A Passing Thought
It was one of those days, where everything went wrong.
He could hear the sound of his shower being turned on, but he didn't move off his bed, he didn't even look in the direction. It was only her. His eyes peeked up at the narrow window, which stretched along the ceiling. They lost men today. More than they should have lost. He drew his left leg close to his body, leaving the right hanging from the bed, but still touching the floor with the tip of his boot. His torso hurt, making it hard to breathe.
Civilians lost their lives, although they were prepared. Preparation is not all. They learned the hard way today.
A few years back, when they fought the Chitauri, they were not prepared, but in the end they won that battle. This battle was similar. Aliens attacking the world. No Loki, no Chitauri. But a battle with the unknown, just as it had been then. It wasn't important what attacked them or why. In the end it would always be the same reasons. Power, might. Greed.
The thing he learned today, was, that being prepared was not everything. The town was down. Run over by aliens – monsters – and corps. Tasha and him fought so hard, but they hardly made a dent in the mass of their opponents. He was at the end of his strength, out of energy.
He could still hear the people shout, hysterically scream at the top of their lungs – and yet he wasn't able to help them. Clint wasn't used to not being able to help. His ear twitched, as he heard her move under the drizzling water, as the splashes changed their sound, when hitting her at different angles or body parts. At least they were okay. Tired and exhausted, but okay. Alive.
He had a few cuts and bruises, maybe a cracked rib. Nothing he couldn't handle, nothing he hadn't had before. He would heal, just like she would. Their bodies would be fine – hers earlier than his, just as usual, but they'd survive.
His gaze followed the first snowflakes falling past his window. It reminded him, that it was hardly two weeks to Christmas. Even if she would dislike it, he got her a gift. Nothing grand, nothing expensive, but meaningful. She hated it, when he had a present for her, but by now she at least tried to be happy with it. Cherish the thought, when not the thing itself.
Today’s day made him wonder, wonder if they would ever may have a normal Christmas, or a pre-Christmas time and not fight a battle. Wherever and whoever against.
The snow outside got dense. Huge flakes drifted past the narrow window, piling up on the ground directly in front of it.
In his mind, Clint gave in to a short moment, where Natasha and him had one normal day. A normal day, that could belong to a normal life. They would go ice skating. Thinking of her on skates, made him grin. She would be perfect at it. Clint had never skated on ice, he wouldn't know how to stay on his feet, but in his head … just for a moment … he could see himself standing behind her, reaching around her narrow waist, to pull her back to his front, lean his chin against her soft, red hair and make them glide over the solid, smooth plane. Soft lights brushing their bodies, showing their every movement.
Ridiculous.
Clint shook his head, still grinning lopsided. She would never go ice skating with him. They would never have a normal life. It wasn't in their blood. The only thing they were good at was their job, they were master assassins. Always have been and always will be.
The shower stopped, while his eyes wandered back up to the window. Still the thought was nice, to do something different. Just once. Ice skating, visiting a Christmasmarket or going for a shopping spree. Every other woman would love to do that. But not her, not Natasha.
She might like the engraved new knifes he designed for her. They were slender, double-bladed and out of pure, folded steel. After almost ten years of working with her, he knew what she liked, what she prefers to use to kill.
He could hear her footsteps, as she left the bathroom and joined him, but only because she wanted him to hear her. Clint moved his head ever so slightly, just to see her out of the corner of his eye. Natasha was drying her red hair with a towel, her green eyes looking at him. Worried and also wondering.
She always worried about him, even if there was no need for it. He was the only thing she ever worried about.
Clint turned a little farther toward her, straightening himself ever so carefully, to not wince at the condition his body was in. However carefully he would move, she would always notice. Just like now, she flung the towel to the end of the bed and stepped up to him, lightly placing her open hand on his left cheek. „We fought well”, she whispered, thinking his mind was still with the fallen ones and she was right to some point. „You did”, he couldn't help himself, but smile, while looking up at her. Her face was unharmed, but ever so slight lines ran across her forehead, creasing the lovely skin. „We both did, Clint.”, she repeated with more force in her voice. „They were outnumbered. By far. We couldn't do anything anymore.”
„We just left them there ...”
