I got a LOT of interest in me continuing with my Clintasha story so that's what I'm going to do. Hopefully these live up to reputation of "Of Shoulder Scars and Bumpy Cake." Each mission will be in no specific order and will all be posted individually. It is important, however, to remember that all one-shots posted about this pairing are a part of my "Of Shoulder Scars and Bumpy Cake" universe. So, without further ado…
#1: Warsaw
Excerpt from Of Shoulder Scars and Bumpy Cake: "He really wasn't even needed for the mission (Tijuana). It was an easy reconnaissance in and out type of job and Clint totally could have stayed home, sat around, drinking coffee (but because of someone, now that she knew how to make it just the way he likes, whenever he does it himself it just tastes off). But, ever since Fury had sent Tasha on a solo mission in February that had gone to shit so badly she literally couldn't stand for a week, he never let her go on missions alone, anymore."
She's taken to leaving her hair down when they spar. It's thick and gets in the way and is dripping sweat by the time they finish but she isn't overly fond of the way he likes to playfully pull on her ponytail whenever he gets the chance either. So she leaves it down.
She feels a bead of sweat make its way down her spine as she lashes out, planting a firm hit on Clint's right shoulder. They've been at it for at least half an hour, and Natasha is starting to get run down, if only slightly. She dodges one of Barton's well-aimed jabs and huffs as another tangle of hair falls in her eyes. Swiping the hair away she kicks her partner's legs out from underneath him and sends him toppling to the floor. The brief flash of victory she feels is quickly extinguished as Clint grabs onto her forearm and pulls her down next to him. More hair falls in her face and before she can react Barton is rolling on top of her and has her pinned.
Natasha struggles for a moment before settling. She knows that in the end Clint's size and strength will win out over her agility but that doesn't stop her from rolling her eyes in a true teenage fashion. She sends a puff of air up, watching as it lifts the hair from her eyes and settles it against her shoulders. Barton is staring down at her with that cocky grin she knows all too well. "Nice match, Hot Stuff," he teases. "Better luck next time."
"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, trying to ignore the tiny metaphorical butterflies fluttering around in her abdomen as he sets his steely blue gaze on her. She ignores the pleasant feeling of his strong body against hers and settles for another eye roll. "Oh please, I've got to let you win sometimes, Barton."
Clint's grin grows wider. "Keep telling yourself that, kiddo." He playfully ruffles her hair, flinging the red strands across her face once again.
Natasha growls in annoyance. "Are you kidding me?" She reaches up to push move the offending locks from her view but Clint has her wrists pinned to the mats and is staring her down. Natasha slowly meets his gaze, only to get sucked in and mesmerized by the swirling pools of blue that are his eyes. She is just about to get lost in the moment when she hears the whir of the automatic door opening.
Clint breaks their gaze first and glances over her head, leaving Natasha to stare and the strong cords of his neck and shoulders. Licking her lips she manages to snap herself out of it and maneuver her head so that she can see their intruder.
Coulson is standing by the door holding what appears to be a mission file, eyebrows arched high into is hairline. His what-on-earth-is-going-on-here expression doesn't lessen as Natasha manages to push Clint off of her and climb to her feet. She gives Phil an expectant look but doesn't say anything.
Phil continues to look back and forth between the partners, obviously trying to decide if the semi-compromising position he'd found them in was worth a lecture. Clearly deciding against it, he replaces his suspicious look with the familiar mask of professionalism Natasha has come to associate with the older SHIELD agent, before addressing her. "The director wants to see you. Ten minutes." Natasha nods, and she and Clint make their way for the exit. "Not you, Barton." Her partner gives Phil a confused look before the handler continues. "Solo mission for Romanoff. You're staying here." Clint deflates slightly before shrugging and turning on his heel to head for the punching bags.
"See you later, Tash," he calls as he wraps his knuckles. Natasha mutters a goodbye before making her exit, turning left in the direction of the briefing room.
# # #
Warsaw was cold in February. Cold as in a few degrees below freezing on a good day. But, Natasha can handle it. She's Russian, after all.
