Assantra: I do have a much longer story coming, hopefully just after the first of April. I have a huge RL project that wraps up this week, and then I can take more time to focus on writing. Glad you're enjoying this story!
As always, hope everyone enjoys this chapter! ~lg
oOo
Clint sees the anger in her face and decides to try a different tact. "What's your name?"
She blinks at him.
"Hey, you can tell me your name—or a made-up one. I don't care." He drops his head back on the pillow. "Or I can call you Widow."
For a moment all is silent. Then. . . . "Natasha."
He accepts it with a nod. "Clint."
"Eastwood?" she asks with a roll of her eyes.
He snorts. "Not hardly. Just Clint."
They're silent for a long time before a doctor arrives. The man checks Natasha's head and declares that she has a concussion. She'll live. They're both lucky they weren't hurt worse in the explosion, and Clint thanks the man.
Natasha turns to him. "What did you tell them?"
He raises an eyebrow. "That we were there for an interview?"
"And they bought it?"
"They don't care why we were there. A lot of people were hurt today, and we were just another pair of factory workers."
"This is Moscow," she said. "Everyone suspects everyone."
"That may be, but it's not true for every single place. Is it?"
She simply stares, and Clint gives up on making conversation. She seems intent on twiddling her thumbs anyway, and he doesn't feel like arguing. His head aches, and his shoulder might need some therapy after the doc's less-than-careful work with removing the shrapnel.
He leaves Natasha to her thoughts and closes his eyes, waiting for Coulson to find him.
~TBC