„I had to get you out of there … you would have killed yourself.”
„Tasha …”
„You know, you would have.”
Both of their voices where no more than a low murmur, but considering the silence around them their voices seemed loud and clear. Clint didn't know what to respond. He would have fought to the end. To the very end. She was right, he would have killed himself.
„What is on your mind, Clint?”
Ashamed of his thoughts, he looked down, taking her hands in his, gently stroking the back of her hands with his thumbs. „You know me far too well”, his blue eyes wandering back up to her face. „I just about know you well enough”, she said softly, taking her hands from his and putting them on his head, stroking through his short, messy hair. „You should go to sleep, Clint.”
He liked it, how she said his name, over and over again. She did that, when she was worried about him. Saying his name, seemed to calm her for some reason.
Immediately he knew she wasn't planning on staying with him. „You're going back?”, fear, fear for her crept into his voice. „You can't go, you need to stay here”, with me. „Please.”
The Black Widow in her was repulsed, he could see it in her eyes, just a glimpse, gone with the next beat of her eyelashes. „Just stay”, he repeatedly asked.
„Fine … at least until you sleep”, a grin crept onto her face, while running her hands, from his hair, to his cheeks, cupping his face. He knew she would go, no matter what he said, or did, no matter how long he tried not to fall asleep at her side, no matter how tight he would hold her against his body. „You'll never hear me leave.”
No, he wouldn't. Not, if she didn't want him to. He could only hope she would come back just as quietly.
The Ballerina
He just came back from the first briefing he had in ages. Well at least the first one he had by himself anyway. The last couple of months he had always gone on missions with the STD, never alone. Fury needed to see, that he was back to his old self. Reliable and resilient.
Concentrated.
Always at aim.
Clint sat at his table in his room at S.H.I.E.L.D., opening the Romanova-File. There was barely any information about her. No age, no real listing of her skills, no curriculum. Nothing he could really work with. Plus everything they knew about her ended with the Second World War. This case would take some observation; otherwise he would stand no chance in killing her.
At least there were a couple of pictures, so he would know who to look for.
Apparently the Black Widow had made her nest in Stark Industries, but nobody knew what she wanted there. The best hunch they had, was that she might want to kill Anthony Stark, the founder’s son.
So it was up to him to find out.
His eyes fell on a copy of an old picture. It was probably taken in the 40’s, Clint guessed, by the looks of it. It showed Natalia Romanova, the ballet dancer. The ballerina, in a sleek white costume, feathers in her tied up hair. The silky white cloth covering, but also showing, every part of her body.
Her poise was a very typical one. Standing on one leg, her upper body bent slightly forward, one arm gracefully held above her head, the other stretched out in front of her. The second leg stretched far behind and up, her knee slightly bent. The look on her face was concentrated, but still full of passion and emotion, her eyelids closed softly.
His gaze rested upon the black and white copy for a while.
At the time she seemed to be at ease, enjoying herself. Enjoying what she was doing. He couldn’t help but wonder why she stopped being a dancer.
At this point he would have never guessed that it wasn’t in her blood.
This Is War
Blue-grayish light cut through the trees and the fog. Giving the only light they had at this hour. The helicopters circling the sky, throwing a bomb now and again, when they thought they had the enemy beneath them. The rotors tuning out the sounds of desperate screams and yells echoing through the forest. They were at a border, in the middle of nowhere. Running.
He could hear a bomb explode; it ripped through the trees, made the ground quiver beneath his boots, as his feet brought him forward on the unsteady, bulky ground. For a moment he thought he might trip, but he didn’t; only gaining speed, with every further step.
He was running, running toward to opponent. The fiend.
His arms were flung over his head protectively, his shield covering his right side, so the force of the next bomb hitting the ground, might get derived by it. The fog lightened the longer he ran, by now he could see where he was going and not only guess it. The tension in his body grew with every second, with every foot he placed in front of his other.
Steve could hear the men that had come with him, dozens of them running behind and also next to him, fighting on the ground, to win the war.
Blood stained the dark gloves he was wearing. Splatters ornamented the front of bodysuit. But he had no time to care. Not now, not in the middle of the field – and probably not later, when he returned back to camp.
