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  1. Rec 95

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    “Clint,” she said.

    His grip was bruising at her wrist. Every pound of her dangled from that one connection-- her aching ribs, the old wound in her thigh, her comfy boots, Tony’s gadget, the braid she’d grown out for five years. It all hung there--all of her--in this chill alien wind, while Clint stared at her down the long taut line of his own outstretched arm.

    “Clint,” Natasha said. “You’ve got to let me go.”

    Every inch of her was cold. The planet’s gravity pulled every part of her downward. Her wrist, where Clint was clutching at her, bruising her, holding tight, his palm sweaty and strained-- it was the only warm place on her whole tired body.

    “Clint,” she said, and he let her go.

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    16 Aug 2019

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