

~*~

Clint has a great view of the linoleum flooring from his position. There's a small smear of blood on the floor just by his left eye, which means he must have cut his face at some point--probably when he threw himself out that window. His hands and legs are still twitching, the aftereffects of being tased, he decides after a moment. He's only had it happen once before in his life, during training, and that was one time too many. At least he didn't lose control of his bladder, which is a small mercy, considering. He can feel his throat working, making a high-pitched moaning noise, but there's nothing he can do to stop any of it as Martin swiftly zip-ties both his hands and feet and hauls him upright to sit in a rolling desk chair.

Martin sighs as he puts away the taser in a small brown briefcase, shaking his head. "You know, Barton, I'd really hoped you were one of us."

Clint makes a vague strangling noise he hopes will convey his confusion. His head hurts, joining in with his sprained knee and the bullet hole in his side.

"Given that you have no idea what I'm talking about, I can only conclude that you're not," Martin continues. He's wearing the same stupid brown suit and pink shirt that he always wears, though at least this time he's lost the brown tie he likes to pair up with it. "One of us, that is. It's a pity, you would have been a great asset. I suppose, as one last professional courtesy, I should let you know that S.H.I.E.L.D. is no more, as of last night. Technically it was yesterday afternoon, in the U.S., but that doesn't change much for us, does it?"

Clint swallows, finds he's regained the use of his tongue somewhat. "Marty, what're you talking about?"

Martin backhands him, hard. He shakes out his fingers with a smirk. "I've been wanting to do that for nearly two years. You have no idea... I hate that nickname, and I've told you before not to use it. But you're not much of one for respecting others if it doesn't suit you, are you, Barton?"

It would probably be disingenuous to apologise now, but Clint tries it anyway. "I didn't think you meant it, Mart--uh, Martin. What do you mean about S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

He's stalling a little bit, but he's also genuinely curious. His neck has gone weirdly stiff, and he rolls his head a little, trying to work out the kinks in his muscles. The safehouse, if it ever was one, has been stripped almost completely bare. There's no furniture save for the chair he's sitting on, a crappy little desk, and what looks like an empty kitchen off to his left.

"Your little whore friend spilled all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets onto the internet last night. The government has declared all of you a terrorist organisation. There is no S.H.I.E.L.D. any longer."

Clint's jaw drops. He had thought that was something that only happened in books or movies, but apparently it's totally a real thing that's happening to him right now. He blinks, forces his mouth closed again, and swallows.

"I don't..."

"No, you never did understand, did you Barton? Not the sharpest tool in the shed. It's why I advised against sending you in for this assignment to begin with. You've always lacked intelligence, but you're fantastic as a blunt instrument. Or, I suppose, a pointy instrument. Point Barton at the target, destroy the target. At least you're not completely useless in the field. Well, you weren't before. Now..." Martin grins, but there's no humour in it.

"You've been working with TIM this whole time."

It's all starting to click into place. If Natasha gave away S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, then she must have had good reason, but it would mean giving away the identities of all the agents out there, not just Clint's and Martin's. Clint's stomach roils at the thought of all the intel he's been slipping back to Martin for the past two years.

"You never once sent my reports back to S.H.I.E.L.D., did you?"

Martin laughs. From this close up, Clint can see the silver fillings in his back molars. "Oh, you are precious. Of course I sent back reports! Otherwise they would have suspected. You really are as stupid as I thought. I will confess to heavily editing your reports to suit our ends, however. That way I stayed in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s good graces, since they never suspected a thing, and Stoyan thought I was the best ally ever."

"So he knew all along who I was?"

Martin shrugs. "No. I thought it better he believe you were one of us. Stoyan Nikolov Gavrilov, for all his many uses, is not a man to be crossed lightly. If he'd known you were a proper spy with allegiances to someone other than him, then he would simply have executed you on the spot, and I needed someone deep in there whom he wouldn't suspect."

"You're making my head hurt," Clint complains.

"Of course, now that your involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D. has been revealed, I told him what I could, of course. No sense in having him kill the both of us when you will suffice. After all, I'm supposed to be getting a rather important cut from the profits of next week's arms deal."

Martin makes a show of checking his watch. "Well, I have a plane to catch. I don't plan to be anywhere near here when he arrives to execute you himself. Not afraid of getting his hands dirty, which is something I can admire... from a distance."

"Treacherous bastard!" Clint spits. "I get free, I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born! And don't think I won't get free. You think I got this far in life without learning how to survive?"

Martin just rolls his eyes. "If it comforts you to make empty threats, go right ahead. In any event, I need to make sure you don't get away before I have time to direct Stoyan to your whereabouts." He pulls out a pistol, and Clint's a little too dazed right now to make out the make or model. It looks like a nine-millimetre, anyway, but no matter which way you put it, it's still a gun. "I'd apologise, but I think we both know I wouldn't mean it."

"I thought you wanted him to kill me?" Clint tries to goad him, but it falls on deaf ears. No pun intended. He's going to survive this, no matter what.

"I do. But this is still the best instrument I have to hand," Martin says calmly, then leans forward to whisper conspiratorially in Clint's ear: "Hail Hydra."

Clint's eyes go wide, just as Martin deals him a vicious blow to the temple with the butt of the gun.

For what feels like a long time, Clint floats in the dark. Images occasionally swim through his mind, diffuse and sometimes haunting, but the dark is all but overwhelming. When he comes to, blinking painfully in the pale light filtering in through the window shades, he's completely alone. He raises his head, regretting it as soon as the movement makes him feel as though his brain is about to leak out through his eye sockets, then looks around, trying to take stock.

Martin is long gone, but he was expecting that. He can taste copper on his lips, can smell it faintly in the air, and that and the slightly tacky sensation where his shirt is clinging to his neck tells him he's probably bleeding. Or was bleeding up until recently. Head wounds are a bitch. There's no clock anywhere to tell him how long he's been unconscious, but he thinks it must not have been all that long. He's always had a hard head, or so everyone keeps telling him. It's probably been less than an hour, but more than thirty minutes, which means he doesn't have all that much time before Stoyan gets here, presumably backed by his crew. Knowing Martin, he'll want to put as much distance between him and the TIM crime boss as possible before making that one final phone call, just to ensure the safety of his own hide, but that doesn't mean Clint has any time to waste. His side is still burning, and his right knee has swelled so much that it's stretching the fabric of his pants a little grotesquely. It's going to be an utter bitch to try to get free.

At least the chair is on wheels. Clint shifts a little in his seat, the movement putting pressure on his bound hands and making the plastic zip-ties dig painfully into his flesh. No sense putting off the inevitable. He sighs, lifts his eyes heavenward in a silent plea for strength, then slides to the floor with a painful jolt. He brings up his knees with a quiet moan of pain as the injured joint protests, contorts his arms and shoulders until he's able to slip his hands past his feet and bring them up in front of him. Step one. With his hands in front of him, it's easier--though not actually easy--to make short work of the zipties around his ankles. He's kind of amazed that Martin didn't do a better job of securing him, but then, Martin's training would have been to handle operatives in the field, not interrogation or even guard duty. If S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't history, Clint would be making a mental note to make sure to mention that in his next report. Cross-training is something that only agents like him and Natasha got, probably a budget thing, but it was exactly this sort of situation that showed where there were gaping holes in the supposed security net.

Getting the ziptie off his wrists is another ballgame. When trying a pressure break doesn't get him much traction other than making the bullet wound in his side hurt even more, Clint limps over to the kitchen. His knee is completely stiff now, and walking on the leg is excruciating. There's no way he's going to get far on foot like this. First things first, though, and that means getting his hands loose. The drawers are mostly empty, but a thorough search turns up a slightly rusty screw that's come loose at the back of one of the cabinets, and that will do the trick just as well, even if it's not ideal. He has to brace himself against the counter so as not to fall over while he's working. It's slow, painstaking work, screws not being designed to work as shims. By the time he's done his hands have gone slightly numb, and the tips of his fingers are raw from chafing against the rusty metal. Still, with a sharp flexing of the wrists he's able to free himself from the thin plastic like it's nothing, and spends the next precious few seconds rubbing at his wrists, trying to restore the circulation there.

There's no telling how soon Stoyan, or anyone else from TIM, is going to get here. Or Hydra. Fucking hell, what've I got myself into? He wishes Coulson were here, to give him some kind of reassurance, to let him know there was a plan, that Clint just had to trust in him and wait.

"Well," he says to the empty room, "no one ever said it would be easy."

~*~

The safe house has been stripped bare. There's not even so much as a roll of toilet paper Clint can use to clean himself up a bit. He runs water from the tap over his head, wincing and drawing in a hissing breath as it comes into contact with the new laceration in his scalp. He lifts his t-shirt, grimaces at the deep crease the bullet left in his side, and decides to count himself lucky that it didn't penetrate any deeper than that. It'll need stitches, but even if he can't get those, at worst he'll have a really ugly scar to add to his already impressive collection.

He slips out the side door, keeping his eyes open for any kind of movement to alert him to the presence of TIM thugs, but there's nothing so far. At least his remaining hearing aid doesn't appear to have objected too much to his being tasered. The left one is down for the count, which is going to be a serious drawback, but he's not completely deaf, so he'll take the win for now.

There's only one place he can think of that might be safe, at least for a few hours. His friend Miro might be a member of TIM, but he and Clint go way back, and Clint has helped him out of more than one jam in the past. If he plays his cards right, Miro might just be willing to let him hide out for a bit, just long enough to get his bearings and figure out a new plan. So that's where he heads, cutting across the cemetery and then keeping as much to the backstreets as he can without making a spectacle of himself. He's only ever driven there before, although there was that one time he took the bus, and he gets himself turned around more than once before he's able to make his way to the shabby little apartment building where his friend Miro lives with his girlfriend.

Okay, Clint, you've got one shot at this. The minute someone in this place full of busybodies sees you, you're done for, so make like you're a shadow in the night.

The pep talk gets him through the front door of the building--unseen, he hopes, but there's no way of telling until people either show up behind him demanding to know why he's there, or don't. He has to grab the stair railing with both hands in order to pull himself up the steps, leaving tiny smears of drying blood behind that he can only hope are small enough to go unnoticed for now. He drags himself up two flights of stairs, glad that Miro doesn't live too much higher, and raps quietly on the door.

Nothing but silence meets his knock, and his heart sinks into his stomach. Stupid, Clint, stupid. Of course they're not home. Why would they be home? It's not like they don't have lives that don't revolve around helping their actually-a-traitor friend who was stupid enough to get himself caught and--

The door opens a crack, and then a little wider when Lyobomir Ivanov Avramov, better known to his friends as Miro, catches sight of him.

Clint tries for an endearing smile, but he thinks the effect might be a little off, considering the look on Miro's tanned face. "Heya, Miro. I hate to drop in on you like this, but, uh, I kind of got myself into a jam. Help a brother out?"

Miro flings the door wide, but before he can say anything the world goes a little swimmy, and the next thing Clint knows his knees are buckling and everything goes dark for a few seconds. Strong hands catch him under the armpits, and even though the pressure on his side makes him whimper a little, at least he hasn't fallen over completely. He's barely aware of someone calling out, of the muffled sound of the door slamming behind him.

"Come with me, you sit," Miro says, slinging one of Clint's arms over his broad shoulders.

He's a bit shorter than Clint, which makes it an uncomfortable proposition, but a moment later Clint feels himself being dropped carefully to sit onto a soft surface--the worn but very comfortable sofa in Miro's living room. He forces his eyes open again, even though he can't quite get the world to come properly into focus again, and leans forward, trying to keep from bleeding right onto their only sofa. Blood is a bitch to get out of upholstery.

