Warnings: If you're wondering what tone to expect from this work know Clintasha owns my heart, body, and soul. Rated T for language.
Disclaimer: A Natasha monologue, Clint is more of a spectator.
I do not own these characters.
The air is so implausibly rare up here it takes extended effort to draw breath. A wind chill cuts through the atmosphere delivering a dire gloominess to this place— the initial sense of wonder we felt flying here readily lost and replaced by trepidation. Under different circumstances this would be totally awesome. Indeed. I must admit, the view is magnificent. Still, something about this murky purplish-blue rock doesn't sit well with me.
It's not even that long a climb but Clint's breathlessness isn't lost in me. I don't have time to take a jab at him because a phantasmagoric voice echoes through the wind and we immediately assume battle stances. Ten years…has it really been that long? Almost ten years from our last trip as Strike Team: Delta elapsed, gone. I tried pretending it didn't bother me. Tried making believe it didn't break my heart waking up every day and not marching into the battlefield with him.
The only reality I knew.
How exceptional, how astonishing that after all these years, including five whole years of arrant estrangement, our partnership…our bond comes as natural as daylight. This tango we do is all the truth I recognize. We keep our weapons trained on the red creature ahead and it all feels like yesterday: Novi Grad, New York City, Abidjan…Budapest. We are definitely a long way from Budapest.
A gelid wind blows as I try registering the words. The steep fall ahead makes it clear there beneath the valley lies the stone. For one of you. Clearly. Because when is it ever as easy as one, two, three? My only intention coming here was to collect the stone and be our way…both of us, together. Evidently, the universe has other plans. How could it possibly be any different?
IT: IN ORDER TO TAKE THE STONE, YOU MUST LOSE THAT WHICH YOU LOVE. AN EVERLASTING EXCHANGE. A SOUL FOR A SOUL.
Clint doesn't want to believe it to be true, and who can blame him? The bony red beast knows my father's name and Edith's. It's not just a coincidence. Thanos' victory rested on the loss of his daughter Gamora. This is a one-way trip for one of us and the stone requires a sacrifice to be extracted. One of love. It's a contented smile that plasters my face. Good thing I am here with Clint Barton. This crusade is the fight of our lives. It's all about getting the stone and bringing everyone back. The fate of billions of lives rests in our hands.
ME: WHATEVER IT TAKES.
HIM: WHATEVER IT TAKES.
Understanding is sinking on him because he looks down, one in the same with his sorrow. As we tiptoe at the verge of the end I will for the tangles between us to be loosened. But imagining a world in which I don't grow fond of one Clint Barton is futile. What kind of life would that even be? I have no interest in it. Clint doesn't say much, but that's just the thing…he doesn't have to. Fate is a bitter little bitch for bringing us here, giving us this conclusion. Despite the unforgiving irony, I am glad. Because if not us then who? If not us who?
His hair flies about like a banner on the wind and I feel such sweet ease. If only there was more time. Time to rekindle, to reconnect…to just sit by him in the comfort of absolute silence. We were so focused on planning lately there were no opportunities to just be. After five years of remotely tacking his steps with Rhodey's help, I wanted nothing but to delve in frivolities. Grab a drink while onlooking the midnight breeze and tease him about those tattoos. Last time I remember being so carefree with him was between the battle of NY and the whole Ultron fiasco. Best years of my life. I wish we could go back…go way back…before monsters and magic. If I know him, and I do, he wishes for the same.
When I dragged his ass back from Tokyo I wasn't sure what I was going to find. Was he going to be so far off the deep end I couldn't get him back? Would he be unrecognizable? I soon found the answer to that to be no. Walking towards him in the pouring rain, slain body by his feet no less, wasn't taxing in the slightest. He immediately unclenched…Clint would sooner lose his battles than hurt me. He was so ashamed in that moment that he couldn't look me in the eye, and it broke my entire essence. I hoped he'd understand when I took his hand he was not alone. And nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing had changed in the way I saw him.
I feel momentary reassurance when he takes my hand. But nothing is reassuring about our predicament. Looking up at him is so unspeakably and unusually difficult. It takes me a minute. Feels like there is an entire universe between us. Clint's eyes are a place where I normally seek and find solace, but the circumstances make it quite the opposite this time. It's the last time I will be looking into them. The exchange almost burns. I had just gotten him back and I was going to lose him again, just like that. In the blink of an eye.
HIM: I'M STARTING TO THINK WE MEAN DIFFERENT PEOPLE HERE, NATASHA.
It isn't fair, but when is it ever? Having such a wicked fate thrust upon us is not unreasonable, considering. Dwelling in it is no use. And, admittedly, to let my affection for him be the saving grace this world needs is a welcome gift. I always thought I would die on the battlefield. Fatal injury, Clint by my side. If this is the alternative I get, I embrace it. I know my sacrifice will bring everybody back. This wretched world where evil stands and the innocent fall will be no more. Because of us, because of this very moment.
