barbican_extras: (Default)
[personal profile] barbican_extras posting in [community profile] thebarbican
One decision can make all the difference. You are who you've become because of it. It set everything in motion. It helped shape the individual you are today. It landed you that job. It put you in the right place at the right time. It caused you no end of grief. Right or wrong, it had an enormous impact. Now imagine...

You made a different decision.

Date: 2014-10-12 04:06 am (UTC)
lesliethompkins: (young)
From: [personal profile] lesliethompkins
Many letters have been written over the years. Some she's even had the courage to send. More often than not, they're interrupted half way through and later abandoned. From one day to the next, so much could change. She'd pick up the pen to continue her correspondence only to discover what she'd already written was largely irrelevant. She couldn't bring herself to throw them away so she tucked them into a journal. Inside the same journal were pictures of friends and family, people she hadn't seen in over a decade. Occasionally she would pull them out and wonder what they were doing right that moment. Wondered if they missed her as much as she missed them. Then an emergency would arise and she would tuck them away as before, safe for later. It was as close as she came to ritual.

Tonight she picked up her pen again. This time it would be the last. The letter opened with its usual greeting.

My dear Alfred,

I can close my eyes and imagine the turning of the leaves. The temperatures are beginning to fall. The wind is beginning to bite. I haven't seen or felt Fall in Gotham in twelve years. Here it's humid and hot. It rains constantly. Pours and pours, like there's no end in sight. Not at all like what Fall should be. I promised myself I would see the leaves this year. I've been away too long, allowed myself to be swept into one tragedy after another. I don't regret my work. I've never regretted my work. I just wish it hadn't taken me so far away. I'll be on a plane next week. I don't expect to see you when I land. You or Bruce. That would be too much to ask. Too much to expect after all this time. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. For not being there when you needed me the most. I'll see the leaves and then I'll be gone again. Know that I think of you always.

With love,

Date: 2014-10-30 11:11 pm (UTC)
distantarcher: (Drawn arrow)
From: [personal profile] distantarcher
Clint is cold on the rooftop. He's been here too many hours, much longer than he was supposed to be. Longer than he should be for this sort of a mission. Usually these things are quick - in and out. Today's been all kinds of FUBAR for so many reasons. He's good at sitting and watching but even this has taxed his abilities to sit and watch.

Because there hasn't been anything to watch.

The target, if she's down there, hasn't done anything, hasn't gone anywhere. He's usually even keeled but today it is making him a little maudlin, almost depressed.

When he sees the flash of red hair, it is a relief. It isn't a relief to see that she's on the move and that it isn't by choice. There are a number of other in pursuit. One part of him, ignoring Coulson's voice in his ear, wants to just sit there and watch. He wants to see if she's as good as they say she is. Instead, he takes a breath and finds the quiet still place inside of him.

Take the shot, Barton.

There is something about this that seems off. It seems ... wrong.


It is said in a tone that usually bring with it instant compliance. Still, he hesitates, watching. Whatever it is that is grabbing his attention, telling him to hesitate, he can't place it, he doesn't see it. Pulling in a breath, he lets it out slowly and lets go of the bow string.

As the string vibrates, he stands up moving, not sticking around to see how things play out. The shot hit and if she isn't instantly dead, the men following her aren't likely to do her any favors. What happens after ths shot isn't his job.


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