Clint decides to learn Russian for her. He's learned several languages in his lifetime for SHIELD, but Russian isn't one of them- Russian is for her. He's well aware that she misses getting to speak in her native tongue, there's been many a day that he's walked into their shared apartment to her speaking to their cat or herself in Russian. So, he buckles down, attends classes, studies at the apartment when she's not home. He practices and practices till he's damn near fluent- and then he surprises her.
He still can't quite sneak up on her, but he's able to get the closest out of anyone. She turns to give him a smile when he's but a few paces from her, and he smiles back, plopping beside her so both of their legs dangle over the edge of the catwalk as they watch the SHIELD agents scurrying around below them. It's silent for a few moments as they soak up each other's presence.
He keeps his voice low when he speaks, not quite a whisper but not quite full volume. It's an intimate moment, one meant just for them. "У меня для тебя сюрприз, Наталья." (I have a surprise for you, Natalia.) He watches her expression from his peripheral vision, reaching down to pull a knife from his boot and beginning to twirl it around his fingers.
Her head turns to face him and her grin grows large as she bumps his shoulder with her own affectionately. "Ты учил русский, Клинт?" (Have you been learning Russian, Clint?) He throws his arm over her shoulders and continues watching the agents below with a crooked smile on his face, ignoring her eyes on him.
"Да, я знаю, что ты скучаешь по этому." (Yeah, I know you miss speaking it.)
She nods and takes his hand, turning back to their people watching. "Спасибо." (Thank you.) It's a simple moment, no big displays of emotion as is their way, but they both know. They both know without saying the gratitude she's feeling, the happiness, and the love. She's never more open, her guard never more down, than when it's just her and Clint. The contentment fills the air as her head moves to rest on his shoulder, a feeling of being home filling both their chests.
Months pass, filled with Natasha helping her lover perfect the language, getting him to the point where he has almost perfect pronunciation and close to no accent. They speak Russian so often that it was almost becoming uncommon to hear them talk to each other in English. And Fury begins to get annoyed- not to mention the STRIKE team. It's intimate and they do it without even really noticing, Russian giving them the comfort of knowing that their words are only understood by each other. But what comforts the two of them irritates the others around them. Tensions grow and Rumlow complains way too often as the two master assassins spit rapid Russian back and forth over the comms, bullets and arrows whizzing almost as fast as the foreign words.
Clint pulls back the string of his bow, an arrow nocked and ready to fly, before peeking over the odd metal container he's using as cover and releasing it. When the man goes down with a thud, Clint's gaze is drawn to where he knows his partner in all things is, scowling when he notices the unreasonable amount of men she's currently facing, two more coming at her from behind. "Двое вооруженных на ваших шестерых, Нации." (Two armed on your six, Nat.)
She nods once, one of her shock batons striking the man on her right viciously on the temple, and when the man spins and drops she whirls around to face her next victims. "Я их поймал. Обойди сзади и убедись, что Рамлоу не даст метке сбежать." (Got them. Circle around back and make sure Rumlow doesn't let the mark escape.)
"I heard my name, Romanoff. Speak English, both of you!" Rumlow snaps over comms, firing off a few rounds as he sprints by, body slamming a man on his way.
"Болван." (Jackass.) Clint, sick and tired of Rumlow's shit, mutters angrily as he moves swiftly through the building, shooting anyone who crosses his path, causing Natasha to let out a laugh.
"Преуменьшение века." (Understatement of the century.) She quips, dropping onto her heels and spinning counterclockwise before her leg shoots out at the last moment, catching the man who's strike she'd dodged by the heel and knocking him to the ground.
Rumlow lets out a growl, his words harsh and full of venom. "If I hear anymore of that Soviet bullshit over the comms I'm going to lose my mind!"
"Watch it, Rumlow." Clint's voice is even darker when he replies, his hand twitching with the suppressed desire to aim his next arrow at the STRIKE leader's head. It's well known amongst SHIELD that Clint doesn't tolerate any barbs or jabs aimed Natasha's way for any reason- but particularly her past and roots. If fear of the Black Widow herself wasn't enough to curb your tongue, the surety that Clint will fuck you up if she doesn't must definitely will. Natasha simply rolls her eyes and spits out a Russian insult just to spite the STRIKE agent, not at all phased by the man.
"Come on, dude," an agent Nat doesn't know attempts over comms, "those two aren't ones you want to piss off, you know that." Natasha, ignoring the chatter in her ear, turns to the right. Her green eyes land on a thick steel door, one circular window decorating it. Her feet move swiftly and silently over the grated floor and towards the door, hand dropping to the gun strapped to her thigh just before she pulls it open. The moment the door is fully open Natasha is through it, gun drawn and ready with her finger on the trigger. She clears the washed out hallway, a too bright fluorescent light flickering ominously overhead.