"You're not calling anyone, are you?" he mumbles, and he thinks that gets him a funny look.

"You are in trouble?"

Miro, bless him, doesn't beat around the bush. Clint thinks he hears someone or something moving in the other room, but it's on his bad side, so he's not really sure. He decides to go with the truth, or a simplified version of it, and see where that gets him. If nothing else, he'd rather go at the hands of a friend, but he's betting on the fact that he knows Miro's not a stone cold killer. Stoyan uses him more as muscle, as the occasional fixer and clean-up man, rather than as an executioner.

"Stoyan's trying to kill me."

Miro lifts an eyebrow at him, but that's as far as his reaction of surprise goes. "Katya," he calls out, and the rest is lost on Clint because it's over his shoulder and entirely in rapid-fire Bulgarian. He turns back to Clint. "Okay. First we get you cleaned up, then you tell me why Stoyan tries to kill you. After that, we make a plan."

Clint laughs. "You're a pal, Miro."

Miro just rolls his eyes, then steps aside as his girlfriend makes an appearance. Katya isn't what you'd call supermodel beautiful, but she has a really nice face, with thick eyebrows and eyes so dark you can lose yourself in them. She also happens to be a nurse, which comes in really handy in their line of work. Not that she has much patience for anything involving TIM, but she loves Miro and that seems to be enough for now. She stifles a small gasp, then turns to Miro and rattles something at him in Bulgarian, which once again goes right over Clint's head.

"She want to know what happen to you."

Clint laughs again, and the laugh turns into a cough. "Good question. Uh, I got shot, and then I jumped through a window, and then I got tasered, and then I got knocked out," he ticks each item off on the fingers of his left hand.

Miro translates, and Katya snorts. She does understand more English than Clint understands Bulgarian, but she doesn't like to speak it unless she has to. She gives what sounds like a series of instructions to Miro, then comes to crouch by his side. She's wearing her hospital scrubs, but by the looks of them she's coming home from a shift, not leaving, which is a mercy.

"I cut shirt," she informs him, and he nods.

"Sure, no problem. I hate this shirt anyway. Way too white."

If she gets the humour, she shows no sign of it. Instead she gets up, goes to rummage in a drawer, and comes back with a pen light, which she shines in his eyes. He blinks and tries to pull away, right up until she grabs his head a little roughly in a practised hand. "Be still, please. I check for head..." she stops, obviously not knowing the word she needs.

"Concussion," he supplies. "Yeah, pretty sure I have one of those."

"You sick?"

"Uh, not yet," he admits. His stomach is feeling none too pleased with the day's events so far, but it's not like he had time to eat, so there'd be precious little to throw up anyway.

Miro returns with a plastic bucket filled with what looks like a cobbled-together first aid kit and several towels, and Katya thanks him absently over her shoulder. He plants a kiss on her head, right where her thick dark hair is parted, and that makes her smile. She tucks two of the towels under Clint's back, and belatedly he thinks he should apologise, just in case he got blood on their sofa. She pulls out a pair of scissors and takes hold of the hem of Clint's shirt before cutting it away from the wound in his side. She bites her lip, shakes her head.

"I not sew that," she tells him. "No thread. No needle."

"Okay."

It hurts like hell when she cleans it out, with Miro's strong hands holding him down by the shoulders so he won't writhe as much and make her job that much harder. When she's done she does a creditable job of taping up the laceration with seri-strips, packing gauze over it and then binding the whole thing with a bandage. She looks down at where his knee has swollen to the point of stretching out his pants, and frowns.

"Don't cut my pants, please. Not as easy to replace," he manages. He's bathed in sweat, can feel it trickling down his face along his hairline, and dripping down his back past the waistband of his pants.

She nods, pulls off his shoes, then says something to Miro Bulgarian. Miro shrugs and turns to Clint. "I will help with pants, but it will hurt. You don't yell, okay? You bite on this," he sticks a rolled-up elastic bandage in Clint's mouth as a makeshift gag, "and you are very, very quiet. Got it?"

Clint manages what he hopes sounds like agreement around the soft fabric. He undoes his belt and unzips the fly of his pants, lifts his hips enough to push them down as far as he can get them, and then concentrates very hard on not screaming in agony when Katya and Miro each grab a pant leg and yank them free. At a word from Katya, Miro disappears into their tiny kitchen and comes back a few moments later with a sack of frozen peas and a stained tea towel.

"We need to get the swelling down before she can wrap it," Miro tells him, which sounds about right. "Put your leg up on sofa, like so," he lifts Clint up so he's lying almost full-length on the sofa, then carefully wraps the peas in the tea towel before tucking it right behind Clint's knee. "You hold very still, while Katya cleans your head, all right?"

He's given another ice pack for his head, and Katya flashes him the first smile since he got there, right before applying a band-aid to the bridge of his nose. Fantastic.

"I can't tell you much I appreciate this," Clint starts, even as Katya clucks her tongue at him when his head movement impedes her work.

Miro puts a hand on his uninjured knee. "My friend, you know you have but to ask. You think we forget how you helped with Maria when her good-for-nothing husband tries to take her boy away?"

A lump forms in Clint's throat at that. He'd almost forgotten the incident, when Katya's sister's husband had showed up at the door, drunk and screaming and waving a gun. He'd threatened to shoot anyone who got in his way, forced his way past Katya in spite of her attempts to beat him back. They'd gotten the door reinforced after that, but at the time he'd simply battered it until it gave way. Clint, never one to appreciate men who beat on their wives and kids, had stepped up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and knocked him senseless with an elbow to the face. Then he, Miro, and a couple of other guys from TIM had taken him down to a secluded spot by the docks, and given him several very good reasons never to come near Maria or her little boy ever again.

"Hey, I never liked bullies, you know."

"Just like Captain America."

Clint barks a laugh. "Not quite, but I'll take the compliment. You're a good man, Miro my friend. You know Stoyan's going to hold a grudge about this, right?" he tries to sit up, only to get pushed back against the sofa cushions by Katya, who accompanies the gesture with a hard look.

"Still!" she orders sternly, and he subsides, trying to look meek.

"We deal with that when it comes. Maybe it's time I do as Katya wants, and start over, do something else. Eh, Katya?" Clint assumes that what follows is a repetition of the same sentiment, only in Bulgarian, because Katya smiles and nods. She leans over him.

"You help?"

Clint wants to point out that he's half-naked, concussed and bleeding on their sofa without a penny to his name, but she looks so hopeful, so damned earnest that he can't bring himself to burst her bubble of optimism. "Sure, I'll help. I get out of this, I have some contacts who can get us out." I hope, he adds silently. Aloud, he says: "Can I use your phone? I gotta make a call."

Phil is gone, S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone, but Natasha is still there, and she'll come for him, if he asks. He doesn't know about any of the other Avengers, but he doesn't need to. Natasha's been working with Rogers, but the others are scattered all over the place, and they mostly know him as the guy who got his mind fucked six ways to Sunday by Loki. Sure, he was cleared of all wrongdoing--alien gods with superior mind-bending powers aren't something the average human can defend against--but that doesn't mean he couldn't interpret the looks he was getting from everyone. Everyone except Tasha, that is.

Miro hands him his cell phone, and he holds it gingerly up to his one good ear after dialling Natasha's number. It goes directly to voicemail, and he feels his blood run cold. "Tasha, it's me. I mean, it's Clint. I don't know what the hell just happened, but everything's gone south, and they said S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone. Martin's gone, too. Left me twisting in the wind. I'm with friends for now, but it's all falling apart and we're not going to be safe for long. Call me back when you get this, please. And Tasha, be safe."

Miro takes the phone away again, and pushes him to lie down even further on the sofa. Katya is putting away the first aid supplies, her back to them, while Miro pulls a thick woollen blanket over his bare legs and stomach. "You sleep for a while. When it's dark, we find somewhere safe for you to go. Here is okay for now, but Stoyan will come looking. First, sleep."

Clint starts to protest, but the blanket is heavy and warm, and his eyelids are already drooping. "Yeah, okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome, my friend."

~*~

Clint wakens with a start to the unmistakable sound of a gunshot right outside the front door, accompanied by screaming. Utterly disoriented, heart thudding dully in his chest, and blood roaring in his ears, he scrabbles to sit up, only to have the whole room lurch sickeningly, as though he were sitting on the deck of a ship in the middle of a huge storm. He gropes for his pants, forces them on past his injured knee--which someone wrapped while he was sleeping, he notes, which is a little disturbing, given that he never once noticed. There's a clean t-shirt that's at least a size too big folded near the sofa (Miro might be shorter, but he's considerably broader in the shoulders and more muscular than Clint), and he yanks it over his head before shoving his feet back into his shoes. This time he pauses long enough to tie the laces. He's already had to run in unlaced shoes once today--is it still the same day? It's dark outside, but that doesn't mean he's been out for all that long--and that was more than enough.

Miro is braced by the door, pistol in hand, and he motions to Clint with his free hand to take refuge in the bedroom. Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Katya comes up from behind and places her finger over his lips.

"Shh," she instructs. "No one hurt. Miro talk, they go away. All right?"

It makes more sense than trying to run or shoot his way out. At least this way, if Miro manages to convince Stoyan and his men that there's no one here, that Clint never came by, then there might not be any more casualties, and it will buy Clint a few more hours at least. Not to mention that if Stoyan buys Miro's story, he won't come after either Miro or Katya.

Katya pulls him into the bedroom, tugs open the closet door, and presses hard against the wooden back, revealing a hidden door on a spring. "Shh," she says again. "You quiet."

The secret compartment is horribly cramped. Clint has to crouch until he's almost bent double at the waist before he'll fit. The position puts more pressure on his knee and side, and he shoves his hand into his mouth in order not to moan in pain. It's pitch-black, stifling, and he has to force himself to slow his breathing. Easy, Clint, you're fine. It's not too small, there's plenty of air. He breathes in slowly through his nose, exhales softly through his mouth, around the tender flesh of his hand. He can't hear what's being said, can only make out the faintest sound of voices raised in argument. He hopes that it's just the closet that's well sound-proofed and not an indication that something's going wrong with his hearing aid. The last thing he needs now is for the world to go completely silent.

It's only a liability if you let it become one, Phil was fond of telling him. Well, Phil isn't here now, but if he were, Clint would be forcing him to eat those words with extreme prejudice. Stupid holier-than-thou bullshit. Let's see how well Phil coped with being injured and all but incapable of hearing if there was danger right around the next corner. Bet he wouldn't be so smug then. But then, Phil's dead, and there's no changing that. Clint bites down harder on his hand, and tears form in his eyes and spill down his cheeks, and he tells himself it's all from the pain in his knee and side.

His stomach flip-flops, protesting the all the upheaval, and his mouth fills with saliva. Oh God, no. Not now, not now, not now, please. He can't be sick in here, there's no way. It will alert everyone to him in seconds. He swallows convulsively, breathes even more slowly. He can almost hear Coulson's voice in his mind, coaching him through. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Easy, Barton, that's it. Slow, deep breaths. You're fine. You're fine, everything's fine.

"I know you are in there, Barton!" Stoyan's voice filters in to him, distorted through the walls. "If you will not come out on your own, I will smoke you out!"

He can't move, can't so much as twist himself to check the time... even if he had a watch, which, of course, he doesn't. Gotta keep an eye on that, Barton. You're slipping a lot today. You don't have a watch, you don't have money, you don't have anything. He crouches in the dark, and starts counting off the seconds. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. He reaches forty-five before the closet door scrapes open, and Katya comes to pull him out.