She watches her frozen breath coil around her as she walks into Michalski Incorporated, the largest international machinery export business in Poland. The CEO of the company is Artur Michalski, an attractive forty-something, suspected of exporting highly dangerous illegal drugs to countries all over the world. Natasha's cover is simple enough to remember: Nora Ramos is an American international business major at Harvard in her senior year, she is fluent in Polish, and is doing a semester abroad at the University of Warsaw with an internship at Michalski Incorporated. While there Nora will fetch coffee and make copies and maybe even answer a few phones. Natasha however has very strict instructions: Get in, play the sweet, innocent American girl act and wait for the opportunity to search Artur Michalski's office for any evidence. Simple.
Stepping off the elevator into the fifteenth floor lobby, Natasha checks her surroundings by force of habit. The elevator and stairs are the only exits from this room seeing as there are no windows. The air vents are also there for a last resort. Cameras are mounted in each corner aimed at the center of the room. Another directly above the receptionist's head is pointed at the elevator doors. Natasha smirks internally; it will be easy for her to sneak by the cameras if she stuck close to the wall and used the stairs instead of the elevator.
The receptionist at the desk is a petit blond woman who can't have been older than twenty-five. Her nameplate reads Karolina and she is harmless by the looks of her. But, Natasha knows better than to judge people based off of looks. After all, look what she herself can do and she's barely five foot four.
Standing tall behind Karolina is another woman, taller and fearsome-looking with her brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. The woman is scowling down at her feet and clutching a clipboard in one hand and a large coffee in the other. "Nora?" she speaks up upon noticing Natasha's presence. "Powitanie." Welcome.
Natasha clicks her brain into Polish and replied, "Cześć. Jestem Nora." Hello. I am Nora. Natasha forces a dazzling smile onto her face and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear before holding her hand out to shake the other woman's.
"Jestem Aneta. I am Mr. Michalski's personal assistant." Aneta's Polish is that of a native, thickly accented and precise.
"Nice to meet you." Natasha adjusts her bag over her shoulder in an attempt to look like a nervous college girl. She's sure to make her eyes especially big and innocent, like when she was trying to get Barton to do something for her.
"You as well, Nora. We are so pleased to have you." But she doesn't look very pleased at all. Aneta's face seems to be permanently marred with a scowl and overall she appears to be the type of person to take her job way too seriously. "Now if you'll follow me I'll give you a quick tour and show you where you'll be working." The older woman quickly turns on her heel and begins down the long hallway so fast a normal person would have struggled to keep up with her break-neck pace.
"And when will I be meeting Mr. Michalski?"
"You won't," she replies curtly, almost coldly. "Mr. Michalski is a very busy man and doesn't have time to dabble with interns such as yourself. If you have any questions regarding your work you can ask me. If you have any questions regarding scheduling or the facilities you can as Karolina at the front desk. Understand?"
Natasha merely nods briefly, rolling her eyes at the woman's fierce professionalism, and follows close on Aneta's heels.
# # #
That night when Natasha returns to her tiny dorm room at the university, she immediately locks the door, sweeps the room for bugs, and checks in with Coulson. After a long day of Polish conversations and clipped sentences from Aneta, Natasha couldn't be more relieved to hear her handler's blasé voice. "Widow, any news?"
"Negative, Coulson. Today was all formalities: getting an ID, learning the layout, meeting the boss, working the coffee machine."
"So you've met Michalski then?"
Natasha scoffs. "Hardly. According to Aneta, I most likely won't meet him at all. By boss I meant her, by the way. She's apparently in charge of me while I stay. As far as security goes, we've got nothing to worry about. The cameras are in horrible positioning and the only guards are on the main floor. This mission should be no problem, sir. Give me a few weeks to earn their trust and I'll be out of here in no time."
"Understood, Widow. But be quick about it, the Director wants this over soon, God only knows why." Natasha smirks. Coulson likes to pretend he's all professional and stone-faced but occasionally the handler lets the mask slip. She and Clint will never not be amused by Phil's nonchalant sass.
