Hey, folks! I've decided to try my hand at an Avengers fic. This is just a little one-shot about Clint and a video camera and the trouble he gets into with it. It is a Clint/OC and hopefully you guys will like her as much as I do.
I've already got a few one-shots written with Clint and this same OC so, depending on reader's response, I may turn this into a full-fledge story.
As always, enjoy.
January 13th, 2016
The idea came to Clint on a long flight home from Kandahar after a mission had gone slightly awry. One stray hit from the Hulk and Tony's helmet got crushed around his skull. There was no lasting damage, aside from a mild concussion, but for the first five minutes after he regained consciousness he experienced a bit of amnesia. It caused a slight scare for everyone when Tasha asked if there was anything she could get for him and the Iron Man didn't automatically respond with something dirty.
"Tony, are you sure you're alright?" Clint asked, eyeing the older man wearily. Tony blinked up at him and cleared his throat, his dark stare darting around at their team, "I'm sorry, what? Who…who's Tony?"
Thor gave a barking laugh. "You are gaming with us, Metal Man."
"I don't think he's playing, Big Guy," murmured Natasha as she knelt beside the billionaire. She slipped a tiny flashlight out of her pocket and clicked it on. "Follow the light with your eyes. Do you know where you are?"
"Um…" he glanced at the destroyed streets of a Kandahar slum. "The set of Slumdog Millionaire?"
"Well, at least he's still got his humor," said Bruce as he approached, having put the other guy away. He rubbed a shaking hand over his face and through his hair as he shot his best friend a remorseful look, "Sorry about the helmet, Tony."
Tony shifted awkwardly on the ground. He asked Natasha, "I'm Tony, aren't I?"
"Anthony Edward Stark," affirmed Clint. "Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, as I hear you like to call yourself."
The team watched in concern as Tony's eyebrows drew together, "I sound like a real humble guy."
"You're not so bad most of the time," murmured Steve, eyeing his temporarily fallen comrade. The Captain extended a hand to the man in the iron suit and Tony hesitated only a second before accepting. Steve hauled Tony to his feet and clapped him on his iron shoulder. "Give it a minute. Everything will come back to you."
And like the Captain said, it did. Another five or so minutes passed and Tony sort of blinked and gave a disgusted frown, exclaiming, "My God, how could I forget myself? I'm awesome. You don't forget this level of awesome."
Clint smirked, "Apparently you do."
As far as incidents go, it was a minor blip on the radar but it got Clint thinking. Or, well, worrying. The Avengers' Quinjet leveled over the Pacific Ocean, preparing to land on the Helicarrier, and Clint couldn't help but stare at the white gold band on his left ring finger. He twirled the band around his finger and wondered what would happen to her if he lost his memory. What would happen to his wife if he forgot everything he ever knew? That night, after a debriefing aboard the Helicarrier, he'd said goodbye to his team and headed home to their apartment in New York, stopping by a Radio Shack on the way and buying a small handheld Nikon Camcorder.
It was just after three a.m. when we he turned the key in the lock and punched the security code on the pad beside their front door. He slipped inside silently, locking the door behind him and rearming the alarm. The house was quiet but he could hear the hum of the television coming from their room; she always fell asleep with the TV on. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips, his chest suddenly burning tight. He missed her. Deeply.
Clint figured this was the best part of marriage, coming home to a house where he knew she'd be waiting. No more long nights alone to ponder dark memories. No more nights bandaging his own wounds and suffering silently. It seemed his whole life Clint had been alone. Then he met Tasha. But the Russian spy wasn't exactly one for hand holding and that's not how they saw one another, anyhow. They were playmates, a damn good team of assassins. He was her mentor, she was his prodigy.
Dropping his bags in the kitchen, he moved through the living room, down the thin corridor, to their room. She was sprawled across their bed lying on her stomach on top of the sheets, her arms curled around the pillow beneath her head, her long, bare legs shining in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. Clint's chest tightened at the sight of her as he unzipped his jacket and slid the leather from his shoulders. He kicked off his boots, memorizing the way her hair spilled around her sun-kissed face. Crossing to the bed, he dropped to his knees beside her, bringing his hand up to slowly caress her cheek. She stirred slightly as he pushed the hair away from her face and leaned over to press a kiss to her temple. "Hey, baby girl."