When the door slams closed behind her the noise from the fight she's left behind fades away, the thick metal muffling it to the point where the silence around her is thick, almost threatening. Despite the lack of sound, her footsteps are still inaudible as she moves down the hallway to the left, gun steady in her grip. She doesn't come across anyone else as she goes, which surprises her. There's no way every single lackey in the place is in the other room dealing with STRIKE. These guys may be morons, but they can't possibly be that dumb.
She slows when she rounds a corner and a door comes into view. It's painted beige and stamped across it in thick, red letters are the words "Emergency Roof Access". Natasha takes a breath and leans against the bar handle, her shoulder squaring just before she shoulders the door open with a shove, her gun flying up and sweeping across the roof. The sight in front of her causes her to frown.
From this angle she can see Clint pinned down behind an air conditioning unit, bullets pinging against the metal of it and chipping at the concrete around him. Every few moments Clint is able to pop up and release an arrow, but he's outnumbered. There's about twenty guys surrounding their mark, the human trafficking kingpin looks too smug for Natasha's taste and she's quick to move to wipe it off and assist Barton.
One hand drops from her gun to pull out two of her projectile Widow Bites, the five small silver circles flying through the air only seconds apart before latching onto one opponent after another. They look down, faces furrowing in confusion before the Bites activate, electricity surging powerfully through their bodies and causing them to shake violently before collapsing onto the rough concrete roof out cold.
Their comrades watch this whole procession with bewilderment, Natasha using their distraction as the perfect opportunity to dash stealthily over to her partner, launching herself over the air conditioning unit and landing in a crouch to his right. "Happy to see me?" She asks with a raised brow, the left side of her lips curling up into a smirk.
"Always." Is his reply, and she rolls her eyes at the sappiness of it, leaning around the edge of the unit to pop off a couple shots and grinning when the two men she'd been aiming for crumble.
"заткнись и стреляй." (Shut up and shoot.) She says with a small smile, ignoring the warmth in her chest that always makes itself known when he says or does something that's evidence of his love for her.
The next few minutes are simply composed of the sound of the men across from them shouting, the sound of gunshots being exchanged, and the thwick of Clint's arrows slicing through the air. Natasha leans around the unit and, seeing there's only a few men left, surges to her feet and sprints their way. She's amongst them before they can even process that she's moved. Her red hair swings and arcs around her as she spins, avoiding the butt of one guy's gun, and the knife she's pulled from her utility belt slices easily through the tender skin of his throat. Blood spurts forth as his hands come up to grip uselessly at his neck, his knees giving out and hitting the roof with a thud as he chokes on his own blood.
Natasha doesn't notice any of this, she's already moved onto her next victim. Her left forearm comes up to block the downward strike of her opponent, grunting and head ducking slightly to the right to avoid the wicked sharp point of the knife grasped in his hand that would've ended up lodged in her chest if she hadn't stopped it. Her other hand comes up to grip him by the elbow as her left twists so rather than their forearms pressing together her hand is wrapped around his wrist, pushing it backwards unnaturally far to keep the blade away from her flesh. He lets out a high pitched scream when her right hand pushes her elbow backwards forcefully while her left pulls his now broken wrist towards her chest, the knife clattering to their feet as the bone snaps unevenly in half with such force that the upper part pushes through the skin in a jagged point. He collapses to his knees with a sob when she releases him, moving to cradle his arm to his chest, and Natasha reaches down to grab him by the back of the head, pulling it back before slamming it as hard as she can into her knee, his nose breaking with a crunch and his eyes rolling back in his head.
Natasha takes the guy out in a matter of moments before turning back towards the others, noticing that Clint has joined the fray. His bow whirls through the air as he blocks blows from a guy on either side and she's quick to charge his way, launching up and through the air so her legs wrap around the man's neck before twisting her lithe body to bring him to the ground. She pulls a knife from her belt once again and then leans down, pushing the point of it up through the thin skin beneath his chin and into his brain. She doesn't bother removing it before she rolls away and onto the balls of her feet, pushing out of her crouch as her eyes scan the rooftop for another opponent. She grins wickedly when she realizes that Clint is fighting the last two men, their mark standing at the other end of the roof and waving frantically at the approaching helicopter, desperate to escape before they turn their sights on him. But he's out of time and out of luck.
