So, be_compromised had a subvert that cliché ficathon, and happilydancing said she'd like to see the cliche that Clint had trouble after being brainwashed subverted. My own head canon (see "Going to Ground") tells me that Clint would have issues after that whole Loki thing, but hey – I can take a challenge!

13. Bruises, Not Scars

" Are you okay?"

"Whaddya mean, am I okay."

Natasha carefully brushes a handful of rubble off Clint's torn and filthy tac vest. He almost recoils at her touch.

"And you can cut the mother hen routine, too. It's a bit scary, actually."

Her hand pauses over his chest.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm more comfortable when you try to kill me."

She scans his face, trying to find a lie, but all she sees is Clint.

"Still wallowing? Want someone to hit you to make you feel better?"

He frowns, and it's clear that he's actually thinking about the answer. Coming from Mr. In-the-Moment, that's almost evolutionary; in what direction remains to be seen.

"Nah. I think I'm good. Remember that time in Medellin?"

How could she not? She'd found him two hours after he'd been taken by the cartel, and the goons hadn't wasted a minute. Seeing what had been done to him, not knowing whether there was still life under all that blood, had been the first time she'd realized that ...

"Yes. I wish I didn't."

"Well, this ... Loki ... this wasn't like that. No cigarette burns and bike chains, for starters. No time to think about what'd be coming next, whether I'd break, whether I'd see you again, hoping I wouldn't because that might mean they had you, too. Took me months to get that shit out of my head."

He shakes his head as if to clear out the memory before it gets the chance to take root.

"And this time?"

Maybe she shouldn't press, but if there's another thing she remembers from Medellin, it's this: That he didn't stop being silent and withdrawn one moment, exploding the next … not Clint … until he'd started talking about those two hours.

"This time ... There weren't any thoughts. None that were mine, anyway. Everything was his. My brain was a fucking blank, with just bits of me trying to fight a way out, like a hamster trying to run out from under a wet blanket."

For all his protest at being coddled, he doesn't seem to mind being helped out of his tac vest. His back is one large bruise, still pale but bound to be a spectacular purple tomorrow. He could sure use a shower (as can she) but seeing him like this, dirt, scars and all, she can't help but bury her face in the crook of his neck and breathing him in. Clint responds by pulling her close and putting his chin on top of her head, no doubt to stare off into the distance somewhere.

"You were right when you said that wasn't me who did all that shit. That was someone else and he's fading. Not my memories. Yes, I feel like crap about the things he made me do. But the thoughts themselves? They don't burn."

He repays the favour and starts pulling down the zippers of her suit, peeling it off her shoulders with sure, strong fingers. (No one who thinks leather cat suits are cool has ever tried to take one off when it's damp with sweat and blood, and every muscle in your body screams for a hot jacuzzi.)

"Holy shit, Tash. That's one hell of bruise on your hip. Where'd you get that?"

She scrunches her lips a little as she tries to remember – the fight with him on that catwalk? jump off that Chitauri sled? The memory comes back in a roar of green, and she shudders involuntarily. Clint must have felt something, and circles her waist with his arms, pulling her closer again. The feeling of skin on skin is oddly calming, and Natasha puts her cheek on his chest, feeling for the beat of his heart.

"The Hulk," she whispers. "On the carrier. Before Banner managed to … sort of control him." Saying the names out loud almost is a bit like shining a light into a dark corner – maybe there was a ghost there, but now there's nothing. And so she adds, "I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. I even forgot the first rule of running, don't look back."

She steps back out of his embrace as he starts to chuckle.

"It's really been a shit few days, hasn't it?"

It has, it absolutely has. She grins back at him.

"Yeah. But, like Cap said, we won."

"That we did."

Clint seems to be becoming aware of something else, something … He lifts his shooting arm, inhales, and grimaces.

"Race you to the shower."

…..

Further on in the cliché ficathon, isthisrubble said "idk if this is a cliche but for some reason I'd love to see Nat afraid of spiders. Wait. That's irony, isn't it?" And yes. Yes, it is. So of course, I had to write it.

This is – sort of – a sequel to "Big Game" (which it would be nice if you've read it, but I think you'll get the gist from this).

14. Big Game 2: The Itsy Bitsy Sequel

"Clint."

Natasha's voice is ominous. Hell, it's practically quavering. Didn't Banner say he'd taken out the last of those raptors? Clint hopes vehemently that one of them didn't follow them home. (Can you hope vehemently? The day's been pretty crappy, so yeah, Clint does.)

"Yes?"

"Emmm ... can you kill that please?"

Shit. Really? Funny thing, he can't hear anything. Then again, in Jurassic Park those kids had no clue that two of those fucking things were in the cafeteria, and that was full of dishes and plastic chairs.

Clint grabs his bow, hoping he won't need one of his explosive arrows. (Stark will have to make him some new ones, like, yesterday.) As it is, Natasha's lucky he restocked his quiver with the regular ones as soon as they'd gotten home; that T-rex had cleaned him straight out.