"Clint?" Georgia blinked drowsily, lifting her head an inch off the pillow.
He grinned at her, brushing his thumb over her cheek, "Sorry to wake you."
"You better wake me," she warned, rising to throw her arms around him. The force of her body crashing into his sent them tumbling to the floor, a deep chuckle echoing in his throat. She trapped him beneath her arms on the hardwood floor, straddling his waist. He grinned up at her, reaching up to trail a finger down the side of her face, "Did you miss me?"
"As much as I always do," she replied, dipping her head to bring their lips together. She gently sucked in his bottom lip, tracing the edge with her tongue, his hands coming up to grip her waist. His touch was warm through her thin tank top and she shivered against him. "I'm glad you're home."
He trailed a hand up her back to cup her neck, fingers tangling in her long, dark hair, the other hand still firmly gripping her side. He nipped at her mouth impatiently, like she was the last drop of water in the desert and he was a thirsty man. "You and me, both," he hummed against her mouth. She was divine. And all his. That knowledge, and the glorious feeling of her in his arms, made Clint a very happy man.
He pushed against the floor, sitting up, his wife resting in his lap. She gave him an impish grin, fingers fisting his shirt. "How was the mission? Everybody get home safely?"
"Yeah, it was fine. Everybody's alright. But, uh," he sniggered. "Bruce gave Tony a nice little beating."
Georgia's eyes widened. "What?" she gasped, fighting a giggle. He shrugged, running his fingers through her hair, "It was nothing, really. But Tony kinda lost his mind for a second. He couldn't even remember who he was."
"Oh my God, Clint, that doesn't sound fine at all. He's okay, now, right? God, Pepper would die," she rambled.
"That reminds me," he suddenly grinned. Raising, he pulled her up with him and placed her on the edge of their bed. "I got you something. Er, well, I got us something."
Her eyes sparkled, "A present? You know I love presents."
He retrieved the Radio Shack bag from the kitchen as Georgia searched the sheets for the remote and clicked off the television. She eyed the shopping bag. "Did you get me my own Comm device? That's cute."
Clint barked a laugh. "Not quite." He withdrew the Nikon and pulled it out of the box, tossing aside the instructions and wrappings. He put in the battery and set it up to charge, his wife's eyes following him all the while. "If I lost my memory, what would you do?"
Georgia's nose wrinkled. "Cry. A lot."
Again, he laughed, joining her on the bed. He pulled her against his chest, showering kisses into her hair and down her neck and over the top of her shoulder. "I'm serious, G. If I lost my memory, would you know what do to?"
"What could I do but try to make you remember?" she murmured, laying her hands on his. "I would show you pictures and tell you everything. Tell you how we met and how it took months for you to ask me out. I'd get Tasha to help you remember your past before me. We'd give you your bow and arrow, make you hold them, try to jar your memory…I don't know, that's what I'd do, I guess."
"Sounds like a solid plan," he confessed. "But I'm a naturally suspicious person. I wouldn't believe you easily."
"Oh, no doubt you'd be stubborn, alright."
"I'd need fact," he continued. "I would need solid proof."
"Thus the video camera? You want to make a bunch of home movies in case you lose your memory?"
"Hard to argue with video footage," he offered, but Georgia countered, "Footage can be tampered with."
"Tampering leaves traces."
She rolled her eyes, despite the half-smirk on her lips. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"Are you just now figuring that out?"
"Oh, shut up," she swatted him, turning over in his arms. She pressed against him, hyperaware of every inch of his masculine body. As a single girl, Georgia had prided herself on not being shallow. She never dated someone based on physical appearance. Never. That wasn't what was important to her. She just wanted someone who could make her laugh, someone with intelligence and a good heart. The physical side of it never mattered to her. At least not until she met Clint. She tried not to notice, tried not to be just as attracted to his body as she was his personality. But, damn, how could she not notice? Everything about his body screamed for attention – his strong, proud jaw; his broad shoulders; his chiseled, defined torso that tapered to a narrow waist; and then there were his eyes. Those big, beautiful, soul-staring eyes. How had she gotten so lucky?