She dashes across the roof, arms pumping and hair flying behind her, not slowing down as she nears Eddie Carlisle- a soon to be dead human trafficking giant. Unfortunately for him, he's managed to get himself onto SHIELD's radar and thus, Natasha's- and human trafficking is a cause dear to her heart. Her left arm shoots out to wrap tightly around his throat, Natasha using her momentum and grip to swing her body around his torso- adrenaline pumping through her as she momentarily soars over open air when she flies over the edge of the roof- before landing on one of her knees on the kingpin's left, her shoulder rotating to throw him over her head and onto his back heavily. He grunts loudly in pain and his eyes cloud over when his head collides with the rooftop; he definitely has one hell of a concussion.
Natasha releases her arm from around his neck and twists so she's straddling his stomach, wicked sharp and serrated knife gripped tightly in her right hand. "I've got him." Nat says into her comms, not blinking as she reaches down and smoothly slits Eddie Carlise's throat before rising to her feet and leaving him to die. Clint's waiting for her by the door she'd come through, bow slung over his shoulder as he leans leisurely against the wall.
"Good work, Nat." He praises, his eyes scanning her up and down searchingly. "Ты в порядке?" (You okay?) He questions in Russian, knowing he's more likely to get an honest answer if everyone listening to them right now can't understand what they're saying.
She nods, her own eyes looking him over in the same way, the knot in her chest disappearing when she finds no sign of anything major. "Пару порезов и синяков. Ничего особенного, а как насчет вас?" (A couple of cuts and bruises. Nothing too serious, what about you?)
He grins mischievously and opens the door, holding it open so she can go first as she tucks her knife away. "Идеальное состояние. Но это не удивительно." (Perfect condition. But that's no surprise.) She shoots him a glare at the cockiness thick in his voice as they rejoin the STRIKE team, only a few minutes passing before they all quickly and efficiently return to the quinjet and head home.
That night is much more peaceful than the day preceding it, the moonlight streaming through their open blinds illuminating the pair of assassins intimately intertwined on the king-sized bed. Nat's hair glows almost otherworldly in the white light, Clint's fingers running through it soothingly and his lips pressed to where it meets her forehead. They're not speaking, instead basking in the complete contentment of the moment since they both know that Natasha's nightmares will be making a reappearance when she finally falls asleep.
It's always hard on her when they work a mission that is reminiscent of her past. Eddie Carlisle being a trafficker of young girls to various shady organizations- one with a purpose too close to the Red Room's for comfort- has definitely brought the memories of her own experiences to the forefront. The night she was shoved into a too small shipping container with too many other women and children. The air had been stale and sour and the darkness impossibly thick. There'd been no blankets or bathrooms, or even room to simply sit down rather than stand like cattle waiting for the slaughter.
She shudders as the memory threatens to take over and surges upwards out of Clint's arms, scrubbing her hands over her face vigorously. Clint sits up, his large hand coming to rest comfortingly between her shoulder blades. "Nat?"
"I'm fine. Sorry, I'm fine." She insists, turning to give him a smile over her shoulder that would've fooled anyone else, anyone but Clint. He shakes his head and reaches out to wrap his arms around her firmly, tugging her into his chest before laying back down and bringing her with him. His fingers come back up to run through her collarbone length hair, his pointer finger gently swirling pieces around it before dropping them and repeating the pattern.
"Ты не в порядке. Ты не." (You're not okay. You're not.) He tightens his grip around her shoulders and drops a kiss to the top of her head. "И это нормально, что это не так." (And it's okay that you're not.) His right hand comes up to tilt her chin upwards, forcing her green eyes to meet his blue ones. Hers shine with the ghosts coming out to play, her demons spinning around the trees that make up the forests of her irises. "Let yourself feel it, Nat." He whispers, the words seeming so much heavier in the darkness of their room. "You never let yourself feel the pain. But you're safe here with me, I won't let you drown." He kisses her gently on the lips once, twice, three times before pulling away to look at her beautiful visage, the moonlight dancing along the contours of her face enchantingly. Her eyes are wide and suspiciously shiny, her love for him plainly displayed in the irises and across the face that usually hides so much. "Позвольте себе это почувствовать." (Let yourself feel it.)
She smiles tightly, her lips trembling, before pushing up to press their lips together in a loving kiss. They caress his so softly, so tenderly, that he can't help the shiver that runs through at the feel of it. It's almost as if she's allowing him to feel her own emotions through the kiss, her love and melancholy washing over him.
"Я люблю вас." (I love you.) She whispers against his mouth, the words being embraced by the dark as the moon focuses it's light on the lovers so far below itself. And then she curls into his chest, burying her face in the planes of it, and allows herself to crumble. She lets the walls fall and the feelings flood in, knowing she's not alone and that Clint won't let her head slip beneath the waves.