osprey_archer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
osprey_archer) wrote2019-10-15 08:28 am
osprey_archer) wrote2019-10-15 08:28 am
Entry tags:
Whumptober, days 11-15
The third bout of Whumptober fics!
11. Stitches. Natasha & Clint.
Clint notices the gash in Natasha’s leg as they forge through the punishing wind up the driveway to the safehouse. “Shit, that’s going to need stitches,” he shouts. The wind still carries most of his voice away.
Natasha doesn’t answer till they’re inside. The wind is a mere dull howl once they’ve closed the door, an operation that requires both of them to shove their entire body weights against the door.
Natasha has never been in a hurricane before. She’s kind of looking forward to it, even though it means extraction will be delayed for at least two days.
“I’ll have to stitch it up,” Clint says. He looks worried. “We can’t wait till the extraction team arrives.”
“Of course.” Natasha follows him into the bathroom - now that the adrenaline high is fading, she’s limping a little - and sticks her leg under the bathtub faucet while Clint ransacks the medicine cabinet for supplies.
Once she’s washed away enough congealed blood to roll her pants leg up and survey the wound, Natasha surveys the deep cut with some satisfaction. She’s never been injured by a throwing star before. When Yelena hears, she’ll...
Natasha’s satisfaction deflates like a balloon. Funny how Yelena’s still her first thought whenever she gets a cool injury.
“Shit,” Clint says. Natasha looks up.
“No thread?” she asks.
“No, I found a needle and thread. But there’s no topical anesthetic.”
“You don’t use anesthetic for stitches anyway,” Natasha reminds him.
“What? Yes, you do.”
“In the - ”
Natasha stops herself, but not fast enough. The end of the phrase hangs in the air. In the Red Room…
In the Red Room, they didn’t.
She glares at Clint, daring him to comment. He raises his hands as if in surrender.
“I can stitch it up myself,” Natasha says, still glaring, just in case he’s feeling sorry for her instead of admiring the fact that she’s a goddamn badass.
“C’mon, Nat,” Clint says. “I’ll do it.”
No one else in SHIELD has a friendly nickname for her. Natasha lowers her head in a nod, and keeps it lowered as he stitches her up, so he can’t see the painful flush that has mounted in her face.
The embarrassment hurts far more than the stitches.
12. “Don’t move.” Honeytrap; Gennady & Arkady. Sexual harassment in the workplace.
kore, here is your Honeytrap snippet. I hope you enjoy the suffering!
***
“Ah, our newest recruit,” Arkady Anatolyevitch said, when Gennady came into his office. “Close the door behind you.”
Gennady shut the door behind him and looked covertly around the office. Sunlight splashed in through the tall windows and caught on the dust motes in the air. The sunlight seemed stronger in America, probably because DC was so much farther south than Moscow, but this simple explanation didn’t dim Gennady’s pleasure in the fact.
He took two steps toward Arkady’s desk, but Arkady lifted his hand. “Stop there. Don’t move.”
Gennady faltered to a stop. He stood in the shaft of sunlight, uncomfortable, unsure what to do with his hands, which hung awkwardly at his sides.
He expected Arkady to get a good look at him and then gesture him on. That was a little eccentric, perhaps, but many of the higher-ups in the intelligence services were eccentric. Probably they’d all cracked up a little serving under Stalin.
But time stretched. Gennady’s collar felt too tight. The room was hot: July in DC, after all. And Arkady just sat there, leaning back in his chair, running his eyes over Gennady’s lines as if he were a racehorse. His shoulders, his hips, the nervous brush of his hands against his trousers.
Arkady pushed back his chair and crossed the room now. Gennady’s hands were wet with sweat. He wiped them on his pants, and Arkady repeated, “Don’t move.”
Arkady’s voice sounded rough, almost hoarse, and suddenly Gennady understood that his great good luck in getting this posting was not luck at all. No one else had wanted the job, because anyone with connections had been warned that Arkady, despite his wife and three children, was a pervert.
There no longer seemed to be enough air in the room.
Arkady came very close to Gennady, close enough to touch and yet not touching: close enough that Gennady could feel his proximity as if their electric fields brushed and crackled. Arkady had clasped his hands behind his back. He moved around Gennady, slowly, looking him over, and the hair rose on Gennady’s arms and the back of his neck. He wanted to run.
He had the sense, very powerfully, that running from Arkady was like running from a wolf. If you stood your ground you might make it through unscathed, but turn tail and the wolf would have you down and rend you.
