Alright, this is Part 3.5 of the Compromised series. I missed writing Clint/Natasha, and spoilers from Age of Ultron had me depressed. I also realized that I'd intended to write these two scenes into Stubborn Love, but they'd somehow slipped my mind, even though they were really important moments I'd mapped out. So here you go: the lost chapters from Stubborn Love put together in one giant chapter. This chapter would come during Chapter 15 after Clint and Natasha have finished babysitting Mary Katherine!
Speaking of Age of Ultron, I'll still be writing Part 4. It just seems that it'll have to be an AU. However, I'm up for the challenge, so we'll see how that goes!
Just as a heads up, there's a sex scene in this!
For extra emotions, listen to "Gale Song" - The Lumineers =)
Any feedback is appreciated! Thank y'all for being patient while I'm waiting for Age of Ultron.
Enjoy! =)
Clint was used to waking up in the morning and not finding Natasha in bed with him. Between the two of them, she was the one who got up early, and he was the one who would sleep the day away if he could. Like always, they were perfect complements to each other. She was hard where he was soft, and he was curved where she was linear. He liked sleep, and she liked consciousness. Like always, their dynamic was what made them work so well together on the field and then again in their personal lives.
So when Clint opened his eyes and didn't see Natasha's bright red hair in front of him, he wasn't surprised at all. Rolling over to look at the clock by the bed, he squinted as he saw the time. It was 7:30 in the morning, much too early for him, and he wondered why the hell he was awake when he easily could be sleeping. Then he smelled it. He smelled food. Frowning, Clint pushed himself up until he was sitting, and he grabbed his hearing aids, shoving them in with a couple haphazard pushes so he could latch onto as many details as he could. He could hear the faint sounds of something cooking downstairs, and if anything, those sounds made his frown deepen.
Natasha didn't cook. She just didn't. She could make killer spaghetti and a brilliant stir-fry, but other than that, she was more than happy to leave the cooking to him. That was the way she liked it, and if Clint were honest, it was how he liked it, too. He liked being the one to cook, being the one to do something useful other than shooting a bow and arrow or beating the shit out of someone. God, whatever it was smelled good, though, he thought with a wince as he started his tired journey downstairs.
"Nat?" he called, his voice a little low and gruff with sleep. She didn't answer, and he waited until he was at the bottom of the stairs before trying again. "Nat?"
"You're not supposed to be awake just yet," she called from around the corner. Clint squinted his eyes and looked into the kitchen. Natasha was indeed in the kitchen, looking like she was frying something up on the stove. Clint was about to point that out when he noticed she was already dressed for the day.
"Are you dressed?" he asked, even though he could clearly see she was.
"Yep. We have a day ahead of us," she said flippantly. "Go upstairs and shower. Get dressed."
"What? What are you doing?" Clint placed his hands on his hips and stared at her with curiosity painted all over his face. Seeing her domestic…he wasn't sure if he felt a greater sense of confusion or surprise as he watched her move about the kitchen. She didn't move naturally in this foreign space—she rarely ever did unless she was helping him and taking his orders like the champion sous chef she pretended to be—but today, she looked somewhat comfortable. Clint's mouth quirked up into a tiny smile, and he tilted his head a little to the side as he noticed that she looked just as relaxed and carefree as he knew she said he looked here on the farm.
"We're going on a surprise picnic. See, you ruined the surprise. Go." She looked over her shoulder at him and pointed with her spatula. "Go."
"Yes, ma'am." Clint couldn't hold back his low chuckle, and he went back upstairs to do as she said. His left hand slid up the railing attached to the wall, the wood familiar and worn beneath his rough fingertips. How many times had he touched that rail? How many times had he and Barney shoved each other into it when roughhousing with each other? As he touched it now, he wondered how many times Natasha's fingers had left quiet whispers of her touch behind against the wood. She was now as much a part of his home as the wood itself, and Clint liked having that image in his head. This house had always been home to him, but now she was, too.
Quickly, he managed to shower, brush his teeth, and get dressed in under 15 minutes. By the time he was ready and downstairs, Natasha had finished packing a large picnic basket that he hadn't seen out of the kitchen closet in years. He let out a low whistle at the sight of it. "Where'd you find that?"
