Hello again, readers! I posted some SkyeWard last night, so I thought that I'd give you guys a bit of Clintasha before I go to bed. I have to get up at 5:30 for school; that's a pain, and then I don't get home until four and that's not even including the hours of homework that I've got. I really miss summer.
This little piece is something I've been tinkering with all day, and I finally got around to a writing a finish that I thought was alright. It is short, but my muse is slowly coming back to me. My pause is slowly un-pausing. I guess that's how I'd put it.
Hope you like!
"I guess what scares me the most now is the thought that I won't be able to protect you." -Julia Hoban, Willow
She was cold. Ice cold.
Too cold.
She gasps, eyes flickering as the whisper of ice coats her skin and her eyelashes, freezing and warming her all at once. She tries to jerk away, to run, to scream, to do anything really except freeze the hell to death — only, she can't, because she's trapped. The water's over her head, slipping through her clothing and capturing her in a way she hasn't felt since she was a small child; helpless, small — weak.
Her arms and legs flail against the force pushing her down, but it doesn't do much other than force her breath to shorten; she's trying to scream, but the words are torn from her throat. She's helpless out here. She's going to die, alone and with a bleeding ledger, in the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
That's what scares her the most.
There's a pounding ache in her chest as she draws barley there oxygen into her lungs, taking a desperate breath.
(Her last breath, she knows, but she's pushing that aside. She can't force herself to think like that, not now, not ever. She is the Black Widow — the only one to survive. The last one.
And she's about to die. The last of the Red Room's glory, slipping away in an icy prison. A watery grave.)
She sinks. She's so tired; there's ice seeping through her veins and limpness in her limbs. Her eyes flicker shut, for the last time, and then there's water thorough her mouth and oh god she's can't breathe she can't breathe why is this happening why please help anyone help —
But maybe, she thinks just as her mind goes blank, it's for the best. She'll finally be free.
But the universe has a habit of screwing with her, and (seconds? moments? hours?) later she feels a slight tugging against her arms, a force pulling her upward from underneath her arm pits. Her mind is fuzzy, her head lulling to one side; it's puzzling, really.
Suddenly — air. She feels a thumping as her head hits something solid, and then there's warm hands on her wrists and burning fingers brushing across her cheeks. A faint voice: "Natasha," it whispers, urgent. Panicky. She hates that feeling — the panicky one, that is. Urgency is the one she's more familiar with. "Please, sweetheart, please wake up; Nat, please!"
But I don't want to wake up, she thinks. Her inner voice sounds like a child — a child that she had never been.
The voice comes more into focus; it's male, she can distinguish now. Male, and worried. No — terrified. "'Tasha," it murmurs. It's almost in a loving way; but that's impossible. Improbable. "You can't die on me, мой огненный паук, not like this. Nat, please."
That name — my fiery spider.
Clint!
She gasps, eyes flickering open and body arching upwards. Her vision is barely there and sort of blurry, but there's no mistaking those blue-gray eyes. Oh, those eyes. She thought she'd never see them again.
He's wrapping her in his arms then, pulling her tight to his body. He's warm, she thinks as she buries her ice-cold fingers in the inner lining of his jacket and presses her lips against his collarbone. She forces herself to breathe: one two three, one two three, one two —
"Nat," he gasps, voice shaky. There's tears dropping on the top of her head, from him. "I thought I'd lost you."
She swallows thickly, fighting back the wetness that's forming in the corners of her own eyes. There's a lump in her throat, threatening to swallow her whole. "You'll never lose me," she manages to whisper back. "You can't get rid of me that easily."
He laughs then, but it's a bitter laugh, the kind that comes right after those usual life-death situations they manage to find themselves in. He's pressing gentle kisses to the crown of her hair, wrapping one of his fingers around a loose and rather wet curl.
"Don't do that again," he warns. She's warming up now, pressing herself as close as possible to his body. He's so warm. Burning.
Her lips press together in a thin line. "No promises," she replies, a shaky laugh echoing from her mouth.
He holds her tighter, rubbing his fingers through hers. He's almost burning with heat; then again, she'd nearly died of cold. Her eyes flicker shut, her nose rubbing against his clothes. Underneath, she can feel his bulletproof vest. It's a hassle — they rarely wear them, only because it's a pain to maneuver around when they're fighting.
She can feel the vibrations of his voice when he speaks. "You alright?" he asks, voice worried. Not as panicked as before, but still bothered.
"Yeah," she murmurs back. "I'm alright."
They keep each other safe. That's how it always has been.
So...thoughts? Also, sorry again about the slow posting. I'm adjusting.