"No problem. I'll check in again tomorrow, same time." After a brief goodbye Natasha hangs up the phone and pulls her laptop from under the bed. While the computer boots up she changes out of her uncomfortable office clothes and into a comfy pair of sweats. She pulls an oversized T-shirt she stole from Clint from her suitcase and pulls it over her head, making sure to cover the scar on her abdomen from Sao Paulo - God knows Clint hates to look at it. She flops down on her stomach on the bed and clicks the Skype icon on her desktop. It's only about two in the afternoon in New York, and Natasha is surprised to find Clint at home when he answers her call. He's standing in the kitchen making what appears to be macaroni and cheese – Sponge Bob shaped, presumably.
"Hey, Tasha," he says over his shoulder as her stirs a pot of boiling water. He placed the wooden spoon down on her counter and takes a seat at the kitchen table. "Is that my shirt?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Is that my mac and cheese?"
"Touché." He reaches a hand up to run his fingers through his hair. Natasha has to look away to hide her blush – She loves it when he does that. "So how's the mission going?"
Natasha's groan is only slightly surprising. Although she's usually straight business while in the field, occasionally her teenager side pokes through. As she buries her head in a pillow and grumbles her muffled complaints, Clint can't help but think that this is one of those times. It makes him smile. Too often he is reminded of the person Natasha used to be: cold, calculating, and ruthless, and seemingly emotionless. He can't help but laugh. He's pleased that she's come so far though, and it is times like these when she is allowed a brief moment of normalness to allow her true feelings to shine through.
She picks her head up off of the pillow to glare at him for laughing. "You wipe that smirk off your face right now, Clint Barton." It' s meant to be intimidating but the daggers she's beaming his way via webcam somewhat lose their effect though, seeing as her hair is ruffled and her face is red and she's about as adorable as a newborn puppy taking a nap.
"Well then stop mumbling into the pillow, Hot Stuff. I can't understand a word you're saying."
Natasha sighs, flipping over onto her back and propping the laptop up against her knee. "It's really not that bad. I'll be in and out in three weeks tops but as of today this doesn't look like it's going to be one of my more exciting missions. Plus it's freezing."
"You're Russian," he smirks, poking fun.
"I didn't say I was bothered by the cold. It was just a simple statement of fact. You'd freeze your skinny American ass off, Barton." Clint rolls his eyes. It's not like he hasn't heard that one from her about a thousand times before. The timer on the stove sounds off behind him and he moves from his seat at the table to strain his macaroni. Natasha takes the opportunity to appreciate the beautiful view that is his ass. She stares for a moment longer while his back is turned before snapping herself out of it and returning to the conversation. "What are you doing home at two o'clock on a Tuesday anyway?"
"Day off," he replies over his shoulder, pouring the noodles back into the pan and mixing in the cheese packet. "Fury gave me the day since I start training a batch of recruits tomorrow." His complete lack of amusement is clear even over the computer.
"Ouch, how'd you manage to get put on recruit duty?"
"Phil said something about how it'll keep me out of trouble while you're away." He visibly rolls his eyes and sits down at the table again, taking a bite of Sponge Bob shaped noodles.
"Sorry," she says, not sounding very sorry at all. Clint attempts to glare but he can't seem muster up the ability when she's thousands of miles away (4254.82, but who's counting?) and he misses her. Dear God, she's only been gone for two days and he misses her like crazy. He briefly wonders when exactly it was she became such an important fixture in his life that he couldn't even go two days without missing her (When he trained an arrow at her in the middle of the freezing cold Swiss Alps however many years ago? When she started sleeping on his couch and eating all his food? When?), but brushes the thought away when Natasha lets out an enormous yawn and rubs her eyes, somehow managing to stop his heart completely when she fixes her heavy-eyed gaze on him via the interweb.
Clint scratches the back of his head and looks away. Fucking butterflies.
"You should go to sleep, Nat. You look tired."
