Hey, friends. I think its safe to say I haven't been on FFnet in a while, but I had some random inspiration for this story and wanted to share. I doubt I'll have another update out for a while, but hopefully, it won't be another year before the next chapter.
I've missed you guys. Hope y'all enjoy it.
August 1st, 2017
Bruce had just left the lab and was making his way to the kitchen to grab a quick lunch before he met Steve for another round of testing. They were updating the Captain's suit after a particularly nasty incident with a fire-breathing mutant in Venezuela. The good doctor had finally reached the kitchen when a giant rolling clap of thunder shook the sky. The hanging utensil's above the stove clattered together as they swayed from the force of the thunder. A bolt of lightning flashed outside the window, the sky distorting to a ominous, angry black. Then, abruptly, another echoing jolt of thunder sounded and the Heavens opened, unleashing so much rainwater that Bruce was sure Manhattan would be flooded within an hour.
Retrieving the orange juice from the fridge, Bruce took a sip and frowned. The thunder continued loudly outside. "Wonder who pissed off Thor this time."
Sometime in 2015
Natasha Romanoff talks in her sleep. In Russian, of course. And Georgia was curious. That's how she found herself googling Russian phrases. The assassin caught her one day and asked suspiciously, "Why are you studying Russian?"
The brunette paused, nervous. "Just trying to expand my knowledge. You know, making myself more cultured."
Though it's never a good idea to lie to the world's leading spy, Natasha trusted Georgia. Not only did the Black Widow accept her answer, Natasha even went so far as to offer to teach Georgia Russian herself.
It wasn't until three months later that Clint busted his wife, the nark. But it was okay; Natasha was only a little mad. She handled it well, considering her track record. Tasha only terrorized Georgia - popping up out of corners just to scare her, following her at night (though Georgia had no proof as she never actually saw Natasha, only felt her), threatening to have her kidnapped again - for three weeks, instead of the for the rest of her life.
See, Natasha Romanoff talks in her sleep in Russian and Georgia was curious and that's how Georgia learned about Liliana.
Мне очень жаль, Liliana. Я никогда не хотел, чтобы ты пострадала. Я никогда не хотел, чтобы ты умер. Я никогда не хотел, чтобы убить тебя, Liliana.
She knew the first sentiment: I'm sorry, Liliana. The rest was a little harder to piece together, but Georgia realized Natasha was repeating herself: I never wanted…I never wanted…I never wanted… The sentences varied to a degree, and though her lessons with Natasha were great and helpful, she shamefully had to resort to GoogleTranslate once more. Finally, Georgia deciphered the next two sentences: I never wanted you to get hurt. I never wanted you to die.
Natasha never spoke about her childhood. With anyone. Clint only knew what he knew because of her file, because of intel gathered by S.H.I.E.L.D. Very rarely did the Russian discuss her past and, in those rare occasions, she typically only did so under the heavy influence of vodka. Even though Georgia and Clint were family, Natasha didn't speak of her former life because she couldn't. She physically could not tolerate it. Her mind would get fuzzy, her body would grow weak. The room would begin to spin and, suddenly, she would be overcome with the sensation of bile rising in her throat.
Natasha hated the ghosts that haunted her past with a fury to rival the Hulk's best day. It simply wasn't something she revisited. Ever.
While Georgia understood, she couldn't help but feel a bit stung. She told Natasha anything and everything the redhead wanted to know. There were no secrets with her. Still, she knew that Tasha let her closer than anyone else. She was playful with Georgia, revealing secret crushes or guilty pleasures, giggling like schoolgirls and binge eating junk food. She told Georgia her thoughts and hopes and fears, everything she felt now—only her past was off limits. And that would have to be enough. Most of the time, it was enough. Most of the time, that is, until Georgia overheard Natasha talking in her sleep.
One day, Georgia asked Natasha what that final phrase meant. The second the words left Georgia's mouth, the spy's lips pulled into a thin line, her eyebrows rising to impressive heights on her pale forehead. "Why?"
"Heard it in a movie but the subtitles were fucked up," Georgia lied. Honestly, she was getting too good at that. Maybe she and Natasha needed some space after all.
"It means 'kill you,'" answered Nat.
Georgia nearly choked on her drink and asked, "Are you sure?" When the Widow tossed her a glance that clearly said, 'You must be joking,' Georgia nodded, "Right, yeah. Thanks."
I never wanted to kill you, Liliana.
February 17th, 2014
"What's with the plant on top of the fridge?"
Georgia frowned. "Um, I'm not really sure. It's Clint's deal. Something about it being too cold to leave it outside on the terrace, I think?"
Natasha smirked. "Since when does Clint have a green thumb?"
