So, I saw you were doing something like "Send me AU's and I'll give you 5+ headcannons about it. Are you still doing that? If you are still doing it...Then I submit a coffee shop AU for legend. You don't have to do it, but the AU would also work for other fandoms so you could use it for those. Okay, that's all. But I would love it if you would do that AU!
HOLY FUCKING YES
Day and Tess have worked at the same coffee shop since high school and they never fail to remind each other that they’ve been working together since high school
(Tess is literally a senior in high school. Day graduated two years ago.)
Kaede is their manager and every wlw girl comes in and is like “w o w” seeing her.
June visits this coffee shop while studying in college because she is going to be a PhD and she is going to do it better and faster than everyone else.
She orders anything with caramel and adds four shots of espresso.
Day draws hearts in her lattes.
Tess draws rabbits.
Sometimes, June’s study buddy Anden joins her, and Day “”””conveniently”””” has to go “get some more fucking beans” from the back whenever “that asshole” shows up.
Day writes his number on every cup of coffee he gives June.
When he actually asks her out with words and not coffee, she says she’ll check her calendar. He laughs.
She takes two minutes but eventually tells him that she’s free on Thursday from seven until ten and not ONE MINUTE MORE.
This was originally going to be for Han/Leia Week, but I’m on vacation, so that deadline got fudged. But here’s this short little fic for the prompt “Lost Together” that was absolutely inspired by a song.
On ao3.
“I am not yours, not lost in you, / Not lost, although I long to be”
-Sara Teasdale, “I Am Not Yours”
His eyes have always been her undoing. In the split second it takes to find his gaze, a thousand possibilities run through her head, but of course it’s this one that comes to fruition. Her footsteps stall the moment she meets his gaze, and she’s nineteen and twenty-two and twenty-four and thirty and forty-six and however old she is all at once. What year is it? When was the last time she saw his eyes? The holos she keeps in secret are nothing compared to this, compared to looking him in the face across the battlefield.
This was, again, going to be for Han/Leia Week, but I, again, am a dumbass. I’m also an asshole because this is for both the “Space Roadtrip” prompt and the “AU” prompt. It’s actually part of a multichapter fic I’m planning that takes place in 1969.
On ao3
“Hey.”
Han looked down from the roof of the Falcon and found Leia, hair tied back, in jeans and a blouse that looked as though it used to be professional. But, hell, everything she wore looked professional or expensive or… He stopped his thoughts before he could finish that one and instead looked at her. “Hey yourself. What are you doing up?”
“I could be asking what you’re doing out of the driver’s seat,” she said, giving him a little of a rare smile. Jesus Christ.
(Leia-centric angst because I have no self control. On ao3.)
In the same way she’s been able to feel things her entire life, Leia feels Alderaan turn to ash and dust. It’s a hole in her chest, it’s a blade in her lung, it’s a million screams in one cacophonous harmony.
I don't know where the new followers are coming from, but hi! Welcome to a world where I can't decide between present tense and past tense what the fuck! <3
“My boss. Right? Kind of? The guy that’s kind of my boss? He’s…like, a human car-crash. And I just have to watch it happen again and again. It’s depressing. He depresses me.” -Kate, Hawkeye #10
Clint Barton never quite got the whole literary elements thing from his various English classes. That might have had something to do with his lack of a high school diploma, but even when his fifth grade class was first learning, the terms never stuck with their definitions. An allusion was something about something that wasn't this something, and a simile was something between two things, maybe? Hell, he couldn't remember algebra, and he supposedly used trigonometry every day in the work place. One thing he remembered, though, was metaphor, when something is something else.
He hated metaphors, to be honest. Mostly because everyone- Kate, Cherry, random Eastern European gang members, oracles or whatever, apparently magic rocks, the entire fucking universe- seemed to pin the same metaphor on him.
Clint Barton: human car crash.
Kate had once pointed it out as an analogy for his love life, and she was just a bit too specific.
