Hello my lovelies! Welcome to my second BlackHawk story! (I will go down with this ship, so help me Jeebus) This is set about a year after Clint brings Natasha in to SHIELD, they are still working out some of the kinks of being partners. :3 Shouldn't be much if any spoilers for the Avengers in this one, just Clint/Tasha goodness.
Clint plucked the plastic safety glasses from his head and tossed them on the worktable. He leaned over the compound bow he was modifying, flicking the binary cam and watching the pulleys spin in perfect synchronization. His weapons needed to be extensions of himself, and in his mind the only way for that to happen was if he built them from the ground up.
Beyond that, the archer found something therapeutic about working with his hands and losing himself in the craft. When he needed to think after a rough mission, he went to the shooting range. When he needed to not think, he holed himself up in his workshop like he had done tonight.
Barton turned his head when he sensed her approach, offering a tired smile in greeting when their eyes met in the doorway. In the three strides it took his partner to cross the space between them he took in her tense posture and the startlingly raw anger in her eyes. He stood up immediately, a question on his lips. But before he could ask what the matter was Natasha Romanoff had reached him and raised her hand to strike him across the face.
Clint barely managed to catch her wrist before her palm connected with his face. In retrospect, that was a mistake. Quicker than thought she used his vice like grip on her arm against him, yanking him off balance and into the path of a well-aimed knee to his abdomen. Barton coughed in pain and only saved himself from buckling by bracing one arm on his worktable.
"What the hell was that for?" Clint demanded, torn between confusion and anger over her actions. He straightened and tensed for her next move as Natasha advanced again, his mind racing to unravel the reason behind her sudden violence. The redhead twisted her hands into his gray t-shirt and roughly jerked him forward, bringing his face down to hers until their lips a whisper apart.
"Were you ever going to tell me how the extraction team managed to find me in Moscow? How you went dark for ten days and Coulson had to fish your half-frozen ass out of the Moskva River? What were you thinking?" Natasha spat. Her clear sea blue eyes were smoldering with anger, but Clint could feel her balled fists trembling ever so slightly against his chest.
"I was thinking that I had to find out where that Gromov bastard had taken you before he realized you were the Black Widow and killed you." Clint snapped defensively. The marksman wasn't quick to anger, but he was not exactly ecstatic that Natasha had somehow found out he had been in Russia four months ago. He would have to have some select words with Coulson later.
"I didn't ask you to ride in on a white horse, Barton! Besides, you weren't even supposed to be on that continent, let alone in that city! You're lucky Fury didn't lock you in a dark hole for going rogue to come find me!" Natasha released her grip on Clint's shirt and shoved away from him roughly.
"No, you're lucky Director Fury looked the other way when I went after you so that he didn't have to give the order to turn Coulson's extraction op into an execution order!" Clint was practically shouting now. He pushed away from the worktable and forced Natasha to backpedal as he invaded her space, his left hand slamming the wall beside her head. To her credit, the spy didn't flinch.
The redhead processed Clint's words, struggling to maintain the level of rage she had confronted him with as his revelation derailed her indignation. "What? What are you talking about?" She sputtered, unable to meet his petrol blue eyes since she already had a pretty good idea of the answer.
"Come on Tasha. Your first authorized solo mission for S.H.I.E.L.D. and you end up unaccounted for, in Russia, for over a week. Director Fury believed you were in trouble; the Council believed you were a traitor. He tried to give Coulson's team as much time as possible to find you, but you cover your tracks better than any agent in the division." Clint dipped his head and caught her unsteady gaze, "The Director called me when Council forced his hand. Said there was a plane headed to Moscow at midnight and if I got on it he'd slap dark status on me so fast it would make my head spin." The corners of Barton's mouth twitched up as he recalled the conversation with his superior.
Agent Romanoff searched her partner's face, at a loss for what to say, or even think. She had never had anyone in her life that would go to such extremes for her. Barton had risked everything, his reputation, his job, his life for her not once now but twice. That she was aware of. She wanted to hate him for placing such a profound debt on her shoulders, but instead she found herself feeling a nearly overwhelming sense of relief. Somehow Natasha knew, deep in her bones, that she could trust this man. It was an alien feeling to the former Red Room adherent that would take some getting used to.
It looked like most of the fight had gone out of her, so Clint relaxed and backed off, leaning against the edge of the metal countertop opposite her. His gut was going to be sore as hell tomorrow, but he could tell by the look on Natasha's face that she finally understood that she could trust him. Hopefully next time something like this came up the woman would ask first, assault later.
"So… Are we good then?" Clint prompted when the silence dragged on for several minutes. Natasha seemed to return from whatever faraway place her thoughts had taken her, and smiled contritely.
"Yes. I'm sorry for… attacking you." Natasha apologized, snickering when Clint made a show of how tender his abdomen was.
"I don't know Nat. I might not forgive you unless you buy me a drink up at the Mess." Clint joked. Natasha cocked her head at the use of the nickname; he had never addressed her that casually before. She decided she could get used to that as well.
"I can do one better. I have a bottle of vodka in my quarters. The real stuff." She responded with a smile, gesturing for him to accompany her out.
"Russian vodka, huh? Be still my heart." Clint laughed warmly, flicking off the lights of his workroom as he followed close behind her.