"Closet. Where'd you find that?" She nodded towards the flannel shirt he'd thrown on for the occasion. "Looks like you haven't pulled that out of your closet since your carnie days."
Clint groaned, and he grimaced as the sound left his mouth. "You've been using that excuse for everything I've put on since we've been here."
"Am I wrong, though?" She lifted her eyebrows at him in a challenge.
"Yeah. You're very wrong. I don't think I even fit in my carnie clothes anymore, let alone have them." He glanced down at his flannel and winced a little harder. "I guess I got this a while ago. Probably back when I first joined SHIELD, though I'm surprised I still fit in it if that's when I really did get it."
"Well, regardless, you look like you're ready to go plow the fields."
"I'm in character. Besides, look at you, Mrs. Barton." Clint smirked as he gestured towards her own flannel, knowing the endearment would get a reaction out of her. True to nature, Natasha made a face, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she just shook her head, grabbed the basket, and held her hand out for his, a gesture more intimate than anything she could have possibly spoken to him.
"Come on. We want to make a good day of it."
"Do we?"
"Yeah."
"What if it rains?"
"Then that's perfectly ok."
With the sun already bright in the sky, Natasha led Clint through the woods and into a clearing. The air was warm, and the breeze felt good on their faces. As Natasha pulled Clint along beside her, she found herself smiling just from how good it felt to be outside with the fresh air and the warm sun and Clint's hand inside hers. The walk was short and nothing too strenuous, which Natasha had planned on purpose, and it wasn't long until she led him to a clearing in the woods.
"What's this?" Clint asked, looking around the sunny, grassy space.
"Our destination." She slowed to a stop and narrowed her green eyes at the green grass as she inspected where to set up camp.
"How'd you find this place?"
"I go on walks sometimes when you're working on the farm. Clears my head. Gives me something to do other than try and fail with that damn garden. Jesus, why did I think an herb garden was a good idea?" Natasha muttered darkly. Clint laughed at that, but he didn't argue it with her. He knew that she hated not getting something right immediately, and honestly, he didn't blame her. After the kind of life that they'd had, he would have thought that something as simple as gardening would have been the simplest thing in the world, and yet he had a feeling that neither of them would be able to master it.
"Hey, at least there's one thing you can say you aren't good at," he offered. "You're good at everything else but gardening."
"And cooking. Don't forget cooking."
"You make the best damn spaghetti and the best damn stir-fry I've ever eaten in my life."
"Ok, well, other than that, I'm shit at it."
"At least you have your looks."
Natasha shot him a look over her shoulder, but the sharpness in her eyes wasn't real, though the light smile on her lips was. Finally, she chose a spot she liked, and she set the basket on the ground, opening it and pulling out a checkered blanket Clint had had way before his carnie days.
"Now that'sfrom before I was even a carnie," he pointed out.
"Thought so. Looked old. Smelled old before I washed it, too." She stretched it out on the ground and landed happily on top of it with a graceful drop. Looking up at him, she reached out and patted the spot next to her. "Sit. I have food."
Clint wanted to make a cheesy joke about enjoying the scenery by looking at her, but he sat beside her, thinking better of it. He sat down and looked at Natasha, watching her as she reached into the basket and pulled out a set of small plates, some Tupperware full of food, a jug of water, and two glasses for the both of them. As he looked at her, he wondered if this woman who had planned a picnic was Natasha. Was this her? Was this the Black Widow, the woman who struck pure fear into the hearts of her enemies? Was this the same woman? He tried to think back to the first time he'd seen her, the first time he'd watched her through the scope of his lens before he'd loosed an arrow into his mark. She'd been hard edges and pointy ends then, lethal and lovely and everything he'd been told to contain. But he hadn't. He hadn't contained her, hadn't killed her. And this what he'd gotten instead.
He'd gotten a beautiful woman who surprised him with picnics and wore relaxed, loose clothing because she liked it. He'd been assigned to kill Natalia but had come out on the other side with a better end of the deal: Natasha.
"What'd you make?" he asked.