Sweat gleamed on his face; slowly forming driblets which ran down is face, down his throat or is neck and vanished into the material of his suit. Steve could feel the damp wetness of sweat all over his body, beneath the armor he wore.
The past few minutes he left the last battlefield behind him, running, sprinting to the next.
He was panting hard, hearing his blood rushing through his veins, feeling his heartbeat heavily against his ribs.
Then finally he saw movement before them.
“Arm yourselves.” he shouted, trying to overtrump the surrounding sounds of heavy machine guns and other weaponry, aiming his own high.
Suddenly he startled.
Stopping dead in his tracks his glance rose up the low hill, they were about to run up.
The men around him slowed, some stopped even, irritated by his sudden reaction. Steve didn’t focus on them - couldn’t focus - on them right now.
His eyes had met his opponents. A quiet gasp left his lips, as he stared at the man opposite.
Was he seeing things?
The images of his best friend falling out of the train came immediately back to his mind. He couldn’t save him. He was too late. Too slow.
Bucky had fallen.
Deep.
It was impossible for him to stand there. He had died.
Disbelieve crossed Steve’s face, while staring at the man before him. His believed dead best friend.
Speechless he stood there, not able to step up closer, or draw back. There were no words, he could find to describe the feelings that rushed through his body. Among them where worry and anger, but also hope.
His eyes caught more movement and only a few seconds later a woman appeared next to Bucky. Red hair hung in thick curls over her shoulders, looking tousled but not messy. Her eyes were cold as ice. Her glare itself was deadly.
A murderous smirk hung on her lips. She was radiating. Power, might, a dark greed.
Greed for more blood. Without being able to resist he looked at her, at her body, her face, her emanation. She stood upright, holding her chin high, her hands hanging ever so relaxed next to her body, holding nothing more than two simple small arms.
Within an instant Steve knew who she was. It could only be her. The description fitted perfectly. A Woman around twenty, with red hair, a black suit and breathtakingly cold eyes. People would say she was soulless.
The Black Widow.
He could see her, but he had a hard time believing she stood there. In the middle of nowhere. And at her side his best friend. Alive.
Alive and healthy as it seemed.
The men around them started moving, reassumed their purpose: to fight, to win the war.
It was only the three of them, standing in the middle of a forest, between the boundaries of enemies. Just looking at each other. Not making one move within minutes.
The tension in his body was almost unbearable. The anger that rose while he was standing there, taking in what he saw. He just couldn’t believe it. How was it possible?
He saw him fall.
“Steve”, it was Bucky’s voice, knocking him back into reality. The Cap looked back at him, still being at a loss of words. “You’re wrong, you know?”
“What?”, it was the first thing that came over his lips, his voice filled with irritation. But he would never get an answer. In an instant the Black Widow was at his side. Her legs made her seemingly fly down the hill, her fist finding his solar plexus within a split second. Steve wasn’t able to react so quickly, still too startled. Too shocked.
She didn’t hesitate, not caring about his situation. In her eyes he was the enemy and he had to be taken down. Natalia removed her fist from his torso, stepping past him, in one fluent move, still using the speed she got from running down the hill. She dropped herself on her hands, stretching out a leg and swept him off his feet with kicking her leg into the hollows of his knees. Steve fell hard to the floor, finally breaking his stare with Bucky, who still stood aside and just watched with his arms folded in front of his chest.
Within her fluent motion, Natalia got back to her feet looking down at Captain America, who had dropped his shield to the ground, clutching his stomach with one hand and holding himself up from the damp ground with the other.
Pure rage let the shock and sorrow, the guilt he had felt, melt away. Dissolve into thin air.
Steve took a deep breath, suppressing the pain he felt from her fist.
The Widow was standing behind him, her hands on her hips, waiting. She wanted a challenge; otherwise she would have just shot him, when he went down on his knees. Instead she stood there looking down at him, waiting for him to get back up, one eyebrow arched in wariness. He was supposed to be strong. At first it was only rumors that she heard about him, but when she got to know Bucky and hear what he had seen, live and in action, everything in her screamed out for him. Natalia wanted to play.
His jaw’s were clenched together, his lower jawbone standing out visibly at each side, showing the tension in his whole body, as he got back to his feet.
