The room was warm. Comfortable. Brown wallpaper with a fleur-de-lis pattern, trimmed with green. Soft, yellow light from a stand up lamp next to an old musty bookshelf and a similarly musty green loveseat. Natasha both loved and hated this room.
She loved most of its connotations. This room meant a soft bed, hot tea with honey, and those little oatmeal raisin cookies that Clint hated because he bit into them thinking they were chocolate chip.
She hated that this room meant failure. It meant she had screwed up somewhere. That the tea would initially burn a little too much, the cookies would be stale (though that may just be Clint's fault), her ribs would jostle around inside of her when Clint made her laugh.
"Hey there, sleepyhead." Natasha's eyes followed the voice to a mellow looking archer with that sad little smile she despised but was glad to see. She would throw his pillow at him, but it was too comfy. She might also throw up.
Natasha tried to get up, but Clint did that annoying tsk-tsk-tsk that he knew she hated. She leaned back onto the bed, staring at the yellowing ceiling. She wanted to yell at Clint when she heard the screech of the couch being dragged across the floor. They both knew he was perfectly capable of lifting of it. Lazy arse. Natasha could feel the smug smile on his face. Oh, how she wanted to kick it off. She wanted to tell him that.
Her throat screeched like sandpaper and spikes. Maybe later. Clint smiled a bit wider as he looked at her.
"Yeah. Probably don't want to do that." He helped prop her up, ignoring the acid glares and silent swears. Clint plopped down onto the couch, sending a platoon of dust motes marching and swirling into the air.
It was quiet. But Natasha knew it wouldn't last long. This was Clint.
"So…" And here we go.
Clint grinned as he caught Natasha rolling her eyes. "Since you can't talk, I'll take both sides of the conversation." Fun.
"I was actually here on a mission." Natasha raised a brow sarcastically. Oh really?
Clint resisted the urge to act like a child and stick out his tongue. "I was. An elimination mission. But I was doing something that Phil probably wouldn't approve of…" Natasha smiled. She would have to tell Phil I told you so when she got back home.
"I mean, this guy had a family. Well, sometimes they have a family as a shield, or as an image, or maybe it was a complete accident that luckily ends up like the previous two. But this guy…" Clint trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. Natasha nodded, understanding.
"He wanted a family. He didn't want to do what his SHIELD file says he did. He just wanted to be with his family." Clint grimaced. Natasha wanted to lean towards him, to comfort him. But her ribs felt like they might fall into her stomach if she did.
"He would've been happy with less. Without anything he did that's in the SHIELD file. But he got in too deep with the scum 'round here. He was naive. It started off with just a favor, here and there. Then, well, it just spiraled out of his control. So I decided to help him escape." Clint looked like he wanted to crawl into the crevices of the couch, like he wanted to escape too.
"I knew SHIELD wouldn't want me to. So I cut off all contact. Like an idiot." Half of Natasha wanted to disagree vehemently, the other wanted to slap him and say, Yes, you were an idiot. You should have called me.
"I should have called you." Natasha stuck out her tongue. Clint gave in to his childish tendencies and stuck out his. "I know, I know. I should've known you would've been stupid enough, loyal enough, to come after me."
Natasha kept a blank face. She wasn't actually sure why she went after Barton. Sure, she could call it loyalty, but it was more than that. It was the fact she needed to know if he was dead or alive. To know he was okay. And it was selfishness. She needed Clint. She wasn't sure why, but she needed to hear his purposefully off-key singing in the morning, his husky, low lullabies that chased the nightmares, the darkness, away. She needed his over-cooked omelettes and snarky comments and open smile. Natasha Romanoff needed Clint Barton, but like any good SHIELD agent, and she was one of the best, she'd die before she admitted or revealed anything.
Clint huffed out a laugh. "You were stupid enough to help me, your almost-assassin, last time we were here." He ran a hand through his hair. "Though the Russian swears weren't comforting. In fact, you were scaring the shit out of me." Natasha couldn't help it; she laughed and it felt so good, but it hurt so much. She started coughing, feeling like she was going to hack out a rib.
Next thing she knew, there was a glass of water in her shaky hand and the fire in her throat was quenched. As Clint helped her lay back down, she looked at him and realized, seeing that crinkle in his brow and those grey eyes, that he knew.
He knew how much she needed him. He knew that when they got back, things would be different. Better, worse, only their team could tell. But he would still over-cook omelettes and hate oatmeal raisin cookies. He would still try to sing opera in the shower and hunt down the nightmares, using his master accuracy.
As Natasha felt her eyes grow heavy with exhaustion, she felt the lightest of kisses on her cheek, a whisper of words she couldn't make out, but understood. It was a single breath of words, a breath filled with life and promise. Promise that he'd always try to be there. Promise that he wouldn't promise absolutes. That all he could truly promise is that his aim would stay straight.
As Natasha faded into unconsciousness, she swore she could hear the twanging of his bow against a background of a quiet lullaby, deep like the darkness, like the monsters that Clint shot down. One. At. A. Time.
A/N: Well, the plot bunnies might attack again. There might be a Budapest story. Evil little creatures.
Glad someone caught the Gatsby reference earlier. Love Fitzgerald, he's just has this amazing, lyrical writing.
Thanks for reading!