"Egg McMuffins. Kind of. Well, they should at least taste like it. Hopefully." Natasha opened the Tupperware and pulled two out for Clint and one for herself. "And you have two because you're a healthy growing boy."
"Knew I loved you for a reason." Clint picked his plate up and looked down at it. The food was still warm, and it smelled good, but he'd learned a long time ago that most of the time, Natasha's food looked and smelled ok, but it didn't always…taste ok. If Natasha picked up on his nervousness, she didn't show any sign of it. Instead, she just poured some water into their glasses and picked up her own Egg McMuffin.
"Dig in," she said, and then she took a bite. Clint swallowed his last bit of nervousness regarding Natasha's questionable cooking, and he followed suit. He took his first bite and chewed, allowing himself to taste the food she'd prepared. And surprisingly, he enjoyed it. He didn't bother hiding the look of shock on his face when he realized that she'd managed to make something edible, even when she looked over at him to gauge his reaction. "Oh, come on, don't look that surprised!"
"Sorry—sorry, I'm just—you don't really like cooking," he protested in between swallows.
"I needed to do something with myself while you were out working the fields. Figured I might as well learn how to make decent food so I can live whenever you're gone on missions," she replied. "It's been about 10 years. It's time I learned how to make food that doesn't suck for when you're gone."
"Be proud of yourself," Clint answered genuinely, his expression serious. "It's good."
"Now you're just being nice."
"Honest."
Natasha smiled at that, but she didn't answer. She crossed her legs in front of her and kept her eyes on Clint, grinning at how the both of them were watching each other as if they didn't have anything else in the universe to look at instead. She watched his face, and she studied his reactions. It wasn't that she didn't believe him—she just felt that she needed to make sure. She needed to know that he was being honest with her. After everything that had happened recently, she felt that a little extra studying couldn't hurt.
It wasn't long before they were both done with their food, the both of them feeling full and satisfied. Natasha opened her mouth to say something to Clint, but he suddenly leaned back and lay down on the blanket while he pointed up towards the sky. "Look."
Natasha looked up and squinted to get a better look at where he was pointing. "Clouds?"
"Yeah. What's that cloud look like? Kind of looks like a coffee mug sitting on top of a whale." He lifted his hand to shade his sensitive blue eyes from the sun. With a glance, he surveyed her and then patted the spot on the blanket beside him. "Come on. Look at this gorgeous Iowa sky with me, and we'll be like kids picking out the different shapes."
"Is this a real thing?" she asked mildly, lying down beside him. "Cloud-watching?"
"Yeah." Clint stopped himself from asking her if she really hadn't done it before. He'd loved her too long and too hard to know the answer—by this point, he just knew her too well. "It's something a lot of kids do. My brother and I used to do it a lot. Think he did it to get me to focus on something else other than the yelling inside our house on the weekends."
Natasha copied Clint and brought her hand up to her face so she could look up at the clear sky, too, without hurting her eyes. Whenever Clint did things like this with her, she always wondered if it was for her benefit or for his. Was he showing her what cloud-gazing was like because he wanted her to get the experience, too, or was he doing it because he was just looking for something to do? She could have sat and asked these questions day and night, but she didn't. There was no use in doing so. However, there was use in taking this very rare, much needed moment with him, and so she did.
"I think that one looks like an upside down camel," she said and pointed to another cloud.
"No way. It's kind of like a skyscraper with an arrow through it."
"What? Of course you'd have to work an arrow into it."
"You can take the archer out of the field, but you can't take the field out of the archer," Clint smartly quipped. When Natasha looked at him, he had his hands resting on his stomach and his head tilted upward, his expression relaxed. She always loved looking at him when he was relaxed, but this time she saw a little something different. She saw pure enjoyment on his face. And when she saw him looking so happy, she couldn't help but feel happy, too.
"Been a while since we both sparred," she pointed out in a matter of fact tone.
"This is true."
"We're probably really out of shape."
"This is very true."
"Though you're doing hard labor on the farm, so you're probably still in shape." She leaned over and squeezed his bicep a little bit.
"I might be buff as hell still, but I haven't been up to date with my fighting."
