Title: figures dancing gracefully across my memory
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: pre-canon through post-Avengers; implied bad things happening to children
Pairings: Natasha/Clint
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 450
Point of view: third
Prompt: MCU, Clint/Natasha, contrary to popular belief, he's the clean/neat one after the discipline of the military and she's the one who lives in organized chaos
For a very long time, Natasha doesn't have 'things.'
As a child, she has a small room which is truly a cleverly disguised cell, one set of clothes, fresh toiletries as needed (that she never chooses for herself), and a new file every week. (When she is not on missions, those files are how she counts.)
When she burns her masters behind her, she chooses not to acquire 'things' because they are traceable. Because they are pointless. Because they are weight she can ill-afford to carry.
She has weapons and that is all.
Until Clint Barton.
.
Clint leaves little things in Natasha's quarters: baubles he finds on missions, music he thinks she should try, books that she might enjoy. She stares at the baubles, listens to the music, and reads the books, and then –
She keeps them all, hidden away in her quarters where they will be safe. When Clint finds himself a safehouse away from SHIELD, Natasha's treasures slowly migrate there. (She does not trust SHIELD, of course not. She trusts herself. She trusts Clint.)
Clint keeps his own things put away neatly. When she leaves her belongings spread out over his territory, he lets it lie. They are the only two ever there, so it doesn't matter.
.
She does not think about it.
.
"I am shocked, shocked I tell you," Stark prattles as he weaves his way through Clint's front room. "The mess! The horror!"
Everything is in its place; she and Clint could both get through it blindfolded. She ignores the sense of satisfaction she gets from surveying the realm: her books scattered across the floor besides the couch; four different iPods charging at the wall, cords tangled together; yesterday's clothes on the back of the armchair and her cat curled up on the shirt; Clint's dog, half-on and half-off his bed, toys spread haphazardly around; DVDs piled next to the bookcase; and Clint himself, half asleep with his head on her lap as she reads the worst trashy romance she can find. Or, well, was reading, till Tony Stark barged his way in.
She sighs, lowering the book. Clint stares up at her, resignedly. "What are you doin' here, Stark?" he mumbles.
"Inviting you to the clubhouse!" Stark announces, presenting them with two embossed invitations. "We've already got a Hulk, and I think two master assassins are just what we need."
"No," Natasha says, raising her book.
"No?" Stark repeats. "No?"
"Shall I say it in Latin?" she asks. Clint snickers.
Clint's dog finally realizes there's a stranger and lunges to his feet with a howl. Of course, that wakes the cat, who hisses and flees to the bedroom.
This time, it's Clint who sighs.