Arkady was behind him now, close enough that Gennady could feel Arkady’s breath on the nape of his neck. Sweat gathered under his armpits, in the small of his back, on his upper lip.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Arkady said. He was coming around Gennady’s side now, and patted the small of his back. Gennady shuddered. His shirt clung to his damp skin.
And now Arkady faced him again, standing almost on Gennady’s toes, close enough that Gennady could smell the sour milk on his breath.
Arkady lifted Gennady’s face with a crooked finger under his chin. He turned Gennady’s head from side to side, inspecting it. “I suppose they ran out of pretty ones,” he said. “How old are you?”
Gennady’s voice came out small and breathless. “Twenty-four, Arkady Anatolyevich.”
Arkady let go of him and stepped back. Gennady tried not to sag like a broken marionette.
“You’ll have the empty desk,” Arkady said. “Sergeyich will tell you what to do.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Go away.”
Gennady backed up the two steps to the door. His sweaty, trembling hand slipped on the doorknob. But at last he got enough of a grip to turn it, and pushed the door open behind him, and nearly fell back out into the hall.
Alternative prompt 3. Fever. Peggy & Dottie
This is a companion piece for “Delirium,” and takes place not long before that fic.
***
“Are you feeling all right?” Peggy asks.
“Yes,” says Dottie. Her voice sounds hoarse and scratchy. She tries to clear her throat, but it feels like someone is stabbing her in the neck, so she takes a sip from her canteen again.
The cold water soothes her throat for about two seconds, and then it hurts again. Her head aches too, and her whole body feels warm and cold by turns in a way that has no relation to the snowy mountainside they are climbing, and as for her leg -
“How is your leg?” Peggy asks.
Each footstep feels like a stab. Like the Little Mermaid, Dottie thinks: she is familiar with Hans Christian Anderson. The Little Mermaid who melted away into sea foam because her prince did not love her.
She suspects that Peggy hoping to abandon Dottie on the mountainside as soon as she deems it likely that Dottie will die there.
Dottie once attended a taffy pull at the Griffith Hotel. Time stretches like that taffy as they walk: it gets long and thin and endless and sticky, as if they will be stuck to this particular moment forever, walking forever up the mountainside through the snow toward an Alpine hut that never gets any closer.
Dottie lifts her eyes to look at the hut, but the head movement makes her dizzy. She drops her gaze back to the heels of Peggy’s boots, but it’s too late. The dizziness travels through her body, and she reels and falls in the snow.
Peggy looms above, her shadow dark and cold. Dottie has the brief dazed impression that Peggy is going to shoot her for a straggler, she even sees the gun, but then Peggy is kneeling beside Dottie in the snow.
“Dottie, you must let me look at your leg,” Peggy commands. “Those gunshot wounds are likely to become infected.”
“My leg is fine,” Dottie tells her. She sits up. She manages, even, to haul herself back to her feet. Her head no longer feels like it’s attached to her body. “I feel like we’re walking through a field full of daisies.”
Peggy grits her teeth. Dottie feels briefly cheerful, almost floaty. It’s fun disobeying Peggy. They have long since established that Peggy is not capable of punishing her stringently enough to keep her in line.
But the cheerfulness is not match for the fever. Another wave of cold washes over Dottie. She pulls her scarf up over her nose to cover her chattering teeth. The glare of the sunlight on the snow hurts her eyes.
Dottie doesn’t even realize that she’s stumbled again until Peggy catches her arm. “I’m fine,” Dottie insists, although her head is spinning, and if Peggy let her go she would probably fall in the snow and she is not sure she could get back up.
Dottie is shivering with cold. “You don’t know where their headquarters is,” Dottie reminds Peggy. “You have to keep me alive to lead you there.”
“Of course,” says Peggy.
But the fear has gotten its grip on Dottie now. A flush of heat has replaced the cold, but she is still shaking. “Don’t leave me,” she orders Peggy, only it doesn’t sound like an order at all, but like the whine of a frightened child.
Dottie makes it about ten more feet before she faints dead away in the snow.
14. Tear-stained. Steve & Rumlow.
Steve splashes his face one last time and peers at himself in the mirror. At least his face is no longer obviously tear-stained: he’s washed off the soot that made the tear tracks on his cheeks so obvious.
His eyes are still bloodshot, and the area underneath a little tender and swollen, but it’s pretty subtle. They may not even notice. Or if they notice, they’ll be able to tell that he didn’t want them to see, and they’ll politely ignore it.