"Buff as hell?" Natasha started laughing, her head tilted back and her mouth open with delight. "Alright, Barton. Alright."
"Laugh away, Romanoff. Hey, look at that cloud. Looks like Rogers's shield, doesn't it? Or a Chitauri helmet."
"Kind of." She tilted her head awkwardly on the blanket and grinned. "Yeah. I guess so."
They were silent for a few moments, and then Natasha felt Clint's head turn towards her. "You still worried about him?"
"Rogers?" she asked without glancing back.
"Yeah. I know you said before that you were kind of worried about him. Now that he's off looking for Bucky."
Against the blanket, Natasha shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't really worry about him. He can do just fine for himself. Honestly, he could have taken down HYDRA all by himself, and he would have done it just beautifully."
"Bullshit," Clint said suddenly, clipping off the last few syllables of her sentences. "That's total bullshit."
Now Natasha turned her green eyes towards him and saw him looking back at her, his face grim and even a little concerned. "What? It's true. He's Captain America."
"But he couldn't have done it without you. Nat…you exposed HYDRA. That was you." Clint looked at her with such sincerity that Natasha almost felt uncomfortable beneath the hard, precise stare of his eyes. "No, don't give me that look. That was all you. One hundred percent. No one else could have done that. And don't—don't argue with me. It's such a pretty day, and I'm still in a good mood from your food."
"I don't take orders from you, Hawkeye," she intoned, narrowing her eyes just a little bit without any real animosity coloring her features. "I can give you any damn look I please."
"You're trying to change the subject."
"You're acting like you know me."
"Because I do." Clint watched Natasha's face go still for just a half-second, and he used that opportunity to roll onto his side towards her. "I don't know exactly what you're going through. I wasn't there. I didn't get to see SHIELD fall the way you did. You…Nat, you were there for it firsthand. I can't even imagine what that must have been like."
"I don't need a confidence boost if that's what you're going for," she says, her voice gentle now. "I know that what I did was important. Compromised you…me…everyone. But it was important, and I know I played my part in helping Steve destroy HYDRA. Or at least as much of it as we could take care of right then and there."
"Cut off the head, and two more shall take its place," Clint murmured under his breath.
"Exactly." Now she smiled a little again. "I know what I did was right. In the long run…it'll be right."
"Then what do you need from me?" Clint asked honestly, staring at her with those blue eyes of his that still left her breathless whenever she looked at them too long. "Tell me, and I'll do it."
"I know you will," she mumbled. "I know. Right now…I don't think I need anything. I think I just need this day. Open air. It's been a while since we've been able to have a day just to ourselves like this."
"What'd we ever do before the farm?" Clint joked. "How'd we spend our days before?"
"Taking weekend trips and holing up in the apartment."
"Lots of sex." Clint's grin lit up his entire face, and Natasha found herself grinning back at him.
"I knew that was coming. Huh. We haven't done that in a while."
"What? What are you talking about. We screwed beautifully two nights ago."
"Uh huh. Two nights ago." Natasha's eyes darkened with a little something Clint was very familiar with, and he grinned.
"What are you implying, Romanoff?" he asked, rolling a little more onto his side to show that she had his complete attention.
"Hush. You never know who's around listening to you call me Romanoff."
"Sorry." Clint leaned forward and kissed her chastely on the lips. "Mrs. Barton."
"It's about time we went for a roll in the hay," Natasha said, and she started snickering outright as Clint groaned at her joke. He kept himself propped up on one elbow, and he reached out with his left hand to unbutton the front of her light flannel, his touch quick and efficient. "What are you implying, Barton?"
"Don't give me that. This wouldn't be the most public place we've had sex," he murmured against her mouth as he kissed her again. Her hands instantly went to the growing bulge in his pants, and he sharply inhaled when she applied gentle pressure against him.
"True." She barely bothered to play with him for too long. She was too needy, too urgent as she unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down to release him from the confines of his pants. It only took a few seconds, and she couldn't remember how she'd gotten there, but suddenly she found herself on her back with her pants off and Clint above her. "Hey."
