gently
It begins with poker night.
Natasha had thought gambling was illegal in America but apparently poker is only illegal if money exchanges hands. To her, this seems idiotic. It's not the act itself the government has a problem with but rather that someone is benefiting from it. She says this quietly to Clint and because he is already a beer in he laughs earnestly into the bottle.
Nevertheless, it does begin with poker night, when the rowdiness and the lights have gone down and only a few people, too tired or too drunk to walk back to their bunks, remain, lounging on the vaguely uncomfortable couches, reminiscing in low voices. Natasha listens, smiling when appropriate. She feels no great need to excuse herself and she supposes this must be what contentment feels like.
"Barton," calls an agent, Hunter. "How 'bout you get your guitar?"
Natasha blinks. Perhaps this is a drunk wild card demand. Clint is the sort of man who can shoot another man in the head point blank with a completely blank face, only to wake up sweating hours or days or years later. He can passably speak seven different languages and, if he were to be hanging off the edge of a building (which is more common than not), he would be able to lift himself to safety. He isn't the sort of man to play a guitar.
Her confusion doesn't go unnoticed. "Natasha hasn't heard you play," Coulson says, a hint of elated realization in his voice. There is a collective gasp, and Natasha digs her shoulders deeper into the back of the sofa, uncomfortable. "You have to play now."
There is a murmur of approval. Coulson turns off the stereo in anticipation.
The man of the hour shrugs, but Natasha notices the way his lip upturns slightly and she knows he's enjoying this, like the way a person does when questioned about a new lover. "Oh, I don't know… I'm sort of slightly drunk –"
"Come on, Barton -"
"Shut up, you know you wanna play –"
"Please –"
Clint is unable to hide a smile at this point. He glances to his left at Natasha, and raises his eyebrows. A smirk on her lips, she shrugs. She tries not to focus on the sudden flip in her stomach because of the insignificant way he looked at her, at the way he'd made it seem there was them, and there was her. She watches as he leaves the room, a spring in his step. Then there is just her and the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. She looks back at them, unsure of what to say. They range from people who are nice to her because Clint's her partner to complete strangers.
Eventually, she lets out a breath. "So, how bad is he?"
Morse, a woman Natasha only knew as Clint's ex-wife and whom because of that she both distrusted and respected, shook her head. "He's not." There was no ounce of irony in her voice, and Natasha shifted in her seat.
The door swung open again; Clint reappeared, this time with a guitar slung around his shoulders. It was an acoustic and it was well-loved, both from the tired beauty of its physical shape and from the way Clint handled it. He sat down next to her, cradling it in his lap, and pulled out a pick. "What am I playing?" he asked as he tuned it. Natasha watched in fascination, at the way his fingers deftly plucked the strings and at the way he listened to it, leaning his head down ever so slightly to better hear the notes.
No one answers him. There are a lot of shrugs. "Anything," says Coulson eventually.
"Love that song," Clint says. Only a few people chuckle at his poor joke. After several moments he nods in relief. "Okay, I have one." He turns to her. "Want to sing harmony?"
"What, you can sing too?" she asks, bewildered. More people laugh now, mostly good-naturedly, but Natasha still feels the need to brush her hair out of her face.
Clint looks smug. "Maybe. Want to sing along?"
She stares at him a second more, unsure of how seriously she needs to treat his request, before finally laughing lowly and letting her head fall against the back of the couch. "Yeah, okay. Like that will ever happen."
"Suit yourself." He wriggles around, getting comfortable with the guitar, and pulls out a guitar pick that was in his back pocket. Finally, he winks at her (and Natasha scoffs for a second time), raises his hand, and begins to play.
Her first thought is that she must be dreaming. This cannot be real. His hands are comfortable and strong and agile as they move up and down the frets, strumming the guitar with ease. The strings make clear, strong, beautiful sounds as he plays the beginnings of something soft and sweet, a lullaby maybe. It sounds like an ode.
And then he begins to sing, and Natasha is completely gone. She barely hears the words, instead focusing on the way the sound hits her ears and the way his throat moves with the song. She doesn't wonder if she's staring. She doesn't care.
She must be dreaming. This Clint, the low lighting, tender melody Clint doesn't align properly with the Clint she knows, the one comprised of wisecracking and guaranteed kills (except once, of course). It's as though she's meeting him for that first time all over again. It's as though she's being saved all over again.
The song ends eventually. She claps along with everyone else, but Natasha feels oddly hollow, and not the hollow feeling of something vital being missing, but hollow feeling of realizing something vital she's never had.