"Yeah well, time change and all." She sends him a drowsy smile before slipping under the covers and reclining against the pillows. She sets the computer on the bed next to her and rolls over on her side, yawning again. "Well, have fun with the recruits and try not to go completely mad without me, deal?"
He laughs and takes a sip of water to give himself something to do other than stare at the way he fiery red hair splays out across the pillows. "Yeah, I'll try. Night, Tasha."
She sleepily blinks at him and takes in the sight of the sunlight shining on his face from the kitchen window in their apartment back in New York. She smiles at him one last time before whispering a good night, Clint, and disconnecting the call.
He doesn't have the chance to remind her that it's not night time for him yet, before she's gone.
# # #
A week passes without incident. In the past seven days Natasha has: learned the complete layout of Michalski Incorporated including placement of all security cameras, made twenty-six pots of coffee, made over a thousand file copies, made one friend (kind of, not really), gotten hit on by every male that works on her floor (yes, all seventy-three of them, excluding Piotr Borkowski whom she suspects in gay and just hasn't figured it out yet), and met her boss a grand total of zero times.
The job isn't going poorly, per se. Just slowly. Natasha is nearly constantly under the overly watchful eye of Aneta (Seriously, that woman was ridiculous. If Clint were here, he'd make some sort of idiomatic comment about having a stick up her ass, whatever that meant). And, when she isn't, she's either busy doing her work or listening to Karolina talk about her five-year-old daughter Magda, whom she had out of wedlock as a teenage and now has to work almost constantly to pay for daycare and living necessities seeing as, despite working for a multi-million dollar company, the Polish economy isn't great right now and Karolina barely makes enough to get by. But, despite telling the director that she'd be done with this op in two weeks top, and barely making any progress, Magda is a cute kid and Natasha can't help feeling bad for her 'coworker' for some reason. So she sits and listens to Karolina's worries about how she will pay for Magda to go to college in thirteen short years and the stories about her cute little black-haired sweetheart, a trait she clearly received from her father (the hair, that is, seeing as Karolina's a blond as blond can be. Plus, the sweetheart thing so obviously came from here anyway.)
On day ten Natasha thinks about how a normal operative would be starting to get anxious. She's not anxious, of course. Sure, she running out of time fast but she hasn't blown a mission since Chile and doesn't plan on starting now.
She's making a pot of coffee (number thirty-one so far) when Tomasz from Public Relations sneaks (well, not really sneaks, she knew he was coming from all the way down the hallway. The man makes more noise than she does on the tile flooring, and she's wearing five inch heels.) up behind her and pinches her ass. Natasha has to repress a growl. She's used to the vulgar comments by now, the men have been making them since her first day, and really they don't bother her much. But, this is the first time any of the damn oafs have actually touched her. She slams the glass coffee pot down on the counter so hard she's surprised it doesn't shatter, and whirls around so fast she actually feels her hair connect with Tomasz's face. She's pissed. Even if she occasionally has to deal with crude comments from her coworkers at SHIELD, they all at least respect her, if not fear her. And she'll be damned if she doesn't get the same courtesy here, even if this is a mission. So, she fixes Tomasz with a glare so cold and biting that even Fury would cringe. She sees his pupils dilate with fear and is just about to pin him to the wall with the six-inch blade she has strapped to her thigh, when an ever-stern looking Aneta comes around the corner. Natasha drops her angry assassin face immediately and puts on her timid intern face.
"Nora! Pan Michalski chce cię widzieć w swoim gabinecie." Mr. Michalski wants to see you in his office.
She nods obediently and follows the older woman out of the room, shooting one last lethal glare over at Tomasz. The poor bastard's face blanches and he nearly faints on the spot. Natasha's smirk is triumphant.
# # #
"Miss Ramos, please sit down." Artur Michalski is every bit as attractive as the picture in his file made him out to be. With dark, slightly-graying hair and ridiculously blue eyes, Natasha can't help but stare for just a moment. His English is heavily accented and there's some sort of mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Aneta, proszę zostawić nam." Aneta, please leave us.