"Hey," he greeted, his voice a low pant in her mouth. "Are you ok? Do you like this?"
Natasha rolled her hips beneath him. "I like this."
"Nice." Clint grinned into her mouth and pulled his boxers down before moving her underwear down her legs and off to the side. Sliding one hand up the inside of her leg, he brushed his fingers between her legs to see how wet she was, only to be rewarded by the sound of her sudden inhale at his touch. Natasha moved her hips impatiently, her face tight and urgent, and he positioned himself. With one easy slide, one simple movement, he was inside her.
"Mmmm," she sighed as she closed her eyes, needing to take a moment to feel Clint inside her body. He was thick and hard between her legs, and when she tilted her hips just a little, she could feel his breath against her throat. "That's good."
"Yeah?" he asked, barely able to find it in himself to speak. Natasha nodded and closed her eyes as he pulled his hips away and then pushed them forward back into her again.
"Yeah," she sighed. Despite the pleasure already starting to build in her body, she gave a soft laugh and lifted her arms up over her head. With Clint moving above her and inside her like this, she didn't care about anything just then. She didn't care about HYDRA, SHIELD, or even the fact that she and Clint were having sex out in the middle of a field where anyone could come walking by and see them. She didn't care about anything but him.
"Something funny, Mrs. Barton?" Clint groaned near her ear before he lightly nipped at her jaw.
"We're not even married," Natasha gasped. He dragged his hands up her arms and laced his fingers with hers over her head, holding them gently but firmly, as if he were providing an anchor for them both.
"Pretty much are." His breathing grew a little ragged in her ear, and Natasha couldn't hold back the light moan in her throat when Clint moved his hips a little sharper into her.
"Are we?" she asked.
"Are we?" he repeated, and he pushed deeper. He pushed, and Natasha took, and she felt his thrust so acutely that she had no choice but to move beneath him with his movements. He was so gentle with her, so loving, and she could barely wrap her mind around it. Moving beneath him, she pressed her mouth to his and kissed him hard, swallowing the choked moan in his voice.
"I love you."
"I've always loved you."
Clint moved between her legs with sweet, heartbreaking tenderness. He held her and kissed her, holding her hands in his and making love with her with the sun on his back and in his hair. Cuing into her body, he changed the force and the pace of his thrusts when he felt her getting closer. She was so hot and wet, so tight around him, and he needed her to feel as good as she made him feel.
"Tasha," he groaned, his voice low and gravelly in her ear. He slid in and out between her thighs with little effort, and it felt so goddamn good he could barely get his brain to function enough so he could speak. "Tash."
"God, Clint. Clint—" Caught by her orgasm, her words snapped off halfway through, and she let herself fall over the edge as Clint made her world go starry with pleasure. A warm current spread between her legs and electrified her muscles. Everywhere in her body, she felt it. From the tips of her fingers to the bottom of her heels, she felt this sense of unending pleasure as it ripped through her. She gasped and cried out, moaning something that was close to his name. "Clint—Clint—"
"Natasha—" He tried to kiss her, but his own orgasm rippled through his body, triggered by her coming around him, and he lost himself as he came inside her. He came hard, groaning softly through it with closed eyes and a racing heart. Everything disappeared around him, and the only thing that was left was sensation—the only thing that was left was Natasha.
Panting and heaving, he released his hold of her hands, and he halfway collapsed on top of her, catching himself before he crushed her with his full weight. Natasha quietly laughed beneath him, and she turned her head to look at him. Clint had always been a cuddler after sex—he always loved curling up with her and tucking his face into her neck while he came back down. And even though Natasha hadn't necessarily been trained to enjoy it, she'd learned to love it with him over the years. She'd learned that she loved the feeling of Clint's body around her, the warmth of his face tucked against various parts of her body. God. She just loved him.
After a few silent moments, Clint pulled his face away from her, and he smiled beautifully. "Hey."
"Hey," she murmured, lowering her arms from over her head to touch his face. "Hey, you."
"Hey, you."
"Hey, beautiful." She watched the sun illuminate his face almost as brightly as his own smile did.
"You're gonna kill me."
