Perched on the Edge of Normalcy by Isabelle
Rating: PG (for language)
Pairing: Clint/Natasha (Clintasha. Blackeye. Blackhawk. Whatever you want to call them.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but there here words.
"When in comes to the affairs of the heart, even the greatest warriors can be a consummate idiots." - Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Words, never to be spoken, never to be acknowledged just sit, perched on the edge of sanity, just like he often perches in the midnight hours overlooking the city. If she didn't know him well enough she'd think he was waiting to jump. But he never does, the same way the words will never be said.
Words, like vapor, are gone but looks are stable; buried in cement and never in danger of being lost with the wind.
She thinks that perhaps they are too fucked up by their past to accept that people belong to each other. Yet, in those moments when he holds her gaze, she thinks that maybe, just maybe she might be wrong. She blinks and the moment is gone, replaced by a contentment that few could ever experience.
Moments… like the warmth of his leg against hers as they sit silently and stoically listening to Stark explain the internet to Steve whose brows are now furrowed. She needs a fork to eat her eggs and he wordlessly passes it to her. Their fingers brush and she thinks if words were touches this would be quite romantic indeed. Good thing she doesn't believe in romance.
Moments… like when he's tired and nodding off, completely uninterested in Bruce's explanation of what an atom is she nudges him and he takes it as an invitation to rest his head on her shoulder. She too tries to understand what Bruce is saying but the scent of his freshly shampooed hair infiltrated her nostrils the same way his smile has infiltrated her heart. She thinks if she were the romantic type she would bury her nose in his hair, regardless of who was looking.
It's a Saturday; he's driving his favorite Jeep down to a secluded base, his quiver rests between them, like a barrier. So she rests her hand on it because if she cannot reach over and touch him, she will touch that which he holds dear. Completely unexpected he reaches over and grabs her hand, slowly bringing it to his lips, brushing against her knuckles. Her entire body flushes as she stares at him wide-eyed. He doesn't talk. He holds her hand, he holds her heart and she thinks if she were a dreamer she would be quite content. They say not a word because honestly for them, words have often been useless. Words, like love, is for children.
She thinks he knows too much of her. Too many of her particles. Knows her deep down, into her gut and all that she's done. He knows her and to him it doesn't matter all the red in her ledger. It doesn't matter that it's dripping. Because he's no more virtuous than herself and that's OK.
She thinks and wonders why he spared her that night. She's never asked, she thinks he'd never tell.
It happens one night, they've all had too much to drink and it's late. They stumble back to their rooms. Steve barely makes it to bed and before they know it, it's just the two of them and a little darkened hallway. He smells like vodka and sweat and she cannot remember a sexier smell.
They're so close she thinks he's stolen all of her air.
His eyes are closed and they open, slowly and she's lost in their grey-blueish-greenish glow. When he stares at her she thinks he's infiltrating straight into her soul and pulling her out, shaking her about and making her feel on edge. Perched on the edge.
His hand, callused from his bow, reaches up and touches her lower lip and she's still, so still, she feels she's finally become a statue.
And it comes out, flowing, just bursting through all of her barriers. Completely without her permission.
"Clint...why did you spare me that night?" she asks and waits. Waits for the burning flush to settle on her skin. He's staring at her with those eyes and it's a new thing to be unnerved by a man. She's usually the one controlling the situation but with him she feels like she's dangling, a casualty of his perched lifestyle. Skinned alive and raw and just vulnerable.
Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man.
She thinks she would trade the entire universe for him, and that is what scares her the most.
"Because I saw myself in you. Because though we're not good people we might be good together." he finally says.
She nods silently, no air, he's stolen it all.
"Thank you." she whispers.
"You're welcomed," he replies, there's a small smile on his lips, so subtle that it takes one that knows him to recognize it.
She realizes, with a sudden clarity, that when he stares at her, when he says her name in soft whispers, when he backs her up silently without being asked, when he saves her... when he does anything he's telling her he loves her. He's never had much use for words. Neither of them have.
So she kisses him. She kisses him like children do. Baring it all. Exposing it all. Living for that one precise moment. Not caring if she falls from his perch to the ground, shattering to a thousand pieces because she thinks - she knows - that if she does fall he would definitely catch her.
She thinks she's never felt this before, like her skin is ablaze, like sentiment is pouring out of her like rushing falls.
"Do you both mind moving a little bit to the left? I have a really bad angle from here; I really need to replace these cameras." A computerized voice that is most definitely Stark interrupts them and she thinks, if Clint doesn't mind, she will gladly kill Tony.
The End
Haven't written in years but these two brought it out of me. Thank you for reading :)