"Since my parents got him a book on botany last Christmas. I think my mother meant it as a joke but Clint's taking it very seriously. He's been killing himself to keep that plant alive for months trying to impress my father. It's stupid."
The redheaded assassin snickered. "That's Clint for you."
October 8th, 2013
Things had been quiet at Stark Tower for several days now, and Dr. Bruce Banner was growing restless.
He was tired of tinkering in the lab, and Tony was holed up with R&D working on his latest project, which, unfortunately, held no interest for Bruce. Thor was off-planet, Steve and Natasha were somewhere in the south Pacific tied up in another ass-kicking, world-saving mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clint was upstate visiting an old company asset at Rikers Island. So, Bruce was alone, and Bruce was bored.
"Georgia!" The brunette skidded to a surprised stop in front of the elevator doors, spinning around until she spotted the good doctor. Bruce called excitedly and, perhaps, a bit desperately, "What're you doing here?"
Clint's fiancée flashed a polite smile. "Dropping off some paperwork for Pepper."
Oh, that's right. It was a Tuesday. Georgia was working. She must've seen how his face fell, because she quickly added, "But I was about to take my lunch break. Fancy grabbing a bite?"
Bruce's mouth spread into a grin of pure, sublime joy. "Yes, please."
The pair of friends made their way from Stark Tower to the Union Square open air farmers' market. There was a cart with a hot plate at the end of the park that made paninis out of whatever a customer had bought at the market that day. It was one of Georgia's favorite lunchtime joints, but with autumn drawing to a close and winter around the corner, the farmers' market would only be around for a few more weeks before it dwindled off.
Bruce and Georgia walked slowly over the broken sidewalks of New York City, under scaffolding and around man holes. They talked of simple, inconsequential things—the weather, Georgia's parents, the Yankees' upcoming season, Bruce's new tie. It was a lovely, sunny New York day, and the pair couldn't have chosen a better day for a stroll.
As they approached the park, sirens sounded in the distance, an unfortunately common occurrence in the Big Apple. The sirens grew closer, three police cruisers rounding the corner a few blocks down and speeding furiously their way. Bruce and Georgia realized the cops were chasing after a black SUV that was just ahead from where they stood—an SUV that was about to hit a taxi cab.
"Oh, God," gasped Georgia, just as the front wheel of the SUV clipped the bumper of the cab and flipped, rolling straight toward Bruce and Georgia. "Br-"
A cacophony of screams filled the October air. The SUV rolled forward, taking out several cars, a bagel stand, a fire hydrant, and a homeless man's shopping cart, narrowly missing dozens of pedestrians who fled this way and that. The out of control vehicle picked up momentum as it barreled toward the pair of friends on the sidewalk. Georgia was frozen to the spot. She, like Bruce, knew that they didn't have time to move before the SUV struck them.
They were going to be hit.
Or rather, Bruce was going to be hit.
Turning his back on the SUV, the gentle doctor wrapped his arms around Georgia and forced her down to her knees, his body a human shield. Bruce flushed green the very moment the SUV struck.
Like a giant, green trampoline, the Hulk's body rebounded the runaway vehicle, the SUV finally coming to a halt and falling back onto the street. His massive frame expanding by the second, the Hulk stood, whipped around, and roared at the SUV. Behind him, Georgia was completely unharmed, wide-eyed as she stared up at her big, green friend.
The police cruisers slammed to a stop just feet from the up-turned SUV, and suddenly, there were half a dozen officers with their guns drawn. Georgia blinked twice and realized that their weapons were not aimed at the driver of the homocidal vehicle, but at the Other Guy.
"Hey, wait!" Georgia screamed. They couldn't shoot. They couldn't. Their bullets wouldn't hurt the Hulk, but they would damn sure anger him. "He won't hurt you! He just needs-"
"Hands in the air! Right now! Hands up-!" The cop shifted toward her, his gun level, and the Hulk exploded with a beastly bellow.
The firestorm of bullets happened so instantly that Georgia did not have time to take a breath before the Other Guy had her pinned between his green body and the building behind them. Georgia could feel every bullet that pounded his flesh, the vibrations shaking the very foundation under her feet. Oh, God. And then the Hulk was roaring and police cars were being flipped and everything went from bad to worse in a matter of seconds.
The police were ramping up for Round Two when Georgia screamed from the sidewalk. "Bruce...! Hulk!"
The green giant huffed in acknowledgment, but wouldn't look at her. His frantic, angry eyes were trained on the cops as he made sure to remain between her and them. The Hulk was very obviously protecting Georgia.
Apparently, Georgia wasn't the only one who noticed. "What's your name?!" one of the officers shouted.
"G-Georgia Downes! This man is-"
"We know who he is! Is he dangerous?"
