consistently underestimated. rarely denied.
SHIELD Agent, code name Black Widow. The rest is classified, but yes, I -do- know Latin. I also know how to get a job done. That's really all you need to know.
//An Independent RP Blog, movieverse/616-Marvel universe. Open to any fandom. GIFs and graphics belong to other, far more talented people unless otherwise noted.//
the avengers | victorian au
When the future of England, her colonies, and basically the entire world is jeopardised by a secret order of radical scientific geniuses who call themselves ‘Advanced Idea Mechanics’, the Queen herself establishes a covert league of extraordinary gentlemen (and women) to foil the A.I.M.’s nefarious intentions and restore peace and order in the Realm.
(Source: assvenger, via manipulativelittleshit)
-Firefly, Saves the Day
“And I know you’re next to me, but I must confess what’s in my head.”
The sound of her shoes seemed to echo in the confine of the small room. Clint wasn’t claustrophobic, not really; it was another thing that he just couldn’t afford to be, but Natasha’s presence didn’t restrict the space. Her warmth was comforting and he felt childish for wanting it closer and for craving it in the first place. He pulled his arm away, slowly, reluctantly, and followed her example, though he couldn’t simply toe off his boots; he had to bend down to unlace them and they fell at the side of the bed with a similar echo when they hit the floor.
He watched her quietly. Her fatigue was reflected in him and the way he moved. He was mentally tired, though his body functioned well. Bruised, but that wasn’t anything rare, and the faint ache deep in his bones felt deserving. A little pain wouldn’t make up for the wrongs he’d committed, but it was a small start.
His lips stretched into a lazy smile that didn’t reach his eyes but came close to. “You could always undress,” he teased in a soft murmur and shifted, offering more room as he settled against the wall. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Natasha– because he did, but at least that way he wouldn’t have to worry about whatever shadows stretched behind him in a threatening way. Paranoia was useful but he’d had enough of it in the past few days to last him a lifetime. And he knew he’d have to swallow it and deal with it in the upcoming weeks. It wasn’t something to look forward to.
Like always. It was ridiculous how much comfort she kept providing him and how stupidly weak he felt at needing it. Not always, he reminded himself. Weakness wasn’t something he liked to dwell in and moments like those were far and few in between. But that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the partnership and understanding she offered. “With you?” He shouldn’t care, and yet he did. Just this once, he told himself. He could deal with his own damn demons later. His fingers brushed against her hand, her wrist and up her arm. “I’d rather be a fork.”
She was giving him the look. It was a very special expression, unique to Natasha Romanoff whenever she was speaking to Clint Barton, and it involved a slight raising of eyebrows, a pinch of are you kidding me, and a smirk that gave the whole thing an aftertaste of maybe, maybe not, love you anyway it’s fine. Very rare, and probably only translatable by him. She was almost surprised Stark hadn’t asked to patent it yet.
“Barton, I think the correct order’s bruising after, not before. You know how it is.” He’d taken the wall, which she’d half expected and took no offense to, just as she’d told him. Leaving your six to another was something they did regularly, but recent events had made even her shove her bed against her loft wall, even with the knowledge that walls were hardly going to make a difference if the enemies they’d been fighting came. It was something solid, and there in an otherwise empty space. As for the nightmares, you dealt with them as they came. Always did.
“A fork. Let me guess: spoons are the least masculine of the utensils?” She’d managed the quip even with the newest surprise-slash-distraction working its way up her arm. It was another one of those things, not unpleasant at all, really the opposite, but new enough that she had to take a moment to parse the new information, the sensation of his hand on her bare arm for reasons utterly non-combat related. “I’ll have to ask you about sporks sometime.”
As it turned out, though, she was a lousy fork, at least for now, her own arm sliding to his waist as she carefully positioned herself on the bed. “Yes, I’m aware this is the wrong direction,” she admitted. “I’ll fix it later.” And she would, she told herself, but she’d come here to make sure he was okay, to see that at least for one minute his eyes were shut without him inwardly screaming, and she can’t very well do that with her back to him, can she?