He used to think that it started when he was eight, when the first real car crash impacted his life. But, every time his father drank, every time he heard a bottle shatter, every time a belt was taken off, it was tires screeching and steel crumpling like aluminum foil. Of course, the actual car crash changed things- for better or worse, Clint never decided.
The orphanage was the realization. Foster families were trying to slam on the breaks. Running away to the circus was the windshield shattering. The Swordsman was hitting his head off the steering wheel over and over and over. Barney leaving...
Barney leaving was the gas tank exploding, scattering his body over the expanse of the highway.
He got used to living like any moment would be the death of him.
Every crash, every way the universe fucked him in the ass was unique. Sometimes- most of the time- it was his fault, and he would swerve last-minute to try and save everyone by wrecking himself. He typically brought a handful of people down with him. It could be that he saw the point of impact too late, or that he lost focus for half a second, or that he could have saved the day had he been slightly faster or stronger or smarter or whatever.
Other times his hands were tied to the wheel. Maybe he was blindfolded, too, for the hell of it. The brake was always broken, though, and the gas always floored. So, he attempted to drive and save as many lives as possible.
Sometimes he was flat-out helpless, hands behind his back, eyes wide open, screaming so loud he burst his own eardrums.
Sometimes he was drunk. That never failed to sting.
But it always, always ended with a wrecked car and a bloodied Barton, crash after crash after crash.
Days pass. Days and weeks and nearly a month since the fiasco in Washington. Natasha isn't sure how much she has changed, but she still sleeps with a gun under her pillow, her fingers wrapped around it as she never quite slips into REM.
She cleared out one of her alias' bank accounts a week ago, and now, she has enough money to stay at a half-decent Hilton under the name Eliza Kelly. She hasn't had the time or the drive to come up with a backstory, just that Eliza recently broke up with a douchebag boyfriend and has no where else to go but this hotel room.
That's something she and Eliza have in common. Natasha tends to thread her identities with pieces of her, making them just a hair easier to take on, but, hell, she isn't sure she could pretend to have somewhere safe at this point. Her barracks at SHIELD are gone, along with the entire organization that was almost home. Steve needs time for himself, time to adjust to James Barnes being alive.
(Natasha almost remembers him, in the back of her mind, in the fog of her re-worked memories. Odessa, yes, but that wasn't the first time.)
Fury is gone. Hill is applying for Stark. Clint is...
Clint's god knows where doing god knows what, has been for months.
They've always had a strange rhythm which they both follow.
HYDRA is still following her, she's sure of it. But, they don't seem to be after Eliza just yet, and she takes it as a victory. She needs victories, these days.
The cleaning staff knocks on her door, and she jumps. A car cuts her off, and she ducks to reach for a pistol. Someone turns too quickly in the street, and she almost starts running.
It's amazing how quickly she grew used to being part of an organization after defecting from one. Perhaps she has not changed as much as she forces herself to believe.
She wakes at twelve-thirty to the sound of her door unlocking itself. She's on her feet instantly, armed and more dangerous than usual, and she doesn't hesitate to aim at the opening door.
"Nat?" A beat. "Jesus, put the gun down!"
Clint Barton is standing in her doorway, hands in the air, bandage over his nose.
She nearly drops the gun with the intent of throwing her arms around him. But, she resists. She does, however, reposition so she'd shoot his shoulder, not his head. "Where have you been, Clint?"
"I came as soon as... As everything went to shit, I guess. Why are you still pointing that at me?"
Because I'm scared to death you're not on my side anymore. "If you're here to kill me, let's get it over with."
He looks as if she slapped him across the face: shocked, appalled, confused, offended, hurt. "Why would I want to kill you? What's happening? Are you..." His eyes go wide as he checks for injuries, checks for signs of her being harmed. He'll find those later, if he lives. "Are you with me, Natasha?"
Her hands nearly tremble. That's their phrase, that's how they save each other. He's checking to see if she's slipped back into the Red Room due to everything that's happened, and somehow, that convinces her. Maybe it's that he cares. Maybe it's that he knows. Maybe it's that only a genuine dumbass, her genuine dumbass, could put his shooter's mental health before his physical safety.