Natasha takes his momentary distraction to observe her surroundings. The room is warm despite the entire back wall being made of tall glass windows and the never-ending snow falling outside. From this fifteenth floor view she can see the skyline of the rest of Warsaw. It's difficult to make an escape from this room, she'd have to find another way out, if need be. From the angle she's at she can see that Michalski's computer screen is black, giving away nothing of use.
Aneta does as told, closing the door firmly, and Michalski fixes his gaze back on Natasha the moment that it clicks shut behind her. "I must say, Miss Ramos, it's nice to finally meet you." The way he's looking at her would make a normal person squirm, but Natasha holds steady, never once breaking eye contact.
"You as well, sir. I was beginning to think I would never get the opportunity." She flutters her eyelashes a bit, just because it couldn't hurt.
"Well, I'll be honest. If it wasn't for the reports I've been receiving from Aneta, you wouldn't have. I don't usually take the time to meddle with simple interns but, I thought this was necessary."
"Have I done something wrong, sir?" Her face is all worry lines and disappointment.
"It has come to my attention, Miss Ramos that you have become a sort of," he gives her an appreciative once-over, not very subtle at all, "distraction to a number of my male employees." He keeps his eyes trained on hers but the twinkle in them leads Natasha to assume that he's thinking of something else. He looks at her for only a moment more before shifting his focus to his computer screen. "And I can't have that."
"Oh, yes of course," she raises her voice an octave to feign innocence and plasters doe-eyes on her expression. "I understand."
"Very good," he replies distractedly, moving his mouse around and bringing the computer screen to life. "You're excused." Natasha has to resist the urge to roll her eyes at his statement, instead standing and taking a moment to smooth down her skirt so as to get a look at his finger moving across the keyboard, typing his password. Michalski is far too distracted by the desktop to notice her prolonged glances. From what she can tell it's a series of presumably random numbers and letters: S02784754X1U. She has no idea what it means but she locks the sequence into her memory before nodding politely and leaving the room.
# # #
Clint is bored. Not bored as in the I have nothing to do I'm just sitting here kind of bored but the my best friend is thousands of miles away and I have no one to get in trouble with bored. And, he hates it. Every day he wakes up and makes breakfast for one instead of two, makes his own coffee that doesn't even taste good because she has learned to make it better than him, and goes to work to train the new recruits that are either both completely helpless and incompetent, or won't get the hell off of him.
He hasn't talked to her in days. A few brief text messages here and there, sure. But, since their Skype conversation a week and a half ago, he's working while she's sleeping and he's sleeping while she's working. Clint has to rely on daily updates from Phil in order to stay in the loop. Needless to say, the time change isn't working out great for them. But, he sucks it up drags himself out of bed every morning to train a bunch of kids that probably aren't be good enough to be actual agents anyway.
Seriously though, on day six one of the newbies decides it's a good idea to drink an entire blue slushy before their class's ten mile run. On day nine, a girl adds an extra fifty pounds to her recommended maximum weight during lifting, and drops the bar on her face, knocking out teeth, because she didn't wait for a spotter. And on day twelve, an extremely persistent woman, Rosie (who despite Clint's daily reminders that if he wanted to get a hold of her, he has access to her file, keeps slipping her phone number into his gym bag) openly gropes him during a sparring lesson. By then, he's had about enough and is missing Tasha more than ever.
On day fourteen, Phil leaves for Poland with the transport. From what he tells Clint, Natasha isn't technically done with the job yet, but should be any day. The transport leaves early in order to be ready, just in case things start to go south. Phil must see the worry etched in his features when he tells him this because the older agent places a firm hand on Clint's shoulder and tells him there is nothing to worry about, they're just being cautious.
Clint has no idea why he has such a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, though.
# # #
She's two days over her expected time limit and both Coulson and Fury are starting to get antsy. But Natasha has patiently been awaiting her window of opportunity and she gets it on day sixteen, mid-afternoon. She's in the printing room trying to figure out how she managed to make twice the amount of copies of the United States shipping order than she needed to for Michalski's meeting in five minutes when Aneta pops up behind her.
