This was done as a prompt for my friend, based off of Lettiebobettie's art post/24790338444/you-know-nat-has-naturally-red-hair-and-she
Natasha absently watched the clear lines chasing each other down the window pane, the initial spatter painting dots in her vision, sounding out the rhythm of her pulse. Normally, she would have enjoyed the soft pounding in her ears, ears so finely tuned to hear the slightest of noises; would have enjoyed the streaking down the glass. But today, it was overshadowed by the other rhythm being beat out by the monitor next to the bed.
She took Clint's hand in her own, bringing it up to rest on top of her hand on her left thigh. She let her middle fingers slip between Clint's first two, and slowly ghosted her right hand over the cuts on Clint's left. She could recall how each mark was made, the red lines passing under her fingers smoothly. Even though Clint had been wearing his gloves, when he jumped and tumbled out of the window his knuckles had grazed the ground - after he had already made them raw from punching the sniper they found waiting for them. Unfortunately, the fall had not been the more deadly of the stunts Clint had pulled that day.
His decision to shoot the explosive from such a short distance had been made out of his own stupid, selfless bravery. Natasha seethed at the ignoramus operative who botched the mission and almost allowed the thief to escape (with the file marked CONFIDENTIAL, because, obviously, when attempting to hide sensitive information, labeling it as such and leaving it in an unlocked file cabinet was the best way to go about that, Natasha thought), prompting Clint to initiate the last possible option they had: blowing everything up to keep the information a secret.
What information that was… neither of them would know.
It just wasn't worth Clint's life, Natasha was sure.
She tried not to blame herself. It's not that she intended for her helicopter to be hijacked. But if she had gone with her instincts and insisted with SHIELD that she had never flown with two men before, and why on earth was there a second in the copter at all, maybe she would've gotten to the agency building on time and-
Clint would shake his head at her and give her a stern look that said don't, don't do this. Because what was the point? She was there now, he was going to survive, and him being out of the field for a little while just meant she could see him more…right?
She traced her forefinger along his knuckles, gently petting the weathered skin on the top of his hand.
She should feel cold; it was raining and she was only wearing a tee and her favorite pair of jeans. They were Clint's favorite, too, but don't tell anyone else that, alright? It was in the way the fading highlighted the curve of her thigh, the way they were tight, but not to the point where she couldn't move, and they flattered her hips and-
Allright, jeez, this is Natasha's train of thought, not Clint's. Natasha laughed inwardly, mostly in her eyes, thinking about Clint teasing her over the com during that mission.
"When we get outta here you better be wearing those jeans, darlin'. I'll take you to Hawai'i and then when we get back I'm gonna frame those jeans and hang them on my wall" he had said, with an obvious smirk, even though she couldn't see his face.
"Oh yeah, Barton? What good would they do on your wall? Your wall doesn't have hips like me" she had poked back, before their acting lead agent had made a slight coughing sound and they realized they were not having a private conversation.
But that's what it was, all teasing and privacy and them. Just them. They worked with other people in the field, but no one worked with them like they worked with each other. And everyone in SHIELD knew that. Natasha owed Clint a lot, the same as he owed her, and tonight, she would sit and watch her favorite kind of weather pour over the window that blocked her and Clint from all of the action.
And she would gently hold his hand, and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, each motion spurring her heart to keep beating, as well. And she would settle into the pillow some more (her vibrant red hair pooling around her head, falling much more gracefully into gentle ringlets than it had any right to do, Clint would have thought; his own hair stood up in short, soft spikes, falling every which way) and close her eyes, feeling her own heart and trying to match its beat with the even patter of clear, clean water against clear, clean glass.