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Avengers - In All Things
Title: In All Things
Genre: Gen, AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,000 words
Synopsis: She is, in all things, his sister; if not by blood then by the force of nature alone.
Author's Notes: Listen to Concrete Blonde's "The Beast" followed by Gerard McMann's "Cry Little Sister," choose a fandom, write a fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
“I know what you are,” she tells him. She paces an arc around him, pivots and begins the return without her eyes ever leaving him. She is as dark as the shadows he is held in, as bright as the blood that flows through his veins.
“Of course you do,” he replies. It’s not condescending, not mocking in the least. They know each other too well for games like that.
“He can’t return, can he?” she asks. There is sorrow there, barely a tell yet so telling. It is this that matters the most to her, this that he must convince her of.
He shrugs as much as he can given the current situation. “He never really left,” he admits. There’s a pressure, a knowledge, a life combined with his own now. Together, whole, inseparable. “We’re one now. New. The same. To kill one is to kill the other.” Then, because some part of him, the him part of him requires it, he adds, “He didn’t want this. Neither of us really wanted it, but it’s not like there was much choice in the matter. This is what I am now. This is what I will be.”
The choice was life or death, for the very definitions of both words. Either both would survive, or both would die. A gift is given in return for what is taken. It is their way. It is his way. He couldn’t change that, not if he wanted to.
She nods, considering. “Will you let him take the lead? Let him surface?”
“He already has,” he says, because it’s the truth. He couldn’t hold that in, hold that back, the strength of the original far too strong even if it was his kind’s way, which it really is not. She is family. She is, in all things, his sister; if not by blood then by the force of nature alone. She has rights and he will not withhold them.
She raises a doubting eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure the Clint Barton I know doesn’t have teeth like that,” she points out, which is fair, really.
He runs his tongue over his incisors, feels the sharp points threaten to slice the tender flesh. He’s already nicked his lip more than once, not quite having gotten the hang of suppressing them. He tries now though, feels the edges lessen slightly. “This is me now,” he says. “This is me trying to be me now but, really, this is as new to me as it is to you.”
“You know what you are,” she declares. “You know what you’re capable of.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it’s not like I know how to control it yet.” He huffs a laugh and sees the stress around her eyes relax, like his incompetence in this and everything else is proof of who he is.
She pauses now, levels him a look he knows far too well. “Do you want to?” she asks.
And isn’t that the brunt of it? Does he want to control the urges, the wants and desires, the strength and potential for destruction? Does he want to suppress his new self, his changed self, to try to pretend to be what he once was, a fraction of what he is now?
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I have been an assassin for so long, a tool used to kill; how is this any different just because I get something out of it on top of whatever my employer of choice used to? I’m stronger, faster, but not any deadlier than I was before. I just have another weapon at my disposal. Something new. Something for when the long kill is just not an option.”
“Who would you target?” she asks. “As a living weapon, who would you kill?”
And he thinks about it, really thinks about it. He could have anyone, taste the elite and feel their power, feed from sources that would undoubtedly make him stronger still. But there are enough assholes in the world, enough targets that would serve an actual purpose while still serving his own less than righteous one, that he really would never lack or need. He could still do some good, bring some light, even if it fed his own darkness.
So he tells her this, describes in detail the choices, how he would need to be watched to make sure that he did not become that which he consumed, how he would admittedly take great joy in tearing certain factions to pieces, be they literal or figurative. It’s no different than past conversations, really. They have spoken at length about missions both classified and not, side jobs and histories both honorable and less than. How she is no better than he while both are no worse than the other. How they are family, together, know each other’s choices and each other’s wills.
So it comes as no surprise when Natasha holds up the key to the shackles he wears, the shackles he could have escaped from at any time. It’s both amazing and not when she tugs her collar to the side and tilts her head just so. Amazing at the gift she is offering. Not because she demands one in return.
She holds the key in one hand and weapon designed specifically to fight their kind in the other. “Together or not at all,” she tells him.
“Of course,” he replies, teeth lengthening of their own accord, will to stop them long since faded. Because, as he knew before, she is his family. They are stronger together. They are better together. And now, they are most certainly more lethal together. She will become him as much as he will become her. They will both change yet, at some fundamental level, he knows they will remain the same: loyal, resistant, deadly.
