snowblindrpg | [EVENT] Lavender's Blue [open]

[ Good. Maybe she'll feel the weight of this. Killing her is a lesson, but she needs to know why this is happening for it to sink in. ]

You are, though. That's what you chose to do when you made your decision. You gotta pay for it, and it's better that it's me doing it. [ And that's about the point that he jumps forward, sudden and quick, aiming to whack her across the face with the unsharpened end of the broomstick. ]

[Natasha dodges, but she's clumsy, stumbled out of range of the stick rather than stepping back smoothly. She makes a desperate grab for the broomstick, aiming a sharp, quick kick at her side as she does.]

[ She manages that kick to the side, which gets Clint to grunt and fall back a step, but he won't let go of the broomstick. Pushing past the pain, past the injuries he's already got (and she'll see them, with him close up like this, see how bad off he is) Clint yanks the broomstick away from her and tries for a jab instead.

He's not playing nice here, he's going to keep going almost mindlessly to get the sharpened end of the stick through her gut - she deserves it, he tells himself. ]

[Natasha manages to twist to the side, just enough to miss the most of the stabs. The last one gets her coat, though, and while her suit prevents the sharpened point from grazing her, it catches in the thick fabric of her jacket. She makes another desperate grab for the stick, not so much trying to pull it away as to hold on. Her voice is almost pleading now.]

Clint, please. All I've been doing is trying to help. You know that.

[ Clint makes an angry sound. ]

No! Stop trying to trick me! [ Clint says loudly, trying to yank the stick away. He left the glass back with Lutha, left Ecks' weapons on her. This is all he has. ]

You and all your friends have destroyed everything! Your filth killed Ecks! And now she's - she's gone, and - John's missing an eye because of -- fuck you!

[ There's no reasoning with him - he's lost his goddamn mind, fully under, and Natasha needs to bleed. He yanks the stick away from her and leans in close to throw a punch, to follow it up with a kick he throws all his weight into. His fighting is heavy handed and hard to keep up, meant to hit once and put someone down, and he knows Natasha knows it. He just has to anticipate that she's going to anticipate him. ]

[She does anticipate him—they've been working together so long that she knows the way he moves like the back of her hand, so she dodges one blow and blocks the other, one hand still gripping that letter opener. There's no reasoning with him, which is clear, but even acknowledging it makes her feel guilty. He never gave up on her when she was brainwashed, and doing less for him feels like a betrayal. Still, she's so exhausted and caught up in her own thoughts that she doesn't consider the fact that his hits might be anything other than straightforward, and she's hesitant to hit back.]

[ She won't hit him back, which infuriates him, but - it's fine. He can use to his advantage. And he does. He presses hard, wears her down, throws in a jab, another, a thwack from his broomstick. He's in pain, and it's obvious on his face how much physical hurt he feels creeping up on him, but he ignores it. He needs to catch her off guard.

Somehow, he's going to. Somehow, Clint is going to get too close and in her face and he's going to put a hole in her stomach, just like he did with Lutha. ]

[It doesn't take much to wear her down at this point, and anticipating what he's going to do isn't much help when she's too exhausted to counter quickly. The first jab she blocks gracelessly, trying to knock his arm away, but the broom gets her, hitting her in the side hard, and she lets out a strangled noise. That's what finally gets her to go on the offensive, and she swings her knife out towards his chest. Still, it's just a swipe. She's pulling her punches, despite every survival instinct and ounce of training screaming at her to stab him, to do something.

The truth is, she doesn't want to lose him. This town has already taken so much from her in just a little over a month that she can't stand for it to take him too.]

Clint.

[This time it comes out desperate, almost begging.]

Edited (shhhh) 2016-11-23 05:33 (UTC)

[ The knife hurts. It grazes right over where Lutha took a jagged piece of glass to his shoulder earlier in the night, and Clint lets out a pained noise, almost dropping the stick.

But he doesn't. He shakes, but he's determined. He's going to do this. He has to. It'd be best if it were him. ]

Don't. [ Clint says raggedly, holding his shoulder for a second. ] Don't talk to me.

[ And he goes in again, sharp end aimed right for her stomach. ]

[That noise breaks her heart, and she can't help but flinch when her blade makes contact. So much for being ruthless.]

Clint, let me help you. You don't have to—

[He aims the stick at her again, and this time, she's so focused on trying to distract him that she moves too slowly. It sinks right into her stomach and she cries out, dropping her letter opener as she instinctively wraps her hands around the handle. She rarely panics even when she's injured, but she knows there's no surviving this. Even if he backs off now, she'll die a slow death from infection at the very least, so when her eyes lock onto his again, they're wide and hurt and afraid, her breathing already ragged.]

[He's been stealthy most of the time the madness has been going on, though there have been a couple of notable exceptions. One of which has left him blood-stained and hollow eyed, trudging back to where he began in the hope his friends will be there.

He doesn't expect this.

There's a frozen moment of horror when he sees the knife in Natasha's stomach, when he reads the situation, before he's just moving. He slams straight towards Clint with a vicious punch towards the head, aiming for the temple to try and knock him out immediately. He needs to get Clint out of the picture, Natasha's life depends on it.]

[ You don't have to, she says, but he does. The letter opener drops, and Clint lets go of the handle of the broomstick, leaving it in her stomach as he takes a step back. The fear in her eyes almost pleases him, and he sucks in a sharp breath, on the edge between good and horrified. This is Natasha.

