Another from Tumblr: "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?"
Natasha stood panting on the mats, brows drawn and an unsettling sort of anxiety in her chest.
Clint always charged straight for her when they sparred. He left her bruised and sore and sometimes actually managed to pin her. He'd crow 'You're dead, Romanoff!' and draw an imaginary dagger across her throat and smirk. But not today.
"Why don't you try the bag for a while," he suggested. "I'm not really into it today."
Today he only dodged and blocked. He'd retreated off the edge of the mat three times. He wouldn't look at her and he certainly didn't smile.
Clint was the only one brave (or stupid) enough to spar with her, so the punching bag hung from the ceiling in the corner was her only alternative. She shrugged and did as he recommended, driving her fists into the bag with halfhearted effort while she watched him from the corner of her eye.
He went to the bench against the far wall and retrieved a water bottle from his bag, slumped onto the bench, and leaned forward with his forearms braced on his knees.
Six missions. It had taken him six missions to realize exactly who he'd brought in, what she was capable of, how deftly she executed marks and the brutal efficiency she used to get the job done.
It had been nice to have a partner, at least for a little while.
It was selfish of her to stay in the gym - Clint would stay and pretend he still liked her because he was kind that way - so she stopped the punching bag swaying and went back to the mats to retrieve her gym bag, where she'd dumped it earlier out of impatience.
"You're leaving?" Clint called, as she swung her gym bag over her shoulder. She lied, mumbled something about mission reports, and made for the door with quick, hurried strides. "Nat, wait a minute!"
She paused with her fingers wrapped around the door handle; she'd long ago stopped fighting against the puzzling impulse to listen when Clint asked something of her.
She went back across the room and sat on the bench next to him.
"You don't trust me, after last night," she said without preamble.
"Why d'you think that?" he asked. His confusion was so genuine it made her reconsider the conclusion she'd jumped to.
"You don't want to fight."
"Of course I don't want to fight," Clint agreed, and shook his head, a hint of incredulous laughter to the words. "I spent fourteen hours lying on a roof. I almost couldn't drag my ass out of bed this morning, everything hurts."
She ducked her head and chewed her lip, and felt stupid for not putting it all together sooner. Clint had years of skill and training and he knew the correct way to man a sniper rifle. He'd been lying on the opposite rooftop, muscles drawn too tense and taut as he watched her back, because the mission had gone to hell.
"Do you…." she began, then felt stupid and clamped her mouth shut. Of course he wouldn't agree, she'd make an idiot of herself, but he was watching expectantly so she plowed on. "I could...I could give you a massage?"
"Yeah?" he asked hopefully. She blew out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and nodded. He beamed at her. "Best partner ever!"