"You come. Come quick!" she yells. "Fire!"

There's no mistaking that word in any language, and she doesn't give him time to get the pins and needles out of his legs before she's chivvying him ahead of her back into the living room and toward the front door. There's already smoke billowing under the gap in the door, and heat blasts through when she pulls it open. Miro is waiting for them on the other side, his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth. He lowers it long enough to yell.

"Downstairs! They set fire to building! No exit. They block!"

Shit. Shit-shit-shit. The word repeats on loop in his mind, like a particularly scatological mantra. Clint looks up at the stairs leading toward the floors above them, already ablaze in patches. It looks like Stoyan's boys poured gasoline down the entire flight of stairs and lit a match before getting out. The message is clear: this is what you get for helping our enemies. They have to get out of here, the sooner the better. He can make out the crackling of the flames, loud popping noises as more and more of the wooden building catches alight. From somewhere above his head, someone, a child, starts to scream, and Clint's stomach churns again. Reason dictates he should just run for it, get the hell out of there. The building is already lost, and anyone above him is likely a lost cause too. No sense getting himself killed along with everyone else. The child screams again, and Clint squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can, and tries to force himself to ignore the sound.

He balks as Katya tries to push him toward the stairs, toward the area still clear of flames. "No. Miro, your neighbours... we can't... there are children."

Miro's face softens at that. "Da," he relents. "All right." He turns to Katya, and there's a flurry of arguing in Bulgarian, but at the end she, too, gives in. She looks over at Clint, gives him a nod.

"You keep Miro safe. You promise."

He holds up his right hand. "I swear on my grave."

They waste precious time running back into Miro's apartment, but there's no choice. Miro starts pulling towels from the linen closet as Clint runs water in the bathtub. Within moments the towels are soaked through, and Clint wraps one around his nose and mouth, helps Miro to do the same. Carrying an armful of towels, Clint charges up the stairs as fast as he can manage, adrenaline lending him a strength and speed he didn't know he possessed. It's not a large building, but it feels like it's at least fifty stories tall by the time he gets to the top landing, already engulfed in white-hot flames and smoke. The doors to the apartments are all open, people milling about in panic, and they all throw themselves at him and Miro as they appear.

He leaves it to Miro to get them going down the stairs, to distribute wet towels among them as best he can. Clint wouldn't be able to make himself understood, nor can he understand them amidst the screaming and the chaos, but he can still hear that one piercing shriek that got his attention before. He grabs the nearest person, an older man with a soot-blackened face.

"The child!" he yells, aware that he's probably being too loud even now when the man flinches. "Where's the child?" He racks his brain, trying to remember the right words. "Kude e deteto?"

Wordlessly, the man points to the furthest apartment on the landing, the door ajar but almost invisible behind a wall of flame. Clint shakes his head to clear it, doesn't give himself time to think before he's sprinting down the hallway, bent over at the waist so as to avoid the worst of the smoke. He finds the child--a little girl no more than eight or nine, dressed in nothing but a thin blue nightgown--huddled just behind the doorway, tears streaming down her face. She screams when she sees him and backs away, and he curses but doesn't try to lunge after her. Instead he smiles.

"Hey, sweetpea, I'm a friend." He bites his lip, tries to think of a way to reassure her. "Spokoino, az sum ot dobrite, okay?" His Bulgarian is terrible, way too stilted and probably wrong, but her expression changes from terrified to merely worried, and she stares at him, biting her lip. "Doveri mi se. Ela s men."

He holds out his hand, and with another sharp cry she throws herself into his arms, sobbing convulsively. He doesn't bother making her walk, just scoops her up in his arms and runs for all he's worth, even as he feels a wall of heat rise up behind him.

Miro is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, and scoops the girl out of his arms before sprinting down ahead of him, the other residents all running down as fast as they can manage. Clint follows close on his heels, trying desperately to keep up with them but lagging further and further behind. Now that he's been relieved of his burden, Clint is forcefully reminded of just how badly his leg is still hurt when his knee gives way and sends him sprawling to the side. He only just saves himself from tumbling down the entire flight of stairs by catching the smouldering railing with one hand, and feels the heat sear into the flesh of his palm. Something stretches and pops in his shoulder as he falls, and he lets out a yell of pain. By the time he's able to get to his feet, it's already too late: the stairs are completely ablaze above and below him.

"Fuck!"

He can make it to the next landing, but Katya said that Stoyan had all the fire exits covered. Or, rather, he's pretty sure that's what she meant. I'll just have to chance it. He uses his good leg to push off the stairs, landing in a painful roll at the bottom, but he avoids the worst of the flames and ducks into the nearest open door he can find. The apartment is dark, but the flickering light of the fire lets him make out where the windows are, and he stumbles toward the furthest one, where he thinks the fire escape must be. He pushes the window open, doesn't so much as bother to check what's below it before climbing out head and shoulders first. He lands awkwardly on the metal fire escape, only to feel something ricochet off the metal directly to his right.

"Shit!"

He ducks, rolls to the side, trying to work out if there are stairs or a ladder he can use, cursing himself for never quite working out how the fire escapes worked in this building before. Standard reconnaissance, Clint. Phil would read you the riot act during debrief after this. You got sloppy, working without him. Another bullet pings off the escape as he finds a ladder, and he pauses to look around, trying to pinpoint the source of the gunfire. It's coming from nearby, that much he's sure of. The shooter isn't using a silencer, but if Clint can hear the faint report, it must mean the guy is nearby. Eventually he spots him, standing on the balcony of the next apartment. Behind him, the room is a light show of whites and yellows and oranges, too damned hot for him to get out. As Clint watches, the guy, barely more than a silhouette, raises his gun to fire again, just as the heat makes the glass in the windows explode outward. There's a horrible shriek of pain, and the gun goes skittering along the balcony and falls the three remaining stories to the ground.

Clint lets out an incredulous laugh, hardly believing his luck. The man's sleeve is on fire, and he's shrieking even louder than the little girl before him. For a moment Clint is tempted to just let him burn--t's no more than he deserves--but only for a moment. He shakes his head, mutters another obscenity under his breath, then finds what purchase he can along the wall of the building and carefully edges his way across to him, praying that the whole damned building won't collapse before he gets there.

His erstwhile assailant isn't still on fire when he gets there, shrieking and batting ineffectually at his arm with his other hand, right up until Clint tackles him and forces them both to the floor, using their combined body weight to smother the flames, though not before he feels the heat sear into the palms of his hands. Up close he recognises the man as one of Stoyan's bodyguards, though they've never exchanged more than a dozen words before.

"Petar, it's me. You want to live? You stick with me, got it?"

Petar nods, his eyes so wide that Clint can see the whites all the way around the irises. His pupils are huge, even in the bright light from the fire. Clint grabs hold of both his shoulders, and pulls until they're both back on their feet.

"Okay, follow me. You try anything, I'm leaving you here to burn."

~*~

Part 2

I'm still around(ish)

2014-10-17T19:15:09Z

Hi all!

By now you've probably given up on me in despair, which is understandable. I'm still kicking around, though, and starting (slowly) to get back into writing. I've been kind of lazy of late and have been lax in crossposting back here from AO3. I think there are one or two Teen Wolf fics that never made it back here. Whoops!

So, me in a nutshell, and why I haven't been posting to my fandom LJ:

Summer was incredibly hectic. After the very traumatic death of my cat on a personal level, there was also the shooting of several RCMP officers by an armed gunman in New Brunswick, and I was among those who were flown in from all over Canada to help the local RCMP cope with the tragedy. I spent two weeks working 12-hour night shifts with no breaks.

I am single again. I won't go into details in a public entry, but as of May of this year I was no longer in a relationship, and as of August I am once again on my own.

I spent the end of the summer and beginning of fall trying to sell my house while still commuting to my 60-hour/week job in another city, which translates to driving roughly 600km a week.

The house is now sold (yay!), which means I am in the midst of a flurry of packing and trying to get all my ducks in a row before November 1st.

On more fannish notes:

I am pretty much done with Supernatural. I've taken several steps back from not only the fandom, but the show itself. Maybe especially the show. After last year, it went in a direction that I just couldn't follow. I haven't watched any of the episodes of Season 10, nor do I plan to. I might change my mind and maybe binge-watch them farther down the road, but I doubt it. The show has stopped doing the things I loved about it, and I can't watch it or even think about the current events without feeling a bit upset about it. That tells me that it's time to stop and watch and participate in things I actively enjoy.

I am slowly getting back into writing, as I've said, and as such I will probably be updating my 'verses. No one get excited. It's not a done deal yet, and while I used to be able to pull off thousands of words in a day, that's not the case lately. Writing is a muscle, and mine is severely atrophied. That being said, I still have lots of ideas for almost all my 'verses, and I do want to get back to them.

I'm still being fannish about lots of other shows, though much more casually. I've gotten sucked into Teen Wolf, as you may have noticed, and am currently finishing a Hawkeye-centric story for marvel_bang, which I will be posting on November 11th, along with artwork from the lovely and talented branquignole. I hope I spelled her name right. /o\ I've been watching Person of Interest, which continues to be awesome in spite of last year's horrifically tragic feelsfest. Also Sleepy Hollow, which is utterly delightful, as well as a host of other TV shows that I don't feel quite as strongly about. I love watching TV, but not all shows bring out the giddy fangirl in me. Mostly I flail about the shows I love on Twitter.

In fact, Twitter is my social media of choice these days, mostly because it's very portable and I lead a slightly nomadic lifestyle for now. If you don't follow me there and would like to, I'm @ratherastory, though you should be warned that my tweets are not all fannish. Indeed, I tweet about feminist issues, about a number of things that I guess can be lumped under the "social justice warrior" heading, and about my everyday life. Oh, and I tweet a lot about my pets. I remember a few years ago there was a complaint about how much I tweeted about my pets (specifically my cats), and that hasn't changed. My pets are very photogenic. Luckily, following me is not actually mandatory. :)

In the meantime, I've been mucking around with the notion of participating in NaNoWriMo, which kind of has me excited. The problem is that, unlike those people who have more plots than time rattling around in their heads, I've been devoid of new ideas for quite a while. I'm hoping inspiration will strike in the next two weeks or so, before November 1st rolls around. I would love to finish November on a high, with 50,000 new words of fiction to my name. Now I just have to think of a plot.

In Hearts We Leave Behind 2/2

2014-09-03T16:07:11Z

Part 1

He doesn't know how to identify the look on Steve's face.

"Bucky…"

"заткнись!"

The Russian doesn't roll well off his tongue—it never has. No one ever took the time to teach him more than the rudiments of the language, because the rudiments were all that were ever required. He can hear his own accent—loud, brash, American—come through clearly whenever he speaks. His English is good while his Russian is flawed, but they both feel foreign to him now. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to switch back to English. It's not as difficult now as it once was, at least.

"Don't call me that!"

Steve is shaking his head. "I can't believe you're here." He visibly stops himself from saying the name again, though it's clear he wants to.

"I know it's meant to be my name," he starts, because suddenly he can't bear to see that expression on Steve's face. He doesn't know why he's trying to explain himself, just that he wants to. His stomach churns even as his heart begins another erratic tattoo in his chest, and he swallows in order not to vomit. "But it doesn't mean anything to me. I don't know who I'm supposed to be, not anymore."

He thinks Steve might be about to interrupt, so he lets the muzzle of the gun twitch ever so slightly, and feels a surge of satisfaction when Steve subsides again.

"That's why I'm here. So that you can give me some answers."