He just killed her. Barely gave her a chance.

And as for the punch? Clint doesn't see it coming. Bucky knocks Clint the fuck out, and Clint drops, collapses in a heap. He's out for the moment, but it's the end for Natasha. ]

[Bucky was just a second too late. Too bad, she thinks, as she tries desperately to keep her breathing calm and even. Now that the initial shock is gone, the broom handle is agonizing, and when she sinks down to the floor, back sliding down the wall, it only tears at her more. She doesn't pull it out—that will only make her bleed out faster, although she knows at this point that it doesn't matter either way. A fast death would be preferable, really.

Clint hits the ground and Natasha closes her eyes for a second, trying to think through the pain and the panic.]

Bucky.

[Her voice is ragged, and she stops to swallow.]

Tie him up and run.

[There are certain moments when it hits home that Natasha has gone through the same sort of training as he has, designed to help push through pain and carry on regardless, and this is definitely one of those moments.

He doesn't bother replying to her for now, he just bends over Clint and follows her advice. It's hard, tying him up with only one arm, and so it's probably not as secure as he would like but it'll have to do. He doesn't follow the second part of her advice, though, just coming to crouch next to her and ever so gently brush her hair from her face.]

You're dying.

[No point sugar coating what they both know.]

--do you want me to...?

[He leaves it unfinished, heavy between them, but the offer is clear. He'll kill her out of mercy if she doesn't want a lingering death, it's the kinder thing to do, though it'll tear him apart to do so.]

No.

[It's sharper than she intended, but there's no way she can ask that of him. She'd rather bleed out slowly than put that guilt on his shoulders on top of everything else.]

Just— Just pull it out and go.

[There are times when it's a kindness to put someone out of their misery, and now is one of those times, but he won't do it without her consent. He just sits down to sit next to her, almost but not quite touching shoulder to shoulder.]

I'm not leaving you.

[He fumbles in his pack and pulls out a slightly bloodstained pill bottle, Vicodin, and tips two into his hand before holding them to her lips.]

Stubborn.

[Mumbled, but affectionate. For a split second she considers not taking the pills at all, not wasting them when she's already dying, but she doesn't want to deal with the argument, so she swallows them obediently. The broomstick in her stomach is agonizing, and every movement makes it worse. She's half tempted to pull it out herself, but the angle is all wrong and she's already so tired. For a moment, she stares at Clint, unconscious on the floor, and then she reaches for Bucky's hand to squeeze it tight. Her gloves are smeared with blood, but she doesn't think he'll care.]

This isn't his fault. Tell him.

You can tell him yourself.

[She'll come back from this, she's already come back from the dead once here and it seems like, from what he's seen, that it's the first death that seems the most perilous for a chance at not returning at all.

He takes her hand and shifts, just a little, to pull her into his side so that she can rest her head on his shoulder. The blood doesn't bother him, he's had worse smeared on him before now.]

Don't think about it, you can't do any more tonight. I'll take care of him, I promise.

[She lets her head fall on his shoulder, and even just that small motion is enough to make Natasha bite back a whimper, eyes squeezing shut. If she doesn't come back, Clint will hate himself, and nothing anyone can say to him will change it. She knows Bucky is telling the truth, though. He'll take care of Clint, because he likes Clint, maybe more than any of them. It's a soothing thought to hold onto, even as she finds herself curling around the broomstick slightly, some last instinct to protect her injury even as it's killing her.]

Thank you.

[He wishes he got there just a minute sooner to stop this happening at all, but wishing won't change what's happened and he doesn't really blame himself, he couldn't know. He feels a bone deep sadness at her loss, though, he's come to like her and almost trust her as a friend even through the paranoia that eats at him constantly.

He just hums in response to her thanks and lets silence take hold for nearly a full minute, giving time to let the pills at least begin to dull the pain and start to help her sink towards sleep.

Silence isn't the friend of someone dying, he knows that all too well, so he doesn't let it linger too much longer. She's a good person, or tries to be, and she deserves some distraction from the pain and the inevitability. He's still not good at this, at the emotional comfort.]

...the last time I had a pretty girl this close to me, it was 1941.

[Natasha doesn't laugh, but she does manage a smile. The pills are starting to kick in a little, but there's only so much they can do, and now she's not sure if she's woozy from the painkillers or from blood loss. Her voice is getting more ragged, more strained, but she forces herself to talk anyway.]

She didn't bleed on you this much, I hope.

Not that I remember.

[He keeps his hand tight in hers, offering what small comfort he can, talking just for the sake of keeping the silence at bay. He hopes it won't be long, that she won't linger. For her sake.]

I think her name was Barbara, she had so much energy... danced like she might never stop, and pressed real close on the slow songs.

[She hums softly in response. She appreciates the talking, and part of her wonders if it's helping him any. Watching a friend die, whether you're used to it or not, never gets easier.]

You must be an awful dancer now. Decades out of practice.

I don't have much call for dancing now.

[Even if he was in practise, there's no dance halls like he remembers any longer. He glances down at her, willing her to fall asleep faster.]

Close your eyes, Natasha.

You need to come up with better bedtime stories.

[Her words are sluggish, halting and slurred, and it's getting hard to focus on what he's saying, but she's still trying to make this as easy on him as possible. She does close her eyes when he asks, part of her wishing she could bring herself to ask him to just slit her throat and be done with it.]

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pretend I said broom rather than knife

I SAW NOTHING

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