"Oh, how I have missed you," she murmured, trailing her hands down his chest to grip the hem of his shirt. Slowly, she lifted the material over his head, tossing it aside. She frowned at the sight of a half-circle spatter of purple bruises across the left side of his ribs. "I thought it was an easy mission?"
His brow furrowed. He glanced down at the already forgotten bruise. "Oh," he grinned. "That. That actually happened before we left. Thor forgets his strength sometimes."
"Oh, you and your aggressive coworkers," Georgia mused lowering her lips to his. She kissed him tenderly, her fingertips playing over the light stubble on his jaw. He spoke against her mouth, "Yeah, I know…I need to shave."
"I don't know," she nipped his mouth playfully, the stubble tickling her chin. "I kinda like it."
Clint hummed happily as his wife slid over him, her delicate little body pressing into him in all the right places. He cupped her face, hips rising to meet hers. He savored the taste of her as their lips met, his tongue stroking the sensitive roof of her mouth. He stroked his fingers across her lower stomach where her tank top rode up, hands slipping under the flimsy shirt to splay across her skin. She suddenly pulled away and he watched her peel the shirt from her body, her pink, satin bra shining in the moonlight. She returned to him; her skin was so cold. Leaning up, he drew the covers over them, breaking their kiss to trail his mouth down over her collarbone. He drew an imaginary line over the swell of her right breast, his hot mouth retracing the path. He felt her fingers clench in his hair as he reached around and unclasped her bra. He tugged the straps from her shoulders with his teeth.
"Oh, Clint, if only you knew how happy I am to have you home," she whimpered when he drew a nipple into his mouth. He smiled against her breast, "I think I have some idea."
By the time they were finished with one another the sunlight was pouring in through the windows and the digital clock on their bedside table read seven-oh-three. They laid in a sweaty, tangled mess of sheets and skin, Georgia nuzzling her face into the crook of Clint's neck. His fingertips danced across her bare shoulders. "Are you hungry?"
Georgia grinned at him, "I'm always hungry."
"Why don't I make us some breakfast?" he offered, a plate full of bacon and French toast suddenly sounding mighty nice.
"I'll cook. You've got to be exhausted," Georgia spoke, her lips brushing his skin. "Why don't you rest while I get it ready? Feel like anything particular?"
Clint's hand traveled down her back and playfully smacked her butt. "I can name a few things."
Georgia laughed, propping up on her elbow. "You're so clever, Clint."
He gave a wolfish grin. "I try." His eyes followed her as she slipped from the bed to fish around the drawers of his dresser, eventually drawing out a gray tee shirt and a pair of navy boxers. She tugged the shirt over her head, her dark hair musing even further, and slipped one dainty leg after another into the boxers. Clint knew she was doing this for him; she knew he loved seeing her in his clothes. The sight of her in his clothes fed some primal, possessive part of him. Soothed some inner beast.
Georgia eyed the Nikon on the dresser. "Your camera's charged."
"Good."
He fiddled with the camcorder as she cooked breakfast. He tested the light settings, tested it for sound quality. It wasn't a bad camera, but it wasn't the best either. They ate on the terrace, the early morning sun warming their skin. When their plates were empty, Georgia gathered the dishes and set about cleaning the kitchen. Two firm arms caught her 'round the waist. "Leave it," he said softly against her ear, his breath hot against her.
"You don't have to tell me twice." She pulled her hands from the suds in the sink. Georgia hated doing the dishes.
"Do you feel like seeing a movie?" asked her husband.
"Do you?" she snorted. How was he not dragging the floor right now? Usually when Clint returned from a mission they'd make love for a few hours, maybe grab a bit to eat, and then he would crash, sleeping anywhere between eight to ten hours. "I mean, I'm not complaining but you're usually passing out right about now."
Clint shrugged. "I slept on way back from Kandahar. Long flight."
"A movie, huh? That new Leonardo DiCaprio movie is playing. The one with Tom Hardy and that guy from Inglorious Bastards. Smart…something…"
"Smart Guys," he told her. His wife shrugged, muttering, 'Whatever,' before informing him she was going to have to shower if they were going to a movie. He watched her go, his boxers and shirt falling to the hardwood floors in her wake leaving a trail to the shower. He grinned at her messiness. It was a nice contrast to his military neatness.