He pauses, waiting for Steve to say something, anything. To give him the key that will unlock all the mysteries of the universe. Instead, he's met with silence. There's nothing to do with silence except fill it, and he thinks that once, when he was another person, he might have been good at that.

"I read the KGB file," he blurts. "All the experiments, everything the Russians and Hydra did to me." He can feel the fingers of his left hand beginning to seize up again, but he can't afford to let his guard down. The moment that gun drops, his life is forfeit. "They called me the Winter Soldier, the file says I shaped history, and that's what Pierce used to tell me too. But all that tells me is that I'm a lab experiment gone wrong."

Steve's face twists with pain at that. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, apparently thinking better of whatever it was he was about to say.

"I've done my homework the last couple of days. I learned about you, and about myself, too. They say we were friends, once. That exhibit at the Smithsonian, going on and on about 'the courageous Sergeant Barnes, the only Howling Commando to give his life.' But there's more, isn't there?"

Steve steps back, but his gaze is clear and steady. There's nothing in his expression that suggests he's trying to escape, or even to misdirect.

"Your work has been a gift to mankind. You've shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time…"

He almost closes his eyes to shut out the intrusive thought, catches himself in time. "I can't… there are dreams, sometimes. More lately, but even when I was in stasis they were there. You're the only one who has answers to my questions. So here's the deal: you've got until sunup to tell me what all those files and newsreels and exhibits couldn't. You're my mission, Cap, and I have to see it through. Whether that means you live or die, well, that depends on if I get what I want."

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."

Even now, the voice rings clear as a bell in his mind, threatening to drown out all his other thoughts. He can't turn back now, though.

"Don't think what happened on the helicarrier's going to influence my decision, either. Maybe, deep down, some part of me remembered you that day, but that doesn't mean anything, not anymore. Even if we were brothers in arms, it won't change a damned thing."

"I won't fight you."

He wishes he had, though. It would have made things simpler. He looks at Steve, who hasn't moved since he took that one step back from him, emotions flickering across his face too quickly for Bucky to figure out what he's thinking. The gun feels heavy for the first time since he can remember, weighing him down. If he could feel pain in his left arm, he thinks it might feel like it was on fire. He eases his hand away slowly, keeping the gun very still in his right hand. If he plays this right, there's no reason for Steve to suspect anything.

"You're my friend."

"We're not friends anymore," he snaps, as though Steve just uttered the words aloud, and Steve flinches, ever so slightly. "Just two soldiers with unfinished business. The Bucky Barnes you know doesn't exist anymore. The man he became won't hesitate to pull the trigger, if he doesn't get what he came for."

Steve smiles a little sadly, and for a moment it's like the dream never ended. The Brooklyn skyline superimposes itself over the view behind Steve's shoulders, sunlight dappling over the floor.

"We could go to Coney Island tomorrow. What do you think?"

"To tell you the truth, I had other things in mind…"

This time he does close his eyes, blood roaring in his ears. It would take nothing for Steve to take him down now, and he almost wishes he would. When he opens them again, Steve has turned away, shoulders hunched, and he feels a strange impulse to go to him, to offer some kind of comfort to this man he doesn't even know.

"So… if you really want to know who you are and," Steve's voice threatens to break, but he composes himself quickly, "and what we truly meant to each other, I guess I better put on a pot of coffee. It's going to take a while to fill in all the blanks."

He feels his lips twist into a sneer as he makes a 'carry-on' motion with the muzzle of the gun and glances at the digital clock displaying 11:04. "I have all night, Cap. You've got seven hours."

~*~

He makes a show of leaning casually against the far wall, gun still trained on the target. In truth he's not sure his legs are still capable of holding him up.

"You're not looking good, Bucky."

He doesn't bother correcting the use of the name this time, just shakes his head quickly. The movement makes him dizzy. "You're one to talk."

That gets him a quick laugh. "Sorry, tact hasn't been one of my strong suits in a while. I just… it's been a hell of a long time. When's the last time you ate?"

The gun wavers. He feels foolish, now that he recognizes that clawing, gnawing sensation that's been dogging him for days. He never had to eat before, it was always taken care of. He doesn't even remember putting food in his mouth. Nourishment isn't something he's had to worry.

"Aw, Buck." Steve makes an abortive movement toward him, then turns back to the coffee pot into which he's been spooning grounds. "Would you believe me if I told you that you could put down the gun? I won't fight you. You might not remember, but you… you're my friend," he says, emphasising the word slightly, "and nothing's going to change that. You want to pick up that gun again at the end of the night, and I won't stop you. I'm hoping you'll choose not to. It's just… you look tired."

His eyes burn unexpectedly at that, and he blinks. With any luck, the moment of weakness will have gone unnoticed, but then, luck has never been on his side. He shrugs one-armed—his right shoulder—and holsters his pistol before sliding into a chair on the side of the table opposite to Steve.

"I'm going to get you something to eat, while I'm at it. Can't have you starving to death in my home. Mama would turn in her grave," Steve says ruefully.

Bucky laughs. "She would, at that," he agrees, and almost throws up again as the memory of a blond woman briefly fills the void in his mind. Her voice is clear in his head, urging him to eat more.

"Growing boys need to eat. You're both skin and bones, and I'll not have your mother accusing me of starving you, James Buchanan Barnes!"

"You remember her?"

There's too much hope on Steve's face for him to bear. He looks away, out the window. "Not really."

"Okay, then. Have some coffee. I think you'll like it—coffee comes in all sorts of flavours now, and there's more kinds of cream than I ever thought possible. I guess you wouldn't have paid that much attention to cream… or sugar, for that matter. Nowadays there's sugar in everything. Remember when we could barely afford it even for baking?" Steve stops. "Sorry, poor choice of words. But try it anyway," he pushes a white ceramic mug across the table to him.

The coffee smells wonderful, earthy and aromatic, and his eyes slip shut in spite of himself. He reaches for it with his right hand, tries to flex the fingers of his left hand and finds that he can't. It hurts, much to his surprise, as though non-existent muscles had been strained beyond the point of endurance. He can hear the scrape of metal against metal as he tries to straighten his arm surreptitiously under the table, and although Steve's face betrays little, it's obvious he's picked up on something. He doesn't say anything, though, just reaches into his icebox—refrigerator, Bucky quickly corrects himself—and pulls out a plastic container full of lunch meats. He grabs a loaf of bread from a box on the tiny counter, and places all of it on the table, along with a bread knife.

"It's funny, but even with all the bread that's just ready to buy out there, I missed Mama's homemade bread, the way she taught me to make it when we were kids. There's something about the smell, you know?" he says, not making eye contact, and all the while slicing the bread into even pieces. He hands over two slices and slides the butter dish across the table. "The meat is from a local butcher I found. Everything's ready-made now, but some people think we'd be better off with smaller, local businesses. It's all a lot more complicated than it used to be, being a responsible citizen."

He doesn't know what to say to that, but Steve doesn't appear to require an answer from him. He takes one of the slices of bread, fumbles a little as he attempts to butter it one-handed. He doesn't trust himself to even hold the bread in his left hand, not now when the slightest show of weakness could betray him. Steve clears his throat, makes a small gesture toward the bread with one hand.

"May I?"

He nods, and Steve butters the bread for him without another word. He lays some of the meat over it, accompanied by a slice of cheddar cheese, then hands it back.

The bread is so fresh that it feels like it might melt on his tongue, the meat and cheese an explosion of flavour in his mouth. Before he quite knows what he's doing he's devoured the whole thing in only a few bites. It lands hard in his stomach, and he has to expend an effort of will not to double over at the unaccustomed sensation, arms wrapped around his midsection.

"What would you like to know?" Steve asks, after what feels like an eternity of silence.

How can he get answers when he's not even sure of the questions?

"Everything."

Steve smiles into his coffee. "That's a lot to cover in just over six hours." He pauses, then lets out a quiet sigh. "Maybe this will be easier if you start. You tell me what you know, or the beginning of what you know, and then I can fill in where you've got things missing?"

It's the kind of interrogation techniques he's heard about, the kind he's been trained to guard against, but he has nothing left to lose and, he suspects, almost everything to gain. He takes a breath to steady himself, and the fingers of his left hand curl into a painful fist in his lap. It shouldn't hurt, and yet it does.

"There's this dream," he starts. "We're together, and you… you wanted to go to Coney Island. But we never went, did we?"

Steve swallows, and for a moment his eyes shine a little brighter before he looks up with a watery smile. "No, no we never did end up going."

~*~

It's impossible to recount a lifetime—two lifetimes—in a matter of hours, but Steve tries. It's hours of false starts, of long silences, and anecdotes with no context. By the end of it, Bucky feels as exhausted as Steve looks, the coffee is cold, and they're no closer to the truth.

"I—you don't remember any of it, though? Aside from the dreams?" Steve's voice sounds hoarse, strained.

He shrugs and looks through the window, where a thin line of pink is beginning to creep up over the horizon. "I think… I think maybe I did. I think, every time I tried, every time I said anything, they'd take it away again."

"Then wipe him, and start over."

Steve is the only thing that feels real, in all this. Outside the sun is starting to come up in earnest, and the dawn has illuminated Steve's face, making his eyes sparkle in spite of how tired he seems. He can't tear his gaze away from the clean lines of Steve's face, his jaw, his cheekbones, the small furrow he gets between his eyebrows when he's worried. He shouldn't know that about Steve, but it's one of a thousand details that he knows that make no sense without a context into which to put them.

"I think I stopped trying. But you… I knew you, on the bridge. I knew you, and when they tried to wipe me the last time, it didn't work. It didn't work."

He doesn't flinch or try to move away when Steve comes around the table, but he doesn't turn to face him. Steve drops to a crouch at his feet and lays a hand on his knee.

"Buck... whatever happened, whatever they did to you… we can figure it out. It'll take time, but we've got time. I know you think you don't, that you think you're on some kind of clock, here, but I swear it's not true."

He shakes his head. "How can I trust that?"

"Do you trust me?"

His mouth drops open, but there's a lump in his throat keeping him from speaking. His stomach is churning, bile burning in his throat and mouth, and his eyes are stinging. He blinks hard, turns toward Steve, and before he can think better of it he grabs his shirt with his good hand and pulls him close before kissing him.

Caught off-guard, Steve flails for balance, catches himself with one hand on the tiny table and nearly knocks them both over when the table rocks under the impact. He returns the kiss, though, and reaches up to clasp Bucky around his neck, hanging on like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. He lets go of the table and brings his other hand to grab Bucky's shoulder, and the jolt of pain it causes makes Bucky flinch and grunt.

Immediately Steve lets go, but he pulls back slowly. "I'm sorry," he stammers. "God, Bucky, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't… not like this. Are you okay?"

He lets out a harsh laugh. "Am I okay?"

Steve looks abashed. "Sorry, I didn't mean… Are you in pain?"

He pushes himself to his feet, metal hand knocking clumsily against the edge of the table. Sweat trickles down his spine, pooling at the small of his back, even though the air feels several degrees too cold. The room won't quite hold still, and for a moment he's sure he'll be sick. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Steve says, raising his face to look him earnestly in the eyes. "What can I do?"

"Nothing."

There's nothing anyone can do. If there were any mercy in the world, he'd be able to go back to the stasis chamber and let them wipe him for good. It would be perfect—except for the fact that he'd lose Steve all over again, and he can't accept that either. He can't kill Steve, can't leave him, can't bring himself to stay.

"Are you staying? Sam will be here soon…"

"The black man?" he evades the question with another question.

Steve nods. "He's my running partner—and my friend."

"You must run laps around him."

"Doesn't mean he can't be my running partner," Steve smiles. "I think you'll like him. He's a good man, and… I think he might be able to help, too, if you want."

