"You and I remember Budapest very differently."
For a split second, her world stopped. The sound of the Chitauri's weapons, the chaos of the battle around her, the acrid smell of the alien bodies surrounding her, all of it froze for the most miniscule amount of time as her heart reacted to his words. In that moment, she was broken. She had hoped his intuition would kick in, that the training as a master assassin and his ability to read between the lines would tell him exactly what she had meant when referencing Budapest. I guess I was wrong, she thought shakily.
And all too fast, her own instincts pulled her back into the cool, calm façade she maintained as a spy, allowing her to once again deal with the war raging on around her.
Think about it later, she thought, suppressing her emotion. There will be plenty of time for it.
If there's a later.
Apparently, there was a later.
It had been three days. Three days since New York. And she had yet to let herself react to his words.
Her boots clicked against the metal grate of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Helicarrier as she made her way through its endless passages to her quarters. The first two days after the Chitauri invasion and Loki's attempts to take over Earth, she (and the other members of the Avengers) had basically slept like babies. And now, finally, they were free to go their separate ways, courtesy of Fury's orders. She knew Clint was nowhere on base, as he'd offered to escort Eric Selvig back to New Mexico, so now was her chance. Natasha had been waiting for this moment when she could be alone with her thoughts. Quickly swiping her access card, she stormed into her room and sat on the floor, her back against the bed. And just like that, she was in pain.
Budapest. Budapest hadn't been terribly dangerous for her from a physical perspective. There had been no army, and the numbers honestly weren't that overwhelming. But Budapest had been terrifying. Budapest had been the only time that Natasha had been truly terrified that Clint wouldn't make it out alive. In that moment, when she had slipped from behind her armor and said "This is like Budapest all over again," it was her admitting to her fear, that she would truly lose Clint forever and that she wouldn't be able to save him. Just like Budapest.
The instructions had been simple. Retrieve or thoroughly destroy the information a certain arms dealing crime family had on S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha would go into the skyscraper the family called its home for recon, disguised as a high dollar call girl to one of the extremely sleazy and high ranking members. Later that night, Clint would go in disguised as one of the guards to remove the files. Natasha would provide cover from the neighboring building, in the unlikely event that something would go wrong.
Her end of the job had gone well, even though it was in a way riskier. She had no outside help in this, no cover as Clint did, for one simple and rather idiotic reason, in her opinion: he always refused to listen or watch her seduce an target. She had long ago stopped trying to convince him that it was safer if she had an outside pair of eyes, and that she had long been used to using this particular skill set, but he stood his ground.
It was when he went in, dressed in the guard uniform swiped from the home of a guard that they had trailed a few days before, that things went bad.
The corner room that he was entering had only one window. So of course, it had limited Natasha's choices on where to post to provide cover. It also limited her view. They were going in partially blind, as she hadn't had the chance to bug the room. So when he entered the room and came into her sight, she was on full alert.
At first, nothing. Clint entered, doing a quick sweep of the room. He inserted the flash drive with the program to delete all files with any mention of S.H.I.E.L.D. Then, as he went for the second sweep, it all fell apart.
A swarm of guards burst through the door, and at first, Clint held his own. In moments, he had their numbers down from ten to four. Natasha felt a small rise of panic. She was always uncomfortable when the roles were reversed, when she was the one sniping and he was in the thick of it. But she concentrated, and with a quick squeeze of the trigger took one of the guards directly behind Clint down with a shot to the head. But there was a smart guard in the bunch, and unfortunately he was the one sparring with Clint. As she sighted her next shot, the guard, who Clint had positioned between himself and the window so as to give her a clear shot, disarmed him, and suddenly, as she squeezed the trigger for the second time, it was Clint who was staring at her through the scope. And suddenly he was down.
Her training kicked in, and within ten seconds she had sniped the remaining guards, and was firing a zip line at the building. She called in the awaiting jet as she landed at Clint's side, fingers fumbling to staunch the flow of blood from the shot that was nearly center on his chest. He groaned, somehow managing to smile at her. "Tasha."
She shushed him. "Save your strength, we're getting you out of here." As she packed the wound with strips ripped from his shirt, unplugged the USB and half-carried him to the window, he was silent as she had asked. But as they waited the few moments for their ride, he glanced at her and was shocked to the core at the sight of her face shining with tears. In all their missions, in all their near-death situations, he had never seen her cry true, emotional tears. He felt a tug in his chest, completely unrelated to his wound, and took a rather painful breath to fill his lungs. "Tasha…it wasn't your fault." She jerked visibly, then turned her face away. He thought he heard her mumble in assent , but had no time or strength to confirm it, as his vision began to fade and Natasha struggled to get him into the back of the jet.