He rubs his face one last time. His hands are clean now, but the wrist of his suit leaves a smudge of soot on his chin. He hesitates, reaches for the sink again - might as well wipe it off? - but then someone pounds on the door. “Rogers!” Rumlow yells. “You dying in there or somethin’?”
“I’m fine!” Steve calls. He’s been hogging the bathroom for far too long. Once he started crying he couldn’t stop.
When Steve opens the door, Rumlow’s standing right there, his toes practically on the threshold, his face inches from Steve’s. Steve reels back.
“Have you been crying, Cap?”
Rumlow’s voice is very loud. Steve’s face gets so hot he nearly combusts. He wishes that he could melt into the bathroom floor, or just die on the spot. “No,” he says, like an eight-year-old, denying the patently obvious because admitting it is simply too mortifying.
“Yeah you have,” Rumlow says. He takes Steve’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and inspects his face, and Steve’s blush flares hotter. He tries to meet Rumlow’s eyes, and can’t.
“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Rumlow says. He’s smiling.
A couple of the other guys have wandered into the hallway. They stop and look at the tableau. “Rumlow,” Steve says, almost pleading, although he’s not sure what the hell he’s pleading for. Rumlow is not physically strong enough to stop him. Steve could toss him aside like a throw pillow.
Or he could if he could move. But he’s parallyzed by embarrassment.
“It’s the twenty-first century, Cap.” Rumlow’s voice is a little softer now, almost intimate, but still loud enough that the other guys in the hall can hear. Steve’s whole body is on fire. “Boys can cry.”
“Whatcha cryin’ for, Cap?” one of the guys asks. His name is Vasquez or Velasquez or something like that; they switch out the members of Steve’s team so often he can’t keep track. If they’d just let him keep the same team, like his Howlies…
Steve’s close to tears again. He is not going to cry in front of these men.
“It’s good to talk about your feelings,” Rumlow says. He pats Steve’s cheek, real gentle, still smiling. They’re all smiling. All Steve can see is teeth, as if they intend to devour him. “What’s wrong?” Rumlow asks.
“Nothing,” Steve says. The sense of threat has steadied him. “Just got a lot of smoke in my eyes, is all.” He’s grinning too now. “Sorry to disappoint you boys,” he says. “We can sit still sit around the campfire and talk around feelings if you want. Who’s gonna go first?”
Shuffling; a single guffaw. The two onlookers wander off, and Rumlow steps aside. But he catches Steve’s arm as Steve passes by. “Anytime you want to talk, Cap,” he says.
“Sure,” Steve says. He pulls his arm free. He will never tell Rumlow anything. “Anytime.”
15. Scars. Steve Rogers.
Steve does not scar.
He discovers this after he awakens in 2011. “Did you heal my scars?” Steve asks the doctor, because it’s the future and it seems like the kind of thing they can probably do. They’ve been to the moon. They’ve got phones you can carry in your pockets that are also cameras.
But the doctor looks at him strangely. “What scars?”
The thing is, Steve took half the windshield in his face when he crashed the Valkyrie. He remembers touching his face with his fingers, his palm coming away sticky with blood, and feeling sorry that Peggy was going to see him like this if they found him. He had been glad, in a distant way - he had already been freezing to death, or so he thought, and everything felt distant - that he hadn’t given her his coordinates.
Not that he’d done it because he couldn’t bear to think of her seeing his pretty face all cut up. He’d been trying to bury the tesseract at the bottom of the ocean where no human could ever use it. But it was an added bonus that Peggy would always remember him beautiful.
But now it turns out he didn’t freeze to death, after all, and the windshield that shattered in his face has left no scars. It ought to make him happy. He was an ugly mutt for enough of his life to know the value of his pretty face.
But instead it makes him feel unmoored, as if none of it ever really happened. No crash, no Valkyrie, perhaps no World War II. The history of his war ought to be written on his body, and instead it is blank.
11. Stitches. Natasha & Clint.
Clint notices the gash in Natasha’s leg as they forge through the punishing wind up the driveway to the safehouse. “Shit, that’s going to need stitches,” he shouts. The wind still carries most of his voice away.
Natasha doesn’t answer till they’re inside. The wind is a mere dull howl once they’ve closed the door, an operation that requires both of them to shove their entire body weights against the door.
Natasha has never been in a hurricane before. She’s kind of looking forward to it, even though it means extraction will be delayed for at least two days.