He's already edging back toward the window. "I don't need help."

Steve gets to his feet. "No, of course not. But it's here if you want it. Bucky…" he chews on his lip, fear and hope warring over his face. It's obvious he wants to reach out but is holding himself back, afraid of spooking Bucky, as if he was a wild animal he was trying to coax indoors. "If you come back tonight, we can talk again? You could even use the door, if you wanted. I'll leave it unlocked."

He's halfway over the sill, but he pauses. His lips are still tingling from where he kissed Steve, and he imagines he can still remember what he tasted like, familiar and new all at once. He never planned to want to come back after this.

"I'd like that."

Steve smiles. "I'll see you later, Bucky."

END.

In Hearts We Leave Behind 1/2

2014-09-03T15:36:19Z

Title: In Hearts We Leave Behind
Summary: Bucky is looking for answers.
Written for the avengers_rbb challenge. I was lucky enough to snag petite_madame's gorgeous Steve/Bucky prompt, post-CA:TWS. You can see her art here, though I must advise you that the story starts before the comic does, so beware minor spoilers!
Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes /Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter
Wordcount: 7,623
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything up to and including CA:TWS
Warnings: None that I can think of
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I need to gush all over petite_madame here, not only for producing fan-fucking-tastic, breathtakingly beautiful art, as usual, but also for putting up with me and my little RL-induced disappearing act this summer. It was an incredible privilege to be able to work with her. She is both a wonderful artists and a very patient collaborator, and deserves all the love.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Have I mentioned how lucky I was to get this piece? I practically leapt off the page and screamed at me WRITE ME! WRITE ME NOW! I must beg our readership's indulgence, however, as I took liberties with the original dialogue in the dialogue bubbles, thus making poor petite_madame's life a lot harder. I tried to stick with the original script as much as possible, but there were times when, for my own stylistic purposes, I had to re-imagine what was being said. Any discrepancies you spot between the story and the comic are all my fault.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I also owe undying thanks to my long-suffering and intrepid beta, rainylemons, who not only beat all my convoluted syntax into submission, but also gave me a few crucial pointers on how to hit the right emotional notes in the story when I was floundering about and missing my target by a mile. All hail to betas! Remaining mistakes are, of course, mine.

LINK TO ART

When he thinks of himself at all, it's as the Asset.

Whoever he was before, that man is long gone. He suspects that, even then, he wasn't much prone to self-reflection. He spends most of his time these days avoiding mirrors, avoiding even slightly reflective surfaces--shop windows, television screens, anything that might show him an image for which he doesn't think he'll ever be ready.

The first real glimpse he catches of himself is at the Smithsonian. He pays for his ticket with the money he knew was left at a dead-drop for another hit, in what feels like another lifetime. With Hydra in tatters, its members either gone into hiding or struggling to rebuild, the cash had been forgotten or abandoned. Either way, it had still been there, waiting for him. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, hunches his shoulders, hides under his new cap, and is grateful that in all those years when they kept him frozen, no one ever bothered to cut his hair.

Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is the name on the plaque next to Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, right under a photograph of the man from the bridge. He stares at the photograph, at the fading sepia tones, and tries to conjure up a memory, a spark, anything that would tell him this image is real, that what he's seeing truly happened. Neither face seems familiar, his own least of all. He can see his silhouette reflected in the glass, the outline superimposed on the smiling Sergeant Barnes.

That's not me.

Is it?

There's patriotic music playing in the background, at once alien and familiar. Behind him, people move about the exhibit, speaking in hushed tones more suited to a cemetery than a museum. In a way they might be right. The only loud voices in here belong to children, heedless of the supposed solemnity of what they're seeing. One yells out an almost unintelligible apology as they all jostle him when they run past, giggling and shouting as they race toward the interactive part of the exhibit, where they can all see how they measure up to the legendary Captain America.

There's a film playing on loop in a dark room. He sits at the back of the theatre to watch, unmoving, eyes riveted to the screen. He thinks he recognizes the dark-haired woman speaking about him as though they were friends, all that time ago. She mostly speaks about Captain America, but sometimes she talks about Sergeant Barnes, too.

"They were inseparable," she laughs, lips pulling back in a rueful smile. Her teeth are very white. "I think the hardest thing for Ste—Captain Rogers, was the long separation from his best friend. It was that devotion that made him go on that rescue mission that very first time, apart from his own particular brand of heroism. I don't know that he would have felt quite so motivated if it hadn't been for Bucky."

Peggy. Peggy throwing her head back and laughing before she turned to whisper something in Steve's ear. Bucky would have been jealous, except he knew Steve would be telling him everything before the day's end. Steve never had any secrets from him, not since they were little kids.

He shakes his head against the unwelcome intrusion. The image is vivid, though. He can see the too-bright red of her lipstick, the perfect curl of her hair. At the time he'd told himself he was jealous of Steve, because up until then Bucky had been the catch, the guy who, of the two of them, would have been able to wrap a dame like that around his little finger. It was easier, then, to attribute that sharp tug in his chest to lust for the girl than to anything else.

"I suppose that's why he took it so hard when Bucky died," Peggy-on-the-screen is saying now. He missed some of what she was saying, but it doesn't look like it was important. People talk too much anyway. "Of course, he blamed himself. It was hubris, taking on the responsibility for everything and everyone, but I suppose that's part of who he was as well. There's no point romanticising Steve now that he's dead," Peggy says, pragmatic as ever. "He was a good man, but he was a man first and foremost. That's precisely the reason he was chosen for the project in the first place. There wasn't much time that separated their deaths, but I did get to see Steve during that time, and it was like… it was like part of him had died already, fallen away into oblivion with his best friend."

His head jerks up, and a little boy sitting a few seats away with his family startles a little, eyes growing wide in his head. He fixes the boy with the same stare he's used on his targets countless times—the one he knows will make them go to ground like animals caught in a searchlight—and puts a finger to his lips. The boy's eyes go wide enough to swallow his whole face, but he gives the slightest nod and turns back to watch the screen, the light from the projected images flickering over his terrified features.

That's all he is, now. The Asset. A thing that's meant to kill, that terrifies children. He rises from his seat, stalks through the darkened theatre aisles, and ducks back out into the more brightly lit museum, leaving the smell of stale air and sweat behind him.

~*~

"Sergeant Barnes…"

"The procedure has already begun!"

He can see the drill slicing through flesh, biting into bone. He feels no pain at all, and somehow that makes it so much worse. He tries to scream, but the mouth guard makes it all but impossible. He barely recognizes the sounds that come from him, more reminiscent of a wounded animal than a human being. In a moment, he won't be human at all anymore.

"Wipe him, and start over."

He falls.

He wakes in a cold sweat, shivering against the cold concrete where he curled up once the sun went down. It's not that he couldn't afford a place to stay, more that he didn't see the point. He's never needed a place to sleep before—awake, he was always on a mission. Asleep, he was in stasis. There was never a need for rest, it was always provided whether he wanted it or not.

At least he knows where to find one person who can give him answers. The rest are all dead. Arnin Zola, Alexander Pierce… a legacy of death and destruction, destroyed in turn. The man on the bridge is out of his reach, at least for now, but there's at least one other who knows what happened, who might be able to give him answers.

He gets to his feet, flexes the fingers of his left hand. Something creaks and scrapes in his arm, a malfunction of some kind that no one is left to fix anymore. He thinks he must have damaged it during the fall from the helicarrier, perhaps water infiltrated the delicate mechanism when he plunged into the Potomac after his target—after Steve. It's strange, thinking of his target as a person with a name, as a person he knew, but then everything is strange these days. What's one more thing to add to the list?

It's ridiculously easy to leap the fence and scale the wall to the third-story bedroom. The window isn't even latched, though it has been closed in deference to the room's occupant, probably to shield her from the chill in the night air.

Peggy is older than he expected. White-haired and liver-spotted, but she's sitting ramrod-straight in a padded chair just inside the window, eyes glittering in the darkness.

"Who the devil do you think you are, barging in at this time of night?"

He has to fight the sudden urge to stand at attention. The allure of obedience is strong enough that even a strange voice barking orders makes him want to fall in. He turns on her, but doesn't draw his weapon. What threat can a ninety-five year old woman be?

"You're Peggy Carter."

"Agent Carter," she corrects him, though she doesn't move to get up, arthritic hands resting uneasily on the arms of her chair. "Who are you?"

He falters. "I… That's not why I came."

It's exactly why he came.

Peggy's expression changes, then. Her brow furrows, and her eyes cloud over a little. "I—I'm sorry, but do I know you?" She raises a hand to her temple, and he thinks the way it trembles isn't entirely due to the palsy of old age.

He steps forward, leans over her in a way calculated to intimidate her.

"I want you to tell me about Captain America. About Steve Rogers."

Her lip quivers, just for a moment. There's a spark of recognition in her eyes, mingled with confusion. "James? But I thought—"

"You don't get to speak unless you're answering my questions!" he snaps. "Captain Rogers! I want to know everything you know. Now."

She laughs at him. He rocks back a step, and has to refrain from reaching out to brace himself against the night table by the custom hospital bed. There are photographs lined up there, of Peggy and her family, of a man who is painfully familiar and yet unknown. There are fading photographs of children and newer photographs of what must be her grandchildren. Hidden behind those there's another photograph, sepia-toned and creased where it's been folded and unfolded multiple times. Peggy is standing between a smiling Steve and another man, barely more than a boy, whose head is thrown back in a delighted laugh. We were in Paris. They'd been given furlough for a few days, and Steve had insisted they go out to dinner with Peggy at least once.

"Come on, Buck, it's just dinner tonight. You can't always keep me to yourself. She'll get her feelings hurt otherwise."

"Let her," he'd said darkly, and Steve had laughed at him until he relented.

"You never were any good at giving orders," Peggy says now. "Nor much good at taking them, as I recall. It's partly why you were such a good sniper. What have you done to your hair, Sergeant?"

His right hand automatically moves up to feel his hairline, and he's a little shocked to feel how long and ragged his hair is. He hasn't had to give it any thought at all since… well, longer than he can remember. Peggy clucks her tongue at him.

"That's certainly not regulation. Did Hydra not allow you to shave?"

"I'm not playing your game. I want answers!"

He's off-balance, unsure what to do with this woman who is visibly not afraid of him. He understands the kind of bravery that comes from having nothing left to lose, but he's never had to deal with it head-on like this. He's never had to interrogate anyone before—target acquisition meant death, or at the very least handing them over to a skilled interrogator. Silence is his refuge, and now she's forcing him to speak. Peggy gives him a cursory once-over.

"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place for the answers you need, poor lad. I do, however, have some of the answers you want. Over there," she gestures with a gnarled hand toward the night table. "In the last drawer. You'll find a false bottom. It's not much," she says, and he imagines he can hear real regret in her voice. "But it's a start."

It's a KGB file. Or, rather, it's a copy of the photographs of a KGB file. The quality is terrible, but it's all legible, at least.

"James…"

"That's not my name!"

"I have to call you something," she says, unperturbed, "and that's as good a name as any. You wanted to know about Steve, but I can't tell you about him. Not truly. Come here," she extends both hands, palm down, in a clear gesture of invitation.

The pull she has over him is uncanny. He thinks he understands, now, why Steve was drawn to her in the way he was. He certainly hadn't understood it then. He takes a step forward, and another, but balks before he quite makes it to her side. He settles for dropping to a crouch on the floor just shy of her feet, head bowed, stealing glances at her through his bangs so that she won't be able to read his expression.