Slowly he grabbed his shield off the floor, the mud and dirt sliding of it as if it were smooth as glass. Steve turned to her, scanning her face, her posture. He had heard that the Russians had a super soldier on their side. Someone that had a similar serum running through his veins as his. He had known it was a woman, but still he was slightly surprised. She was short and slim, but not skinny. To him she seemed robust, but elegant.
He couldn’t valuate her.
Just as he got to his feet, she started moving again. She stepped back, just to build momentum, as she dashed forward, not holding back. With the side of her hand she aimed for his neck. Her skills as an incredible material arts combatant were known to him. In the last second he threw up his shield, ducking his head beneath it, he could see her feet leaving the ground, as she jumped at him. Steve automatically bent his knees, as he felt her weight come down on the, out of vibranium forged, disk. The next second she jumped back down to the floor, turning her body with a leg up high, so she would hit him hard on his chest.
Her strike was perfect. With full force of her weight, put into the lunge, he made him trip back and almost fall. The air was pressed out of his lungs painfully.
With a moan, he came to a stumbling halt a couple of feet away.
Taking a deep breath he caught his balanced and went into attack. Steve tore the shield from his arm to throw it at her, but she dodged it, without even blinking. The disk soared through the air and hit the ground over a dozen feet away. It dug itself deep into the soft earth of the forest.
Natalia had never taken her eyes off of him, but throwing the shield had slightly attracted her attention, maybe even surprised her. Steve took the opportunity and flung himself at her, throwing her to the ground and pinning her to it. His hand clenched over her fist, as she tried to hit him in his face with her right hand.
Their eyes locked, a light smirk playing on her lips. She wasn’t even trying and she wanted him to know.
Steve pressed her arm to the ground, the other already buried under his leg, since he had jumped her. “You.”, his voice was filled with venom. As he leaned in, his underarm pressed against her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. None the less her eyes glittered with gloat, mocking him. “If I were allowed to kill you …”
It was a open dare. He had never felt the need to kill someone. Anybody. Ever.
She was an exception.
The Black Widow was a coldhearted assassin, working with and for the wrong people. Playing games and tricks along the way, not caring who and what she left bleeding on the ground.
Just as he thought he was able to keep her down, he felt a muzzle pressed to his temple. Bucky. He forgot about him. Forgot that he might involve himself.
“Don’t make me do that, Steve.”, his voice was only a murmur, but still one could hear the earnestness in it. The Cap froze in his position, not immediately letting go of the woman beneath him. Slowly he turned his face toward his friend. “Bucky...”, disbelief was all there was.
“No, Steve. Don’t even get started.”
“You’re wrong…”
“I said: Don’t!”, the man cut him off, his voice vibrating with anger.
The next thing happened so fast, that Steve couldn’t even register how it could have happened. Suddenly a piercing pain went through his skull.
It was his friend, who had hit him with the small arm, he was holding. Startled he let go of the Widow beneath him, who had waited patiently. Before Steve could say or do anything, he was the one, pinned to the ground.
Her above him, taking several blows at his face. He could feel the blood trickle past his ear and out of the corner of his mouth. His sight blurred with the intensity of growing pain.
How could he have done this?
Bucky.
Anger still stirred in his chest, but the shock had never really vanished and took over anew. He could feel Natalias weight lifting of his body. He tried to reach out for her, but grabbed nothing but air. “Why?”, his voice barely audible, he asked, as he watched them turn their backs on him and walk away.
Finally darkness surrounded him, as he drifted into unconsciousness.
First Impression
“Remember where you came from, Barton”, Furys voice was loud in his ears, painfully loud and plainly annoying. His index finger was only a couple of inches in front of his face, because the director was leaning in so far over his table, one could think he’d crawl over it any second. Clint would bet his face was dark red to purple, if he hadn’t been dark-skinned naturally. “If I want to, I can put you right out there again.”
But that was the point, wasn’t it?
Fury didn’t want to.
Not really.
But he would, if he’d fuck up again.
Today, right now, Clint could remember very well how he came to S.H.I.E.L.D. How it happened, that he joined this very agency. It was Coulson who brought him in. Coulson tends to do that. Bring in new ones. It seems he has an eye for talent or however you might want to call people that are good at killing, spying, manipulating…
It was five years ago, when he first set foot in the headquarters.
