A/N: I haven't written a Clint/Natasha fic in a while (obviously) and somehow after listening to Stay Alive by Jose Gonzalez several times I somehow found the inspiration to write for that shipping again. Enjoy!
By the edge of the roof he waits and stares down the scope. He follows her with his crosshair and he watches her; watches as the guards surround her slowly one by one, corner by corner, in the shadows, under the light and almost everywhere else. There is a moment when he falters and loses focus. It doesn't last very long and it isn't enough to jeopardise the mission. But it's enough for him to realize that he is getting too old for this.
He is physically fine and capable and probably fit for service for the next decade without too much trouble. But mentally he is tired and exhausted. That incident at New York added a solid decade on top of his years and no matter the counselling, conversations, team building exercises and what nots the team decided to engage in, he could not forget. He will never forget.
He murmurs a message to her through their shared communication device and hopes to whatever god is out there that is willing to listen to him that the message gets through. He couldn't bear having to watch them ambush her without his warning at least. In her defence though, she probably already knew they were surrounding her three minutes before he realized what was happening around her.
It's his heart that he is worried about more than anything. Physically, it will take him 9 minutes and 27 seconds to get to her. Mentally, it will take him three months to recover from the adrenaline and fear filling his veins.
Thankfully though, the message gets through because she turns to give him a look. The one that clearly says that she was already aware of what he had only just seen. It makes him feel a little bit better; for a little while anyway until he has to watch her take each of the guards out quietly, one by one.
She exerts so much energy and all he does is watch. He could release a bullet or two, or three, four, maybe ten. But the shattering glass will give her position away and he would rather jump off this building than ever put her in that sort of a situation. He tried to kill her twice already and he wasn't about to add to that list again.
"Stop," her voice sounds loud through his ear piece but really he knows that she is whispering.
He can't help but wonder briefly though as he watches her take out two guards, how she managed to know exactly what he was thinking about. He didn't say anything or make a sound. He didn't do anything at all for that matter.
"Not now," her voice pours into his ear again.
He begins to wonder if she has somehow found a way into his head. There is no other way; no other logical explanation as to how she is able to so accurately respond to his quiet musings. She bends just a split second before one of the guards in front of her turns and she wipes him out, legs first, head later. There is a trail of bodies behind her and whilst most men would find this disturbing, he finds this reassuring.
"Better," her voice is calmer this time.
He smiles despite everything and takes a moment to just implore her. It is without doubt that the curve of her body is so incredibly pronounced by her suit; but that isn't what he is really thinking about. She is beautiful without question but she is also perfect and those two features in a woman are almost a rare pair, her case being the exception of course. He considers himself lucky.
"Barton," she says his name with a very heavy implication of a question mark followed thereafter. This time he knows that she isn't quite sure of what he is thinking.
He smiles because despite New York, Loki, monsters, magic, gods and everything else they didn't believe in, he was still here, she was still there and together, they were still alive.
"Clyde," he murmurs this time and watches her expression carefully.
"Sounds Scottish," she responds after she tosses aside two others. There are three to go and he is itching to take out at least one of them. If only that one guard would step a foot to his right and into the balcony.
"Do you like it?" he asks politely as if he were asking her to pass him the peas at dinner or something silly like that.
"It could have been worse," she says and takes out another.
He doesn't say anything for a while and she doesn't either. He watches as she looks around and he knows she is meticulously plotting and planning her last attack. She is almost there where she needs to be and there are only two guards left.
"David?" he tries.
"No," her response is almost immediate.
"Matthew?"
The second last guard is particularly difficult and he is tempted to shoot through the glass. She glances at him for the briefest of seconds though and he knows he will only have hell to pay later on if he so much as chips a corner of the glass. She eventually takes him out, spins his neck and drops him silently.
"Too common," she responds slightly out of breath just before she goes in for the final guard.
