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[fic] An Accord of Sorts
Title: An Accord of Sorts
Prompt: Zoom In, Zoom Out B
Rating: PG-13 (implied violence, some language)
Fandom: Avengers
Pairings: Gen, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Original Characters
Summary: Natasha underestimates somebody. It’s a first.
Length: 1431 words
So this is for a writerverse challenge. I was supposed to write a scene I wrote from a new perspective. I wrote the original in third person limited with Maria Hill, so I chose first person for Natasha Romanoff. I don’t like writing fic in first person, so it...was a challenge. Yeah.
The rookie is the woman.
I can tell right away because she simply isn’t as comfortable in the fatigues, so I look at her and my gaze is an insult to her. That’s good: I mean it to be. Barton may be bringing me to SHIELD, but I am coming willingly and SHIELD should never forget that. I am not their ally out of sentiment, I have no stake in the outcomes of their lives. Keeping this disdainful distance is a blessing to us all; it keeps us on an even keel should I need to disable any of those on this jet and escape. It is nothing personal, but the woman—tall, right-handed, slim but definite tone under the fatigues—still looks disgruntled. I can’t tell if Barton notices, but since I’ve spent two days with him and I’m convinced he needs to get his head checked, that’s no surprise to me.
It makes me edgy. I don’t bother with a deep breath to calm myself.
We take off. The woman’s the first to sit. By that time, forty two minutes have passed and I have grown bored despite the nerves I don’t really acknowledge. SHIELD is a new adventure. It is not a wise move to let Barton bring me in as an asset, but my handlers have told me repeatedly I am not wise. I am clever and quick, but I am stupid and sentimental.
And they are dead.
The woman sits closest to me, and like me, she’s probably not wise. Her comrades—tall, good-looking, the black one is left handed and the other is possibly the offspring of a giant and a double-decker bus—take their time following her lead. I must take the first opportunity I can find to figure out what myths SHIELD has been spreading about the Black Widow.
Do they know I am not the only one?
I can’t read Barton. He was sent to kill me, he says, but he extended a hand to me and winked and said I’m too pretty to die. I gave him a black eye for that one. He thought it was funny.
I am convinced Clint Barton is a lunatic and should never be in charge of any ops, and I intend to tell his bosses that—provided they don’t have me killed. These agents and this rookie are in danger because of Clint Barton’s lunacy. At least the woman’s smart enough to leave her hand on her gun.
Not that it’ll do her much good, but it’s a good sentiment.
The giant agent’s eyes begin roving the jet, almost frantically. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he’s about to have a panic attack. It won’t be the first time my presence has done that to a man. But his friend is doing exactly the same thing.
I chance a glance at the woman. She’s still looking at me. Her hand is still on her gun. When the giant turns, I see the comm unit in his ear and understand: Barton.
The man is a lunatic.
And I have put my life in his hands to go meet with his bosses and find a new allegiance. Barton is not the biggest lunatic here.
“Thirty-seven, sir,” the giant says. After a beat, all three agents look at my right hand. I don’t look. There’s a buckle there. I can use it as a weapon, but it’s not really my first choice or even my twelfth.
And that’s what Barton is doing, I realize. He’s hazing these junior agents, keeping them in a state of fear because the man probably thinks it’s funny. I wonder if it’s merely how many weapons can I use or if he’s upped the stakes by making it how many weapons I can use to kill them.
I look toward the back of Barton’s head and roll my eyes at him. Then it’s back to staring at the ceiling because they may think I’m the deadliest thing on this jet—and I am—but I have no need to kill any of them. They are useful to me. For now.
“You’re a twisted bastard, Barton,” the woman says, and it’s so like what I’m thinking that I nearly smile. I don’t.
“I don’t need to,” the woman says, answering Barton’s murmur that is too quiet for me to hear. “She wouldn’t require anything on the Quinjet.”
So that’s what this jet is called. Sloppy to let me know the official name, even if the rest of her statement is true.
“She would simply take Frederickson down with a jab to the throat, a kick to the side of the knee to incapacitate him.”
Frederickson goes pale. He’s the giant and admittedly not my first target, but it’s nice of this woman to feed me his weak points.
She’s still going. I’m impressed. “Provided she could get enough leverage, she’d snap his neck before she took Agent Jones down, possibly with one of her thigh-holds.”
The woman’s done her research. There’s not room in the Quinjet for a good thigh hold flip, but it’s my signature move for a reason. I decide, in that moment, if I have to take them out, I’ll use that move on her. It’s the least I can do.
“She would try to finish the job with me using the stiletto in her left boot she thinks we don’t know about.”