“I’ll have to stitch it up,” Clint says. He looks worried. “We can’t wait till the extraction team arrives.”
“Of course.” Natasha follows him into the bathroom - now that the adrenaline high is fading, she’s limping a little - and sticks her leg under the bathtub faucet while Clint ransacks the medicine cabinet for supplies.
Once she’s washed away enough congealed blood to roll her pants leg up and survey the wound, Natasha surveys the deep cut with some satisfaction. She’s never been injured by a throwing star before. When Yelena hears, she’ll...
Natasha’s satisfaction deflates like a balloon. Funny how Yelena’s still her first thought whenever she gets a cool injury.
“Shit,” Clint says. Natasha looks up.
“No thread?” she asks.
“No, I found a needle and thread. But there’s no topical anesthetic.”
“You don’t use anesthetic for stitches anyway,” Natasha reminds him.
“What? Yes, you do.”
“In the - ”
Natasha stops herself, but not fast enough. The end of the phrase hangs in the air. In the Red Room…
In the Red Room, they didn’t.
She glares at Clint, daring him to comment. He raises his hands as if in surrender.
“I can stitch it up myself,” Natasha says, still glaring, just in case he’s feeling sorry for her instead of admiring the fact that she’s a goddamn badass.
“C’mon, Nat,” Clint says. “I’ll do it.”
No one else in SHIELD has a friendly nickname for her. Natasha lowers her head in a nod, and keeps it lowered as he stitches her up, so he can’t see the painful flush that has mounted in her face.
The embarrassment hurts far more than the stitches.
12. “Don’t move.” Honeytrap; Gennady & Arkady. Sexual harassment in the workplace.
kore, here is your Honeytrap snippet. I hope you enjoy the suffering!***
“Ah, our newest recruit,” Arkady Anatolyevitch said, when Gennady came into his office. “Close the door behind you.”
Gennady shut the door behind him and looked covertly around the office. Sunlight splashed in through the tall windows and caught on the dust motes in the air. The sunlight seemed stronger in America, probably because DC was so much farther south than Moscow, but this simple explanation didn’t dim Gennady’s pleasure in the fact.
He took two steps toward Arkady’s desk, but Arkady lifted his hand. “Stop there. Don’t move.”
Gennady faltered to a stop. He stood in the shaft of sunlight, uncomfortable, unsure what to do with his hands, which hung awkwardly at his sides.
He expected Arkady to get a good look at him and then gesture him on. That was a little eccentric, perhaps, but many of the higher-ups in the intelligence services were eccentric. Probably they’d all cracked up a little serving under Stalin.
But time stretched. Gennady’s collar felt too tight. The room was hot: July in DC, after all. And Arkady just sat there, leaning back in his chair, running his eyes over Gennady’s lines as if he were a racehorse. His shoulders, his hips, the nervous brush of his hands against his trousers.
Arkady pushed back his chair and crossed the room now. Gennady’s hands were wet with sweat. He wiped them on his pants, and Arkady repeated, “Don’t move.”
Arkady’s voice sounded rough, almost hoarse, and suddenly Gennady understood that his great good luck in getting this posting was not luck at all. No one else had wanted the job, because anyone with connections had been warned that Arkady, despite his wife and three children, was a pervert.
There no longer seemed to be enough air in the room.
Arkady came very close to Gennady, close enough to touch and yet not touching: close enough that Gennady could feel his proximity as if their electric fields brushed and crackled. Arkady had clasped his hands behind his back. He moved around Gennady, slowly, looking him over, and the hair rose on Gennady’s arms and the back of his neck. He wanted to run.
He had the sense, very powerfully, that running from Arkady was like running from a wolf. If you stood your ground you might make it through unscathed, but turn tail and the wolf would have you down and rend you.
Arkady was behind him now, close enough that Gennady could feel Arkady’s breath on the nape of his neck. Sweat gathered under his armpits, in the small of his back, on his upper lip.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Arkady said. He was coming around Gennady’s side now, and patted the small of his back. Gennady shuddered. His shirt clung to his damp skin.
And now Arkady faced him again, standing almost on Gennady’s toes, close enough that Gennady could smell the sour milk on his breath.
Arkady lifted Gennady’s face with a crooked finger under his chin. He turned Gennady’s head from side to side, inspecting it. “I suppose they ran out of pretty ones,” he said. “How old are you?”
Gennady’s voice came out small and breathless. “Twenty-four, Arkady Anatolyevich.”