"Not if you stop firing! He's just trying-!" Georgia stepped up to the 'enormous, green rage monster.' Gingerly, she reached for the coiled, green muscles of the Other Guy's right leg. "He's just trying to protect me. The SUV almost crushed us... He'll turn back in a few minutes. Please...!"
The officers remained uneasy, their weapons at the ready, but a controlled tension seemed to settle over them. A crowd had gathered in the midst of the mayhem. There came a few camera flashes, and Georgia's stomach tightened. Poor Bruce. He was going to be miserable about this later.
Stepping out from under the Hulk's arm, Georgia placed a firm hand on his leg. The green guy huffed and shook his head furiously. He bared his teeth at the crowd and tired to force Georgia back behind him. "No, no! It's okay, it's okay, Big Guy." Placing her hands up, Georgia motioned her body. "I'm okay, see? I'm fine, I'm okay. But...you've got to calm down, okay? Hey! You've got to stay calm, alright?"
It took several long, arduous moments, but Georgia was eventually able to coax the Other Guy into a calm enough state that he collapsed with a pout in the middle of the street, a big, green toddler. Georgia sat with him. Or rather, Georgia sat on him, on his giant knee, her hands splayed on his green chest for balance. She spoke softly, continuously, trying to keep the Hulk's rage at bay. She didn't know how long it took for Bruce to regain control, but she knew it was only a matter of time before the Big Guy went away.
"Hey, officer! Do me a favor?" she called.
"Yeah?!"
"He'll be back to normal any minute now. Find him some new pants, will you?"
So much for paninis in the park. Patting his big, green chest, Georgia gave a small laugh. "Guess you're not bored anymore, huh, Bruce?"
January 14th, 2016
"When we first started sleeping together, I hated New York, but I have to admit, it's grown on me," murmured Clint as he and Georgia walked Time Square arm in arm. "Like a fungus."
His wife laughed quietly, playfully tapping his arm. "Oh, shut it."
It was late, nearly midnight, and true to the city's nickname, Time Square was still bustling along, the sidewalks and streets crowded with street performers, enthusiastic tourists, and dozens of NYC locals trying to enjoy their Friday night when they should have been sleeping. Clint and Georgia had just seen a musical on Broadway and decided to spend the rest of their evening getting lost in the great city. They came to a stop in front of the famous TKTS bleachers - the massive, red stadium seats at the north end of Time Square behind a statue of Father Duffy. Georgia took her husband's hand and have a gentle tug. "C'mon."
The couple climbed to the very top bleacher.
There wasn't anything in the world to Georgia that compared to the view of Time Square from the top of those bleachers. You could see all of it. Everything. The M&M factory. The Disney store. The Hard Rock. The taxis and the street dancers and the painters and that kid drumming on overturned gallon buckets. The traffic and jay walking and the junkies selling weed and pushing coke, standing on the corner hollering for Mary and Jane. The Broadway posters. The Starbucks. The hotdog stands and ice cream carts and that guy selling umbrellas and knock-off purses. And the lights. All of those blindingly beautiful lights.
"God, I love it up here," breathed Georgia. Her chest ballooned with the warmest feeling of content as she leaned back into Clint's arms and watched her city. Los Angeles would always hold a special place in her heart, but this, New York, was her home now. Their home.
Clint wound his arm around his wife's waist, the archer pressing a kiss against her temple, her dark hair tickling his lips. Fishing in the inside pocket of his jacket, Clint withdrew his beloved Nikon. He filmed a few panoramic shots of the famous square, zooming in on a few street performers, when-
"Hey, look," someone to his left declared.
Clint looked at the kid. She couldn't have been more than thirteen, and she was grinning a wide, toothy, braces-cover smile, her skinny arm pointing toward the southeast end of the square. Huh. There was a flash mob breaking out.
Training the Nikon toward the dancers, Clint squeezed Georgia's stomach. His lips moved near her ear. "G, by the ice cream cart, look. A flash mob."
"Ha! That's awesome! Are you getting it? Allie's gonna die. She doesn't believe me that it's really like this all the time."
They stayed on the bleachers for roughly an hour. Wrapped around one another, Georgia loved the lights, Clint loved the people watching, and the couple was content and happy. When the temperature began to drop and the winds started picking up, it was Clint who took one look at Georgia's "coat" and suggested that they head back down. He let his wife lead him into the Starbucks in Time Square where she sugared up on ridiculously overpriced coffee before dragging him down into the subway.
This was something else they did sometimes. They would hop on a train and just ride. They got off wherever, but never went back above ground; they would just get on another train. And then another, switching trains all night long, until they eventually found their way home several hours later. One time, they got on at 33rd St and rode to Hoboken where they switched trains, switching again at Exchange Pl, and rode all the way to Jersey.