I can’t help but grin. Of course it occurred to none of the men that there are only a few reasons to wear heeled boots. Sure, they make a woman’s ass look nice. But I have a fantastic ass already.
Complete silence. Both of the other agents have gone pale; the woman is still staring at me, her eyes hard and unafraid.
I can hear Barton this time. “Try?” he asks, loud enough to be heard in the hold without the comm.
“She’d have to be fast, sir, to beat my Glock.”
I’m fast. Everybody knows that. But maybe she’s fast, too.
And with that bit of bravado, the spell breaks and the two other agents relax a little. “I really object to being the first to die,” Frederickson the Giant says, pouting a little. It’s kind of cute, if idiotic.
Jones, who’s spent the entire flight either staring at me or at the woman’s chest, looks at her suspiciously now. “Yeah, how come she doesn’t just take you out with the knife first and then the pair of us?”
The woman looks at him and then at me. I don’t look away from the ceiling, but I can still feel the smile on my lips. This is kind of fun. Maybe SHIELD won’t be so bad.
“Shock value,” she says, and I nearly look at her in surprise. “Everybody expects her to go for the other woman first. Frederickson’s the bigger trophy.”
Everybody underestimates the Black Widow because I am a woman. And I have done exactly the same thing in this case to this rookie. There’s a feeling I don’t like, just under my breastbone. It takes me a minute to place it as shame: I would have gone for the woman first. She’s a woman therefore she’s not as physically strong, and therefore quicker to take down. I would have assumed she was the weakest, which was what people assume about the Black Widow.
But this woman assumes I am not like everybody else. It’s not idolatry or fear, the regular reactions for meeting the Black Widow. It’s…respect.
I lower my head to look her up and down, reassessing her completely and giving her my full attention. She meets my gaze without flinching, one of her eyebrows slightly raised. It’s not a captor looking at a captive. It’s like having a peer.
I already have a peer, but Barton is a lunatic.
So I smile and reach for my boot. The woman draws her gun—good. I would respect her less if she hadn’t. Even so, I hold out a hand to let her know I’m not a danger (I am, but that’s besides the point) and I pull out my favorite knife.
I toss it on the seat.
“Wrong boot,” I tell her, which is a lie. There’s a stiletto in both boots.
But it’s enough for now. I think as I curl up on the seat, relaxing a little, that I’ll like SHIELD. They have interesting people there.
Prompt: Zoom In, Zoom Out B
Rating: PG-13 (implied violence, some language)
Fandom: Avengers
Pairings: Gen, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Original Characters
Summary: Natasha underestimates somebody. It’s a first.
Length: 1431 words
So this is for a writerverse challenge. I was supposed to write a scene I wrote from a new perspective. I wrote the original in third person limited with Maria Hill, so I chose first person for Natasha Romanoff. I don’t like writing fic in first person, so it...was a challenge. Yeah.
The rookie is the woman.
I can tell right away because she simply isn’t as comfortable in the fatigues, so I look at her and my gaze is an insult to her. That’s good: I mean it to be. Barton may be bringing me to SHIELD, but I am coming willingly and SHIELD should never forget that. I am not their ally out of sentiment, I have no stake in the outcomes of their lives. Keeping this disdainful distance is a blessing to us all; it keeps us on an even keel should I need to disable any of those on this jet and escape. It is nothing personal, but the woman—tall, right-handed, slim but definite tone under the fatigues—still looks disgruntled. I can’t tell if Barton notices, but since I’ve spent two days with him and I’m convinced he needs to get his head checked, that’s no surprise to me.
It makes me edgy. I don’t bother with a deep breath to calm myself.
We take off. The woman’s the first to sit. By that time, forty two minutes have passed and I have grown bored despite the nerves I don’t really acknowledge. SHIELD is a new adventure. It is not a wise move to let Barton bring me in as an asset, but my handlers have told me repeatedly I am not wise. I am clever and quick, but I am stupid and sentimental.
And they are dead.
The woman sits closest to me, and like me, she’s probably not wise. Her comrades—tall, good-looking, the black one is left handed and the other is possibly the offspring of a giant and a double-decker bus—take their time following her lead. I must take the first opportunity I can find to figure out what myths SHIELD has been spreading about the Black Widow.
Do they know I am not the only one?
I can’t read Barton. He was sent to kill me, he says, but he extended a hand to me and winked and said I’m too pretty to die. I gave him a black eye for that one. He thought it was funny.
I am convinced Clint Barton is a lunatic and should never be in charge of any ops, and I intend to tell his bosses that—provided they don’t have me killed. These agents and this rookie are in danger because of Clint Barton’s lunacy. At least the woman’s smart enough to leave her hand on her gun.
