dancing with fire
rating: pg
characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
pairing: Clint/Natasha
summary: "We took a left turn somewhere past crazy, but it seems a nice piece of road so far..." Steampunkish/fantasy!AU.
author's note: Written for the mini promptathon on the LJ community be_compromised. Prompt: "We took a left turn somewhere past crazy, but it seems a nice piece of road so far..."
dancing with fire
"You're going to let her roam among you?" The Soothsayer's eyes grew wide over the edge of her veil. "That way lies madness!"
"Yeah, well, we took a left turn somewhere past crazy, but it seems a nice piece of road so far..." Clint said, running his fingers over the dust-covered back of the supplicant's seat. Then he looked up, his clear gaze pinning her to her shabby velvet chair. "You don't get to play God and decide who walks free and who gets shut up in a bottle for a lifetime; not anymore. If I hear anything about more genies being sold, I'll be back." His hand had drifted down to the satin-covered table and now splayed, bearing his weight as he leaned forward. "And I get the feeling you won't like it."
Incense wafted through the thick air of her tent as they stared at each other, the Soothsayer's long fingers white on the edge of her table. The gas lamps burned bright enough to show the fear in her dark eyes, all traces of smugness and confidence wiped from her face. Against the supernatural, the minor demons and dominions she was master of, she was invincible... But against the very real, very physical threat he promised, she wouldn't stand a chance. And they both knew it. Clint took his other hand off of his pistol and reached into his coat, drawing out a vial that glimmered and gleamed in the lamp-light.
"And this?" He told her, watching as it drew her mesmerized, unwilling gaze. "This is over."
The crystal broke between his fingers with the faintest tinkling, slivers and fragments falling like stars to land on the dark tablecloth and lie there, winking in the orange-hued shadows. Clint felt the edges of the released magic brush by him, a cool touch in the suffocating heat of the tent, and knew that somewhere out in the carnival Natasha had stopped, startled and shaken and suddenly free.
Now whether she chose to stay with him would be her choice, and no one else's.
He set the metal cap down in the pile of shards as the Soothsayer followed his movements, dazed.
"A parting gift," he said, and turned, listening to the silence that filled the worn and patchwork tent behind him as he left. But there was no reprisal, no shouted curse or cast demon; he had broken her magic as surely as if he had ripped it from her, and now there was nothing left. After all, they both knew the rage of a genie that had been robbed of a loved one, and he prayed as he ducked out of the tent that he was, beyond pretense or unconscious command on his part, beloved of this one.
That she was waiting outside for him, flames curled in her hair and banked in her eyes, was answer enough.
Her hands, reaching out and touching his face like she could not believe, could not have hoped for this, and her smile like a sunrise were prayers in and of themselves.
fin