1.
Director Fury is distracted from a pile of paperwork regarding the New York incident when two of his best agents walk in. Well, Barton walks in, and he's dragging Romanov behind him. "Sir," says Barton, "We are both taking two weeks' leave starting today."
Fury looks up slowly and fixes his gaze on him. Agent Barton, having launched that announcement, looks around, unsure what to do next. The cuts and bruises from last week's battle are healing nicely, but he still has a slightly desperate cast to his eyes, worry that hasn't worn off even now. Behind him Agent Romanov stands silent, letting him grip her arm. She's an attractive woman, of course, but as Fury glances her direction, he realizes she's more of a beautiful wreck than anything else at the moment. Her hair looks unwashed, she looks like she hasn't slept in a month, and there's a bit of a tremor in her muscle tone as well.
"All right," says Director Fury, and bows his head back to his scribbling.
Barton cocks his head. "I, uh, all right?"
"You heard me, Agent," says the Director, not unkindly. "Fill out your slips and get out of here. Report back for training in two weeks."
"Yessir, thank you," says a wide-eyed Agent Barton, and he takes a step back. Romanov looks at Fury, gives him a quick nod, and lets herself be towed out of the office again.
"I'm not taking no for an answer," Clint says to Natasha, standing on her doormat an hour later.
"You are if I tell you no," the Black Widow snaps, but her usual sass isn't there.
Clint Barton grabs his partner by the shoulders and looks down at her. "Look in the mirror. I know for a fact you've been up for three days straight, you haven't given yourself any sort of break from training after what happened, and honestly, Natasha, you look like hell. Will you please just get in the car."
Romanov doesn't say yes. But she doesn't say no, either. She rubs one hand across her pale face, turns around and goes upstairs. She reappears with a sleek black duffel over her shoulder. Clint swallows his sigh of relief and she follows him to the vehicle silently. He opens her door for her, she slides in, and he gets in and starts the car.
He drives, knowing the way by intuition as much as guesswork, no maps involved. Natasha looks over at him. "How are you doing?" she says.
"I'm getting by," he answers. "I just think we need this, you know? A vacation."
"Yeah," says Natasha, and they are quiet again. She dozes with her eyes open for hours, lost in thought. When, late in the evening, the headlights finally sweep over a long gravel road, trees and grasses and finally a house, tucked back in a valley, she thinks they are in Iowa somewhere. It's where her partner was born. If not Iowa, then Nebraska, or Kansas, somewhere Midwest. A flyover state. "Where are we?"
"Safe house," says Clint, killing the engine. "Come on, it's not haunted, I swear." He grins, something sickly behind it. Natasha knows- the house may not be haunted… She lets it go, helps him grab their bags, and they climb up on the porch. He fishes in his jacket pocket and jams the key in the lock, and just like that, they're stepping into the farmhouse. Natasha tries to stand still, but involuntarily she drops the luggage and draws the loaded pistol from the back of her jeans.
"Tasha." He looks at her with those pale blue eyes, half scolding, half sympathy, and it's the sympathy that makes her want to put the muzzle to her own temple. She glares back, unable to relax, and notices the shake in her grip. Clint puts down his bags, draws his own gun- the one firearm he carries- and together they go through each and every room, making sure they're alone.
When the house is clear, they go back upstairs and settle into the bedroom. There is a four-post bed, worn and comfortable, and a futon against the opposite wall. They've slept together many times, but Natasha takes the futon. Clint offers to switch her but she flatly refuses, and so he crawls into the bed, weapons arranged neatly on the nightstand and under the bed within easy reach. She goes through the same ritual, laying out knives and guns and her Widow's Bite like dreamcatchers around her.
In minutes her partner, consummate professional that he is, is asleep, but she lays awake, watching the moon creep agonizingly across the night sky through the curtains and aching from weariness, but unable to let go. She drifts off for an hour or so, but by the first hint of dawn, she's gone.
Clint wakes to an empty room. He sighs and crawls out of the bed, pulls on a t-shirt and goes down the creaky old stairs to the kitchen. The house is silent, but then so is Natasha Romanov. He finds a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator and pours a glass, then steps out onto the wraparound porch.
She's sitting on the railing. She's perfectly balanced, the rising sun is shimmering on her flame-colored hair, and she knows he's there, but doesn't move. "Morning, sunshine," he says, unable to keep from smiling. "You're up early."
She turns her head and gives him a slight smile. "So are you," she says. "Big plans for the day?"