Before that, many things had gone wrong, and since then … well. Probably the only difference was that he was insured and got paid well, since he joined up. Because thing still went wrong.
Few months back his wife died.
Couple weeks back, he broke a guy’s neck and he couldn’t even remember. Not really. It was all kind of a blur. It just happened – and that was a poorest excuse, but also the only excuse, he could come up with.
Since seventeen hours he was sitting in this room. His legs stretched out under the table, his elbows leaning against the armrest, his fingers folded over his stomach. Clint couldn’t deny he was tired. He was very tired in fact, but he didn’t have time to think of a bed, or sleep. Fury wouldn’t let him, not until he was sure, that Barton would take orders again. Behave and follow like he should.
It’s not like Barton had much of a choice.
Fury had him by his balls.
And still Clint just couldn’t make himself care enough right now.
His thoughts slipped back to the day he first entered S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in New York. He’d worn old ragged jeans with a tear his left knee, caked with dirt once blue high tops, a way to large former black tee. His hair had been longer then too.
Coulson had been at his side, showing him the place.
Truth was Clint was at the end of a long, dark road at the time. So much happened since then …
As far as he could tell Coulson was the one who literally scraped him of the ground a year ago at the time and got him to hospital to get fixed. It was his brother who had left him there on the floor in an ally. To die, in a puddle of his own blood. After all they’ve been through together. Losing their parents, running off from the orphanage, joining the circus and there finally finding something that came oh so close to a family…
It almost took a year to heal.
He often had broken his bones - by others, but also by himself. He wasn’t clumsy, never was. But at times one would slip and fall. Falling off a high up tied rope would break a bone and there would never be enough time for it to heal. Always moving through the country, always performing, no matter what. Just to stay alive. That’s what the circus was about. If they didn’t sell out, they went hungry. They always had to do a great show. Be at their best. Nobody cared if you’d pulled a muscle or sprained your ankle. They were concerned and they would care, as long as it wouldn’t interfere with business.
He remembered waking up after weeks of unconsciousness, after getting beat up by his brother, to see a man at his side, smiling at him. It made him lift an eyebrow then, and it still did now.
Clint was only twenty-five back then. Until today he wonders how old Coulson might be. He never asked. He never cared enough to ask. But he didn’t seem to age.
When his eyes focused on the man with the blue eyes beside him and he had arched an eyebrow Coulson addressed him directly: “Welcome back, Mr. Barton.”
He had not said a word for so long; he could feel his mouth was all dry and sticky from not talking for weeks, but it didn’t matter since the man just carried on talking after a moment of silence. “You are wondering who I am and what I am doing at your bedside.”
In fact that was true. Clint had only given a small nod then. Feeling piercing pain jolt through his body at that slight movement, making him inhale deeply, trying not to wince in agony. “You shouldn’t move, Mr. Barton. You have multiple fractures and tears. A quite bad concussion, too. Your inner organs should be on the best way to be perfectly fine soon, though.”
Clint had pulled up both eyebrows, totally bewildered by what the man was telling him. Especially because he was still sympathetically smiling at him.
“To get back to what I wanted to tell you. I am Agent Phil Coulson. I’m here on behalf of the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorat, short S.H.I.E.L.D., to evince our interest in you.”
Clint swallowed hard. “Am I in trouble?”, his voice sounded hoarse, his throat burnt, but he didn’t sound afraid. Quite on the contrary… there was still a glimmer of provocation in his eyes.
Coulsons lips twitched with a grin. “No, Mr. Barton.”
The agent got up and looked down at the young man. “We are interested in you working for and with S.H.I.E.L.D.”
That was his first encounter with Agent Phillip Coulson, one of many to follow.
He had explained everything to Clint. What the agency stood for, what they did, why they did it. How they managed and organized things. Coulson answered just about every question that Barton asked.
The year went by. He leant how to walk again, how to work his arms, his fingers and then he was standing in the headquarters lobby for the first time.
Clint had agreed to join in.
It was one of the most exciting things to ever have happened to him.