He watches the fight as if he were watching the morning news; carefree, tiredly and thinking about everything else other than what he was watching. He needs to start taking down his scope, his sniper, bow and everything else that he has with him up here in his nest. That's when he sees it in his scope and his finger is itching to pull the trigger. There's a knife, a grenade, a pistol and she is momentarily stunned as well.
He can see it in her face and can hear it in her un-evened breaths in his ear piece. He has to pull the trigger, but the glass will shatter and he will give her position away. She shakes the knife off and dissembles the pistol in mid-air. It is all so impressive and he can't help but wonder if it looks that elegant as well when he does that. But he stops wondering when the grenade drops. It is as if time slows and all he can see and hear and feel is the thump of the grenade as it hits the floor and bounces once and then twice.
She looks to him and the next thing he sees is fire. Then everything goes black.
"End of simulation," the familiar voice of Jarvis announces in his ear piece this time. "I'm afraid you failed this time, Agent Barton."
He doesn't move from where he is sitting, well, more like lounging from the way Tony has designed these seats. He can't help but replay that look she gives him in his head over and over again. He knows that none of it was real. But even in simulation, she still managed to look at him as if it were all real. He wonders if she knew that; wonders if she purposefully did that just to remind him of everything he has tried so hard to forget.
He feels her hand sliding onto the side of his face and removing the visor from his head. She slides it off but not without running the sides of her palms through his hair. He is quite sure she does that on purpose. Not that she will ever admit that to him of course. His head is still leaning back against the head rest and he can't bear to look at her just yet.
She places the visor on the side table and he listens to her voice as she tells Jarvis that they will no longer be engaging in simulation training for the rest of today. He still doesn't look at her. She hovers beside him for a while though until she gives up entirely and places a hand on his cheek and turns his head so that he has no choice but to look into her eyes.
"You do know that in real life that grenade would not have fallen if I didn't want it too?" she asks. Her brows are pointed and her expression is serious and is the expression he only ever sees when they are in the field.
"I should have taken the shot," he tells her regretfully.
"And I would have made you eat lettuce only for dinner," she tells him simply.
He sighs and lifts a hand to her cheek. It feels so warm under his palm and he still can't help but see that last look she gave him before he saw the fire.
"It was the look, wasn't it?" she asks and looks away from him for a moment.
He nods and lets her know, "It was a reminder."
"Clint," she says warningly because she knows exactly what he is going to say.
"A reminder of what I have to lose," he says despite the look she now directs at him.
"I am terribly sorry to interrupt but Mr Stark has overwritten your privacy protocols and instructed that I relay his message at once," Jarvis interrupts and continues after a pause, "He says and I quote, an army of bad ass robots are at both of your disposal should you ever need to bitch slap your targets into submission so all of this talk about losing, lettuce and looks, is therefore unnecessary and moot and from now on are marked as illegal conversational topics within the confines of this tower."
He starts, "Sometimes, Tony, I swear you-"
"Mrs Stark has just relayed her deepest apologies for such an intrusion and has just re-established your privacy protocols with further elevated protocols that were written by her and to date have not been revoked or overwritten by Mr Stark," Jarvis' interrupts again but this time with eagerness and with a slight jump in his voice.
He blinks up at her and she looks down at him. There are a million words he wants to say to her and three million more he will be saying to Tony later.
"It was never this interesting on the Helicarrier," she says in a tone that she only ever uses when she is comfortable and when she is only with him.
He stares at her for what feels like a lifetime and she senses that he isn't thinking negatively for once and therefore chooses not to say anything. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, traces a thumb down the side of her jaw and stops with his thumb on her chin.
"Lleywn," he murmurs.
"Sounds Welsh," she queries.
"Do you like it?" he asks and gently brushes the back of his other hand onto her rounded stomach.
He feels the kick and feels her wince.
"I think he approves of the name," she says.
"Llewyn Aleksandr Barton?" he says and can't help but find the sound of it so very fitting.
She smiles this time and murmurs, "It will do."
end.