Thanks to my first Beta, shenshen1977.
Warnings: Language, Violence
Pre-Mission,
The Helicarrier
No amount of training, of the day-in-day-out fisticuffs, of scaling tall buildings or running marathons would have ever prepared Clint Barton for his latest mission. It was simple enough, which should have sent alarm bells ringing in the archer's mind as soon as he was briefed on it. He was tasked for a surveillance operation, which required a skill in stealth and an ability to see all. That had Clint "Hawkeye" Barton written all over it.
However, Barton was clearly unhappy with the task. A surveillance op that any other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could do in their sleep? It was all he could do to keep a scowl off his face, and a scoff in check. Instead, he just crossed his arms and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw developed a tic.
There was only one reason that stuck in Barton's mind as to why he was chosen to do this job, and it may not have even been the correct one. Fury was, well, furious. Not at his resident archer, per se, but in general. Between struggling to keep tabs on his Avengers and his S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and reporting to the Council, things eventually took their toll on the director and it was only a matter of time before he snapped. And by "snapping" he just acted irrational, only to the point of wanting to make someone mildly suffer. Someone that could get on his nerves easily, someone that occasionally had authority issues, someone that (although he was underneath the influence of a dark magic) partook in the death of several good men and women. Someone like Barton.
By the time Clint was finally able to escape the meeting room, the veins in his neck were standing out as far as the ones on his muscled arms. Without a backward glance, he stalked down the halls of the craft, making a beeline for his personal quarters. With each step, his black combat boots thudded against the metallic flooring, reverberating up and down the way. No one bothered to give him a second glance when they saw him passing, too afraid to make eye contact with the trained mercenary.
Ten minutes later, Barton threw open the door to his room and slammed it shut behind him. Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately had his bow in his hand and an arrow drawn, ready to fire. Just as he was about to release his hold, the sound of a gun being placed on safe put him at ease. He lowered the weapon and relaxed.
"Tasha," he sighed, placing the arrow into his back-quiver and collapsing the bow.
"Sorry," she replied softly, putting her weapon back into her hip holster. "Can never be too careful."
Clint didn't respond, but instead carefully placed his bow onto the bed and pulled the quiver off. After he had placed it next to his preferred choice of weaponry, he turned and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't have to say a word, but Natasha could read the invitation on his expressionless face. They knew each other that well.
So, she walked over and sat beside him, leaving barely an inch between their bodies.
"New mission?" she asked, without facing him.
"Yeah," he replied, also looking straight ahead.
"How long?"
"Undetermined."
"Where?"
"Somalia."
"When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
She asked and he answered, both with clipped professionalism in their tones.
Finally, she half-turned to face him and lowered her gaze to his lips. "Solo?"
The pink flesh barely twitched, and to a lesser agent, it would have gone unnoticed. However, she caught it and looked away with a heavy sigh. "Damn him," she cursed softly.
"Hey," Clint nudged her arm with his, a small smile on his face. "I'll be fine, okay? It's not my first rodeo."
"It is without me, since-"
Since Loki. Since the Chitauri. Since he'd been compromised.
He didn't bother to respond, instead looking down at his hands. An archer's hands. Strong, calloused, and capable of both destroying and rebuilding. "Natasha," he breathed, flexing his fingers. "Just," he looked up sharply, his eyes flashing with emotion, "Trust me, okay?"
She slowly reached out and fully splayed her hand out on his face. He leaned into her touch, and she gently pulled her hand down, effectively caressing his handsome visage. When she got to his lips, he parted them and closed his eyes. She pulled her hand away, and he opened his eyes to fully look at her.
"I always trust you."
There was a beat of silence before Clint placed his hand on her knee and shook it. "C'mon, let's go crash a sparring session."
A genuine smile graced her face, and she stood.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Several hours later, Barton let the torrid spray of water pound unrelentingly against his aching back. He placed his hands shoulder-width apart against the wall, and hung his head underneath the nozzle. A small groan of pain and relief escaped his lips.
Barton hadn't realized how upset Natasha really was at the idea of him going solo until they took to the mat. She did not let up the entire session. Had he not been able to detect the minute changes to her movements, barely noticeable ways she held back from doing serious damage, he would've thought she was trying to really take him out of the game.
As it was, he decided to roll with the punches. Literally. He decided to give back as good as he got, and allowed his pent-up frustrations to dictate his movements.
He wasn't happy about the operation. He wasn't happy about going alone. And he was especially unhappy that Natasha was upset about it as well. They were partners, and they looked out for one another. When one of them was angry or depressed or anxious, the other felt it as well. They fed off of each other, as good partners always did.