"God, no," he says. "This is about not having plans, remember?"
She rolls her eyes. "Barton, you know I hate surprises. Plans keep you alive." He ignores that, stretches intently, and joins her at the railing, looking out into the hills. The countryside is emerald, mist rising off the trees, and he hopes this is the beginning of something sweet, something easy and safe for once.
"I'm going into town this afternoon for groceries," he says. "What do you want?"
"You're really serious about this, aren't you," she says. When he gives her a questioning look, she goes on. "This little country house, middle of nowhere, two weeks of vacation…"
"Decompressing, Natasha," he says. "You've made me do it a dozen times when I got messed up. That's what this is."
"Well, maybe you should find someone else to play house with," she says, and slips off the railing, brushing past him into the house. Clint listens to her go, kicks the railing, and stares out into the morning. Natasha goes upstairs and cleans her guns. She hears him start the car later in the day. She lets him go. After she's finished with her weaponry, she tucks her favorite two pistols into her jeans and wanders through every room in the house again. The safe house is sparse, but there's a charm to that. She likes the old furniture, the dust on the windowpanes, the squeaky wood floors.
She's tired still, it's a perpetual condition of her existence these days, but something in her can't sit down, can't even stand in one place for long. She has to keep moving, and so she goes outside and explores the surroundings. Cornfields off in the distance, forest in the other direction, prairie and a creek in another. She hikes around for a bit and allows herself a bit of target practice, but she doesn't want to waste bullets. When she walks back into the clearing, Clint's just pulling the car up. He hands her a box of fresh strawberries without saying anything. They sit at the little kitchen table and eat. He makes a sandwich, she just eats the strawberries.
"In a few days," he says, "I've got to meet up with some old friends. You can come if you want."
Natasha hasn't been in a joking mood much recently, but the fresh air and the food [even if it's the first thing she's eaten all day] have loosened her up a little. "Friends? I thought you were a spy, Barton. We don't have friends." He reaches a foot under the table and pushes her chair away. She responds by hooking her foot around the table leg and distancing him from his sandwich. They aren't laughing yet, but their tired smiles are enough for the moment.
"Well, we have people we don't really feel like assassinating," he says, and that gets a real smile, considering their past history. She gets up and puts their dishes in the sink, and goes to sit on the faded couch. There is an old television, but he comes and sits on the other end of the couch without turning it on.
"Nothing on?" she says.
"Nothing I want to see," he answers. "I haven't been able to look at a news report for a week." She nods, and before he knows it, he's spilling it out, again, about the wreckage the battle had left him mired in, the way he's scared to know how bad it really was, scared to know the body count, or how the public was reacting to the haphazard rescue by their motley group. He's opening up to her, and it's a quarter of an hour before he realizes that he meant to get her to open up to him. Natasha is such a good listener, she can draw any story out of him, even the ones he hates.
Finally he yawns, and she says, "Go to bed. You need the rest."
He sputters, "Natasha, you need it more than I do. You're killing yourself. Don't think I don't notice…" She gives him a warning look and tells him she'll be up soon, so he makes his way upstairs and falls into the king-size bed, hoping she'll sneak in beside him.
He wakes up at three in the morning and she's still not there. He gets out of bed, sleep-fogged and annoyed, and finds her sitting on the couch in front of the tv. An old black-and-white movie is playing on god knows what channel, and her eyes are half open. "Seriously?" he snaps.
"Leave me alone," she says, blinking back her tiredness.
"Fuck that," he answers, and shuts off the tv. She starts to protest, but he gathers her roughly off the couch and starts for the stairs. In his arms she struggles for a half-second, and he tenses for a fight- if she's in the mood she could kick his ass in hand-to-hand- but then she goes limp, letting her eyes close as he carries her up the stairs.
"I'm just so tired," she gasps.
"I know," he says, "I know." Clint lays her out on the futon she's taken to, fervently hoping she'll choose his bed instead, but she's too far gone. Her breathing is uneven, almost frustrated sobs, but she doesn't open her eyes again. She mumbles something he doesn't catch; it might not have been in English, and he puts a sheet over her. "Just sleep, Tash. I'm right here. Just relax." He pauses for a second, then gently slides two knives out of her wrist sheaths, laying them on the floor where she can reach them. Her breathing has steadied out and she's down for the count. He climbs back into his own bed, steals one last glance at her sleeping form, and closes his eyes.