When I saw Clint for the first time after I snapped at him, I was sitting on the balcony where Steve had set me that one time, where we talked about broken things and phoenixes. Even though my back was to the entrance—which was sitting open so Steve could halfway supervise me—I could hear the way his weight shifted, and knew it was him.
Shivering into my coat—it was drawing really close to winter, and Steve kept bringing me warm blankets to keep my bare legs warm, which both annoyed me and touched me—I turned my head so he knew I could feel his presence, giving him a small smile. "Hey," I told him, trying to sound like I always did when we talk, but instead coming off hoarse. You're just cold, I tried to convince myself, but I could tell by the way my chest constricted that that wasn't true.
"Hey," he said, sounding the same way as I did as he came to pull one of the patio chairs over to sit next to me. Reaching over to grab my gloved hand, he held it, giving me a strained smile. Things still weren't right between us, and both of us knew that, but refused to bring it up.
"Steve told me you're using crutches now," he said, opting for small talk instead of what was really troubling us. That wasn't like us at all, and I felt my throat go dry in frustration. "He says you're really getting the hang of it."
I nodded, my eyes turning back toward the street, longing to be down there, longing to become one with the sea of faces. With a smirk that almost made me cry, I said, "Yeah. Did he tell you I kicked Tony in the gut when he would give me strawberries?"
Clint snorted, obviously not knowing the story. "That sounds just like you, Nat. Did you surprise him?"
"I surprised Bruce more; he was the one who had to catch me."
And I'm giggling and he's chuckling, and to Steve and Bruce and Tony and whoever else they invited to watch, things between us are mended. Back to normal. But, they can't see the way that tears sting at my eyes and my throat goes tight, and can't know Clint enough to recognize that this is his awkward laugh, the one he uses when he feels like he should be laughing but doesn't want to. We're both so screwed up, and nobody else knows.
When we stop, he squeezes my hand, looking at me with eyes that beg, Can we fix this? And my silent reply is, I don't know. Neither of us knows if we're repairable or just royally fucked up. We don't know, and I feel like crying. Don't cry, don't break your promise, stay strong.
He nods slightly, leaning forward to kiss my temple in a way that makes me feel like he's giving up. Instead of saying what I know he wants to say, he ponders, "Do you get why I like being so high up?" And I can't even get my voice to sound a reasonable answer; all I can do is nod, because I do understand.
I see him bend his head just slightly in agreement, and then, he's on his feet, still holding my hand. "Fury's got me going on another mission, so I've got to begin packing. I'll…" But his voice won't let him finish, choking the words and dragging them away from his voice so he can't say them. I can see tears filming over his eyes, and suddenly, he's murmuring, "I'll see you later," and he's gone.
For the first time in the last week or two, I feel broken. I feel shattered beyond repair, and my stomach roils with anger because we might never be able to fix this. And I'm overwhelmed with emotions as I realize for the first time how fucking much I want to, and the word love fills my mind and I barely regain control as a sob escapes my throat, but tears don't come.
The tears can't come. I won't let them.