As she lays the gun on the bed, she says, "I'm with you."
It isn't romantic. It doesn't deserve swelling music. She simply walks over and stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He follows suit, holding her close. His head tucks into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. It isn't totally right. This isn't as warm, as comforting as it used to be. He may still be the closest thing to her home, but that home is made of broken windows and peeling wallpaper. When he speaks, she forces herself not to jump. "I missed you."
"You missed everything."
This goes best with my other drabble, I'm With You, just because of the continuity of phrases. They aren't directly connected, however.
Thanks for reading!
SHIELD often forgets how fragile, how explosive, how catatonic its agents are. They train for the field, not for what comes after. Agents wade into war, guns blazing, but they are afraid of the dark.
SHIELD is excellent at using its resources.
Natasha Romanoff knows St. Petersburg like the back of her hand. Natasha Romanoff is the best assassin in the world. Natasha Romanoff works well with Clint Barton.
So, they get on a plane and go to Russia and execute the mission perfectly. They sit on opposite rooftops, comms in their ears, but their silence is typical and comfortable. She takes the shot, and Clint doesn't need to see to know that the target is dead.
"I knew him," whispers Natasha, "when I was younger."
Clint can't find words, knows she wouldn't want them anyway. He says nothing when she takes his hand in hers, nearly breaking the skin with her nails.
That night, he wakes to her straddling him and pulling back for a punch. He catches her fist, but she's ahead of him, she's nailing him in the throat.
"Natasha!" he chokes as she hits him again and again and again. "It's me! It's Clint!"
She pauses for half a second before gritting her teeth and slamming his head into the headboard. He curses under his breath. "Please, Tasha, please, please."
And then she collapses into him. It's without grace. She simply goes limp and falls. She's dead weight on his chest, as if she simply ran out of battery. After a moment, she says, "Clint?"
The breath leaves his lungs, and she sags further. "Yeah, yeah, you with me?" It's their phrase, their fail-safe, their go-to for panic attacks and anything else terrible and unseen.
"I'm with you," she murmurs, voice strained. She starts to push herself up, but he can see the terror in her eyes, so he pulls her back.
"C'mere, Tash. You're alright."
"I hit you." She sounds as if she shot him, not punched him.
"I get hit a lot, it's okay."
"I thought you were..."
"It's alright. You're okay. You're safe." He can feel her skin trembling as her fingers find his shoulders.
"Clint," she whispers, fingers curling against his chest. "Oh, Clint."
"It's okay, Natasha. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you." His hands move through her hair, curls catching on his fingers. "I'm gonna stay right here until you don't need me."
"I'll always need you."
Part of him hears it as her being too scared to make sense of herself, part of him thinks it's too late for it to mean anything. But in the back of his mind, he understands that it's a confession, that it's a prayer.
The Battle of New York takes its toll on everyone, but Clint's never allowed himself to cry before. Hell, he doesn't deserve it.
[warnings include death, alcohol/alcoholism, child abuse, knives, choking, nightmares, PTSD, and a baby bird breaking his own wings. yeah, that was a metaphor]
May 12.
Exhaustion plagues Clint's shoulders. The first week has been interrogations and intense medical exams. Being surrounded by one-way mirrors and cold faces and hidden handguns sure doesn't feel like sick bay. He hasn't been permitted to leave SHIELD headquarters for eight days post-battle, eight days post-Loki.
Just to make sure he's alright.
Then, they release him, telling him he isn't at fault, giving him a pat on the back.
"They're pretending I'm innocent," he says that night, whispering into the beer Natasha had offered. "They treated me like a terrorist, and now they're telling me I'm innocent."
He takes a swig, and it burns his throat, but he swallows everything. "I think they're wrong."
Concern doesn't even begin to describe the emotion in her eyes.
May 14.