He got trained. Not in archery, but in just about everything else. Combat, spying, weaponry. Most of it came naturally to him. He got the hang of most things pretty easily. It only took a few months until he had his first mission and only five years to get him where he was today.
Again.
Now he was a level seven.
Fury had told him on more than one occasion that he could have been more. Still be more probably. He thought that his potential was higher, than this. But Clint wouldn’t hear it.
Instead he disobeyed direct orders, acting on his own behalf. Going with his guts, most of the time. So he could never shake Fury. He’d always sit in his neck.
Until he got to know Barbara Morse. Things between Fury and him had changed then.
Because of her.
Because she could make them listen to each other, act on each other’s behalf, without pissing at each other’s legs.
With her death…, well he was back at square one.
Fury had him at his balls for turning his back on S.H.I.E.L.D., for murdering an innocent man out of pure rage. In the end Barton could be lucky to be back here at all. If he weren’t as good as he is, he’d simply be in jail. Or somewhere … keeping a very, very low profile.
“Yes, sir.”, he finally replied. “I remember where I came from and I don’t want to go back there.”
And probably he had Coulson to thank for this second chance too.
Seeing You
This time they had all reason to celebrate. The mission they had been working on for months had gone well and finally they had come back home. It was already late when Clint unlocked the door to his apartment in Brooklyn, New York and let Natasha and himself in.
He flicked on the light switch to his right, giving the room a swift glance. Everything was in order as usual. As chaotic he could be on missions sometimes, leaving stuff lying around on the floor, or wherever else he just dropped it, he was pretty orderly when it came to is private home.
Natasha came around now and again after missions. Sometimes invited, mostly not.
It was a ‘thing’ they had going, but nothing he could wrap his head around really. Not after what happened. She just came, when she felt like it at times and he learned to cope with it.
He put his keys on the bar and stepped into his kitchenwhile Tasha walked around it and took a seat, facing Clint. “Proper Whiskey, yeah?” he asked, without waiting for a reply, but pulling out a bottle from a cupboard and fetching them each a glass.
While pouring them two doubles, Clint looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. Natasha looked just as tired as he felt. Half an hour ago they left the headquarters behind them, after having more than two hours of debriefing. He felt slightly brainfucked. “Thank god it’s over”, the redhead mumbled, reaching out for the glass which he handed to her. She would only ever be that honest with him. Only with him. “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.”
The chime of the glasses sounded loud in the quiet flat.
Barton took a large slug, while she hardly nipped at it. It made him grin slightly, knowing she just simply preferred Vodka to Whiskey.
For a while they stood and sat there in silence. He had leaned back against the counter, cross-legged and his head tilted back, his eyes half closed, one hand braced against the edge of the cold counter. Her eyes had looked down into the glass, observing the swirling liquid in it, due to her swinging it slightly clockwise. Only slowly her gaze wandered up, to look at him, standing there, relaxing himself. She could see how he made himself loosen every muscle deliberately. Tasha’s eyes wandered over his broad torso, over his shoulders to his face. Dark shadows made him look worn out, older, but still he seemed at ease, not minding her presence or the late hour.
His spine tingled, the hair in his neck rose, giving him slight Goosebumps. Whenever she looked at him long enough he would react to it – to her – like that. Clint couldn’t help himself. He tried to ignore it in the beginning. Tried to ignore how he felt when she looked at him. Also tried to ignore how he felt about her in general. Especially after Budapest.
Thinking of it made his heart ache.
Pushing away his thoughts he straightened up, looking right back at her, then knocking down the rest of his Whiskey and refilling his glass. “Drink up, otherwise I’ll be the only one wasted tomorrow.”
“You know I don’t ever get hung over.”
“Why do you always take me so literally?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, although a smirk was pulling at the corner of his lip.
She rolled her eyes at him, emptying her still almost full glass in one large slug and then stretching it out in his direction. Clint grinned at her, while giving her a refill. Her nose twitched, disliking the taste of Barton’s favorite drink. “Getting me drunk will take more than one bottle between the two of us”, she pointed out, her lips ever so slightly twitching with a grin.
“I remember, so now I always have more where that came from.” While saying so he got out another bottle of the same Whiskey and placed it next to the already opened one. Thank god, they had a couple of days off now, so if he in fact got wasted it wouldn’t matter.