Her taste bursts bright and alive upon his tongue and he drinks his fill, grants her hers. They step back out into the world together, or not at all.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen, AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,000 words
Synopsis: She is, in all things, his sister; if not by blood then by the force of nature alone.
Author's Notes: Listen to Concrete Blonde's "The Beast" followed by Gerard McMann's "Cry Little Sister," choose a fandom, write a fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
“I know what you are,” she tells him. She paces an arc around him, pivots and begins the return without her eyes ever leaving him. She is as dark as the shadows he is held in, as bright as the blood that flows through his veins.
“Of course you do,” he replies. It’s not condescending, not mocking in the least. They know each other too well for games like that.
“He can’t return, can he?” she asks. There is sorrow there, barely a tell yet so telling. It is this that matters the most to her, this that he must convince her of.
He shrugs as much as he can given the current situation. “He never really left,” he admits. There’s a pressure, a knowledge, a life combined with his own now. Together, whole, inseparable. “We’re one now. New. The same. To kill one is to kill the other.” Then, because some part of him, the him part of him requires it, he adds, “He didn’t want this. Neither of us really wanted it, but it’s not like there was much choice in the matter. This is what I am now. This is what I will be.”
The choice was life or death, for the very definitions of both words. Either both would survive, or both would die. A gift is given in return for what is taken. It is their way. It is his way. He couldn’t change that, not if he wanted to.
She nods, considering. “Will you let him take the lead? Let him surface?”
“He already has,” he says, because it’s the truth. He couldn’t hold that in, hold that back, the strength of the original far too strong even if it was his kind’s way, which it really is not. She is family. She is, in all things, his sister; if not by blood then by the force of nature alone. She has rights and he will not withhold them.
She raises a doubting eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure the Clint Barton I know doesn’t have teeth like that,” she points out, which is fair, really.
He runs his tongue over his incisors, feels the sharp points threaten to slice the tender flesh. He’s already nicked his lip more than once, not quite having gotten the hang of suppressing them. He tries now though, feels the edges lessen slightly. “This is me now,” he says. “This is me trying to be me now but, really, this is as new to me as it is to you.”
“You know what you are,” she declares. “You know what you’re capable of.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it’s not like I know how to control it yet.” He huffs a laugh and sees the stress around her eyes relax, like his incompetence in this and everything else is proof of who he is.
She pauses now, levels him a look he knows far too well. “Do you want to?” she asks.
And isn’t that the brunt of it? Does he want to control the urges, the wants and desires, the strength and potential for destruction? Does he want to suppress his new self, his changed self, to try to pretend to be what he once was, a fraction of what he is now?
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I have been an assassin for so long, a tool used to kill; how is this any different just because I get something out of it on top of whatever my employer of choice used to? I’m stronger, faster, but not any deadlier than I was before. I just have another weapon at my disposal. Something new. Something for when the long kill is just not an option.”
“Who would you target?” she asks. “As a living weapon, who would you kill?”
And he thinks about it, really thinks about it. He could have anyone, taste the elite and feel their power, feed from sources that would undoubtedly make him stronger still. But there are enough assholes in the world, enough targets that would serve an actual purpose while still serving his own less than righteous one, that he really would never lack or need. He could still do some good, bring some light, even if it fed his own darkness.
So he tells her this, describes in detail the choices, how he would need to be watched to make sure that he did not become that which he consumed, how he would admittedly take great joy in tearing certain factions to pieces, be they literal or figurative. It’s no different than past conversations, really. They have spoken at length about missions both classified and not, side jobs and histories both honorable and less than. How she is no better than he while both are no worse than the other. How they are family, together, know each other’s choices and each other’s wills.
So it comes as no surprise when Natasha holds up the key to the shackles he wears, the shackles he could have escaped from at any time. It’s both amazing and not when she tugs her collar to the side and tilts her head just so. Amazing at the gift she is offering. Not because she demands one in return.
She holds the key in one hand and weapon designed specifically to fight their kind in the other. “Together or not at all,” she tells him.
“Of course,” he replies, teeth lengthening of their own accord, will to stop them long since faded. Because, as he knew before, she is his family. They are stronger together. They are better together. And now, they are most certainly more lethal together. She will become him as much as he will become her. They will both change yet, at some fundamental level, he knows they will remain the same: loyal, resistant, deadly.
Her taste bursts bright and alive upon his tongue and he drinks his fill, grants her hers. They step back out into the world together, or not at all.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.