2/9 artists- David Aja
Hawkeye vs Coulson by Tradd Moore.
codename: w i n t e r s o l d i e r
t h e e n e m y w i l l n e v e r s e e h i m c o m i n g
He k n o w s the things he did before; how to fight, particularly, how to speak four languages, including, thankfully, Russian, and many other things. But he has no idea how or why he knows these things. He is nearly a blank slate, but an i n c r e d i b l y d a n g e r o u s o n e.
What the shit computers are those that they even have the capability to explode at you?
Hawkeye: Earth’s Mightiest Marksman, October 1998. Collected in: Avengers: Hawkeye: Earth’s Mightiest Marksman http://www.amazon.com/dp/0785159398
He’s got his hand on the doorknob.
Loki’s presence— all it’d done since Clint had arrived at his apartment was drill a hole deeper into the pressure that’d been building, slowly, a torture that wasn’t actually physical torture. It hurt, but not in the same way, and rather than deal with a villain his own mind wouldn’t let himself free from, he’d chosen “getting smashed at the nearest bar” as the next best option.
It was the “please” that had him hesitating, taken aback despite knowing that the trickster wasn’t even there to begin with. He’d said “please”.
Clint willed himself to open the door, to walk out, but it didn’t happen and, relenting quietly, the archer counted to ten in the confines of his thoughts before dropping his hand and turning to stare expectantly at Loki.
Boomerang. Respect it.
James doesn’t like flying, in fact he doesn’t like anything about being up here and how easily something could break and send him plummeting to another death. He could live in hope that falling from this height would be completely impossible to survive from but he’d had those thoughts before. And he’d woken up then. Knowing his luck they’d land in water and he’d be found by some other sick organisation. James finally located his weapon, taking out the cleaning kit and turning to call down to Clint when they hit something.
Whatever it was had a big enough impact to throw James clean off his feet. He managed to grasp at one of the seats and land on the chairs, a softer landing really but it didn’t change the fact that they had hit something. What the hell could they hit a way up here? He pulled himself up and glanced up the pain to see Clint had made it to the cockpit but they were leaning.
If the smoke billowing across the right side of the windows was anything to go by, it looked like he was going to fall anyway. “I’m good! I’m good. Babe, how long can you keep this thing in the air with only one wing?!”
"Not long." Clint muttered to himself, feeling the proof of James’ words through the plane’s progress, the amount with which it fought with him for every inch of being straightened— and still they only sank closer and closer to the ocean below. They had little time; seconds, really, and being inside the plane when it hit the water would only mean death. Even if they could get out as the plane sunk, the suction would drag them back down.
Grimacing, Clint fought with the controls for a few more seconds, reactivating the autopilot in hopes that it would do some of the work for them, and stood, turning to leave the cockpit.
“We need to bail!” he shouted as he passed over the threshold, stepping into the tiny passage that led to James. “There are some chutes behind th—”
There was yet another heavy impact against them, but it was the rending and tearing of metal that interrupted Clint’s words, originating from his left. The plane shuddered again, monstrously, and groaned with effort as the only thing separating them from the hostile sky was gouged into. It carried through the plane’s integrity, its walls, seats, and floors crumbling like paper.