It wasn’t the first time they drank together. The first time he didn’t know she couldn’t get drunk, or rather only very slowly. She drank him under the table with ease. That night she had put him to bed and the next morning had been … awkward.
“To a successful mission.” They raised their glasses, both of them grinning lopsided and again emptying them in one go.
Barton pushed himself away from where he leaned and walked around the bar to sit next to her, leaving a barstool between them, to put his foot up on. He hardly ever sat in an upright position. With his left arm he leaned on the bar and had the next glass of Whiskey, leaving the bottle open and playing it between the both of them. She would know, that she could help herself to as much as she liked.
“Clint?” her voice was low, sounding rather thoughtful. He lifted his glance from his glass to her face. Anybody could tell that he was tired and could use rather a shower and a bed, than another shot of spirits.
“Hm?”
“…Mh”, Tasha usually was a straight forward person. She always said what was on her mind directly. She’d always lay it on the line. Her not reacting immediately made him perk up. Concern crossing his face when she still didn’t react.
“What is it?”, he asked slowly, not sure how to interpret her behavior.
“I had this weird … picture in my head.”
Clint finished off his drink and while giving himself another refill he tilted his head slightly, his eyebrows knitted together, not sure where this was going. He waited for her to continue, sipping away.
She took her time, drinking and avoiding looking at him.
“On our way back”, she started to explain herself. “I nodded off.” Clint gave a slow nod, still not sure where this was heading. He felt uncomfortable though, clinging to his glass. “And something popped into my mind. I don’t think it was a dream, Clint.”
Only then she turned her head to look at him sideways, both hands holding on to her own glass, which was yet again empty. “I… I think it was a memory.”
“So?”, the word just slipped out. He couldn’t take the bad feeling anymore which had bloomed in the pit of his stomach.
“So…” it sounded like a sigh, her shoulders shrugging slightly. “I could see you.”
Yeah, now he knew this was about Budapest. They never talked about it. He had never told her. He had never told her what happened there … because … because of so many reasons. Something like panic crept down his spine. Her green eyes locked with his and he knew she could see the change in his expression. The change in his body language, the tension in his muscles. He only shifted slightly, taking his foot from the barstool between them.
“You… “ Natasha could hardly bring out the sentence which formed in her head. At first the picture had meant nothing to her, but in the past couple of hours it had come back to her over and over again, bringing new details with it every time. “You caressed my cheek.” The image came back to her, clearer than ever. His blue eyes had looked at her differently from now. They had been in awe, warm and caring. There had been a cut above his right eyebrow; his left cheekbone had been blue-green, bruised. She could almost feel his thumb stroking her cheek, then the slight pull at her then long hair, as he had pushed it behind her ear.
His lips were slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something, but then the memory was over. There was no more.
“Caressed?”, he asked, sounding as dumbstruck as he could, remembering the very moment in the hideout, when he had touched her face. For a second he wasn’t sure if he should tell her … but no. No, she had been through enough. It was good the way it was.
Her skeptical glance made him feel guilty, but he stuck with his decision. He wouldn’t say a word about what happened in Budapest. “Yes, caressed.” Her eyebrow had arched, when she looked at his apparently irritated expression.
Tashas senses tingled. She could feel that something was off. She was not stupid and by now she knew Clint well enough, to know when he was not telling her something.
In the moment of silence that followed Clint had refilled his glass twice and drowned himself in the Whiskey. Yeah … he still was a bad actor and liar. If she made him drunk enough, he might spill. Although he was working on that pretty well by himself…
“Clint?” Tash interrupted him, while he was again putting the air out of his glass.
“Hm?”
“If you carry on drinking like that, you will definitely be the first to lie on the floor”, she pointed out. Clint huffed. He’d be the first one, no matter how quick he’d drink.
The Russian sipped at her drink, while her partner had almost emptied half the bottle by himself. She’d find out, what was bugging him. One way or another. Something happened back then. Even if she couldn’t remember when exactly it happened, she knew it did in fact happen. It wasn’t her imagination playing a joke on her. Natasha was sure that the moment had happened – that Clint had looked at her in ‘that’ way and had stroked her cheek.
