THE CLOSEST THING TO FLUFF THIS STORY WILL GET.
"The idea is to build a comm. into the hearing aids, make it water proof…" Fury added as Clint looked up from the packet.
"What about my music?" he asked quietly, studying Fury's mouth in concentration. Natasha bit back an exasperated chuckle at her partner's words.
"In the long run, the hearing aids will be small enough that your ear buds will fit… Are you catching any of this Barton?" Fury sighed, slower. Clint shook his head, eyes flitting away in frustration. Natasha's hand closed over his knee in reassurance.
"How long?" he asked shortly.
"Three months minimum." Fury replied coolly. Clint exhaled. "You are on medical leave until then."
"Sir…" he protested after a heavy minute.
"I don't want to hear it agent. We will keep you updated on the project – Dismissed. A word Agent Romanoff." He ordered as they both stood to leave. She looked at her partner to see if he'd caught what Fury had said. Clint's fisted hand twitched almost imperceptibly, 'Gym.' The red head nodded once in understanding. "That just creepy, Romanoff." Fury noted once Clint and Phil had slipped out of the office. Natasha shrugged. "You won't be available for active duty until that injury heals. I suggest you make good use of it. You'll be back in the field before he will, agent."
"Is that all, sir?" she asked tiredly. He nodded curtly and watched the assassin spin on her heel, walking quickly out his door before he could call her back.
Natasha watched from the locked down doorway to the gym as Clint landed bone breaking hits on the rapidly swaying punching bag. He growled in frustration, breaking the near silence as he suddenly produced one of Natasha's daggers seemingly out of nowhere, plunging it into the vinyl, causing sand to spill out of the gaping hole like blood. Watching as he seethed in self-deprecating pity, she flicked the light switch off and on, drawing the hawk's unconfused attention. His eyes opened a little more and he looked down at her wounded abdomen. He hissed a curse under his breath, reaching her in six large strides.
"You shouldn't be up, Tasha. You got shot – what, three days ago?" he muttered as he forced her down onto a bench, reaching into the first aid box on the floor and pulling out a package of fresh gauze and medical tape. He redressed her stitched gun shot for what seemed like the hundredth time, looking up at her when he'd finished. She took the half used roll of wrapping in one hand, and Clint's abused hand in her other. The hold tightened when he tried to pull away. He shook his head, 'I'm fine.' She stared right back with an unwavering glare.
"That's how we do this remember?" she reminded heatedly. "You patch me up, I patch you up. So put up and shut up." She warned, pulling his hand closer. Clint didn't need to read each word to know what she had said. He had known she would say as soon as he protested. They looked at each other, silence pulsing around both of them. Natasha bit her bottom lip, eyes moving back and forth across Clint's angry face. "We need to get out." She decided. Clint's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, 'You are insane.' She winked at him, pulling him off the floor and pulling out her cell phone.
Clint watched carefully as Natasha spoke into the phone. Her head was angled so that he could only make out a few words out of the sentence, but he had caught enough to know she was talking to Phil.
"Phil's gonna cover for us." She filled him in, ducking into the shadows of the hallway to avoid the security cameras. She removed the cover of the air vent and ushered Clint ahead of her. He gripped the edge of the opening, pulling himself up, muscles rippling in exertion. He extended a hand to his beautiful partner once he had slid in, pulling her up after him. She let him lead the way he knew so well after years of sneaking around in the air ducts. The man made light of the always locked entrance room seeped into the tunnel and Clint pushed his arm out in front of him, pushing the vent cover out. It clattered to the floor, and Clint reached to his right to punch out the security camera, it too falling to the floor. He curled his hands around the edge, falling forward out of the vent, flipping over by the hold he had on the vent opening, and landing on his feet. Natasha slid out after him, knowing Clint would be standing right below, waiting to catch her. His firm arms locked around her body before she could hit the ground. She smiled up at him, 'See - I do still trust you.' She contradicted what she knew he was wondering. He responded with the ghost of a smile. The expert lock pick sauntered forward, crouching down as she fiddled with the key pad that monitored who left and when. The blinking red light flashed green and the agents rushed out.
Clint Barton never once questioned his partner as she walked purposefully through New York, pulling him by his hand. Not only because he didn't care, but because he was focusing – on the taxis, people, tour buses – things he knew had sounds, and voices and things he should've been able to hear and could hear one week ago. He looked up when Natasha stopped walking, met with the sight of a place he hadn't been since his brother had taken him when he was five. His brother… he would probably laugh if he could see him now. And to Clint, that realization was enough to break him further. Natasha tugged on his hand and they walked through one of three of the twenty foot tall doors.
They sped through the aisles and aisles of books, Natasha seemingly looking for something in particular. She finally stopped her wild search in the language aisle. Her pale hand – the one not clasped in Clint's – brushed over a certain collection, dragging Clint's attention to those.
Sign Language.
The hawk looked at the spider with an unsure expression even as she reached for the books, cradling them against her chest. They sat down at one of the mahogany desks, spreading the books across the table. She picked up the first in the line-up, reading through and subtly making the hand gestures. After five minutes of watching Natasha learn the language, something they both excelled at doing quickly, he picked up a book and began learning the signs as well.
Phil Coulson looked up as Clint and Natasha entered the mess hall, arms moving around them in what almost seemed like a conversation. Phil's mouth fell open as he put two and two together. In the short five hours they had been gone, they had learned a new language; one that could make his friend's life easier.
He returned to his office later that night, to find three books on his desk, the stack topped with a sticky note.
If you want to learn.
Coulson refilled his cup of coffee, settling down at his desk with an open ASL book in his lap.
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