"Nah. That wouldn't be too much fun." Natasha closed her eyes at the feeling of Clint's warm lips on her neck, and she felt a small ache in her chest as he gently pulled out of her and moved away. Without needing to be asked, Clint located her clothes and passed them to her, a quiet smile on his face the whole time. Eventaully, Natasha had the rest of her clothes, and she dressed while Clint grabbed his from the surrounding grass.
"How was that for a roll in the hay?" Clint asked.
Natasha tried to wipe the smile off her face, but she couldn't as she leaned back on the blanket to catch the sun. "Pretty damn good. What do you think?"
"Pretty damn good."
She wanted to ask him if he'd meant it earlier during sex when he'd told her that they were pretty married. She wanted to ask him if really thought of them like that, but half of her knew she didn't need to ask. As she gazed at him, at how he practically bathed in the sunlight in front of her without an ounce of tension in his body, she had her answer.
They didn't talk about it the rest of the day or even early into the night. Finishing out the day, they lay on their backs and looked up at the sky, pointing out shapes and patterns amongst the clouds. And finishing out the night, Natasha found herself lying on the front porch of the farmhouse with her back flat against the wooden slats and her eyes closed. Clint had wound up cooking dinner, and they'd eaten it outside on the porch. Now as Natasha lay still with only the sounds of the night around her, she felt her body's exhaustion in a way she hadn't before.
She was used to fighting. She was used to feeling tired from running or sparring or getting her ass kicked, not from walking through the woods and sex beneath a bright, warm sun. She wasn't used to feeling this exact kind of exhaustion in her muscles, but the longer she felt it, the more she liked it.
Even though her eyes were closed, she could tell that Clint sat slightly in front of her on the porch's front steps. When she'd last had her eyes open, he'd been quietly looking out at the night sky around the house. She didn't know what he was thinking or what he was feeling, but she didn't need to ask. With each passing year, she found that their silence became more and more comfortable. She'd never felt uncomfortable with their quiet moments together, but it was moments like these—moments when she looked at him and recognized him just from the way he rested his elbows on his knees that she knew she didn't need to speak to make their relationship comfortable. She'd learned long before he'd saved her life that words didn't always say everything.
When she heard Clint start to stand up, she kept her eyes closed. His gentle footsteps sounded near her head as he crossed behind her and towards the door of the farmhouse. He opened the door and walked inside, making sure the screen door didn't slam behind him and disturb her. She didn't know if he honestly thought she was asleep, but she kept her eyes closed, anyway.
It was only a few minutes at the most, but Clint's footsteps eventually returned to her, accompanied by the sound of the screen door opening and shutting again as he came back onto the porch. He walked around her and sat on the porch steps the way he'd been before, and right as Natasha almost opened her eyes to see what he'd gone inside to get, she heard the familiar thunk of his hand against hollow wood. His guitar.
Quietly, Clint ran his fingers over the strings to check the tuning. He didn't play it very often, but when he did, Natasha went as still as possible so she could listen for as long as he would let her. He usually didn't play it when he thought she was awake, and even then, he made sure it wasn't for very long, but now with her eyes closed and the night around them, Clint was going to play his guitar. Clint plucked around on the strings and kind of hummed along every now and then to check that his tuning was correct, and Natasha listened in silence.
Finally, he began to play. The first song he chose was one she'd heard him play before but could never remember the name of, but she loved it. One after the other, Clint played quiet, warm songs that made her scalp tingle and chills run down her spine to listen to. He played his guitar the way he shot his arrows, the way he fought, the way he touched her. With all his heart. He played, and he played, and after a while, he finally started to sing.
After the third song, Natasha opened her eyes. Clint sat on the top step, leaning back against the railing with one leg stretched out in front of him and his other leg bent at the knee so that the guitar comfortably rested in his lap. Like before, his eyes were still turned out towards the land in front of the house, but this time she wondered if he knew she was looking at him. And as still and as silently as she'd been before, she watched him. She watched him play, and she listened to him sing, which was an even rarer occurrence than him pulling out his guitar in the first place.
