He's sitting at their table staring into space and afraid to close his eyes. No one has come over in hours. They know. Twelve years at the same table and they know. Twelve years, once a month when possible, 130 times, sitting across…maybe if he doesn't close his eyes…maybe he'll come in the door. He might make light conversation; explain why he's been gone…4 days, 7 hours and 23 minutes.
He'd walk up and tell him about Lola and about going for a drive one day and where they would go, far, far away, director be damned.
He'd look at him with those amused eyes and retell Jasper's latest joke, dry punch-line and all.
He'd blush in that subtle, sweet manner, faintly along the cheekbone all the way to the ears.
He'd laugh that quiet, deep laugh that, inevitably, would become that slow, warm chuckle.
He'd look at him and see him and the pure life in his eyes would have Clint falling in love with him all over again….
He's been here since he left the house…he woke up this morning there to the sound of no cupboards closing and he walked to the bathroom to the sound of no water running and he stood in front of the mirror for an hour waiting for them and another hour in the shower, waiting for the door to open and a head to poke its way into his vision and tease him for sleeping in and now he's here and he's waiting.
The walk here was empty and the house as he left was empty and the seat across from him now is empty. The seat is empty and his water glass is full and he is numb and waiting.
The phone had rung at home. He was banned from answering it, one joke too many, when both of them were at home. It had rung and he had waited for it to be picked up and it had rung and rung and he had waited and by the time he realized he would have to answer, it was too late.
A message from six days ago was blinking, unheard. "I'll be home late, I've got a meeting with the boss, and Hill has me on the roster all next week so I'll have to meet you at the restaurant. If you absolutely have to get revenge, don't use the new arrows. She's less likely to extend my time if you just stab her with a normal one. Don't get caught, love you." He had listened to it twenty-six times before he could no longer bear to hear it.
And now he was waiting at their table, waiting here. And his knees feel like they want to ram into his chest and his arms want to follow. He wants to throw up and he wants to cry and he wants his heart to stop pounding so achingly painfully.
And he's sitting here and waiting. Natasha came in earlier, she's seated to his right, not saying a word, watching and waiting now too, a change in the routine, but he doesn't mind. She'll wait with him. They can both wait for Phil to show, he's good with that.
She grabs his hand, soft and small and callused in all the wrong spots. There's no callus between fingers from long hours using crappy 3M pens because Supply has run out of the good ones, no scar that should run barely reachable by his fingers along the top of her hand. There is no ring on this hand to fiddle with, so proud that he had said yes.
She squeezes his hand, gentle, and calls his name, soft in the din of late night dinners and he turns his head, finally and says the only thing he can manage.
"He's not coming, is he?"
A tear rolls down her cheek as she shakes her head. "No."
"Okay…will you wait with me?" He turns back towards the entrance, watching.
"Yes."