"Look at you," she breathes. "Just look at you. He missed you, you know. And I don't mean that in that sad, insipid way that people mean when someone dies. He was different after you were gone. So different. Do you know, when he was lost… part of me was glad, because it meant I wouldn't have to watch him walk around with that terrible, bleeding wound in his soul anymore. Oh, he tried to hide it, soldiered on responsibly," she leans back in her chair, clasps her hands in her lap and closes her eyes. "But anyone who knew him could see that he wished he'd died on that train with you. And there were so few of us left who truly knew him."

He doesn't look up. There's a wet warmth on his cheeks that he can't bring himself to wipe away. He hopes she can't see him, that he hasn't given himself away.

"It was a very lonely life, up until the end."

That makes him snort.

"If you want to know about Steve, Bucky," Peggy says gently, "I suggest you ask him yourself."

~*~

He doesn't go looking for Steve. It feels easier, now, to think of him that way. Only a few days ago the man on the bridge was nothing more than a mission, a target with a red, white and blue shield. Now, though…

He takes some of his money and pays for a motel room for the night. Thirty dollars feels like a lot of money, but he thinks it might not be that much, not anymore. He switches on the lights, sits in a chair to read the thin file that contains all the human knowledge about who he is and why.

When he's done reading he strips off all of his clothes, and stares at himself in the mirrored doors of the empty motel room closet. He doesn't feel surprise when he doesn't recognize the stranger staring back at him, just a weary sort of resignation. Scars criss-cross and pockmark his entire body, legs and stomach and chest, all the way up to his neck. He reaches up with his right hand, probing gingerly at the mass of scar tissue where metal meets flesh. It doesn't hurt. In fact, there's barely any sensation there at all.

He scrubs his clothes in the bathtub, using the thin bar of motel soap as best he can. It's not perfect, but it'll do. Tomorrow, he decides, he'll buy new clothes. Less ostentatious ones. Something to cover his arm better. The jacket he has is fine enough, but he won't be able to wear it indefinitely, and even with long sleeves his hand will draw attention.

"That's certainly not regulation. Did Hydra not allow you to shave?"

He has scissors and a cheap plastic razor. It requires looking at himself more intently in the mirror than he'd like, a closer scrutiny than is truly socially acceptable, given his current level of acquaintance with himself. It's not polite to stare at strangers, no matter the circumstances.

It's easier to shave off the week's worth of stubble than it is to trim his own hair. He thinks he might have made a mess of it, even by modern standards, but he wets it and combs it obsessively until his scalp is sore, and by then it looks okay, maybe. Rituals, half-forgotten over seventy years. He does it all right-handed, carefully, painstakingly. It doesn't occur to him until he's almost done to try holding the scissors in his left hand, but he rejects the idea immediately. Rejected out of hand, he thinks, and grins at himself in the mirror until the look in his eyes tells him he'd better not try smiling again.

The bed is uncomfortable. Too big, too wide, too soft. Too open. Eventually he gives up lying on the mattress and settles on the floor, pulling the sheet with him. Even then he feels exposed, his left side vulnerable. He pushes the bed into the far corner of the room, slides under it and wedges himself against the wall before pulling the sheet over him, right hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

"Wipe him, and start over."

In his dreams, he falls.

When he's not falling, he's with Steve. Steve the way he was before, all skinny arms and protruding ribs, before everything changed. Back when Bucky was still Bucky, lying in bed with not even the sheet to protect his modesty, not that there was anyone around to care. Certainly Steve doesn't care, curled up around him like Bucky is the only thing keeping him from floating away. Bucky has an arm around Steve's shoulders, lets his fingers play over each one of the bones in his spine. It's been a hard winter, and Steve's been sick a lot… it wouldn't take much for him to get sick again.

"You worry too much," Steve says, before he starts coughing. It's a terrible, rattling cough that shakes his whole frame. Bucky feels something wet and warm spatter his arm, and when he raises it there are crimson flecks that make Steve's murmured apology swirl into nothingness.

He comes awake with a start that makes him crack his head against the underside of the bed. He exhales slowly, puffing out both cheeks with the effort, then turns over and closes his eyes again.

Steve is perched on the windowsill, Brooklyn at his back. He's wearing that stupid striped shirt that only serves to accentuate how skinny he is, and the evening sun is shining off his hair. He looks beautiful. Bucky isn't even paying all that much attention to what he's saying about Coney Island tomorrow.

"To tell you the truth, I had other things in mind," he says, sliding a hand up Steve's thigh. He's rewarded with a shudder and sudden silence as Steve sputters to a stop. "But we'd have to stay home for that…"

Steve is warm against him, his lips dry and a little chapped. His hips buck as Bucky pops open the buttons of his pants and slips his hand into his underwear. He's the one who guides them both back to the thin mattress they've been sharing for what feels like forever now. He crawls forward on hands and knees, laughing when Bucky yanks his pants down over his slim hips and pulls them clear before tossing them aside. He's still wearing that ugly striped shirt, but a moment later and Bucky has it over his head and flung to the side.

Steve is laughing breathlessly beneath him—Bucky loves the tiny wheezing sound he makes just for him, when they're like this—and the laugh soon turns to a moan as Bucky opens him up with two fingers. A moment later Steve is writhing beneath him, still smiling up at him, looking at him like he's the most damned precious thing in the whole world. He lunges up, kissing and mouthing and damned well nipping at Bucky's jaw until Bucky has no choice but to give in and kiss him back, feeling Steve's fingers tugging gently at the hair on the nape of his neck.

When he opens his eyes he's drenched in sweat and shaking, his dick still throbbing between his legs. He stares at the slats holding up the bed and digs the fingers of his left hand into the floor, feeling the tips gouge deeply into the cheap wood. Splinters catch in the grooves of the armour, making it screech and creak even more than before.

"Then finish it, because I'm with you until the end of the line."

With a hoarse yell he tosses the whole bed against the far wall, watching in satisfaction as it cracks into pieces and leaves a gaping crater in the plaster. He slumps into the corner, wraps both arms around his knees and lays his head down, heedless of the shouts and screams from neighbouring rooms.

The pull of oblivion is too strong after that, and he sleeps.

~*~

The motel manager's Adam's apple bobs spasmodically up and down as he refuses to renew the room for another night. Rivulets of sweat trickle from his forehead and temples down his face and neck and soak the filthy collar of his pink shirt.

"Look, I'm sorry... There were complaints. A lotta complaints. And, uh, there's damage to the room, too… Look, I can't do it."

He doesn't remember the manager coming to the door last night. He has a dim recollection of someone in his room screaming in fear when he stood to face them. He shrugs now and doesn't answer. The manager is mumbling something about a deposit, but he ignores it and sets his key on the desk before turning his back and leaving.

He walks.

It's more of an aimless wandering in circles than any purposeful walking. Before, he was never allowed to be on his own after a mission, and he doesn't like the aimless feeling his newfound freedom has given him. There's no goal, no one to return to for debriefing, nothing. What he needs is intel. He still has the KGB file. What he should do is re-read it, and maybe it'll make more sense than it did last night. Nothing he read last night makes sense, and he's not sure he'll have any more luck today, but it's worth a try. He settles with it on a bench, heedless of who might be looking over his shoulder.

"Your work has been a gift to mankind. You've shaped the century…"

He doesn't see any evidence of history being made. All he sees is a list of dead people. Names, personal information, pictures, rivers of spilled blood. The blood doesn't show up on paper, though. The edges of the photocopied papers are crisp and white, pure as the snow-covered mountains on the day he first fell. The day he began to fall, and never stopped. He criss-crosses the city three times before he makes up his mind to a course of action. He was given a mission, and although the parameters may have changed, there's still unfinished business to attend to.

After that, it's easy enough to pick up the trail. It's almost as if the man on the bridge—Steve—is making it easy for him. The Black Widow is all over the news, as is the downfall of both SHIELD and Hydra—though he's not sure of the latter. Cut off one head, two more grow back, after all. He watches the Black Widow on the television, cool and poised as she answers a barrage of questions, a smirk playing on her lips. He remembers her, though she was nothing but a tiny red headed urchin running errands for anyone who would give her bread and soup. Natalia. A survivor, if ever he'd seen one. He saw her once more after that, when she was older, standing between him and a target. After that, he hadn't given her another thought.

It takes him a few days of watching and waiting before he's sure of his next move. He follows first the Black Widow, then the black man whose wings he tore off. Eventually they lead him to the man he really wants to see. There's a quiet funeral on a sunny afternoon, held by a man in a suit who doesn't look like a priest. He perches a few hundred yards away, unseen and unheard, though the climb up to his vantage point makes his arm creak in protest. No matter how much oil he's applied to it, he can't quite rid himself of the stiffness in the joints. If anything, it seems to be increasing with each passing day. There are only five people in attendance at the funeral, including the dead man himself, who makes an appearance once the would-be service is over and then leaves again, unaccompanied, though the invitation to the others was clear.

He watches the man leave, and senses that this will be one of the last times he sees him. But he's not here for Fury. He's here for Steve, who's talking earnestly to the black man. The man claps Steve on the shoulder, and they leave together, while Natalia goes her own way, as she always has.

He clings to the shadows, follows at a remove. They never see him, though it seems others in the street sometimes look at him askance. His arm seizes up once as he's reaching for something, simply locks up and refuses to obey him, and panic bubbles up in his chest until he's able to work out the kinks in the elbow joint and move it again. By then it's almost too late: Steve and his friend have rounded a corner, and he has to sprint in order to catch sight of which door they enter before they disappear from view entirely. He skids to a halt, heart hammering against his ribcage, sweat pooling at the base of his spine, the ground unsteady beneath his feet. For a moment his vision swims, and he braces himself against the cool wall of the brownstone apartment with his good hand, breathing hard until the world begins to stand still again.

After that, he stays put. He finds an alley nearby, frightens a drunken old man into silence, and crouches in the shadows, waiting for an opening. It comes sooner than he anticipated, once twilight has rolled on into evening. The black man comes back to the door, waves once before taking his leave. Given that he and Steve have been making visible preparations to leave the city, this might well be his only chance.

He gets up from his hiding place by a garbage container, and this time he knows he's not imagining how off-balance he feels when one knee suddenly threatens to give way. He flails, trying to catch himself before he falls, and his left arm clangs against the metal wall of the container like a bell tolling. He winces, then hurries across the street under cover of darkness, silent in spite of the strange dizziness that keeps trying to overcome him, hoping that he hasn't attracted any unwelcome attention.

There are three ways into the building. The front entrance is locked, the fire escape too obvious, so he opts for scaling the wall and sliding up the window to a tiny kitchen that boasts a sink, a hot plate and a table barely big enough for two people. No one even bothered to latch the window. He scoffs to himself. Always so trusting. He slips inside, sight unseen—or at least he thinks so until he hears a gasp of surprise from the other side of the room.

"Oh my God, Bucky!"

Blood roars in his ears. He doesn't stop to think before he's brought his gun to bear on the target. "Stay where you are!"

Part 2

It's been a while since I did one of these...

2014-08-11T17:36:56Z

Writing Projects!

I signed up for a few things this summer, and I'm kind of on a time crunch these days, so I figured I'd make a list to keep myself accountable. I don't have much time for writing these days, as I'm trying to get my house ready to sell, but I will have more and more time for writing as time goes on. So, yay for that!

Avengers RBB: 5,000 words minimum. Due August 18th.
Current progress: About 1,000 words written. I am scrambling a bit, but I think I can get a good draft done in time.