Clint wasn't a trained singer, but his voice was good. It was quiet and a little rough, but he was good to listen to as he sang under his breath. Several times, Natasha wondered if he noticed her or not, but if he did, he gave no indication. He just played. Around the fifth song, he started one she knew too well.
"It's a lonely road, for the tired man," he sang, "and you can see it in your face. And you'll be home by spring…I can wait till then. I heard you're on the big train."
Natasha remembered how much he'd loved this song right after he'd heard it on the illegal download she'd gotten of the Catching Fire soundtrack right after it'd been leaked—she remembered he'd listened to it over and over, saying that the song was nice. There was something about it that he liked, and she remembered that he hadn't been able to place why. He'd just liked it. And now he was singing it.
"And oh, this too shall pass. This loneliness won't last for long. I wasn't there to take his place. I was ten thousand miles away." Clint leaned his head back against the railing, and all Natasha could do was listen. She listened as he made his way through the song, his quiet voice and the quiet guitar mingling well together.
"And there was a time when I stood in line for love, for love, for love. But I let you go, oh, I let you go." Clint strummed the guitar a little louder, his eyes still glued out to the darkness around the house. "And he fell apart with his broken heart, and this blood, this blood this blood—oh, it drains from my skin, it does."
He slowed the movements of both his strumming and his playing fingers until there was silence, and just like that, the night was quiet again. Natasha stayed still for a few moments, looking at him and not saying anything. She didn't want to move or speak to break the spell his music had cast, but after several silent minutes, she pulled herself up, and she moved a little towards him. "Hunger Games. The Lumineers."
Clint smiled, his mouth soft and his cheeks slightly pink at having been heard, but he smiled. "Yeah. I've always liked that song."
"I know you have," she murmured. "I've said it before, but I'll say it again—you're good."
He made a noise with his mouth that sounded like a scoff, and he looked away from her. "You're biased."
"Maybe. But you're still good." She gently knocked his knee with hers. "I always think of you when I hear that song, by the way. Sometimes I play it on missions when I wish you were there, too."
"Yeah?" Clint looked back at her, and she nodded.
"Yeah."
They sat in continued silence for a few moments, and Natasha leaned her head against his shoulder. "Clint?"
"Nat?"
"What you said earlier…"
"Which time? I said a lot of things earlier. You know me."
She pressed her cheek against the hard, solid muscle of his shoulder, and she nodded into him. "You do. You don't shut up. But earlier. When you talked about how Steve couldn't have done it without me."
"What about it?"
"Thanks. I mean, I know I said I didn't need a confidence boost, and I don't. I know I was valuable…I know what I did was right. And I keep telling myself that I was right every time I question what this means for our friends…for the people we care about in our lives…every time I start regretting it, I think about the long run. Because that's what matters, right? The long run. So I tell myself that leaking all that information was the right thing, even though I already know it deep down in my heart…in my mind…deep down everywhere. I know you believe it, too, but…thank you." She closed her eyes for a couple seconds, and then she opened them again, reaching out to squeeze his knee with a soft touch.
"Well, I meant it," Clint honestly answered, his face as sincere as always. "I did. And any time you need reassurance…any time you need someone to tell you you were right…I'm your man."
"Yeah," Natasha murmured, soft and barely there. "You are."
"Thank you for today, by the way," he said, knocking his knee against hers. "It was a total surprise, and I loved it. Surprise picnic and surprise picnic sex."
"One track mind."
"Sue me." He leaned back against her a little. "But I'm serious. Thank you. Today was a good day."
"It was," she agreed, smiling at the feeling of his careful weight against her shoulder as he allowed her to support him, too. "You know, it's always days like today that get me through long missions."
He kissed the top of her head. "Me, too."
It crossed Natasha's mind to ask him what he'd meant earlier, if what he'd said about being pretty much married had been something he'd said when he'd been out of his head with pleasure or something he'd said because he'd meant it. But he put his arm around her, and she leaned back into him, and she knew she didn't need to ask. The answer was written in how he touched her, how he looked at her, how he spoke her name. The answer was written in how he loved her and how she loved him. Are we? he had asked her earlier. Are we?
Yes, she thought to tell him.
We are, she thought to say.
I do, she traced on the skin of his hand.