Yours truly, Hawkeye
When her alarm went off at six am, Natasha glared across her shadowy room.
What a horrible way to spend my birthday, she thought grumpily. She was being sent to Hungary in less than an hour for another mission. It was raining outside, and she doubted anyone even remembered that it was her special day.
Not that it really mattered. She was used to it. But it would have been nice to receive even a small present, seeing as, less than four months ago, she had helped save the world from a bunch of psychotic aliens and the mentally unstable god of mischief. Oh well.
Can't always get what you want.
She dragged herself out of bed to take a shower, and didn't even flinch as burning hot water erupted from the showerhead and assaulted her body. Her movements were slow and tired as she slipped into her cat suit and filled its' hidden compartments with weapons.
Then, just for the hell of it, she pulled a bottle of vodka out from under her bed and took a quick swig.
"Happy birthday to me," she deadpanned once the alcohol had burned down her throat.
Natasha felt crappy. She wasn't as excited for the mission as she usually was—she just wanted to get it done so she could go home and get wasted, alone in some bar.
But as she went to set the bottle down on her nightstand, she noticed a small blood-red box sitting innocently in front of her. She hadn't seen it earlier…someone must have slipped it in while she was in the shower.
Natasha shrugged and sat down on her bed, taking it in her hands.
She pulled the lid off and a note fluttered to the floor. She ignored it and pulled the present out from its satin bed. She felt her eyes widen as she fingered the delicate chain. It was silver and thin, a bracelet, she realized. And dangling from the chain was a tiny silver hawk.
Clint…
She reached down for the note and read its contents:
Happy birthday, Nat. Please be careful on your mission, and I hope you like the bracelet. I love you. Yours truly, Hawkeye.