If there was one place stateside Clint liked less than the Big Apple, it was New Jersey.
Tonight, they paid no mind to which stop they were at or what train they were on. They simple rode. The subway crowds began to thin out around two-thirty/three a.m., and when Georgia and Clint found themselves alone in a train car, save for an elderly Chinese man near the rear, Georgia elbowed her husband. "Let me get that camcorder of yours, Barton."
Raising an eyebrow, Clint asked, "What for?"
Georgia stuck out her palm and wiggling her fingers. "Gimme."
His other eyebrow raised, but the assassin said nothing, dutifully withdrawing his Nikon and handing it over. Georgia slipped the strap over her hand and opened the screen. She turned the camera on and trained the lens on her husband. "Say 'hello,' Clint."
A droll stare on his face, Barton echoed her. "Hello, Clint."
"Ho, ho, someone's a smartass," Georgia murmured. She gripped the Nikon tightly, jerking her chin toward the middle of the aisle. "Give us some tricks."
"What?" Clint laughed, protesting weakly as his wife began pushing him off of the plastic seat with her free hand, "C'mon! Show us what you got, Barton!"
"What? G, come on, there's-" He gestured toward the old man. "We've got company."
"Like an audience has ever bothered you before! Now, let's see it, Barton! C'mon. Don't be such a little-"
"Jesus, okay. Whatta you want?" He huffed, standing, shoving his hands into the pockets of his chins, his shoulders slumped in a somewhat humble protest. Georgia bit her lip thoughtfully and shrugged, muttering, "You know, not much. A couple of back flips, some spins—just a little spontaneous gymnastic routine."
Clint's eyebrow rose. "On a moving subway car?"
His wife snorted. "Please, as if you haven't done something like this a million times."
Okay, she had a fair point, but usually when those moments had occurred in the past, Clint was under heavy gunfire and running from enemy operatives. His face must've said as much, because Georgia gave a little, impish half-smirk that seemed to say, And if you can do it then, you can certainly do it now.
And so at 2:47am on a Thursday night, Clint Barton performed an improvised, impromtu gymnastics routine on a moving subway car while his wife recorded it on his favorite Nikon and an elderly gentleman from Chinatown clapped along.
Clint would never admit it, but it had been fun as hell.
October 12th, 2013
"Sir," interrupted Jarvis. "Agent Barton's fiancée is here."
"Oh, shit," muttered Clint. He'd forgotten all about their dinner date. He looked at the watch strapped to his left wrist; he was supposed to meet her half an hour ago. Cringing, he glowered at the smirk Tasha threw his way, the Russian purring, "Someone's in trouble."
"Let her in," said Tony, to which Jarvis replied, "I can't, sir."
A slight annoyance on his brow, Tony demanded, "And why not?"
"Because she's already here, sir. She's in the lounge with Miss Potts."
Rising from his seat at the round table, Clint murmured his apologies to the director via satellite and said, "I'll be right back," before slipping out of the conference room and drawing to the lounge. He spotted the girls at the bar, their backs to him as they chatted over a few martini glasses. "Georgia," he called, preparing to beg for forgiveness. She turned, giggling at something Pepper had said, and beamed at him, "Hey! I take it you guys were delayed?"
"Yes, I'm so sorry. I-"
"It's fine. Don't worry about it," she murmured, kissing his cheek. A crease formed in her brow as she surveyed the fresh three inch cut on his upper, left bicep. "Ouch."
"It's nothing," he lied. In truth, it stung like a bitch. He hated knife fighting, despite whatever natural talents he may have for it. "I'm sorry about dinner. Did you keep the reservation?"
"No, but don't fret. Pepper and I were talking, and she hasn't eaten either. We're going out for Chinese."
"Tony hates the stuff," added Pepper. "But I'm a sucker for sesame seed chicken and fried rice."
"We'll be going out for drinks afterward, so don't wait up," grinned Georgia as she snagged her clutch from the bar, Pepper already crossing to the elevator. A bit stunned, Clint stood wordlessly as she kissed his cheek once again, "Bye, babe. Oh, and be sure to tell Stark I'm stealing his girlfriend for the night. I promise to have her home by five and to still respect her in the morning."
Pepper guffawed – a loud, obnoxious laugh – and clasped a hand over her mouth as she snickered, "That's a new one."
Clint watched them go, frozen on the spot as the elevator doors slid shut behind them. "What just happened?"
"You miraculously got away with standing up your fiancée without being condemned to a week of sleeping on the couch, and, I believe, I just found some competition for winning Pepper's affections," concluded Tony from the open doorway. "You better come along, Agent Barton. Fury's getting impatient, and we're worried what will become of his sight if he pops a blood vessel in the only eye he has left."
So, what do you guys think about Clint's secret farm family?
Until next time!