When he heard the shower running, he fetched the camera and grabbed a few photos off the wall unit in the living room. He double checked the battery and made sure the memory chip was correctly inserted, before rotating the screen and hitting record. He held the camcorder backwards, staring into the lens. "Your name is Clint Barton. You were born in Waverly, Iowa, and now live in New York City with a woman named Georgia Downes."
Clint held up one of the photos. "This is her. She's your wife and you love her very, very much." He looked at the picture in his hand. It was taken on Georgia's twenty-ninth birthday, long before they'd ever met. She was at a bar in Boston with a bunch of her friends from college and her younger sister, Allie. Georgia loved that photo; said it was the best picture she'd taken in years. Clint looked back at the camera. "There are a lot of things you should know about her, but namely, don't try to control her. Georgia is going to do what Georgia wants to do. You can try and protect her and advise her, but that's it. She's stubborn as hell and feisty when she wants to be. Guess that's why she and Tasha get along so well."
Clint placed Georgia's photo back on the table and picked up on of him and Natasha in Budapest. Her arm was slung around his shoulders and she was smirking at the camera; he was too busy assessing the damage down to his bow to bother with taking a picture. He held the this picture to the camera. "This is Natasha Romanoff – the best damn assassin the twenty-first century has ever seen. She's a damn smart kid and the closest thing you have to family. You and Tasha work for a government agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. along with a team of…well, of superheroes."
He snagged the next picture, a frame newspaper clipping Georgia found from the Manhattan incident. He held up the photo and named each member of their team, briefly describing their work thus far as the Avengers. When he was through, he sighed and looked at the camera. "This is your life. Don't forget it."
He turned off the camera and fell back into the couch. He felt a bit silly but saw the necessity in what he was doing. Clint knew he was just as valuable as any other member of the Avengers, but he and Tasha were only human. They weren't Gods like Thor or super soldiers like Steve. And they didn't have fancy suits of armor to protect them either. He and Natasha were always more exposed than the others, and that was a risk they willingly took. But that didn't mean he didn't recognize realities. They were simply at a higher level of danger than their teammates.
He heard the water cut off. Heard the soft patter of his wife's footsteps as she crossed their bathroom. He could hear her towel drying her hair, hear the soft lull of her voice as she sang to herself. Smiling, he snagged the camera off the coffee table.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Georgia groaned when Clint appeared, video camera in hand as she was brushing her teeth. "This is what you want to remember? Hey, babe, sorry you lost your memory, at least I've got good dental hygiene?"
The camcorder shook with his laughter and he zoomed in on her toothpaste covered lips. "I don't know what you're talking about. This is very sexy."
He zoomed out just in time to catch her eye roll. She shot him a dull stare, "I love you, but sometimes you worry me. Quite playing with the camera and go get dressed. We've got a movie to catch."
"Yes, ma'am."
Georgia woke the following morning to soft kisses on her thigh. Purring contentedly, she rolled over and was met with the sight of her husband hovering over her, the taunt muscles of his back and shoulders rippling as he kissed his way up her body. Their lips met and she murmured nonsensical things against his mouth. "I love you," he told her, thriving at the way her breath hitched when he stroked between her legs.
"A good morning, indeed," she mused.
"I have a question for you," Clint told her, reaching across her for the camcorder on the nightstand. Georgia instantly groaned, rolling back over and burying her face in her pillow, "No way, no way! It's too early for this shit, Clint. You are not videotaping me before I brush my hair and teeth. No way."
"Oh, I've already got plenty of good footage of you," he grinned evilly. "You were making some very delicious moans in your sleep."
Her face flamed. "You did not," she growled into the pillow, her threatening voice muffled.
"I'm afraid I did."
"I'll kill you," she grumbled, before whining, "Please, Clint, put it away. Please!"
"I will as soon as you answer my question," he shifted the camcorder, zooming in on her. "What makes you happiest in the world?"
Georgia lifted her head to glare at him. "Are you serious?"
He grinned at her behind the camera. "Of course."
"What makes me happiest in the world?" she repeated his words. "Well you should know the answer to that…chocolate. Chocolate always makes me happy."
"Ha, ha."