"Nora! Mr. Michalski has asked me to sit in on his meeting this afternoon. If you need anything just ask Karolina." Natasha simply nods and counts out thirty copies of the shipping order, handing them to Aneta and recycling the rest. "Good," the stern woman scowls. "And button your blouse."
Aneta stalks off in the opposite direction and Natasha glances down at her shirt. The maroon button down only one button undone at the very top. It's tucked into her knee-length pencil skirt and paired with a boring pair of flats, her attempt at being "less distracting," as requested. Natasha buttons the button anyway and rolls her eyes. Returning to her desk, she pulls out her SHIELD issued cell phone and sends a quick message to Coulson. It's time.
She waits another ten minutes to be sure that everyone is in the meeting, checks the hallway for any lingerers, and silently makes her way to Michalski's office, avoiding the security cameras. The door is locked and she easily picks it with a hair pin, entering the room and doing a quick scan of her surroundings. Satisfied that she is alone, she types in the password she's memorized and begins to sift through hundreds and hundreds of files.
She works fast. She has to; the meeting is only supposed to last for an hour. She skims through file after file and finds everything from Michalski's secret porn stash to a happy birthday email to his young niece but, no evidence that he is using his business to export illegal drugs. She searches for another ten minutes before stumbling across as secure zip file. Natasha raises an eyebrow, suspicious. None of the other files require a password. She pauses for a moment, hoping this password is the same as the previous, before quickly typing it in and hitting enter.
She reads the file carefully, hoping that her eyes are playing tricks on her. They aren't though. The file holds emails between Michalski and his export distributor, Pawel Gorski and another man, Dr. Stas Sobczak. From what she can make out Sobczak has created some sort of airborne contaminant used to cause paralysis when inhaled. The three men were going to use Michalski's exporting business to distribute the drug all over the world, starting with America. They were planning a biological terrorist attack. Sobczak would supply the drug, Michalski's business would provide the cover, and Gorski would deliver the contaminant right to America's front door. It's the perfect plan.
Natasha's lips are set in a thin line as she takes a flash drive out of her pocket to copy the files to deliver to director Fury. She waits impatiently as the files load, seething with anger. What kind of person would purposely ruin thousands of people's lives? She has no idea what their motives are, doesn't care. The bastards are going down. She glances at the clock and sees she's running out of time. The files finish loading with a ding and she quickly pockets the flash drive and exits the file. She just about to make her leave when the computer dings again. The message on the screen reads "Proszę ponownie wprowadzić hasło przed zakonczeniem." Please re-enter your password before exiting. In a hurry, Natasha types in the password and presses enter. S02784754X1I. She's just getting up again to exit when she hears the computer ding once more. "Nieprawidłowe hasło."
Password Incorrect.
She hears the door lock and the air vents snap open. From outside she hears and alarm start to blare. Natasha swears in her mother tongue as a thick white gas starts to pour from the vents. She runs for the door, hoping by some miracle it isn't actually locked. Her hopes dissipate when the handle won't budge. The door is made up of some sort of heavy metal, impossible to break down or pick from the inside. She turns around, frantic, and searches for her cell. She dials the second number she memorized when she was first brought in and waits for him to pick up.
She's starting to feel woozy.
# # #
Phil Coulson sighs as his phone rings. Now is not the time.
"What do you want, Barton. I'm busy."
"I think it's time you pulled her from this mission." The man sounds calm and collected. But, Phil knows him too well; even through the phone he can hear the slight panic in Clint's voice.
"For the love of God, Barton, she's fine." The handler has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
"I don't know Phil. She's two days past her deadline. You and I both know that Tasha is nothing if not efficient. This is taking too long. You need to pull her."
Phil can practically hear Clint nervously running his fingers through his hair. "That's not my call to make. Besides, it's too late now. She's already on the move."
"On the move?"
"Received the text just over an hour ago. Now we're just waiting for pick up."
"An hour ago? Isn't she just collecting files? She should be out by now, Coulson."
