A/N: Not much substance to this little drabble. It was written in an hour in response to a prompt at be_compromised (what do Clint and Nat do in their off time and incorporate a BandAid/injury). Oddly, that turned out to be only a small part of a really short story. Mindless fluff. Hope it gives you a break from reality for a bit. I know I need that every once in a while. All hail Marvel!
Wounded Pride
"How about Daytona Beach?" asked Clint.
Natasha dramatically tilted her head as if seriously considering the question. "Ummmm, how about… no," she replied with a clearly sarcastic tone.
"Why are you being so difficult about this, Nat?"
"I'm not being difficult. You're being pushy," she quipped.
"I'm just trying to find a quiet, out-of-the-way place for us to re-cooperate. Fury's orders, ya know?" he added just in case she missed the directive from the large, one-eyed man who towered over them as they sat on their hospital beds a mere 20 minutes ago.
"I'm perfectly aware."
A deafening silence settled over the room.
"Kiawah Island?" he offered.
"That's it! I'm going back to my quarters and you're going wherever you're going," she growled.
She got up gingerly and started walking out of the exam room placing all of her weight on her left leg because her right ankle was wrapped in a mile of Ace Bandage. Her normally sultry gait was slow and labored. She was clearly in pain.
"Why aren't you using your crutches?" an irritated Clint asked.
"Why don't you shove them up your a—"
"Hey! Whoa!" he yelled. "What the hell is your problem? What's with all the venom?" he wanted to know.
She turned quickly and had to work to regain her balance. He saw that her eyes blazed with anger. But there was something else in there, too, that Clint couldn't quite put a name to.
She took a big breath, but then paused. Her shoulders slumped and she looked away. "Never mind."
He got up and walked over to her. He placed a scratched left hand on her shoulder. "Nat, please tell me what's wrong. This isn't like you. Are you hurt more than you're letting on? Well, really, that would be exactly like you," he mumbled under his breath.
They stood quietly looking at each other. Both were bruised and tired following their last mission. It had been successful, but took a toll. Fury recognized the need for a little rest and relaxation for his two top agents. They were ordered to take two weeks of leave from SHIELD. Get off the base, go somewhere, anywhere of their choosing, on the agency's tab. Of course there was a budget, but still, it was rather generous, all things considered. It was coded by the accounting department as one lump sum. So it would seem Fury didn't care, and almost assumed, that they'd go together.
"Look at you, Clint." She raised her arm to stress her point. "Your right arm – your shooting arm – is in a sling. Your left hand is scratched to hell. You've got a gash running down the side of both arms and your legs are bruised."
He tilted his head and looked down at her. "Well, the face is still handsome as ever, right? So, no harm no foul." She had to look away to avoid cracking a smile at that. "And, since we're rattling off injuries, you've got a sprained right ankle, a pulled right calf muscle, and your entire midsection is a terrible shade of my favorite color. So there," he added snarkily.
"Exactly. I got off too easy. We don't know the extent of your injuries. You could have months of rehab ahead of you. I'll heal like I always do. I wasn't fast enough. You got horribly hurt…" she looked away again. "Because I failed you."
He looked at her, shocked at her confession. "Hey, you didn't fail. You saved my life. You –"
"Just stop, ok! What if you can't effectively use your bow? What if your injury is permanent? What if… what if you can't be a field agent anymore? What if you can't be my partner anymore?" she said barely above a whisper.
He immediately broke into a beaming smile. "So not gonna happen. Your luck is so bad that you'll be stuck with me until you kick my ass off of Strike Team Delta."
She looked up at his eyes. They told her that he believed everything he had just said. Then she returned his smile ten-fold. "Well then, Agent Barton, prepare to be flying missions in adult diapers. SHIELD isn't getting rid of either us until we say – as a couple – we're done with the agency." She lightly squeezed his left hand.
"You mean partners?" he hesitantly asked.
"Let's table that answer until our return flight frommmmm … Key West. Yes, Key West."
She grabbed for the crutches and began hobbling out of the exam room. When she realized she wasn't being followed, she turned to see a dumbfounded Clint staring after her.
"Come on, Hawkeye. Let's get the mandatory leave underway. I'm going to need every minute of our allotted time to research the answer to your question."
He could barely form words. "Ah, what kind of research are you talking about? What will we be doing in Key West?"
She leaned heavily on the crutches. "Well," she began, "there will be beach time. Lots and lots of beach time, so make sure you bring swim trunks and I'll be sure to pack a few bikinis." She allowed a dramatic pause. "Since walking will be a challenge for me for the first few days, there will be room service meals and the mini bar will need to be regularly stocked." She almost thought she could see a line of drool beginning to escape the corner of his mouth.
"And IF we feel secure enough, I'd like to take a fishing charter out and, of course, the ultimate tourist activity – jet skis." She began to laugh. "SHIELD might have to buck up for a couple of new jet skis for the rental place after we're done with them!"
Her smile was contagious. He snapped out of his state of mild shock and found himself standing in front of her. "We already know we're perfectly partnered up to do all those things. I'm not seeing the challenge of research," he said with a hint of disappointment.
"Agent Barton, there are always variables associated with research; things that exist only in theory, only in one's imagination. That's what the Key West nights are made for. That's when we'll test some theories. That's when we'll bring our imaginations to life," she said in a voice that he had never heard from her before. Not during missions, not during their most heart-to-heart talks, not spoken to anyone under any circumstance. This was a new side to his partner that he was about to be introduced to. He couldn't wait.
He bolted past her and returned a few seconds later with a wheelchair. He gently picked her up and sat her in the chair while she shook with laughter. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked.
He slid open his phone and dialed a number. "Director, this is Agent Barton. Permission to requisition a Quinjet, sir. Destination: Key West, Florida." After a few seconds he pushed her with his left hand guiding the chair down the corridor toward the emergency elevator.
"We need to stop at my room so I can pack," said Natasha pragmatically.
"Nope. We'll get new swimwear when we land. Fury's got the jet warming up on the helipad. I can't give you the opportunity to change your mind about this," he said as he ran.
She continued to laugh as he charged toward the jet.