Not that it’ll do her much good, but it’s a good sentiment.
The giant agent’s eyes begin roving the jet, almost frantically. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he’s about to have a panic attack. It won’t be the first time my presence has done that to a man. But his friend is doing exactly the same thing.
I chance a glance at the woman. She’s still looking at me. Her hand is still on her gun. When the giant turns, I see the comm unit in his ear and understand: Barton.
The man is a lunatic.
And I have put my life in his hands to go meet with his bosses and find a new allegiance. Barton is not the biggest lunatic here.
“Thirty-seven, sir,” the giant says. After a beat, all three agents look at my right hand. I don’t look. There’s a buckle there. I can use it as a weapon, but it’s not really my first choice or even my twelfth.
And that’s what Barton is doing, I realize. He’s hazing these junior agents, keeping them in a state of fear because the man probably thinks it’s funny. I wonder if it’s merely how many weapons can I use or if he’s upped the stakes by making it how many weapons I can use to kill them.
I look toward the back of Barton’s head and roll my eyes at him. Then it’s back to staring at the ceiling because they may think I’m the deadliest thing on this jet—and I am—but I have no need to kill any of them. They are useful to me. For now.
“You’re a twisted bastard, Barton,” the woman says, and it’s so like what I’m thinking that I nearly smile. I don’t.
“I don’t need to,” the woman says, answering Barton’s murmur that is too quiet for me to hear. “She wouldn’t require anything on the Quinjet.”
So that’s what this jet is called. Sloppy to let me know the official name, even if the rest of her statement is true.
“She would simply take Frederickson down with a jab to the throat, a kick to the side of the knee to incapacitate him.”
Frederickson goes pale. He’s the giant and admittedly not my first target, but it’s nice of this woman to feed me his weak points.
She’s still going. I’m impressed. “Provided she could get enough leverage, she’d snap his neck before she took Agent Jones down, possibly with one of her thigh-holds.”
The woman’s done her research. There’s not room in the Quinjet for a good thigh hold flip, but it’s my signature move for a reason. I decide, in that moment, if I have to take them out, I’ll use that move on her. It’s the least I can do.
“She would try to finish the job with me using the stiletto in her left boot she thinks we don’t know about.”
I can’t help but grin. Of course it occurred to none of the men that there are only a few reasons to wear heeled boots. Sure, they make a woman’s ass look nice. But I have a fantastic ass already.
Complete silence. Both of the other agents have gone pale; the woman is still staring at me, her eyes hard and unafraid.
I can hear Barton this time. “Try?” he asks, loud enough to be heard in the hold without the comm.
“She’d have to be fast, sir, to beat my Glock.”
I’m fast. Everybody knows that. But maybe she’s fast, too.
And with that bit of bravado, the spell breaks and the two other agents relax a little. “I really object to being the first to die,” Frederickson the Giant says, pouting a little. It’s kind of cute, if idiotic.
Jones, who’s spent the entire flight either staring at me or at the woman’s chest, looks at her suspiciously now. “Yeah, how come she doesn’t just take you out with the knife first and then the pair of us?”
The woman looks at him and then at me. I don’t look away from the ceiling, but I can still feel the smile on my lips. This is kind of fun. Maybe SHIELD won’t be so bad.
“Shock value,” she says, and I nearly look at her in surprise. “Everybody expects her to go for the other woman first. Frederickson’s the bigger trophy.”
Everybody underestimates the Black Widow because I am a woman. And I have done exactly the same thing in this case to this rookie. There’s a feeling I don’t like, just under my breastbone. It takes me a minute to place it as shame: I would have gone for the woman first. She’s a woman therefore she’s not as physically strong, and therefore quicker to take down. I would have assumed she was the weakest, which was what people assume about the Black Widow.
But this woman assumes I am not like everybody else. It’s not idolatry or fear, the regular reactions for meeting the Black Widow. It’s…respect.
I lower my head to look her up and down, reassessing her completely and giving her my full attention. She meets my gaze without flinching, one of her eyebrows slightly raised. It’s not a captor looking at a captive. It’s like having a peer.
I already have a peer, but Barton is a lunatic.
So I smile and reach for my boot. The woman draws her gun—good. I would respect her less if she hadn’t. Even so, I hold out a hand to let her know I’m not a danger (I am, but that’s besides the point) and I pull out my favorite knife.
I toss it on the seat.
“Wrong boot,” I tell her, which is a lie. There’s a stiletto in both boots.
But it’s enough for now. I think as I curl up on the seat, relaxing a little, that I’ll like SHIELD. They have interesting people there.
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