I feel a proximity to him I haven't felt since Thanos snapped his fingers. That jewel was the only thing…the only thing. The aching feeling of being distant and the countless nights of restlessness only alleviated by what I wore around my neck those past five years. He looks at me with such care, softness, gentleness. Yet something is different about his eyes. Guilt is eating at him for what he did when he lost his way as Ronin. He thinks he's unworthy of living, and it breaks me. Breaks me he puts so little worth in himself when what moved him was blinding pain and consuming grief. The very fact his actions bother him so much makes him Clint. A good, noble man who would put others before him without a second thought. That is who he is.
I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. IDIOT.
HIM: YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE DONE. YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE BECOME.
And I see myself in his eyes and I know exactly how he feels. He thinks I should judge him…thinks I would judge him. Does he not know I remember everything? That I relive the moment he went against Fury's orders daily? As real and present as the terror that drained my blood when Coulson told me he'd been compromised. Funny how he talks about decency when he is the one responsible for that.
ME: I DON'T JUDGE PEOPLE ON THEIR WORST MISTAKES.
HIM: MAYBE YOU SHOULD.
You didn't. It comes out like a whisper. Because when I was my worst self, he didn't judge me. In fact, he saved my life. Many times over. Not only would he literally extract me from the line of fire when things went badly south, take the fall for me with Fury when I jeopardized missions, give me his own blood to prevent me from hemorrhaging and more…Clint Barton delivered me. He delivered me from my own corrupted mind and the lies the KGB tried to poison me with. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't be here today. He gave me a chance…he made a different call. And I am standing here right now because of that.
I owe him a debt.
He believed in me when no one else would— and, quite frankly, I didn't give him any reason to. I was trained to be objective, ruthless. It was my breeding, my duty…the only thing I knew. At the time I didn't understand where the…connection I felt towards him came from. It didn't take much for me to trust him, or even care for him. There was just this understanding, this fit. Something about his demeanor when he lowered his weapon that faithful day changed me. Or maybe it didn't change me, maybe it was always inside me and he just brought it out…awakening something I had inside me all along.
My initiation as a SHIELD agent wasn't easy. By any means. Everyone would treat me like a killing machine…something to be feared and monitored. But not him. Clint would turn his back on me while my aim was trained on him solid rock, never faltering. He'd talk to me like an actual human being and sit by my side when training was done and I felt a drowning sense of loneliness. His presence would bring me peace. He would even smuggle Soviet paraphernalia into HQ and hand it to me. The most useless garbage. 'In case you're missing home,' he'd shrug in what he thought was perfect Russian. And I was powerless to do anything but smile and feel my heart swell. I'd never felt the need to clear my throat in order to dissipate awkwardness until then— we'd held eye contact for one too many seconds.
I'd enjoy training with him and miss him, as I was told, when I'd go back at the end of the day. Scowls. I was just bored because combat was my passion, I wasn't missing him. I believed his words when he'd tell me I could be more…fight for something I believed in instead of arbitrary causes. It inspired me and every day I trained with him I learned something new about him…about myself. By and by between the sweat and tears we were assigned partners, and nothing gave me a rush like walking into the field with him. It felt like we could do anything together. We were Strike Team: Delta. Tactical, strategic, unstoppable.
Until Budapest. That stupid fuck. What did he think he was doing taking that bullet for me? We were told it was touch and go and it would take a miracle for him to pull through. The tears haunted me at night— I didn't know why. 'Come on, Barton,' I whispered the one time I dragged myself down to sickbay and sat by his immobile body. Why did I feel the urge to run my fingers through his face? Another mystery. He was infuriating, cheeky, vexatious. I could not, for the life of me, understand why the prospect of losing him was so paralyzing. The next day, as I struggled to swallow food in the cafeteria, he sank into the bench beside me like a dead weight. Classic Clint Barton. Wrapped up in bandages to the core, the sunlight on his face. Always a broken body, never a broken smile. I almost threw my arms around his neck when he nudged me, but I settled for a half smile. 'Good to have you back.'
A crackling of the wind, my shaky heartbeat, his slow blinking.
With our partnership came an unspoken awareness, a recognition. We went through so much together. We knew each other's innermost thoughts, fears, peeves…everything. There was always this sense of being each other's extensions…the thread that entangled us so strong we came out bruised blue. And in that way, we got one another. A to Z. I knew Clint wanted many things. Things I couldn't offer him…both physically and emotionally. I was never made for conventional. I couldn't be the one responsible for making him miss out on his dreams. I'd ask him not to seek them elsewhere…but how fair would that be? The only reason he hadn't left SHIELD then was because of our partnership…because of me. We would have drifted apart otherwise.