His bare feet allow him to sneak up to the living room without a sound. The sight that greets him is one he'd thought he'd never see: The Black Widow, rooted to the ground and white as a sheet, staring at ... nothing.

He lowers his bow.

"Where is it?" he asks, not unreasonably, since her line of sight leads straight to the TV credenza and their shiny new 65", 3D beaut. Not much room for a raptor there, unless you turn the thing on. "Whatever it is."

"It's right in front of my face," Natasha grinds out, between teeth clamped shut in what appears to be - well, for lack of a better word, pure, unadulterated terror.

Now, there's that episode of Star Trek:Voyager, where the crew (except Janeway of course, she never gets affected by shit that everyone else succumbs to) all freeze up because of some vision-thingy that only they can see. Given the way their afternoon had gone, Clint is prepared to give Natasha the benefit of the doubt, and advances cautiously.

And then he sees it, in the light of the late afternoon sun that streams in through the window: The slightest silvery thread, suspended from the ceiling, quivering a little with Natasha's breath. And at the bottom of the thread, dangling at eye height - a teeny little spider, minding its own business.

"You're kidding me, right?" he blurts out, realizing as the words leave his mouth that he might as well be writing his own death warrant. "That's a spider."

"I know what it is, Barton. Kill it. Now."

"But ..." Clint, it may be hard to believe, actually has real-life issues around killing things that don't really need to be dead. "You've been complaining about the mosquitoes. This thing ..."

"Just do it!"

Her tone brooks no argument - it's one of those What the Lady wants, the Lady gets moments. Clint lifts his bow in a fluid motion and lets fly. Of course, the spider isn't quite capable of stopping the arrow, which lands in the curtains, bounces off the armour-plate windows and ends up dangling in the fabric.

"Did you get it?"

Coming from the woman who just a couple of hours ago relied on him to drive three successive arrows into the eye of a moving T Rex, that's a bit rich, but in view of her evident distress Clint decides not to take offence. He strides over to the curtain and pulls the arrow out for a spot of forensic analysis. The tip has a couple of tiny legs stuck to it, and there's a little splotch of ... something in the fabric, around the hole.

"Looks like. I s'pose you want me to sweep up the string, too, or can that wait for Dum-E when he comes to do the cleaning tomorrow?"

"Please."

The voice is small, and almost melts his heart. How, exactly, did the Black Widow get her name? Hawkeye sure as hell didn't get his taking a broom to the ceiling, but maybe Clint Barton can do that for his partner. On one condition.

"Pizza tonight. And none of that vegetarian shit. Double ham, double pepperoni."

Natasha revives a little.

"Thin crust."

"Fine. And I get to pick the movie."

Natasha sighs, but the Barton family tree contains a long line of snake oil salesmen, and he knows when he's got a live one. Sure enough, she nods and he gets the broom.

A few hours later, well-fed and suitably mellow (he'd graciously let her pick the wine), Clint zaps through Netflix, a much calmer Natasha curled contentedly in his lap. He's still on the A's when he sees something with a slightly pretentious-sounding title, but it's marked Horror! - and so, by definition, worth a shot.

"Hey, Nat. You ever hear of something called Arachnophobia?"

….

More from the cliché ficathon – this one from morrighangw: "Fake!Married. GO!" Quite possibly the fastest fic(let) I've ever written.

The Petard

"So, when you guys do that undercover spy thing - do you ever have to, like, pretend you're married?"

Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Why is our work of such interest to you, Stark? Especially outside your regular consulting hours?"

Tony isn't in the least defensive.

"I'm just asking because of those rings. They just kind of appeared. Can't blame a guy for noticing."

Natasha sighs, and makes a face as if he'd just pulled out a wisdom tooth by hand.

"Fine. Since you seem to care so much - the rings are real. Clint and I got hitched yesterday. I'll scan and e-mail you the papers, if you'd like."

There aren't many people on this planet who have seen Tony Stark speechless. In fact, there is only one - Pepper Potts. So when he stares at Natasha, his mouth open, the number has effectively doubled. Satisfied that her work here is done, Natasha turns on her heel and heads upstairs to join Clint, who is putting the final gloss on his mission prep.

She is still grinning when she walks into the JARVIS-proof room in her quarters that they use as an office.

"Guess what? I just made Stark believe that those rings were real. Nosy sonofabitch. Like I would disclose mission details to him just like that."

Something in Clint's face is off. For starters, he doesn't seem to be as amused as she had thought he would be.

"What? Something the matter?"

He stops staring at his smartphone screen.

"Houston, we have a problem."

"We do?"

Clint puts down the phone, leans back in his chair and runs both hands across his face.

"We do. Just had a note from Hill. You know, that guy, the one who did the fake wedding?"

Natasha frowns.

"Someone shoot him? Did he rat us out to Hydra?"

"Worse."

Clint gets up and heads over to the liquor cabinet. He comes back with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya, and pours two sizeable portions.

"He was actually licensed to perform weddings."

He raises his glass.

"Have a drink, Mrs. Barton."