Phil wearily scrubs a hand down his face. Honestly, these two will be the death of him. "Barton, just calm down. I'm sure she's fine."
"I don't know, Phil. I've got a really bad feeling about this one."
Coulson is about to say something else hopefully comforting when his phone beeps, signaling a call waiting. He pulls the phone away from his ear and glances at the screen. Call waiting from Natasha Romanoff. "What the hell?"
"What is it?" Clint is starting to sound even more worried.
"I've got to go, Barton. She's calling."
"She's calling? Why is she calling? She's on a mission!" Phil hastily hangs up on him and answers the other call.
"Romanoff-"
He's cut off almost immediately by Natasha's yelling. In the background he can hear and alarm blaring and some sort of loud hissing noise. "Coulson! I'm locked in and the room is filling up with gas. I need transport to be waiting for me outside in one minute." To a normal person she would sound calm and collected, but Phil can hear the hysterics beginning to come through in her voice.
Phil clenches is jaw in worry and tries to remain calm. "We'll be there, Widow. Try not to breathe in too much." He hears her grunt of approval just before she hangs up.
The car is already halfway to her position.
# # #
Natasha is holding her breath. She's not a swimmer or a singer and doesn't have particularly good lung capacity but she's still holding it.
She runs over to the window and asses her options. She's fifteen levels above ground but about seven levels below there is another building she could probably land on. The windows don't open and the glass feels thick but, she steps back and swings the desk chair at it anyway. She doesn't even make a scratch. She's running out of breath quick and steps back to the other end of the room, removing the glock she has strapped to her thigh from under her skirt. The thick gas is filling the room from corner to corner now. She can barely see straight, her head is woozy, and her legs feel like they are about to buckle.
She fires once, twice and is thrown back from the small explosion of the gun going off in the drug-hazed room. She gets the breath knocked out of her as she collides with the wall and is forced to take another gulp of toxic air. Shakily picking herself up off the floor, she stumbles over to the window to see it as shattered. She places a hand on her spinning head and takes a few steps back before throwing herself out the window. Her tingling legs hit the roof below and she just barely manages to roll without much pain. Her head aches and her lungs burn and she can't feel her feet but she drags herself to the side of the roof and somehow manages to get herself down the fire escape and to street level where she is met by a worried Phil Coulson and two other agents.
She is coughing and sputtering for air and about to fall over. It's nearly a miracle that she's able to throw her arms around Coulson just before she loses consciousness.
# # #
Clint doesn't sleep that night. Dear God, no way in hell does he even manage to close his eyes. He's too worried for her. Coulson finally answers one of his frantic calls once the team finally manages to get Tasha beck onto a quinjet on route back to New York. From what they can tell, she is physically fine: no broken bones or anything, just a small cut on her forehead, possibly from some sort of explosion. But, they won't know more until she wakes up.
So no, Clint doesn't sleep at all that night. It makes for a really lousy training session with the newbies the next morning. He's unfocused and irritable and lashing out whenever any of them does something wrong. It's so bad Karlson (the kid who puked blue slushy on day six) nearly beats him in a spar. Nearly.
Rosie keeps giving his weird looks, and corners him during a water break. She's looking particularly hoe-ish today and Clint doesn't even have the patience to be nice to her. He's all too relieved when Coulson shows up mid-day to inform him that they're back and Natasha is in the medic wing. Clint, obviously, takes the rest of the day off.
When he finds her in the medic wing she is sleeping peacefully. The cut on her head is bandaged and there is a filter attached to her nose feeding her fresh air but other than that she looks fine. Clint scrubs a hand down his face takes a seat in the chair beside her bed. For some reason his seventeen-year-old partner look significantly younger than she already is when she's attached to all of the machines. It doesn't sit well with him. But, he kisses her forehead and rests his head against her bed, hoping to rest just a little easier now at least seeing with his own eyes that she's alright.