I suppose a part of me always promised to be true to myself and my feelings…someday. Guess I ran out of time. Apparently what they say about being faced with your own regrets when you're confronted with death is true. Would things be different if I had allowed myself the courage? I try pushing such wonderings away from my mind. Focus on now, Natasha. Take in these last moments. Don't let your emotions betray you.
I thought I'd managed to put it all behind me…tuck it away somewhere in deep confine. By the time ideas of ordinary plagued my mind it was too late. I tried to fill the void…fooled myself into thinking I'd find something, anything somewhere else. All because I had practiced the craft of biting my tongue and blown away my chances at something real.
Looks like I was miserably mistaken.
Time stands still for a while as the air bends between us. I dare not avert my gaze from the light in his eyes…it saddens me they are partially obscured with inconsolable sorrow. But brighter days will shine on him, and that is enough to keep my resolve strong. When he says I'm a pain in his ass I translate it into 'I love you' and I will sail astray with that in my heart. And there it will remain ever true.
Silence, my erratic breathing, his strong built grounding me.
If not for the steady pressing of our foreheads my knees would've buckled by now. All that comes up when I inhale is aching vacuum. How is it it's so easy to breathe by his side, but suffocating all the same? Thick layers of dust cloud my eyes as hymns flood my ears. I feel him within, outside, around, everywhere…he has always been at the edge of my life. My heart feels both light as a feather and heavy as a rock. And his eyes are on me. I just know it. I dare not bring my gaze up to meet his. We've been undone enough times already.
HIM: OK. YOU WIN.
We agree on what to do, just not how to get there. The cheeky bastard gives me a side smile that tells me immediately what his plan is. And my back hits the ground, hard.
HIM: TELL MY FAMILY I LOVE 'EM.
ME: YOU TELL THEM YOURSELF.
He's down, as expected. I always have the upper hand when it comes to Clint. Because he pulls his punches? Because my skills are superior? I'm quite sure I've always had a little bit of an edge over him. The explosion sends me crashing, that idiot. If he thinks his stubborn arrows are going to stop me, he is in for a surprise. I watch him rush towards the edge in slow motion. His gaze never breaks mine. The pain in my leg isn't enough to stop me from rising and pulling him back from the brink. I make sure he's strongly attached to the rock, unable to take the fall. There. I win– even though winning in this case is anything but.
A surrender, my complete immersion in light, his piercing yelps.
Dangling from a precipice is not frightening as is the notion that the despair in his timbre is because of me.
HIM: DAMN YOU.
And Clint tries, oh he tries. But it's physically impossible for him to reach me. Good. He holds onto me desperately, his shrieks a torment to my ears. I am so thankful for you, Clint. You showed me kindness, compassion, friendship, love. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have an exquisite soul. My heart and mind swell with tenderness. 'Let me go,' I don't even recognize my own voice. It's okay, Clint. It's okay. You can't hurt me. He is begging me. I find solace in knowing the darkness in his eyes will soon turn into sunrise.
I begin to slip, not literally because Clint's hold on me is strong…so strong I know the skin underneath my suit is going anemic, but I start to let myself go. In the most facetious fitting way, it's a call to arms. Goodbye, dear friend.
You're a pain in my ass too.
He won't let me go. That much I know. I instinctively reach out to grab ahold of his hand. To give him one last chance at comfort? Because I want to feel the warmth of his touch one more time? Perhaps in another world, he'd be pulling me up, he'd get us to solid ground and we would hold each other's shuddering bodies until we lulled one another into oblivion. Yes, in another world.
ME: IT'S OKAY.
One last look at him is all I need. One last taste of the devotion that emanates from his body, the love in his eyes, the radiance of his halo. Fear becomes nothing but an anecdote. My feet meet rock and I embrace the free fall. All that's left are still winds, sky, and ocean...all of which become me. I am weightless— all my sins forgiven, forgotten. Never supposed to go any other way but with Clint Barton by my side. Always with him by my side.
There is no pain. None whatsoever. Silence takes over my kindred spirit above but life will show him new meaning. At that moment, that moment that feels like a fragment of eternity, I see their soaring victory…our victory. I'm filled with purpose and pride and, oddly enough, happiness. Because I know it'll work. He is going back to his family. To a world where Wanda exists, a world where our friends are back. And I know this is not farewell for us. You weep now, Clint, but you will laugh again. Because the fact of the matter is we are tethered to each other. In this existence, in another...throughout the infinite. We will meet again, I am sure. With any luck, when that happens, we'll be shown a gentler fate. A fate in which our dreams are one...our dreams are shared.
We may have lost tomorrow but yesterday is still a friend.
I just love Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff with all my heart and upon closer inspection of all their facial expressions and undertones in Endgame, there is no way that is simply "best friend" love. So I had to write. And I'm a mess.
This is really one of her hardest things I've ever written, not only because of the subject matter (and the many, many Clintasha feels) but because introspection work is hard. *whispers* Any kind of feedback is very much appreciated.