Written for this year's be_compromised Halloween trick-or-treat party – one 100-word drabble for each of six friends who came knocking at my door. Warning - super fluffy. (Some echoes to earlier stories, such as "Big Game" and "Hello, Darkness".)
Five Times Barton and Romanoff Showed No Fear
(And One Time They Were Scared)
By Alpha Flyer
One
.
"Put down the gun, lady, or you'll be eating an arrow sandwich."
"You drop that Paleolithic toy, and I'll consider not pulling the trigger."
They face each other across the bodies of a dozen thugs, neither caring who dropped whom. (The Farkas gang needed killing, and Budapest is a better city for its ending.)
The woman's eye glints with a humour Clint finds unexpectedly appealing, erasing the fact she's the real objective of his hunt today.
"Besides, sandwich is an inappropriate use of metaphor," she says. "Grissini, maybe?"
He makes a snap decision, lowering his bow.
"Need a job, Widow?"
.
Two
.
The ack-ack-ack of the guns is making Natasha's ears ring. More ominous, though, is the fact that the splashes of mud from the bullets' impact are coming closer. The cartel's mountain fortress is a far harder target than Sitwell's intel suggested.
"We can't stay here," she hisses at her partner, conscious that she's stating the obvious.
"No shit," he huffs back. Lights are coming up the mountain; they're trapped. Across the chasm is the only way.
"You got one of those magic rope arrows, Hawkeye?"
Eyes wide open, she holds on to his back as they leap into the darkness.
.
Three
.
Park Avenue is littered with debris – cars tossed aside like toys, chunks of concrete and shards of broken glass. The air is heavy with the smell of alien weapons; the screeching battle cry of the Chitauri is clearly meant to unnerve.
The alien army is closing in.
Captain America hesitates, his eyes flitting from Natasha's Glocks to Clint's bow: Human weapons, in human hands.
Clint is bleeding from a number of abrasions, but the blue in his eyes has been replaced by fire.
"Don't worry, Cap," Natasha says, dropping an alien warrior with a well-placed shot.
"Go. We got this."
.
Four
.
It's one thing to look at dinosaur skulls in a museum - quite another to smell the breath of a T-Rex when it's about to eat you. Man, that thing needs to floss. Badly.
Clint suppresses the urge to retch. Fuck you, Victor van Doom...
"Tasha?" he hollers, hoping his voice will cut through the roar. "You ready?"
"Now," he hopes she said. Clint stops running, twists and dives between the massive legs. The beast stops, ducking its head to look for him, exposing its beady eye to Natasha's guns.
Turns out, Rex' backside smells no better than the front.
.
Five
.
The newspapers all said the explosion could be heard as far as Cairo.
Which explains why his ears weren't working right afterwards – but not why he still can't hear now, a week later.
"Pre-existing condition," the doctor mouths (Clint can make out the words on his lips). "The damage to your cochlear nerve was amplified. I'm so sorry, Mr. Barton."
Deaf.
Dad's hand, reaching out from the grave for one more kick – but Clint'll be damned if he lets that jerk have the last word.
Natasha, it seems, agrees. She grabs his hand firmly.
"We'll figure this out, Clint. Together."
.
+ One
.
She's walking towards him, flanked by Steve and Sam. Cap is in a suit, Sam in uniform.
Clint looks around for support. Wanda gives him a nod – short, but encouraging. Hill rolls her eyes.
"Scared, Hawkeye?" she says. "I would be, too."
Natasha stumbles and Sam reaches out to steady her.
"Easy," Steve whispers.
"You can do this," Stark cackles from the sideline; Pepper just smiles.
The trio stops; Clint finds himself standing beside Natasha, who looks as pale as he feels. (There should be an arrow for this.)
Vision smiles at them beatifically.
"Friends, we are gathered here together…"