Marvel Big Bang: 10,000 words. 80% draft due August 27th.
Current progress: About 2,000 words, but it's a bit of a hot mess. I am considering scrapping the current idea (which is awesome but probably needs about 50,000 words to do it justice, if not more) in favour of a more manageable one.
So, uh, I'm open to suggestions/prompts which would not be as epically long as my original idea. Anyone?

Teen Wolf Rare Pair Challenge: 1,000 words, due September 5th.
Current progress: Have narrowed it down to a pairing from the prompts I received, with a vague idea about what to do with it. I'm not worried... yet.

Robo Needs a Home!

2014-07-22T15:27:02Z

Hi friends!

Signal-boosting for a friend in Wisconsin (I hope I understood the location properly).

Anyone looking for a super friendly, well-trained 4-year-old medium-sized dog? I have been following Robo & his Mom on Twitter for what feels like forever, and he is a Good Dog™, though not great with other dogs (literally the only reason I can't drive over there and take him myself, since it means he and my dog Sergent wouldn't get along).

Please check out gabbysilang's post here, and if you can't take Robo in yourself, at least signal-boost so we can get this great doggie into a loving home.

This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/235620.html, where there are : comments, currently. Feel free to comment wherever you'd like! ♥

Spread the Love

2014-07-15T10:01:20Z

riyku is hosting a love meme. I figure others on my flist might want some love, since that's never a bad thing, so here's a link:

♥ LOVE MEME ♥

full meme

:::ETA:::

If I haven't commented on your thread, it's because I didn't find it. Please feel free to link me in comments!

Why, LJ?

2014-07-10T19:33:23Z

I missed the "random posting" day. Sorry.

Can anyone tell me how to put my friends "feed" back to the way I had it before LJ decided that imposing their new style on me was actually what I really wanted? I have googled and searched the FAQs, to no avail, and I really loathe the new look. I liked it the way I had it before, thanks!

And, yeah. It's been a rough patch over at Casa ratherastory. I'll try to write more, but no promises. I'm busy, stressed, exhausted and depressed (although I'm not technically supposed to acknowledge any of that in public, because apparently I totally have it easy and to say anything would be complaining without cause—heck, I'm sure even this parenthetical aside will get me into trouble), so I haven't been writing much. I'm trying to fix that, but it's slow going.

I'm considering dropping out of spn_summergen. I've got about half the story written, and I was on track for deadline, but then they started posting early, and it's stressing me the fuck out. To the point where, the moment they announced that they'd start posting early and that if authors didn't hurry up they wouldn't have anything to post after a while, my writing physically ground to a halt. It's like it flipped a switch in my head that started up a one-track record: "You'll never get it done now, so you may as well give up."So, yeah. I don't know what to do about that. I've never had to drop out of summergen before, and it sucks.

I have two other big fic challenges, luckily both due in August. I'm still cautiously optimistic about those.

Dear summergen author

2014-06-17T20:55:25Z

Dearest, darlingest summergen writer,

I am so excited you are writing for me! Summergen is far and away my favourite challenge of the year. So many wonderful stories come out of it each year, and I feel privileged to be a part of it.

So, have you seen my prompts and promptly panicked? Have no fear, dear writer, you may at any point in time toss all those prompts out the nearest window and start from scratch, if that's what you feel you need to do in order to satisfy the muse.

Here is a quick Guide to Making ratherastory a Happy Camper:

1- Include h/c. Lots of it. No, really. Whump is my favourite flavour of story. Go ahead and toss people off cliffs, hit them with cars, give them pneumonia, whatever. It doesn't even have to have a happy ending, so long as there is at least an attempt at the "comfort" part of the equation. Even an unsuccessful attempt. ;)

2- I am a Sam!girl who adores Dean. Having both brothers in the story is great and what I generally look for in my fanfic, but if for some reason you only want to write one, well, my preference would be for Sam.

3- That being said, I love many of the recurring cast, too, particularly Cas and Jody, as you probably noticed from my prompts. Anything that explores their headspace, especially Castiel's, is always super interesting for me. After all, Cas' mind doesn't work the same way as humans' at all: he's literally an alien being who is thousands of years old, and whose experiences we can't even begin to understand.

Have you seen Thor, dear author? Someone once pointed out that the reason Thor doesn't get human tech is not because he's primitive, but because Asgardian tech is so much more advanced than our own. It's like one of us being dumped 10,000 years in the past and having all the cavemen laugh at us because we can't make fire by rubbing two sticks together.

So, yeah, give me alien!Cas whose understanding of human ways is not because he's a simpleton (the way it's often portrayed), but rather because he's just too advanced for the world and can't quite dumb himself down to humanity's level.

4- I am a huge fan of Outsider POV, especially for current canon. What must the Winchesters look like to the average person these days? At first glance they must cut terrifying figures these days, seeing how much they've changed after everything they've gone through. Dean is no longer the charming, boyish rogue from Season 1, nor is Sam the floppy-haired, doe-eyed kid that everyone instinctively trusted. And yet, they help people, and that must cause some serious cognitive dissonance, am I right?

5- I have yet to meet a fanfic in 1st Person POV that I thought truly captured the character's voice when it comes to SPN. I don't find that the show, the characters or the subject matter lend themselves well to it. So, overall, I'd prefer to not receive something written in that POV, but if you have a brilliant idea that is eating your brain, then don't let this deter you.

6- If you like writing about other angels, that is totally fine. I prefer them as secondary characters, however, rather than the focus of the story, or as antagonists.

7- I am happy with a very wide range of tone, from fluffy crack all the way to grimdarkangstomg. You can write death!fic if you want, or 1,000 words of schmoop. Hell, have Sam and Dean cuddle platonically throughout the whole story if that's what works for you. If you do choose to have the brothers at odds with each other (the show does seem to enjoy doing that), then I would ask that there is at least some movement toward understanding and reconciliation during the story. I love my boys together much more than I like them apart. :)

And I think that should about cover it!

Thank you again, dear author, and I look forward to reading your story!

Goodbye, George

2014-06-05T11:45:31Z

Sorry to those of you who follow me in other places, you've likely already seen this.

At 17:00 I decided to take the dog out for a walk to go look for Pan-Pan. I opened the front door, and George slipped between my legs and headed out for the evening. I locked the door, turned around, and watched as a car drove by and hit him.

For a second it didn't seem real. Then it all snapped into place when I saw him writhing in pain. His eye had come out of his socket, and there was blood and brain matter all over the street.

I scooped him up in my arms and put him in the back of the car, unceremoniously shoved the dog back in the house (the poor dog was so confused about why he wasn't getting his walk) and drove to the vet, which is luckily right around the corner from where I live. Unfortunately, it was still too long for George. He died during the five minutes it took for me to get there. When I picked him up to carry him inside, I could tell that the life had left his body: he was limp, and his head lolled to the side.

Needless to say, I was hysterical mess by the time I got in the vet's office. I was covered in blood and cradling a dead cat, and I think the only thing I managed to convey was "Il s'est fait frapper!" which loosely translates to "He got hit." After that I mostly continued having hysterics while the vet took George from me, and the receptionist hovered and tried to get me to sit down and have a drink of water.

It didn't take long before they confirmed what I already knew. They let me wash the blood off my hands and arms, and we took care of the paperwork and the fee to get George cremated. They gave me back his collar, although I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it.

I came home and sobbed some more, managed to pull myself together a little bit before pdaughter and Bean got home. She was fantastic, and even went out with a bucket of water to rinse away the blood and grey matter off the street so I won't have to look at it every time I go by in the next few days.

It's been three and a half hours, and I honestly still don't know what to do with myself. I'm mostly trying to keep myself distracted, because if I think about it for too long I start replaying the accident over and over in my head.

I knew, of course, that there was a risk this would happen. I knew as soon as I started letting the cats out that they might be killed by a car or by another animal or by any other means. I never imagined it happening in a way that was quite this traumatic, though.

Eee! Exciting times!

2014-05-25T03:08:02Z

Come on and join the fun! You know you want to!

You're My Medicine (Open Up and Let Me In) Scott/Stiles NC-17

2014-05-17T21:54:59Z

Title: You're My Medicine (Open Up and Let Me In)
Summary: "Are you literally trying to heal me with your dick?"

"Um." Scott looks a little sheepish. "Maybe?"
Characters: Scott/Stiles
Wordcount 2,605
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Until the end of Season 3B, though nothing is explicitly stated.
Warnings: None. Just straight up vanilla sex and h/c.
Neurotic Author's Note: This is a very, very belated thing for ledtoleadlovers, who has been extremely patient and understanding with me for not being able to produce decent prose worth a damn lately. He asked for Scott taking care of Stiles, so naturally I thought that "healing cock" should be a thing.

Stiles is always cold these days. It's not like he’s ever been one of those human furnaces or anything, but at the very least he could maintain a consistent body temperature. Well, it's still consistent, he supposes, just consistently cold. It doesn’t matter how many layers of clothes he piles on, he can’t seem to get warm.

He's got his mom's old electric blanket in the bed with him tonight, the heat cranked up all the way, and even with his comforter wrapped around him like a burrito he's still shivering as if he's got a fever. Looking back, he should have worn more to bed than just a pair of boxers. It sucks, is what it does, he thinks, huddling further under his comforter. Maybe if he added some blankets… but that would mean getting up again, and it's dark and even colder outside his bed. If he gets up now, he'll freeze to death. Okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but after the year he's had, Stiles figures he's entitled to a little melodrama.

He starts violently at the sound of his window sliding open, and the shock sends tiny pin-pricks of pain shooting up and down his whole body. Stiles groans into his pillow and doesn’t bother pulling his head out from under the bedclothes.

"Fuck off, Derek. I don’t care if the world is ending, I am not getting up for this shit anymore!"

"Dude, why would Derek be climbing in your window?"

Stiles does poke his head out at that. Scott's face is scrunched up in that adorable way it has when he's confused, head tilted to one side. He's crouched next to the bed, one hand resting lightly on the mattress bare inches from Stiles' nose.

"I don’t know, ask him. He’s the one doing it all the time. Why are you climbing in my window?"

The bed dips a little as Scott crawls over him and settles on the mattress behind him, considerately pausing to kick off his shoes onto the floor. "We've been climbing in and out of each other’s windows since we were little kids. I figure, why mess with tradition?"

Stiles pulls the comforter further over his head. "You could have come through the front door. Like a normal person."

"Now you sound like my mother."

Stiles groans. "When did I become the adult in our relationship? Wait, no, don’t answer that."

For a moment the room is silent, punctuated only by the gentle sound of Scott's breathing. He's not even a little bit out of breath after climbing two stories and letting himself in, and for a second Stiles lets himself feel a tiny pang of nostalgia for the old Scott, who'd have been collapsed in a wheezing heap beside him and sucking on his inhaler. He feels a gentle nudge through the comforter, somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs.

"Hey, you okay?" Scott's tone is soft, like Stiles is a little kid, or a scared cat or something. Scott's always had a thing for stray and wounded animals. Stiles thinks maybe he should be insulted, but he’s too cold to care.

"Fine."

"You’re shivering."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Your keen werewolf senses tell you that, or was it just—hey!" Stiles squawks as Scott pulls a corner of the comforter free, letting the cold air rush into his cozy nest. “Stop that, it's fucking freezing in here!”

"No, it's not,” Scott moves up behind him and pressing his whole length up against Stiles. "Here," he says, sliding an arm up over Stiles' waist and reaching for his bare wrist. "Let me."

The relief is instantaneous. Stiles feels himself go limp as pain he hadn’t even realised he was feeling leaves his body, all his muscles relaxing at once. He can see the veins in Scott's hand go dark, then pale, then dark again as the pain leeches away, and he bites his lip and makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away. Scott’s always felt things more intensely than him, and it's not fair to make him take this on.