With a heavy sigh, Clint turned the shower off. He grabbed a towel, and began drying his dripping hair before moving down to the rest of his body. When he felt dry enough that he wouldn't soak the floor, he stepped out and hung the towel back up. Stepping into a pair of black boxer briefs, he leaned over the bathroom sink and stared into the foggy mirror. He reached up and rubbed his hand across the glass. Droplets of water strayed into the area he tried to wipe, but he had enough of a clear view of himself that he didn't care.
He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the beginning of stubble. With his pores open from the steam, he decided he couldn't go wrong with a quick shave. Reaching underneath the sink, he pulled out shaving cream and a razor. Inspecting the dull blade, he reached under again and pulled out a new one. As he reached underneath for a third time, he felt the sharp prick of a blade being held up against his throat and a warm presence behind him.
"You should really beef up your security," a voice drawled in his ear.
"Why?" he replied, glancing up into the mirror from his crouched position to look into the eyes of his partner. "You're the only one who ever breaks in here."
She shrugged, and tossed the blade onto the counter. "True."
Rolling his eyes, Clint began to stand up, masking the twinges of pain in his legs and back. He reached and tenderly touched his neck, where a trickle of blood was already drying. He cocked an eyebrow into the glass, where she could clearly see his face.
"I was," she trailed off, and looked away. "Upset."
"I know," he replied, and turned his body to face her. He folded his arms across his bare chest and leaned against the counter. "I also know that you're scared."
She looked up sharply, a glare in her eyes.
"C'mon, Tash, it's just us." He waved a hand in the air before resuming his position. "No one else is here. Talk to me."
Natasha walked out of the bathroom, and Clint pursed his lips together and sighed loudly. He followed her, ducking when she threw his black cargo pants at his face.
Catching them easily, he started to tug them on just as she threw a black t-shirt. He glared as he finally managed to get his pants on, and snatched the shirt off the floor. As he put it on with jerky, annoyed movements, he said, "You're overreacting."
Clint knew it was the wrong thing to say to a woman, especially if that woman was Black Widow. He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the very next second. He was too tired to struggle, and knew she wasn't going to seriously harm him, so he just relaxed underneath her weight and looked up expectantly. "Well, now that you've got my attention, spit it out."
She furrowed her brow, and stared down at him. "Of course I'm scared, moron."
"We've been on separate missions before," he pointed out.
"They were different."
"How?"
He watched as her mouth worked open and closed, watched as she struggled to formulate some sort of coherent sentence, and it dawned on him what the real problem was. "You're not scared because of what the mission entails, or that you're not going with me...You think things are different now, don't you?" Her eyes fluttered. "You're not scared for me...You're scared of your feelings for me."
Without a word, she stood up, and he took a grateful breath he didn't realize he was struggling to get. She crawled onto his bed, and it was only then he noticed she was wearing gray sweatpants and a white tank-top. Sitting with her back against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her sore back, she stretched out her legs and folded her arms.
Slow in getting to his feet, Clint took the moment to think over what just happened. She practically admitted to having feelings for him without admitting to it. He knew they were close, so close that they could read each other's movements and expressions as if the other's thoughts and actions were their own. But he didn't realize they were this close.
He climbed on the bed and sat next to her, their thighs touching. He looked at her askance, trying to think of something, anything to say to her but nothing would come to mind. Instead, he mimicked her position and stared straight ahead. Finally, he hesitatingly looked over and saw her worrying her bottom lip.
"Tasha-"
"Don't," she cut him off. She turned her face and looked at him, really looked at him, and shook her head. "Don't...please." Her voice broke off and she looked away again.
"Hey," he said, his voice gravelly and he couldn't figure out why. "Don't cut me off, Natasha. Don't do that."
"Clint," she sighed. "I've been compromised."
"That makes two of us," he replied, and when she met his eyes accusingly, he held her stare. He cleared his throat, and whatever he saw in her eyes vanished. "Look-"
"It's late. I should go."
She didn't move, and he knew she wasn't going to. So, he stood up and crossed the small room, flicking the switch in order to bathe them in darkness. Giving himself a moment to adjust, he made his way back and stopped. Where she was at first sitting on the left side of the bed, she was now on the right. She was also underneath the comforter, lying on her side. He climbed on the left side of the bed, and smiled. Natasha knew he was left-handed, and if there was ever an occasion in where he would need to suddenly reach out and grab a knife from the drawer, it was easier for him to do so on that side. He always slept on his back for that reason.
They lay there, listening to each other breathing, and just enjoying the company of another human being. Clint knew that exactly one hour and fifteen minutes later Natasha snuggled a little closer, wrapped her arm around his stomach and placed her face into the crook of his neck. Five minutes after that, her breathing evened out and she finally fell asleep.
He wrapped his right arm around her body, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the top of her red tresses. He breathed in deep, and drifted off to sleep.
TBC...
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