Songs for Barton, an avengers fanfic

I don't know where I found this challenge, but it's been floating around my computer for a while~

Enjoy? :)

In Tune - 10 Songs for Clint Barton

Rules:

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.

2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.

3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!

4. Do ten of these, then post them.

I'm Still Breathing, Katy Perry

He was just laying there. Laying still. Listening to the sound of his heart. He was in this strange head space, this strange place where all he was doing was floating. He couldn't grab onto anything. No one was there to help his hands to a weight.

"You okay, Bird brain?"

"I'm still breathin'." he was watching, but he wasn't really watching. Just staring. Being with the boys wasn't like being with her. They could talk science all day and they still wouldn't be speaking his language.

"Do you hear me?" Thor's presence was like a vibrating electricity. How could he miss him? "My friend, why do you stare so?" the huge blonde looked up at his fellow Avengers when he continued to sit in silence.

"Was it something I said?"

Clint breathes. He knows that whatever they were wasn't exactly the ideal, but it was something. She was beautiful. She was his.

But now she's gone. And he's alone.

Speechless, Lady Gaga

Clearly, he'd stuck his hand down her chest and torn out her heart by the way she was crying. Was it crying? She was kinda just... screaming, but there were tears? And... she just stomped her foot.

The fuck had he got himself into?

Blondes. Blondes where trouble.

Nat had warned him that her spidy sense had been all a quiver when he'd walked her into his bedroom. She had given the girl one long once over, to which his lady friend had just about chopped her into dog food for.

She's still screaming. Crying? Tantrum throwing. Whatever. She's still doin' it. Steve is pulling a face like she's butchering a dog, all his sympathy is for Clint.

"Tell me this isn't about the woman on the phone..." he says particularly slowly. Judging by the increased volume of the wailing, he's on the money.

"It was my partner. Natasha. Who once tried to kill me with a cheese grater."

She hiccups. He scrubs the back of his neck.

"Jesus, lady. Say something?"

She can't she's, trying to embrace him? But what the fuck - is that his hair on her locket? Oh. Oh no. This is gone from crazy to downright frightening, because he knows that she hasn't done that while he was conscious.

"You know where the door is, right? Yeah. Okay. Get out."

Kick in the teeth, Papa Roach

He's geared up. Shit, he's hanging for this fight. This battle. The anarchy. The roar of heat as flame chases the back of his ankles. The oppressive weight of a fallen body, when he kicks it outta the way. Jeeze, he's missed this.

Kick hit miss duck dodge ARROW BOW SLING dead.

He's grinning, he knows there's blood in his mouth and it isn't his.

"Nice shot, Cupid!"

"You're welcome, Stark." he grinds his heels into the building, pushes off, soars through the air, taking down what can only be described as a plethora of alien robot entities, and is incredibly satisfied with how they sound when they hit the ground.

"Having fun?" Nat drawls, her arm slung over his shoulder, picking off whatever hell spawn is crawling up behind him.

"Fuckin' ball!" If he didn't know for a fact she'd shoot it off, he'd pop a boner.

He loves this. The fight. The heat. Jesus. He loves it so damn much.

Too Many Faces, Cherri Bomb

He's staring again. Just at Bruce. Bruce, who is well aware of it, shifts uncomfortably under the hard glare the archer's sending his way. He blinks the pulse in the scientist's throat, realizes it's speeding up, and exhales a breath he wasn't holding.

"Sorry."

"That's okay. You were, uh... Pretty far away."

"Chyeah. I go there sometimes." he blinks, tips his head. "Is it you against the world?"

"What?" the doc's got something in his hands. He wouldn't know what it was, even if he has been there for several hours and the doc has mentioned it's technical name a few times.

"Real is just... too hard, man." He's nodding now, like Bruce is answering, like his pulse isn't banging out a steady, killable rhythm "You're not this, anyway. You're not. You've got one too many faces."

"And you've clearly been in Tony's stash... Again."

Clint just laughs, because he has. But it's good. He isn't so tense in the shoulders, and he's tired of being so swept up in control. Tense isn't good, he's getting pretty old, pretty weary of the whole song and dance.

"Hey man, I'm just relaxin'. You want some?"

Bruce searches the sag of his shoulders, the lonely look on his face, heaves a world weary sigh.

"Yeah, man, why not?"

Teeth, Lady Gaga

He's just finished, sagged on top of her. She's got her knees digging into his floating ribs (flexible as she is, Jesus Christ, he'll go again if she sticks around just a little longer). Her nails are in the backs of his arms, and she's got teeth in his shoulder.

He sighs against her throat.

"Hey."

"You're... fucken gorgeous."

"I know." and those teeth flash in the cheekiest goddamn smile he's seen on her for a good long while.

"You didn't finish." he's disappointed by his efforts, usually he can push her over the edge with him. It feels better when he does.

"You needed it."

"I get enough therapy from Fury." he's a little grumpy, maybe. But he kisses her throat and pulls out, disposes of the rubber. "I don't need you to take care of me, Tash."

She just raises her eyebrows.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Then get on down there and finish the job."

She lifts both legs (CHRIST) hooks them over his shoulders drags him down with a small grunt of exertion. He's not complaining, or resisting, but she's definitely in control, make no mistake.