Romanoff, it's Rogers. Steve Rogers. Barton was at the clean-up today, but I couldn't get to talking to him. How's he doing? Is he having nightmares? I don't have his number, otherwise I'd call him. Yours was programmed into my telephone. Tell him... Tell him that I'm here if he ever needs it, from one soldier to another. I might understand what he's going through.
May 15.
"Natasha told me you called."
Clint watches as Steve looks up from the rubble, his impossible strength moving a steel beam that must weigh at least two hundred pounds. "Barton," he says, shielding his eyes from the sun. "I'm glad to see you here."
Glad to see me cleaning up my mess. "I'm glad you know how to use a cell phone."
"It's not that hard, but it's a bit mind-boggling."
"You get used to that."
There's a moment of pause, and Clint has to force himself to look at Steve's face, not at the dust and rubble and bodies beyond.
The casualty count keeps climbing, civilians and agents alike.
"You kill anyone, in the war?" asks Clint, shifting his weight to his left leg. He's giving Steve what he wants, to help the golden boy remember that he's still golden.
"Yes."
"You ever see their faces?"
"Some of them, yes."
"What about the numbers?" he asks, watching someone pull away a lump of cement to find someone's face, gray and deformed and gone. He adds another to his mental tally. "You ever figure how many?"
"I tried," Steve says, finally getting up. "I used to do the math with notebook paper, and then I'd multiply by four, for families."
It's subtle, but Clint's teeth sink into his lip.
"It never did anything but to make it worse. After a while, I just had to try and accept that it was war. It's not easy, Clint. But, those men knew what they were getting into, fighting a war." His voice is beyond gentle, and it sounds as if he's been thinking about how to say this, how to deliver it sweetly.
Behind Steve, someone gasps, and Clint sees it, not hears. A few more people come over to uncover what must be a body. Someone brings a stretcher.
"Just know that agents and soldiers prepare themselves for death."
Two men gingerly remove the body, and the air leaves Clint's lungs.
It's a child, no more than ten. The ribcage is horrifically crushed, and blackened blood has soaked the shirt. Dark, curly hair, cut close to the head has been turned ashen by dust. The kid's eyes are still open, still open, and they somehow find Clint across the width of the street.
You did this. Fix it.
"I'm trying to," he whispers. "I just don't think I can."
"It'll work itself out," says Steve, and Clint suddenly remembers that he's standing in front of Captain America.
Steve doesn't understand, can't understand. He's a hero. He's a symbol. There's a clip of a woman that's been spread over every possible news station. "Captain America saved my life," she says with reverence.
There are no thank-yous for Hawkeye.
May 18.
"And now, we move on to the new information about the Battle of New York, as most have dubbed it. The Avengers, made up of-"
Natasha turns off the television with a groan. She's been busy with trying to manipulate information to paint the picture SHIELD wants. "I wish they'd stop repeating the same shit."
"Tell me about it," says Clint around a bowl of Lucky Charms.
May 29.
It's the middle of the night when Clint wakes, Natasha sleeping next to him as she's taken to doing in the past month. She trusts him. Good. Perfect.
He reaches over to his nightstand and finds the knob of its drawer in the blackness.
"Clint," murmurs Natasha, grabbing at the back of his shirt. The sleepiness in her voice is almost vulnerable. "Don't go."
The drawer is pulled open as his eyes adjust to the blackness. He finds a handle, and his well-trained fingers wrap around it. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart," he whispers.
That's when he flips over, straddling her waist, pinning her with his hips.
Her eyes aren't even open. "No, no, not now, baby. It's too late." A yawn escapes her lips, and it makes Clint reconsider.
So, he glances at the knife and tosses it to the floor before wrapping his hands around her neck, squeezing. Her eyes shoot open, and she starts thrashing against the sheets, but he only pushes his thumbs deeper into her throat.
She keeps mouthing his name. Her fingers claw at his hands.
He is relentless. He's grinning.
Her struggles get less and less forceful as the oxygen in her blood fades. This is the way it's always meant to be: him, finishing the job. Slowly, intimately, in all the ways he knows she fears.