Of course, it leaves her vulnerable, but she’s willing to risk that, anyway. He can keep a lookout for her, he’s facing the right direction. She checks, though, just in case, finally on eye level with him in this cramped but somehow comfortable position. “This work for you, Barton?”
I care not for the many tales mortals have spun regarding my family and friends, nor the liberties they take with actual events.
I’m hardly a lover of poetry, but the man’s talent is much vaunted—far more now than it was when he first wrote it—so I probably should try. But a full play? I’m not sure… I could easily procure a copy, but..
We didn’t have much to go on, I’m afraid. But it’s a valid point, and understandable.
As is the daunting nature of Shakespeare; the man was considerably prolific. Maybe you could get a better recommendation from someone else?- they might know more. I’ve just always found it beautiful. Soothing, in a sense.
-quietly-
Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d,
A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make,
Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down.
More penitence than done trespass: at the last,
Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; with them forgive yourself.
Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he did. She wasn’t a soldier in the same way that he wasn’t a spy. Sure, he could sneak around and use stealth when it was necessary, but it wasn’t the same. He thought that maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t want the lessons, maybe it was that she wasn’t willing to teach, which was fine. He supposed he didn’t really need to learn that and he wondered if that was selfish of him.
He shared a history with her but each carried their own burdens. Their guilt was different and Clint would never truly comprehend the red in her ledger, even if he wanted to. Some things were private. And he wasn’t the type to dig and dig. Hypocrite wasn’t a word he liked to associate with and doing that to Natasha would be like breaking some sacred, unspoken law between them. What they had was enough. Had to be enough. He couldn’t and wouldn’t demand more. Even if, at times, he was tired of the bullshit in their lives. Even if, sometimes, he wished there was something else, some sense of normalcy they obviously lacked.
Right now her warmth was enough and he had to take sole comfort in it. His eyes closed briefly and he reveled in that. She’s alive, and uninjured; he didn’t have a hand in her death and that is enough. Even if he loses his head the next night or he skips sleeps because Loki is there, whispering in his ear. He could deal with that later.
He chuckled and opened his eyes. “I don’t know why you put up with me.” He knew. He thought he did, at least, but he didn’t want to hear the words anymore than she probably wanted to say them. It wasn’t necessary. “Like always,” he murmured.
There was, of course, a response to that. There were a number of highly applicable retorts, confessions, and assurances she could have given him that all had the high possibility of starting a whole new conversation, or ending a few more. And selfishly, although it’s partly for his sake- she meant it when she asked if he needed anything else on his plate, and the answer, no matter how much she means it, is a whole other main course of issues- she doesn’t want to disrupt the moment. Enough things lately had managed to do that, and she didn’t want to be on that list. Clint is content, and her mouth stays closed.
Her shoes, however, she was done with. She kicked them to the floor, causing two satisfying clunks on the floor that echoed through the…holding cell. Even as a euphemism, she hated the term. He didn’t deserve this, no matter what he thought. The ever present sidearm was next, though she had to let go of him to do so. It was a reluctant release, and instinctively, she kissed his temple as she did it. I’m sorry. I’m still here. I didn’t want to let go.
The guns went in her boots. It was simple gun safety not to sleep with a loaded sidearm under your pillow, as much as she may have wanted it, and the jacket was next, draped over the shoes without her usual care. She was too tired, and to be perfectly honest, coat folding was the least of her priorities at the moment.
Priority one: Clint Barton. Priority two: sleep. All other priorities: could go to hell. Ah, the wonders of emotional triage.
“That,” she said finally, “is as close as I’m going to get to comfortable, I think. Depending on which spoon you’re comfortable with being.” That those words were leaving her lips was somewhat incredible, but the fact that she didn’t find it even awkward…well. It had been a hell of a night.
“I’d be willing to have your back. Like always,” she said with the smallest smirk. “Unless you want the wall. I… understand. Completely.”
“A kiss on the forehead”
Marina Tsvetaeva
A kiss on the forehead—erases misery.
I kiss your forehead.
A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness.
I kiss your eyes.
A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water.
I kiss your lips.
A kiss on the forehead—erases memory.
1917
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