"C'mon, Scott, you don’t have to—"

"Shh," Scott murmurs right into his ear. His breath is hot on Stiles' neck, and smells faintly of whatever garlicky dinner Melissa must have fed him earlier tonight. It smells like home, familiar and reassuring, like the smell of his Jeep and his dad's aftershave. "I’m not doing it because I have to, and you know it. Your dad's worried, you know."

It sounds like a non-sequitur, but it doesn't feel like it. Stiles relaxes back against Scott's chest. "You’re a furnace. Is this, like, a freaky werewolf metabolism thing? You know, 'cause it's a good thing to know. For, like, science."

Scott laughs against his neck, and Stiles shivers. "You saying I'm hot?"

"Don’t flatter yourself, McCall," he snorts, but they both know it's a lie.

Now that the pain is being kept at bay, Stiles' dick has taken a sudden interest in the proceedings, the treacherous little bastard. He'd feel worse about it if he couldn't feel Scott behind him, already half-hard. He allows himself a small smile before pushing against him a little, making a show of getting himself more comfortable while rubbing his ass in slow circles against his best friend's erection.

The hitch in Scott's breath is almost reward enough in itself. "No fair," he complains, jabbing Stiles in the ribs.

"You started it."

Scott’s answer is to lean over and kiss him behind his ear. The kiss turns into a bite, a gentle, questioning nibble, and Stiles shudders at the sensation. Scott misinterprets it, though, and stops immediately.

"Sorry, sorry. I—is this okay?"

"For fuck's sake, Scott," Stiles twists a little on himself in order to turn and kiss him. "When has it ever not been okay?"

Scott slides a leg over both of Stiles', the seam of his jeans scraping against Stiles' skin. It's not unpleasant, but it doesn't feel great, either.

"I just thought, you know, because of everything—"

“Stop thinking. It’s really not your strong suit.”

Stiles shifts on the bed, rolling over onto his back and shoving at Scott so he'll straddle him properly. He's not even all that cold anymore, which is awesome. He doesn't remember the last time he didn't feel cold, but Scott has been running several degrees above normal body temperature ever since he became a werewolf, which makes him like a body pillow-sized hot water bottle. Right now, though, cuddling is the last thing on Stiles' mind. He shoves both hands under the hem of Scott's t-shirt and lifts, running his palms over the smooth skin of his chest. Scott's eyes widen a little, but he gets with the program quickly enough, yanking his shirt the rest of the way over his head and nearly poking Stiles in the eye with an elbow in his haste. He wriggles out of his jeans and boxers, getting them tangled around his knees, and for a moment he comes perilously close to falling off the bed entirely, taking the comforter with him.

Thank goodness for enhanced werewolf reflexes, Stiles thinks wryly as Scott executes a last-minute contortion and manages to get back up without injuring either of them. He's still wearing his socks, but at this point Stiles doesn’t give a damn, wouldn't give a damn if he was wearing a jingly fool's cap on his head just so long as he gets on with it, already.

Then Scott leans over to kiss him so hard that Stiles is pretty sure his lower lip is bleeding, and he stops worrying about how fast Scott is going. Scott's already tugging at the waistband of his boxers, slides them over Stiles' hips and doesn't even wait for him to kick them completely free before sliding his mouth over Stiles' dick like it's the only thing he's ever wanted in life and swallowing.

Stiles isn't entirely sure he didn’t black out for a few seconds there, not that he’ll ever give Scott the satisfaction of telling him that. When his vision clears, Scott is doing fantastic things with his tongue to the underside of Stiles' dick, just the way he's always liked it. He grips the fitted sheet in both hands, feels it come loose as he resists the urge to grab fistfuls of Scott's hair instead. Scott's got both hands on either side of his hips, pinning him down, which is probably a good thing, all things considered.

"Scott, Scott, Scotty, you gotta—" Stiles makes a superhuman effort not to simply let Scott finish what he just started, and Scott pulls off, his lips red and shiny with spit.

"You okay?"

Stiles definitely does not whimper at the loss of contact. "Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine. I want more," he lifts his head and gives Scott the most lascivious grin he can muster.

Scott grins back, then practically dives over him to get to his nightstand drawer to get the lube that's always stashed in there—along with a bunch of other things that guarantee his dad will never ever go poking around in there again after that one time. He squirts it over his hand, then pauses, lube dripping down his fingers in a way that makes Stiles want to grab at him and grind himself onto Scott's fingers until he comes.

"You sure? I mean…"

"Scott, for the love of God, just fuck me already!"

That makes Scott laugh, throwing back his head with a flash of teeth that Stiles tells himself he's only imagining look a little too pointy for comfort. Scott doesn't grow fangs unless he's all wolfed-out, he reminds himself, but his heart speeds up anyway. Scott senses it too, and his laugh turns predatory as he climbs back on top and breaches him with two fingers at once. Stiles freezes, breath catching in his throat, but Scott gives him time to adjust, moving to distract him with a searing kiss. Stiles grabs him by the shoulders, lets his tongue do some metaphorical talking for once, enjoying the feel of Scott's dick pressing up against his thigh, hard and hot and already a little wet just at the tip. He digs his nails in a little, and Scott"s dick twitches, just the way he knew it would, and even though he's in the middle of one of the most memorable kisses he's had in a while, Stiles can’t help but grin. Scott's always been a little predictable, bless him.

"Asshole," Scott murmurs against his lips, and Stiles' grin widens .

"Speaking of which…"

"Classy."

"C’mon, Scotty. Do me."

He meant it to come out sounding a lot more teasing with maybe a touch of seductive, but Scott chooses that moment to crook his fingers just the right way, and so it comes out as more of a desperate moan than anything else. Whatever, he’ll take it, so long as Scott just hurries the fuck up, already.

Luckily, Scott doesn’t seem to care what tone he uses. He kisses Stiles again, lining himself up all the while—and it really isn't fair how all the enhanced werewolf coordination is working out so well for him—and pushes in slowly.

"You okay?" he breaks the kiss and cups Stiles' jaw in his hand. Stiles nods, but it’s taking all he has just to keep himself focused. "It's just… you’re not breathing."

All the air comes out of his lungs in a rush once the reminder is there. He gasps and sucks in another breath, makes sure to let it out.

"Breathing. Right."

Scott takes his time with him, giving him plenty of time to get used to the sensation, even if they've done this often enough before that Stiles doesn't really need all that much adjusting, as it were. Scott keeps the pace gentle but not too slow, murmuring things that won't make any sense when Stiles thinks back on them later, but right now they all sound perfect, like his words are meant only for Stiles' ears. Scott is braced on one forearm, the other hand curled around the back of Stiles' head, fingers tangled in his hair, stroking him in counterpoint to his own thrusts. It feels good—more than good, it feels fucking fantastic—safe and warm even as the pleasure mounts in a slow crescendo. There's not even a trace left of the bone-deep cold from before, replaced with Scott’s heat and the soothing tone of his voice, and a doubt springs up immediately in Stiles' mind.

He breaks their rhythm and attempts to glare at Scott, though he’s pretty sure his attempt just failed miserably. "Are you literally trying to heal me with your dick?"

"Um." Scott looks a little sheepish. "Maybe? I mean, not exactly. But, you know," he gives an experimental thrust of his hips that makes Stiles' spine tingle, "I figured the more body contact we have, the better."

Stiles’ heart does a funny thing in his chest, because Scott is looking at him with this soft, fond look, like Stiles is the most precious thing in the world, and he has no idea how to even process that. "Okay, then."

This time he's the one who moves in to kiss Scott, grabbing him by the neck to make sure he doesn't go anywhere, and brings up his legs to lock his ankles at the small of Scott's back. There are a few things Stiles isn’t good at talking about, and all of those are feelings, so he figures that show, don't tell, is a pretty good policy here. Scott is apparently all on board with that plan, and kisses back like Stiles is his only source of air for miles around. He speeds up after that, thrusting harder and harder until Stiles is shaking and writhing under him. He reaches between them with his free hand, wraps it around Stiles' cock, and starts jacking him with a pulling and twisting motion that it took him multiple tries to perfect. Stiles’ vision goes white, eyes rolling back in his head as he comes hard over Scott's hand.

When everything comes back to normal Scott is curled up with one leg draped over both of his. He's not even sweating, damn him, while Stiles is completely drenched and panting. He punches Scott in the arm, just hard enough to elicit a yelp.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You're not even breathing hard, asshole."

"Bonus of being a werewolf. Killer stamina. Hey, at least I won't ever have an asthma attack in the middle of sex again, right?"

Stiles winces at the memory. Trying to get Scott to calm down enough to get them both dressed so they wouldn't have to explain what they were doing to his dad had not even been the worst part of that night.

"You're right, that is a bonus. Plus, the magical healing cock thing, that's a big bonus."

"Big, huh?"

"Shut up," Stiles lets out a breathless laugh. "Yes, fine. Scott, you’re a sex god, jeez. Speaking of which, are you going to get us cleaned up, or just let me lie here in my own spunk?"

Scott snuggles in closer, eyes already closing. "I'm comfy here."

"We're going to end up sticking together, at this rate."

"I don’t care."

Scott yawns and pulls Stiles even closer to him, breathing already evening out into sleep. Stiles figures he should protest, maybe poke Scott until he gets up, but after due consideration, he finds that he doesn't care either.

He and Scott have always been better together, after all.

This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/235417.html, where there are : comments, currently. Feel free to comment wherever you'd like! ♥

It's May 2nd!

2014-05-02T10:57:15Z

We all know what that means!

A question in the form of a poll

2014-05-01T15:53:08Z

I've been thinking about this topic a fair bit lately, for reasons. ¬_¬

A few people here and there sometimes offer fiction commissions, and it gets met with very mixed reactions. Some people are happy to jump on the bandwagon, and others wag judgmental fingers for it, whereas fan artists never seem to meet with the same kind of disapproval. It seems to be acceptable to produce visual arts for profit, even if the work is fan-based, but not written works.

So, I'm curious. What do people on my flist think? I've made the poll anonymous, so you don't have to worry about your answers being recorded for posterity.

If you don't mind your name appearing in the comments, I'd be curious to hear your thoughts about why it seems to be okay to pay for fanart but not fanfiction. Is there some legal aspect to this with which I'm not familiar? Or is it something else? A combination?

View Poll: Commissions That Aren't Art

You will also note that I was sneaky and included a second question about original fiction. I don't know many people who do this, but I'm also curious about people's habits when it comes to original fiction. If fanfic authors link to their original works, are you less likely or more likely to seek out what they're producing? Are you in it for the fandom stuff only, or are you inclined to take a chance on original fiction? Inquiring minds want to know!

Rather a Story

Just in case...

Halp! Does anyone still have my podfic?

Lest we forget...

*tap tap* This thing on? aka ratherastory wrote a (small) thing.

Lest we forget...

Wee Update, and Wincon!

Five Years of Ohsam!

If There Is A Flame, Don't Snuff It Out (Garden 'verse, Part 6)

Wincon: 24 Hours Left!

Happy New Year!

Parting Shot 2/2

Parting Shot 1/2

I'm still around(ish)

In Hearts We Leave Behind 2/2

In Hearts We Leave Behind 1/2

It's been a while since I did one of these...

Robo Needs a Home!

Spread the Love

Why, LJ?

Dear summergen author

Goodbye, George

Eee! Exciting times!

You're My Medicine (Open Up and Let Me In) Scott/Stiles NC-17

It's May 2nd!

A question in the form of a poll

tap tap This thing on? aka ratherastory wrote a (small) thing.