He uses his hands.

He uses his fingers.

He uses his tongue.

His lips suck and pucker and draw her closer home.

Finally, (because Nat has always, always liked it rough, no matter how much she plays at being coy) he uses his teeth.

Mission Accomplished.

Hush Hush, Pussy Cat Dolls

No one is there. He's in his empty, wonderfully quiet house. He's got it locked down. It's military in style, apart from the mound of folded clothes that need to be washed at the end of his bed. He cracks open a beer, takes a seat, kicks his legs up on the arm of his leather couch.

Leather has done some strange things for him in the past. It's takes him to a better place. A childhood brought on only by scents - the rest his brain is absolutely adamant he doesn't really want to know.

If he had've known then what he knew now.

He wouldn't have left the circus biz. He wouldn't have done the army thing. He wouldn't do the whole-... SHEILD, thing. Never met Nat. Nat, Jesus, there was a chapter he didn't need to rehash. So he rolls onto his belly, chugs some beer, sets it on the floor beside his loosely hanging arm.

Leather, mm.

The only thing he focuses on (not his heartbeat, not the sounds of traffic outside, not footsteps - what is that sound? Are his neighbours fight again? Is it about money again? He wants them to stop, their kids is always drowned out by the violence.)

Leather, mmmm.

Consume it. Be quiet, hush, hush, you'll be fine.

Take a deep breath.

Jar of Hearts, Christina Perri

"Stop." her voice cracks. "Stop, Clint. Don't."

"Tash... Easy, baby. It's me."

"Stop it. Don't come any closer. I don't-... I don't want to hear it.."

She's beautiful. Tears like diamonds, fuck her, she wears everything with such perfect Russian pride. The bed sheets are wrapped around her, she's clutching them like a cotton shield. A handgun is in her hand. She wipes absently at her face, the sheets fall and pool around her knees.

"Tasha... Tash, sweetheart, come back to me. It's me."

"I know who you are!" She shakes the gun at him, gropes for her cover, never once looking away from his face.

Sometimes they both get stuck in nightmares. This would be one of those times.

"You're safe." and In a moment, he lunges, dodges the literal bullet, pushes the gun out of her hand and catches her before she falls. "Tash, baby, it's me, and you're safe." he holds her tighter to him, even though she's screaming in her mother tongue, even though she's clawing at his chest and back and is trying to get him away, collecting skin and blood under her nails.

"Here, you're here. With me. You're safe. You're Natasha Romanova. Come back to me, sweetheart. Come home."

Here's To Us, Halestorm

"Tash?" he takes a moment. "Come on. Just one more drink?"

"Get another bottle out, then. You and your 'one more'. I'll be waking up without my pants, again." She toes off her shoes, lets her hair loose. "And what are we celebrating, exactly?"

She's amused, this time. He's gotten better with time, able to read her, able to make her laugh in the place that no one else can. Shit, he loves the woman. He'd do anything for her.

"What needs to be celebrated? How about riding that shit head all the way back to his home planet?"

"Here's to that." he clinks both glasses then hands her one, watching as she takes a long draw of the burning liquid. "You alright, Barton?"

He snorts.

"I'm not soft in my old age, Romanoff. Don't worry about me."

I Don't Love You, My Chemical Romance

Whatever. No, no, it's fine. What fucking ever.

"Are you sure?"

Yeah, yeah, I got it. I got it.

He wasn't supposed to get it. He feels sick. He's shrivelling up on the inside. It's so cold. Kids are absolutely the worst. He hates this. He hates himself.

"Alright. You know the stakes."

He's so innocent. Shit. He looks like...

He is curled up in his mother's arms, mostly asleep. The bullet will glance through his brain, he won't have time to feel a thing, won't have time to panic or cry. He won't have time to cry, that's the main thing. To hear his mother screaming.

Clint lines up the shot. Squeezes the trigger. Gets up, goes home.

He tells himself it doesn't matter, that it's his job, that the woman was married to a bastard of a man who needed a message. He's sitting at the bottom of his shower, fully clothed, there's water in his eyes, it's pouring over his cheeks, dripping off his chin. The water is soaking his shirt, drenching his pants in puddles.

Then he turns the shower on.

You, The Pretty Reckless

They don't know. He likes the fact they don't know. Only him.

"Banner?"

"Hm?"

"Where's Steve?"

"He's... In the gym, maybe?"

"Am I missing out on mad bro time, here?" Tony pipes up from his corner.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Clint shoots back a with little grin.

He skips through what he's going to say and finds the guy slugging it out on a huge bag. Gives it a little thought and decides to just throw down what he knows and hopes for the best. He waits for the seams to split, for Steve to wipe sweat on his forearm, then he goes over and folds his arms over his chest.

"I know." he says casually. "About the nightmares. They get me too."

There's a long while when Steve doesn't say a single thing. He just stands there, kind of tense, staring back at Clint like he's about to start swinging.

"It's alright to scream, kid. Makes us human." he reaches out and puts his hand on Steve's coiled forearm, squeezes in a familiar way. "I got your back. Us vets... We gotta stick together. F'you ever need me, man..."

"Yeah. I'll find you."

He pats Steve's arm, and he walks away.