# # #
When he wakes up it's to the sound of a grunt as something hits the floor. That thing, apparently, is Nat attempting to get out of bed. She's sprawled on the other side of the bed on the floor, hair stuck to her face and cheeks flushed with effort. He's worried for a second before recognizing her grumpy face and letting amusement set into his expression. "Having fun there, Hot Stuff?"
She growls at him, annoyed, before flipping herself over onto her back and reaching her arms up towards him. "Just get me off the floor, Barton."
He smirks at her but gets out of his seat anyway, making his way around the bed and lifting his crazy red-headed girl off the floor bridal style. "What's wrong? Legs don't work?" He's joking, of course, but apparently Tasha doesn't find it very funny because she just glares at him.
"Apparently not," she deadpans. She almost feels bad when she sees Clint's terrified expression as he sets her down on the bed again. She sighs and softens her tone, not wanting him to be as worried as she secretly is. "We should probably call the doctor."
The doctor is one they've both seen dozens of times; the resident that always takes care of Coulson's agents. He knows better than to beat around the bush when it comes to Barton and Romanoff so he just comes out and says it. He explains how Natasha has paralysis from the waist down caused by the airborne contaminant in Michalski's office. He assures them that it is temporary, she didn't inhale enough of the drug for it to be permanent but, he's not sure how long it'll last.
Clint is worried and asks lots of questions, but Natasha just looks pissed. If there's one thing she hates, it's sitting around doing nothing. But, that's what she does. For two weeks she can't feel a thing from the waist down. She can't walk or move her toes. Going to the bathroom become quite the challenge and she's taken to sleeping in Clint's room again in case she needs anything at night. It's been a few months. She hasn't slept in his bed since the month after Sao Paulo and it's become something of a temptation given all of the extra flirting they've been doing lately. But, you do what you've got to do.
# # #
She isn't even able to stand for a week after she gets home from the hospital. Clint has become so accustomed to doing things for her over the last few days that it comes as quite the shock when he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. "Tasha?" He's panicked for a moment before spotting her, supporting herself against the dresser across from his bed.
Natasha snaps out of her determined thoughts at the sound of his voice. It'd taken everything in her to drag herself from the bed to the dresser and haul herself up onto her feet. She was supporting all her weight on her hands and was determined to not let her legs buckle under her. "Tasha, what are you doing?"
She has to suppress the shudder that runs down her spine at the sound of his too sexy, sleep voice. She braces her harms firmly so as not to fall. "I'm standing."
She sounds like she's straining a bit and Clint get out of bed to go and support her. "Well you shouldn't be. You're going to fall." He grabs at her wrist but she motions him away.
"Please, Clint. I haven't stood on my own in over a week. Let me do this."
She takes a deep breath and Clint raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You're being stubborn, Tasha. You're going to fall over." She glares at him and shakes her head no. "Oh, yeah? Prove it. Take your hands off the dresser."
She glares at him again, takes a deep breath and picks her hands up off the dresser. She hovers on her feet for a moment. "See? I can do it." Clint is genuinely impressed for a moment before she begins to fall forward.
He rolls his eyes and scoops her up before she can hit the floor, setting her down on the dresser and holding her by the shoulders. "Sure you can, Hot Stuff."
He's teasing her but she doesn't care. She's all smiles at the idea of her legs working again and is beaming up at him. Clint is momentarily startled by her grin; it's the first real smile she's given him since getting back from Warsaw. "Say whatever you want," she jabs back, leaning up to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. "But, pretty soon I'll be kicking your ass in the ring again."
"Sure you will, kiddo." He ruffles her hair and dodges her punch. He grins again, picking her up off the dresser and setting her down on the bed again before crawling in after her. Natasha automatically curls up next to him, resting her head on his chest.
She's asleep in seconds but Clint can't manage to close his eyes, too entranced by the beautiful girl sleeping next to him. He worries about her probably more than he should. She's a deadly assassin and can handle herself. But, she's still just a kid and his partner and his girl. He'll always worry for her. And, he'll probably never let her go on another solo mission again, even if she does makes good on her promise and is back to kicking his ass again a week later.