Sebastian Stan Short Stories

Sebastian Stan [1]

"Headshot"

Present day, fiction about Seb

*

The prop gun on my hip was loaded with fake rounds, and I stalked toward Seb in the chunky heeled boots our costume designers thought every femme fatale should wear. They were practically silent on the training floor.

Seb stood about ten feet away with his back facing me, barefooted and in sweat pants and a long sleeve shirt. One shoulder had a miniature version of Cap's shield sewn onto it.

I slipped the gun from the holster on my hip and very consciously flipped off the safety. As I took a step forward, all I could hear was the brush of fabric, my black cargo pants that fit a bit tighter than the military style they were modeled from. They were a venture away from the typical cat suits most of the other female characters got.

"I have never liked shooting people from behind. It has always seemed cowardly," I recited in a fake Russian accent. "Besides, you are wanted alive, soldat."

Seb turned to face me, a Bucky-style 'come at me' grin on his face.

"I'm wanted by a lot people, I bet. Specifics would be nice," he said in a sassy way.

"I am hurt. You have no memories of me," I teased. Seb smirked as I delivered the line, knowing how much I loathed the sultry tone I had been encouraged to take. "Will you come quietly?"

There was a pause as we silently measured each other's strengths and weaknesses. At least, that's what the audience would see once this choreography was on screen and not in a stunt training gym. In reality, I was running through the punches and kicks I'd be throwing.

"If you remember me, then you should know that won't happen," Seb warned. And then we started our dance.

Someone on the sidelines kindly began playing our "Ass Kicking Playlist" through the speakers, our movements tied to the beat of a specific song. The gun was raised, and he rushed forward as I pulled the trigger three times. His palm was raised to the shots with the assumption Bucky's metal arm would block them. As he reached for my throat I swung around with my right leg, knocking his arm out of the way. My foot hit the ground, and the hand holding the gun came around in a wide arc. It was blocked expectantly; Seb's supposed-to-be-metal hand covered mine while I aimed my free fist at his gut. That too was caught by my opponent.

In what had become a signature move for Black Widow operatives, I used his hold on my hands to pull my legs up and around his neck, landing on his shoulder as planned. I leaned forward just enough that he could hook his arms around my waist and drag me off of him. I slackened the grip my legs had around him, and I was flipped backwards and heels over head in his arms. That one movement was the linchpin of the entire sequence; screwing it up meant the professional stunt doubles got to film the scene when Seb and I desperately wanted to do it ourselves.

I landed in Deadpool's 'superhero' pose, only my toes and the fingertips of one hand on the ground. The orange tipped prop gun was in the hand extended behind my back. I stared up at Seb, unable to control my excitement.

"We did it!" I shouted. I sprung up off the ground and tackled Seb in a celebratory hug, the gun still in my hand.

The cast on hand for stunt training and the choreographers came up to the section of floor we had been using and began congratulating us.

"That's totally Instagram worthy," Evans announced. I was still on a slight adrenaline rush, but I watched as he played the video back on his phone. From the first shot of the fake gun to my final pose, the whole thing took less than fifteen seconds, but it had been a lot of work.

"I can't wait to start our stunt choreo," Scarlett joked. She turned to one of the coordinators. "Do I get a superhero landing too?"

"You had one in Ironman," he replied good-naturedly. "And you've had like a dozen of those thighs of steel moves, so don't even start."

"A girl can dream," she shot back.

"You really did good, though," Seb told me.

"You didn't mind my awkward piggy-back ride there?" I laughed. Scarlett and I had a running bet over who would end up pulling more of Seb's hair during filming. She was in the lead since I hadn't shot a single scene yet.

"Nah, my hair is long enough to get stuck under you yet," he explained, reading my mind. He was starting the process of growing it again, needing a couple months.

"As if you would have minded me pulling your hair," I muttered, making sure he could hear over the din of excited chatter around us. There were poor "good jobs" and "congratulations" passed around.

"It's just nice to know you're flexible," he returned. It had become our best bonding exercise yet, tossing dirty jokes and innuendos back and forth as we trained. Both of us had impressively dirty minds.

"As if you'll ever really know how flexible I am," I teased, giving him a very obvious wink.

*

Author's Note:

It's official! As of June 2, 2016, this collection of stories has reached 100 reads! So thank you all very much for getting me there after such a short time. And a special thanks @mission_report for being such a consistent voter and commenter.