Their eyes meet, and he can see the terror in her gaze. But, she isn't angry. Just scared. She almost looks worried as the life fades from her.
Clint sits bolt upright in bed, sweat soaking him and the sheets. His eyes dart around the room; it's empty. No one is here except for him. Natasha is safe in her own apartment.
He grabs the bottle of water on his nightstand and drinks all of it, hardly breathing between gulps. He can't breathe, doesn't deserve to breathe.
You okay, Natasha? he texts.
Yeah, I'm fine. Did something happen?
Just a nightmare. I'm fine. Goodnight.
Clint doesn't allow himself to cry.
June 4.
"So, it's been a month," says Natasha over a carton of terrible French fries at McDonald's.
Clint nods and pops a disgusting chicken nugget in his mouth.
"Maybe we should take some time off."
"We haven't had an assignment since May."
"Well, I'm getting tired of looking at the same skyline."
He grabs his Coke and leans back, sipping half-heartedly. "Where the hell would we go? Everywhere in the world is obsessed with this godforsaken city."
"Someplace out of the loop?"
"There's no way I'm getting on a plane."
"California, then."
"I want to stay as far away from Stark as possible."
She slams her hands on the table, and he flinches just the slightest bit. "Stop it."
"I don't want to-"
"What, have fun? Get better? Jesus, Clint, it's been a month, and you haven't even smiled."
"I'm sorry for being affected," he responds with heavy sarcasm, putting his drink down.
"Like I wasn't?" She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him the glare she's patented for when he's being a dumbass. "But I'm not sitting at home in sweatpants and drinking a pot of coffee every day."
"Three pots."
"Clint!"
He sighs, the air suddenly heavy and suffocating. There are too many people around for him to allow himself to slip into a panic attack. A long moment of silence passes as he tries to swallow the terror that pools in his chest. The way she looks at him kills.
"How about a road trip?" he attempts quietly.
She raises her eyebrows with heavy skepticism. "A road trip," she repeats.
"Yeah. In my truck, maybe."
"I'm never going to understand why you think having a pickup truck in New York City is a good idea."
"I've got an image to uphold."
"Where does this road trip end?"
"I dunno, Nat. Maybe the Grand Canyon?"
She chews her lip in consideration before nodding a bit. "Alright. How long do you want to be gone for?"
He shrugs, but the death in his eyes is slowly fading. "Maybe a month? Two?"
She smiles a bit, and it's only slightly forced. "How about we leave in a week?"
"Sure," he says, nodding. "We can stop by laundromats to wash our shit."
With a nod, she steals one of his chicken nuggets.
June 12.
"Mind if I take a little detour?" asks Clint, late-afternoon sun making the blond of his hair look gold.
She looks up from her book- the drive has been corn for hours, now, so why watch the scenery- and nods a bit. "Go ahead. Where to?"
His lips quirk into something that's almost a smile. "There's this diner my brother used to take me to on Saturdays."
Her expression turns to one of shock, but she says nothing.
"We'll get there tomorrow afternoon, probably."
"Sounds good to me. Sleep under the stars? In the truck bed?"
He pauses before looking at her. There are no weapons in the back of the truck. "Absolutely."
June 13.
12:30 PM.
Natasha watches Clint pace outside as she sips at her chocolate shake. The diner likely hasn't had a paint job since its opening in the fifties, but the shakes are great, the burgers better. The vintage memorabilia is all faked, save for the records. When they pulled up outside, though, Clint's eyes sparkled.
He keeps moving back and forth, his phone pressed to his ear. His hands make wide gestures, and she swears she catches him chuckling.
After a while, he comes back through the door, his phone in his pocket. He takes a sip from his shake, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "God, I've missed these. We used to come here every Saturday, ride our bikes. Barney- my brother- he'd pay. He got strawberry, I got chocolate."
"That sounds lovely," she says, putting her chin in her hands.
He's grinning.
1:12 PM.
Barney Barton checks his voicemail, and his brows furrow when he sees the most recent message.