"Oh, I'm sorry, was my answer not satisfactory to you?" she leaned against the pillows, coyly eyeing the camera. She hummed thoughtfully, crossing her legs and dangling one foot over the edge of the bed. Clint zoomed out a bit, camera trailing down her long, beautiful legs. "Um, excuse me, sir," she called to him. "My face is up here."
Chuckling, Clint pulled the focus back to her face and apologized. Georgia smiled at him, "Thank you. Now…what makes me happy…mhmm, Nicholas Sparks movies. I can't help it. I blame it on being a woman. They're my guilty pleasure."
"Not good enough," denied Clint. "Next."
"Oh!" her eyes sparkled. "The sound penguins make! They're so precious!"
"Are you joking? Do penguins even make noise?"
Georgia's eyes narrowed, "Of course they make noise. They're people, too, Clint."
"I'm sure," he rumbled dully. He allowed the camera to stray down her body. "I'm waiting…"
"What makes me happiest in the world," she repeated once more. "Mhmm…Flo from the Progressive car insurance commercials. I love her so much. She's always so happy. And she pulls off that red lipstick better than Taylor Swift, I swear."
"You're just pulling shit out of your ass now."
Georgia shrugged into her pile of pillows. "Perhaps…okay, fine. You want to know what makes me happiest in the world? The fact that the Backstreet Boys put out a new album this year. Hello!"
Clint erupted with laughter, nearly dropping the camcorder in the process. "Come on, G, I'm serious. Just, please, answer the question and I'll put it away. Promise."
She bit her lip, eyeing him suspiciously, "Okay, fine. You really wanna know? It's a boy."
Clint grinned, "A boy?"
"Well, not a boy, so much as that boy's happiness," she explained. Sitting up, she inched towards the camera, "See, there's this boy who…well, he lost his parents and brother really young and he didn't exactly have the best childhood. He's had a rough life and doesn't trust easy, you know? But by some miracle of the universe, he trusts me, let's me in and he lets me make him happy. That, Clint, is what makes me the happiest in the world."
The video long forgotten, he dropped the Nikon onto the mattress and kissed his wife. He kissed her hungrily with a passion he only knew with her. "You do make me happy, G. So happy."
"Ditto, babe," she murmured, abruptly ducking under his arm and grabbing the camcorder. She turned the lens on him. "Say cheese." When he groaned and tried to turn away, she leapt up, shouting, "Oh, I'm sorry, are you annoyed? Is this annoying? I can't imagine why."
He moved to roll away and off the bed but she always seemed to be two steps ahead of him and settled herself on his waist. "I don't think so," she warned, straddling him, the camcorder pointed at his face. She watched him squirm through the digital screen. Snickering, she told him, "You know, I kinda like this thing."
He shot her a droll stare. "Of course you do."
"Don't be sore, Clint. This is just a little payback. Now smile like a good boy and say you're sorry."
His brow furrowed. "What am I sorry for?"
"For waking me up with this thing in my face. Not nice."
"I'm sorry," he dutifully said.
"Now say…I wear pink underwear."
Clint's eyebrows rose. He glanced down at her lean waist. "Um, actually, babe, they're black."
"Don't say I swear pink underwear, say you do!"
"Okay," he muttered. "You wear pink underwear."
"Oh my God, you're such a smartass," she growled, tossing aside the camcorder. She locked her fingers around his wrists and lowered her face to his. Barely an inch away from him, she asked, "I bet you think you're so funny, don't you?"
"I think I'm adorable," Clint drawled with a smile, his perfect, crooked smile, the one that wrinkled the corners of his mouth and showed the slight dimples in his cheeks. Georgia melted like butter at the sight of it, sighing, "You are adorable."
"I know," he continued grinning. He tugged at the hold on his wrists. "Gonna let me up any time soon?"
His wife shook her head slowly, "Uh, uh." She lowered her lips to his, capturing his bottom lip and tugging slightly. She drew her tongue across his lips, felt him pull against her hold on his wrists and felt his hips thrust upward, drying to draw her to him. But Georgia wouldn't have that. Making sure their bodies didn't touch, except for their lips and hands, she teasingly kissed the tip of his nose. "And what makes you the happiest in the world, Clint Barton?"
He answered with one, simple word, "You."
I really hope you liked it. Review, please! Let me know you guys would be interesting in turning this into a story. Thanks!
