chapter four {edited}

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i'm honestly in the midst of a mental breakdown


a year later
third person pov

The archer reloaded his bow, firing again at his target. The arrow flew past as the target stepped aside, movements fluid like water, so smooth that it was impossible to get a good hit. For every arrow he sent with almost impossible speed, like it was nothing, the target would turn or move so slightly that the arrow missed by a hair's breadth.

Frustration marring his features, Clint lowered his bow, arrow fitted though his grip went lax. His shoulders slumped as if he was one admitting defeat, but that was the point was it not? He fought a smile, snapping his bow up and loosing the arrow to strike home, right above the heart.

"Someone's rusty."

The target pouted, "Come on, Clint. You cheated."

Clint laughed, walking forward and tugging the velcro off Stiles' vest, "Since when do you play by the rules?"

He scoffed, shoving Clint with his shoulder, "Excuse you, I always follow the rules. You're the one who breaks protocol and shoots people on your side."

Clint rolled his eyes, "I shot you once, to distract the bad guys. Get over it."

"Still fighting over Budapest, boys?" Natasha smiled lazily from her perch on a stack of sparring mats. Stiles caught her eye and grinned, "Of course, I still have the scar."

Jumping down from the mats, Nat embraced Stiles, ruffling his hair, "Poor baby."

His responding, "Fuck you," was muffled in her hair as he hugged her back firmly. She had been gone on a job for weeks and before that it was Stiles, meaning that it had been almost four months since he had seen her.

"Missed you too, Mischief."


sometime that july...
silensky plaza
third person pov

Her head rocked back with the next punch. The chair teetered on the edge of the ledge. She smiled, blood staining her teeth as they repeated the question. A foot collided with her ribs as she gasped in feigned pain.

That's right, keep talking.

A ring interrupted the 'interrogation.' One of the thugs answered it, thick eyebrows furrowing over his small, beady eyes as he held the phone out to his boss. "It's for her," his thick Russian accent muddled the words.

The boss scowled, taking the phone and snarling thickly, "You listen carefully.."

"You're at 1-14 Silensky Plaza, third floor. We have an F-22 exactly eight miles out. Put the woman on the phone or I will blow up the block before you make the lobby."

The Russian mobster handed the phone to the tied up woman wordlessly, protest drowned by shock and fear. She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder, waiting for Coulson to continue.

"We need you to come in. Agent Mischief is already here."

"Are you kidding? I'm working, and so was he."

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