Arkady let go of him and stepped back. Gennady tried not to sag like a broken marionette.
“You’ll have the empty desk,” Arkady said. “Sergeyich will tell you what to do.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Go away.”
Gennady backed up the two steps to the door. His sweaty, trembling hand slipped on the doorknob. But at last he got enough of a grip to turn it, and pushed the door open behind him, and nearly fell back out into the hall.
Alternative prompt 3. Fever. Peggy & Dottie
This is a companion piece for “Delirium,” and takes place not long before that fic.
***
“Are you feeling all right?” Peggy asks.
“Yes,” says Dottie. Her voice sounds hoarse and scratchy. She tries to clear her throat, but it feels like someone is stabbing her in the neck, so she takes a sip from her canteen again.
The cold water soothes her throat for about two seconds, and then it hurts again. Her head aches too, and her whole body feels warm and cold by turns in a way that has no relation to the snowy mountainside they are climbing, and as for her leg -
“How is your leg?” Peggy asks.
Each footstep feels like a stab. Like the Little Mermaid, Dottie thinks: she is familiar with Hans Christian Anderson. The Little Mermaid who melted away into sea foam because her prince did not love her.
She suspects that Peggy hoping to abandon Dottie on the mountainside as soon as she deems it likely that Dottie will die there.
Dottie once attended a taffy pull at the Griffith Hotel. Time stretches like that taffy as they walk: it gets long and thin and endless and sticky, as if they will be stuck to this particular moment forever, walking forever up the mountainside through the snow toward an Alpine hut that never gets any closer.
Dottie lifts her eyes to look at the hut, but the head movement makes her dizzy. She drops her gaze back to the heels of Peggy’s boots, but it’s too late. The dizziness travels through her body, and she reels and falls in the snow.
Peggy looms above, her shadow dark and cold. Dottie has the brief dazed impression that Peggy is going to shoot her for a straggler, she even sees the gun, but then Peggy is kneeling beside Dottie in the snow.
“Dottie, you must let me look at your leg,” Peggy commands. “Those gunshot wounds are likely to become infected.”
“My leg is fine,” Dottie tells her. She sits up. She manages, even, to haul herself back to her feet. Her head no longer feels like it’s attached to her body. “I feel like we’re walking through a field full of daisies.”
Peggy grits her teeth. Dottie feels briefly cheerful, almost floaty. It’s fun disobeying Peggy. They have long since established that Peggy is not capable of punishing her stringently enough to keep her in line.
But the cheerfulness is not match for the fever. Another wave of cold washes over Dottie. She pulls her scarf up over her nose to cover her chattering teeth. The glare of the sunlight on the snow hurts her eyes.
Dottie doesn’t even realize that she’s stumbled again until Peggy catches her arm. “I’m fine,” Dottie insists, although her head is spinning, and if Peggy let her go she would probably fall in the snow and she is not sure she could get back up.
Dottie is shivering with cold. “You don’t know where their headquarters is,” Dottie reminds Peggy. “You have to keep me alive to lead you there.”
“Of course,” says Peggy.
But the fear has gotten its grip on Dottie now. A flush of heat has replaced the cold, but she is still shaking. “Don’t leave me,” she orders Peggy, only it doesn’t sound like an order at all, but like the whine of a frightened child.
Dottie makes it about ten more feet before she faints dead away in the snow.
14. Tear-stained. Steve & Rumlow.
Steve splashes his face one last time and peers at himself in the mirror. At least his face is no longer obviously tear-stained: he’s washed off the soot that made the tear tracks on his cheeks so obvious.
His eyes are still bloodshot, and the area underneath a little tender and swollen, but it’s pretty subtle. They may not even notice. Or if they notice, they’ll be able to tell that he didn’t want them to see, and they’ll politely ignore it.
He rubs his face one last time. His hands are clean now, but the wrist of his suit leaves a smudge of soot on his chin. He hesitates, reaches for the sink again - might as well wipe it off? - but then someone pounds on the door. “Rogers!” Rumlow yells. “You dying in there or somethin’?”
“I’m fine!” Steve calls. He’s been hogging the bathroom for far too long. Once he started crying he couldn’t stop.
When Steve opens the door, Rumlow’s standing right there, his toes practically on the threshold, his face inches from Steve’s. Steve reels back.
“Have you been crying, Cap?”
