Posts tagged Natasha Romanov
Posts tagged Natasha Romanov
csylia asked you:Natasha and Star Wars, is there a story behind this one too?
mallow-flower asked you:Can you tell us anything about Phil and his love of Miyazaki movies? (because he named the toaster Calcifer)
Both of these are Clint’s fault.
No one is shocked.
However, maybe not the way that people might think.
The op in Barcelona went wrong like, five minutes after Clint was on the ground. If you asked Clint, he’d tell you that the op went wrong three days prior, when he was informed that Natasha was in the Ukraine dealing with an old ‘friend’ and Coulson was mopping up the remains of a a information smuggling ring in Shenzen, so he was going in without any member of his preferred team.
He pouted the entire way there. He would define it as ‘avoiding contact and concentrating on his assignment,’ but everyone else in the goddamn jet would define it as ‘pouting like a whiny little boy.’ To which he would say, “Screw you.”
Anyway, the op was a mess from beginning to end, Coulson would’ve had frickin’ kittens if he’d known what was happening, but Clint was used to disastrous levels of incompetence. They didn’t really bother him.
Despite some heavy resistance, they located and managed to clear the kidnapped envoy from AIM’s cell, Clint taking out target after target, explosive arrows chipping away at the secret base with brutal efficiency, even as he half carried the damn politician down the mountain.
Just as the SHIELD evac was coming in, a lucky hit from an AIM energy weapon took out the cliffside above them. Clint had moved without thinking, shoving the envoy down just before the collapsing rockface swept them away.
By the time Coulson and Natasha made it back to base, Clint was in medical, alive but in a coma.
Natasha had been very, very unhappy. Coulson had taken one look at the mission report and had, indeed, been livid.
Neither of which had changed the fact that Clint was quiet and still and silent and so pale beneath the walls of machines and bandages, and Coulson knew that Clint would hate having the breathing tube down his throat and Natasha continuously had to check to make sure that his IVs were in place because if he woke up, his first act would be to pull them out.
And there was nothing else they could do but trade shifts, sitting next to his bed.
Natasha had gone through his Netflix account and his Amazon wish list and his IMDB highest rated movies (his passwords are pathetic, and she changed them all just to spite him when he woke up), and she started watching them all on the tv in his room. His favorite movies, his favorite stories, the ones he quoted to her until she wanted to strangle him, the ones that he taunted her about and teased her with until she threw a knife at his head.
She watched Star Wars a lot. She would sit on the chair when there were others around, but in the darkest part of the nights, when the nurses and aides came on a strict schedule, and no one was foolish enough to try to remove her, she’d curl next to him, her head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as Han Solo bickered with Leia and she cursed the stubborn princess under her breath in gutteral Russian.
When it was Coulson’s turn, he brought books. Books Clint had never read, books that he might not even care about, but books that Coulson had always thought, maybe, Clint might like. Some his own, some he knew were good, and some that were tied to things that Clint liked.
And he read Diana Wynn Jones’ “Howl’s Moving Castle.” He’d considered the movie, because Clint loved the movie, loved the animation and the life and the magic of it, and so did Coulson, but he pretended not to watch.
He brought the book because Clint always said he loved Coulson’s voice.
And so he sat, hour after hour, reading aloud. He felt kind of silly at first, but after a while, he learned to modulate his voice for the words, for the different characters, for the soft inflection of people in love and the staccato delivery of a soldier at war. He told the story of Howl and his mysterious, monstrous castle, the Witch of the Waste, and the delicate, determined hatmaker Sophie.
Sometimes, Natasha would arrive silently, appearing in a chair nearby with hot tea, spiked with lemon and honey to soothe his rough throat. And when he had to stop reading, when he was almost hoarse with it, she would pick up another book at random and read, her voice lilting and delicate and steady. She would pause for comentary, she would roll her eyes and skip passages when the characters met with her disapproval, but she read as Coulson drank his tea.
Drank his tea and clung to Clint’s still, limp hand.
They were arguing about who was to blame for Howl and Calcifer’s prediciment when Coulson looked down and realized Clint’s eyes were open. Foggy and not quite focused, but open.
And later, when the tube was removed from his throat, and he’d taken a sip of water, he pointed out that Calcifer was, in fact, a more interesting character than Howl, so screw that guy.
So Natasha sometimes watches Star Wars when no one is watching her, and sometimes, Coulson checks the battered paperback book in his lower left desk drawer, tracing the spine and the the pages, and remembering the warmth in Clint’s eyes as he whispered, “I like your spark.”
Comfort by Me
Featuring Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov, from Scifigrl47’s absolutely awesome fic ‘Four (Or Five) Reasons For Kidnapping Tony Stark’ - which if you have yet to read, I suggest you go do so :D
Pen and ink and a white-out pen.
I really need a friggin scanner.
EVERYONE NEEDS HUGS.
Ignore me. Kinda tearing up over here. So pretty… 8)
Finished the pencils :D Now to figure out if I want to ink it or not…
Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov from Scifigrl47’s ‘Four (Or Five) Reasons To Kidnap Tony Stark’ - in which Tasha is comforting Steve after a particularly bad nightmare.
I struggled with this scene, I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU. Ugh. Perhaps the worst time with anything I’ve ever written, I just could not get it right.
This was exactly what I was aiming for. 8)
Is there anything better than a comic starting with Natasha sneaking into Tony’s bedroom, waking him with a hand over his mouth and telling him, “There is a task for you to perform this night.”
It’s like the beginning of a porno. A very bad porno.
“I might be drunk.”
“You are most certainly very drunk, sir.”
Tony considered that. “Armors ares- Armor are- The armors are locked?” he managed at last.
“Yes, sir. I will not permit you to access them, or any of the more dangerous equipment in the workshop. Which is, honestly, just about everything.”
“Jarvis. Always keepin’ me from blowin’ shit up.” Tony saluted the ceiling with his bottle. That was harder than it should’ve been, because he was upside down on the couch, his legs on the backrest, his spine on the seat, and his head and shoulders hanging down towards the floor. As he hefted the bottle in a salute to his AI, he ended up dumping half the contents on his face.
Sputtering, coughing, he flailed towards upright, and unbalanced himself, rolling off the couch and onto the floor with a thump. Which was fine, being facedown on the floor was fine, because at least this way his head would stop spinning.
“I like the floor,” he said, his voice muffled against the concrete.