#wyos

“C-Can you walk!?”

“Of course I can–“ But John’s stubborn objection broke off into an agonised cry as he shifted the weight on his right leg and he certainly would have fallen over if it wasn’t for Sherlock standing close enough to get hold of him.

And John hated that he’d done that.

John didn’t need help, didn’t want help, and most certainly not from…

MY BODY IS NOT YET READY.

No, I'm not writing a crossover fic, lol. But I did accidentally started writing a Clint and Natasha one shot last night, or would it count as this morning since all of the writing happened between 2 and 4 am? I guess that's really just semantics - morning, night, whatever ... I'm awake now and tired and have plans that I don't want to follow through with now because I'd much rather stay home and finish writing this thing.

Here's an excerpt - it's in the rough stages, but I feel like sharing:

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Her hands still had blood on them – that agent’s blood, she never did ask him his name – she absentmindedly rubbed them on the scrubs they gave her to wear, but it wouldn’t come off.  Why wouldn’t it come off?   She wanted to pace, scream, cry … something … escape. But the tiny room they had her in was windowless, the only door heavily guarded on the other side, and there wasn’t even so much as a vent in the ceiling to slip through.  At first she thought they had her locked up in a building, a medical one judging by the antiseptic smell that lingered in the air, but then she realized they were moving, like they were on some sort of craft – but she couldn’t tell if it was by land, sea or air. She hated being confined and she hated being disoriented by her surroundings. They’d shot her full of something when they’d rescued them, knocking her out, effectively disarming her the only way they could without a fight. She woke to find herself in that chair, not in chains or tied up or any of the other creative ways she’d found herself bound by captors in the past. These guys were clearly playing the “We’re civilized and want to be friends” card. Only an amateur would fall for it and she was no amateur. The door opened and closed and a shadow descended over her chair. She looked up at the man standing in front of her – imposing, all dressed in black, including the eye patch covering a scar that snaked out from under it. Nick Fury – he didn’t need to introduce himself, she’d heard plenty about him already. “Miss Romanova.” She didn’t answer and he didn’t press the issue. “It’s my understanding that we have you to thank for saving Agent Barton’s life.” Her breath hitched in her chest. “He’s alive?” she asked, forgetting that her plan had been to not say anything to these people. She silently cursed herself for slipping up. Fury’s expression didn’t soften. “Yes.” She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t elaborate.   “Agent Barton was given an assignment.” “Kill me.” “Yes.” “So why am I still here?” “My thoughts exactly. According to Agent Barton’s handler, he contacted him about changing his orders, bringing you in. Then all hell broke loose and we lost communications.” All hell being a bomb blast taking out half the building they were having their little standoff in, followed by a swarm of armed Russian soldiers, sent to do the exact same thing S.H.I.E.L.D. had been planning to do.  She had suddenly become very popular.

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I also need to finish writing the (absolutely, positively) final chapter of my Four Brothers story, Write Your Own Song, which has taken me five! years to write. Here's an excerpt (spoilers for the rest of the story since this is the end).

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Jack, Angel and Bobby all fidgeted in their tuxes as they stood next to Angel at the front of the church.  Angel looked like he was about to have a full blown panic attack – weird breathing, sweating, clenching and unclenching his fists. Jack ran through his best man duties – basically they amounted to “don’t lose the fucking ring” – and couldn’t figure out what he should do. “Jerry,” he whispered. “Is Angel okay?” Jerry leaned over and clasped a hand on Angel’s shoulder. “You okay, man?” Angel nodded on an exhale and shook his head, like he was prepping for a match in a boxing ring.  Seemingly satisfied, Jerry shrugged and moved back to his spot. “You bought that?” Jack asked. “What do you want me to do?” “Well, you know about this stuff.” “There’s no instruction manual.” “Will you two shut the fuck up,” Bobby said from behind them. He was third in line, not for any reason other than everyone agreed it was best to keep him as far away from Sofi as possible. “Bobby, you can’t say fuck – we’re in a church,” Jerry scolded. Bobby pulled at his bow tie and grimaced. “That dumb bitch put me in a hot pink shirt, I’ll say what ever I fucking want.” “Fuchsia,” Jack said suddenly, without meaning to. Bobby growled and Jack took a step closer to Angel.  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your little role in this, sweetheart.” Bobby’s voice dripped with menace and Jack remembered Sofi asking for advice and … him giving it. Shit. Two bridesmaids shushed them from their side of the stage and the maid-of -honor glared so fiercely that Bobby may or may not have been rendered sterile at that very moment.  

-------------------------------- Write Your Own Song