Rumlow’s voice is very loud. Steve’s face gets so hot he nearly combusts. He wishes that he could melt into the bathroom floor, or just die on the spot. “No,” he says, like an eight-year-old, denying the patently obvious because admitting it is simply too mortifying.
“Yeah you have,” Rumlow says. He takes Steve’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and inspects his face, and Steve’s blush flares hotter. He tries to meet Rumlow’s eyes, and can’t.
“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Rumlow says. He’s smiling.
A couple of the other guys have wandered into the hallway. They stop and look at the tableau. “Rumlow,” Steve says, almost pleading, although he’s not sure what the hell he’s pleading for. Rumlow is not physically strong enough to stop him. Steve could toss him aside like a throw pillow.
Or he could if he could move. But he’s parallyzed by embarrassment.
“It’s the twenty-first century, Cap.” Rumlow’s voice is a little softer now, almost intimate, but still loud enough that the other guys in the hall can hear. Steve’s whole body is on fire. “Boys can cry.”
“Whatcha cryin’ for, Cap?” one of the guys asks. His name is Vasquez or Velasquez or something like that; they switch out the members of Steve’s team so often he can’t keep track. If they’d just let him keep the same team, like his Howlies…
Steve’s close to tears again. He is not going to cry in front of these men.
“It’s good to talk about your feelings,” Rumlow says. He pats Steve’s cheek, real gentle, still smiling. They’re all smiling. All Steve can see is teeth, as if they intend to devour him. “What’s wrong?” Rumlow asks.
“Nothing,” Steve says. The sense of threat has steadied him. “Just got a lot of smoke in my eyes, is all.” He’s grinning too now. “Sorry to disappoint you boys,” he says. “We can sit still sit around the campfire and talk around feelings if you want. Who’s gonna go first?”
Shuffling; a single guffaw. The two onlookers wander off, and Rumlow steps aside. But he catches Steve’s arm as Steve passes by. “Anytime you want to talk, Cap,” he says.
“Sure,” Steve says. He pulls his arm free. He will never tell Rumlow anything. “Anytime.”
15. Scars. Steve Rogers.
Steve does not scar.
He discovers this after he awakens in 2011. “Did you heal my scars?” Steve asks the doctor, because it’s the future and it seems like the kind of thing they can probably do. They’ve been to the moon. They’ve got phones you can carry in your pockets that are also cameras.
But the doctor looks at him strangely. “What scars?”
The thing is, Steve took half the windshield in his face when he crashed the Valkyrie. He remembers touching his face with his fingers, his palm coming away sticky with blood, and feeling sorry that Peggy was going to see him like this if they found him. He had been glad, in a distant way - he had already been freezing to death, or so he thought, and everything felt distant - that he hadn’t given her his coordinates.
Not that he’d done it because he couldn’t bear to think of her seeing his pretty face all cut up. He’d been trying to bury the tesseract at the bottom of the ocean where no human could ever use it. But it was an added bonus that Peggy would always remember him beautiful.
But now it turns out he didn’t freeze to death, after all, and the windshield that shattered in his face has left no scars. It ought to make him happy. He was an ugly mutt for enough of his life to know the value of his pretty face.
But instead it makes him feel unmoored, as if none of it ever really happened. No crash, no Valkyrie, perhaps no World War II. The history of his war ought to be written on his body, and instead it is blank.
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/is a glutton for punishment
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(P.S.--had to plunge into work, which is why I haven't read/commented on the rest of the fics yet. BUT I WILL)
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And no worries about reading the fics. Whenever you have time!
Don't Move
Of course this made me smile, and you know why: He had the sense, very powerfully, that running from Arkady was like running from a wolf. If you stood your ground you might make it through unscathed, but turn tail and the wolf would have you down and rend you.
Re: Don't Move
Fever
In addition, I liked this: It’s fun disobeying Peggy. They have long since established that Peggy is not capable of punishing her stringently enough to keep her in line.
ETA: more tomorrow!
Re: Fever
Re: Fever
GDI I only now noticed that's probably after the Underwood typewriter, which I think was big post-WWWII (and before). Clever, writers!
tear stained
So I don't really know the Capt. America stories, so I have no idea who Rumlow is or why Steve is crying, but the sense that Rumlow's intentions are actually malicious is really, really strong here.
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Aww Nat, with her "What anaesthetic?"
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Natasha, bleeding profusely from somewhere: No, Miss Underwood...
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....anaesthetic would probably also make you more out of it and likely to blab? (Not the topical stuff, I guess....)
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