As she handed him over to the med team and he was laid out onto the bench, she distanced herself as far as she could from him and the sounds of the team trying to save him. Tears, unbidden, escaped her eyes as he flat lined…and then again. Fear, of the most paralyzing kind, gripped her like death's own hand. She was horrified by the idea that she had killed her partner, but more importantly by the fact that she might lose the man she was closest to in this world. He was the only one she could honestly relax around, the one who somehow knew just how to make her genuinely smile, the one who showed up in her dreams. And by all accounts, she had just lost him twice, and might lose him a third time. The prospect of a world without Clint shook her, and with a jolt she realized that the closest name she could find for the emotion she was feeling towards him was love. She choked back a sob. She knew she couldn't lose him, but there he was, laid out, and there was no way she could save him from the damage that she had done. Squeezing her eyes shut, she used all of her training to block out the frantic sounds of the med team, allowing herself only to show her panic through her rapid breathing and trembling fingers. When the jet landed at the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D base, she bolted, going straight to the agent's quarters with little regard for the sounds of Clint being transferred to the med wing. Once at her room, she locked the door and looked at the clock. 2:15 AM. She had 3 hours maximum to report to Fury.
For the first hour, she cried, curled up in the shower. It was the most vulnerable position she had been in over 20 years. She balked at the idea of facing reality, whether that meant the death of her partner, or his inquiry at her mistake of allowing her emotions to show. She knew that for her, everything would be different now. She had realized the feelings he brought to light in her, and she couldn't deny that, no matter how hard she tried. She also knew that just because she loved him, didn't at all mean he returned the sentiment. Yes, they had been partners for years, privy to every habit and quirk the other had. But that had no say in if there was more than just the trust between two people trained to protect one another. Close proximity meant nothing when it came to the affairs of the heart and soul. She of all people understood that.
In the second hour, she used every tactic she had ever known for calming herself. Already she berated herself for getting so worked up. She was a master spy, renowned for her talent of deception and calm in the face of danger. Emotions were for children. Love was for children. And she would be wise to remember that.
In the third hour, she braced herself, and ventured in the direction of the med wing. At the first encounter with an agent, she asked the one question filling her mind and was answered with "Agent Barton is expected to make a full recovery." With a relief that was barely made visible in the fraction of relaxation in her shoulders, she turned quickly to the communications wing, where she proceeded to report to Director Fury, and was met with surprisingly little anger at the outcome of the mission. She supposed there was a perk to being one of Fury's top three agents.
For some reason, Clint never encountered her about that mission. On their next mission together, several months later, things seemed normal between the two. But Natasha failed to notice the contemplating glances Clint stole when she was turned away. And Clint never blinked at the almost gentle concern Natasha had towards him. They were both terrified of a difference between them. And so they avoided it. They had never mentioned Budapest again. Until New York.
She had thought maybe he would read into it. Budapest had been the only time she'd shown emotion to him, towards him. It had been her way of saying she was worried about him - about them - not making it out alive. Instead, he hadn't seen it. Natasha had never been one to hope for the romantic, sudden declaration of longing and love. But for the unlikely pair of a spy and an assassin, her reference to Budapest was as close as they would ever come to shouting out love from rooftops. She feared that Clint would never understand the affections hidden in her words, or worse yet, that he truly didn't see her as someone to love.
And now she had to face that consequence of allowing herself to mention her feelings to Clint, however offhandedly. She shut her eyes as tears spilled silently out, head propped back against the bed, as she allowed the pain of loving someone who didn't know wash over her.
Without resistance, she drifted off to sleep.
Natasha woke with a small yelp as there was three quick raps on her door. "Tasha?"
She jumped to her feet, quickly glancing at herself in the mirror and inwardly groaning. He would notice the slight swelling around her eyes, and the thinnest layer of salt on her cheeks. But there was no time. She controlled her emotions threatening to play across her face and opened the door. "Clint? What is it?"
Clint looked at her carefully before speaking. "I just wanted to talk to you. I was wondering if I could come in?" She sidestepped carefully, and he stood facing away from her until she closed the door. "Tasha…I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." She chuckled softly, then quirked an eyebrow. "Sorry for what?"
Suddenly, it was Clint who was showing more emotion than usual. His face softened, eyes full of concern and sorrow. "The entire way to New Mexico I was playing your words over and over in my head. I should have realized they meant something. You'd never mentioned Budapest before, so why then? I've been trying to figure it out for the past two days." He paused, but before she could speak, continued. "Look, I think I understand what you meant. You were trying to tell me you were worried about me. And…I think you were telling me something else, too, but I need to hear it from you. I need to know I'm right, Tasha."
And suddenly, it was there in front of them. Clint's usually hidden contemplation, facing Natasha's surprisingly gentle concern. They were caught, laid bare for the other to see, and in that instant Natasha knew things definitely would never be the same again. Without a word, Clint crossed the floor, sweeping his arm around her waist and pulling her in for soft, almost cautious, kiss. As he slowly pulled away, Natasha broke out into one of her rare smiles, the kind usually only reserved for when she was alone with Clint. He bent his head slightly, touching his forehead to hers, and with a small, boyish smile, asked, "So was I right?" She smiled wider. "Yes, you were exactly right." In a moment, he had once again captured her lips with his, only this time with an intensity that showed just how reciprocated Natasha's feelings were.
Natasha had never been one for romantic, sudden declarations. But she found she rather like it when it was Clint.
A/N: This is my first fanfic in a very long time, so please review. Tell me if you like it, I may be writing more Clintasha in the future.
~Princess Leah