Hey, Barney. It's me, it's Clint. I'm... I'm back in Iowa, back home. Do you remember the Starlight Diner? I'm there with my... Well, I don't know what she is, really. But her name's Natasha, and she's here with me. The milkshakes, they're still the best. I'll order a strawberry for you, yeah? I... I hope you're doing alright, Barn. I'm trying to be alright, and I'm getting there. I... I don't know if I'll have cell service, but if you call, I'll try and pick up. No pressure, though. No pressure.
1:46 PM.
Clint parks the truck outside of the cemetery, a bouquet of miscellaneous flowers from Walmart in the back seat. He hops out of the driver's side and takes the flowers before motioning for Natasha to follow.
She can feel the difference in him as he walks, see the weight in his steps. Nothing is said, but she still watches him closely.
He stops in front of a rather plain headstone, only names and dates. She only reads the names before looking to him, swallowing.
HAROLD AND EDITH BARTON
"Clint?"
"My mom and dad." He says the words without malice, just exhaustion.
Her eyes never leave him. "You were a child, right?"
"Yeah. Eight. It was a... A car accident."
She takes his hand, her thumb running over his knuckles.
"My dad was a drunk."
Her hand squeezes around his.
"That's why they wrecked. Dad was drunk. Used to hit me and Barney. His hand and his belt. Mom didn't care. Sometimes, he'd slam us into the wall and just... just scream.
She pulls at his hand, making him look at her. "Why don't we go, Clint? Let's head out." His eyes are getting red, and she isn't sure she can take him crying.
"Hold on," he says, taking his hand from hers. "Just stay here for a minute."
She watches as he rummages through the truck before grabbing something and returning to her side. He carries an empty beer can and the flowers, slightly damaged by Clint's bending.
He sets the can down and stomps before kicking it toward the headstone half-heartedly. It clatters against the stone before falling to the overgrown grass.
"Here," he says, handing Natasha the flowers. He just sounds... tired.
Her brows furrow.
"Because you're here. With me. That's why. Now, come on. We've got one more stop."
2:03 PM.
"You never told me it was a farm," says Natasha, leaning against the pickup and surveying the farmhouse. The yellow paint is peeling from the exterior, the shutters are rotting, and there's a dead tree lying in pieces on the right side.
"It's a farm," he replies, his voice far away.
"Do you... want to go inside?"
"Nah."
He breathes deeply as he looks, his hands on the cab of the truck. She knows the look in his eyes: bitter memory and sorrow. It tastes like copper.
"Which one was your room?"
He points to the second floor, the right corner window. "You see that tree?" he asks, referring to the broken limbs on the ground.
She nods once, following his gestures.
"It used to be so tall, it'd reach my window on that side. Must've fallen down since I left."
His teeth sink into his lip as he considers going further.
"I used to climb into it, at night, when my parents were fighting. I'd get so far out, I couldn't hear 'em. I nearly froze in my pajama shorts, but I just looked at the stars, and I'd listen to the crickets-"
And, suddenly, tears well. His speech shudders to a halt, and his chest begins to quiver.
It's much too early for cricket song.
His eyes look skyward in an attempt to keep tears from falling, but it's of little use. Saltwater makes a streamlined path, and when he sees Natasha's open mouth as she gapes at him, he collapses.
He has enough sense to hunch into the cab of the truck as he begins to sob.
Her hand finds his back, and he can tell that she's not quite sure how to comfort someone who's nearly destroyed the world.
Every single face from New York flies through his head, and he hasn't even put a face to every number. It hurts, it aches, it kills him to imagine how many families he's destroyed. Over a month has passed, and this is the first time he cries. The sobs send his body buckling underneath their weight.
He's crying like a child, and a fucking tree set it off. Not the people he killed, not the loss of himself, but the destruction of the last place in the world that might have been safe.
"I'm sorry," he whispers under his gasping for air. "I'm so sorry."
Natasha's hand on his back stills, but his sobs do anything but. "It'll be okay, Clint. It'll be okay."
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