I've gotten several requests to see the proposal/wedding scene. The wedding scenes have already been written (it will be broken up into two different chapters); however, I hadn't planned on doing the proposal. It was briefly mentioned in Chapter Eight and I was content to leave it as such. But since I love you guys so stinkin' much, I've decided to give the people what they want.
So, here it is…the one with the big question…
Enjoy, my lovelies!
January 15th, 2017
Georgia chewed the end of the pen in frustration as her eyebrows scrunched adorably over her brow. Honestly, she had no idea why she bothered. She never finished the New York Times crossword.
"Need some help?"
Georgia barely glanced up at Tasha. "Yeah. Maybe."
The assassin slid the newspaper over the countertop. Nat was silent for a beat before the faintest flicker of annoyance flashed across her expression.
"You stumped, too?" asked Georgia. Tasha didn't answer, her sharp gaze burning holes in the Times, and a sudden murmur of voices carried down the hall. The chatter grew louder as the duo, the Sciences Bros as Clint and Tasha affectionately dubbed them, drew closer. Georgia smirked. She leaned back in her bar stool just as Tony and Bruce appeared.
"Hey, guys, I need help with this crossword puzzle."
There was no missing the smug smirk the billionaire tossed at his best friend. "Hit me."
"With pleasure," purred Natasha as Georgia snickered and pulled the newspaper back. The brunette PR rep pretended to read from the page, "I need a four letter word that totally encompasses Tony Stark's personality. And...it looks like it starts with a 'd' and ends with...with a 'k.' You wouldn't have any guesses, would you...?"
Dr. Banner gave an abrupt laugh, but his friend was not amused. Tony tossed Georgia a quick glare. Then, the Iron Man stalked away, muttering something about sticks and stones, Bruce eventually trailing after him. Natasha patted Georgia's shoulder and bid her good luck before she too left, sauntering off toward the gym.
It wasn't until the communal kitchen and dining area of the Tower cleared that Stark's AI system Jarvis spoke. "Mrs. Barton, I believe the word you're looking for is 'dick.'"
Georgia couldn't remember the last time she laughed quite that hard.
September 27th, 2013
When Clint asked her to go away with him for the weekend, Georgia felt only a tad worried when he refused to tell where exactly he was taking her. Mostly, her anxiety came from not knowing what to pack. Would she need a heavy coat and her boots? Or was their travel destination more of a bathing suit and flip flop kinda place? Unfortunately, Clint was resilient. Since her boyfriend refused to budge, Georgia packed a variety of options, including a few dressy numbers, and they were off.
Clint drove them to Stark Tower and he informed her that he had "borrowed" a private aircraft from S.H.I.E.L.D. to take them to their surprise destination. A private aircraft, he confessed, that he would be piloting.
"Can you, um, I mean...you know how to-" Georgia blushed and stammered.
Clint scoffed, not bothering to hide his offense, and slid on his headset. "You've wounded me, G. Just sit your pretty ass down and let me worry about the flight, okay?"
She bit her lip with a snort. "Yes, sir."
For the first three hours of the flight, Georgia was content to sit and watch Clint as he maneuvered through the clouds. He was so calm and relaxed, almost at peace. His hands were loose but confident as they guided the aircraft. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt that clung to his well-toned biceps like a second skin. And well-toned was putting it lightly. Extremely lightly. Her fingers itched to run themselves over the sculpted definitions in his arm muscles, flexed just-so because of his grip on the steering mechanism.
Another two hours passed and Georgia began reading a few articles on her Kindle. Eventually, she grew hungry and devoured her share of the lunch Clint had thoughtfully prepared. Clint ate with her, the aircraft on autopilot, and while they ate she attempted once more to pry some details about their little trip out of him. Regrettably, he was trained to divulge no secrets and the travel spot remained a mystery.
Once they reached the six hour mark, Georgia grew anxious and started googling flight times. She knew it took six hours to fly to Las Vegas, seven hours to Alaska, eight hours to California-
"We're not going to Alaska." Clint smirked, "Besides, you're going the wrong way."
"Huh?"
"Atlantic, not Pacific...look out the window. We've been over the Atlantic for-"
"We're leaving the country?!"
Finally, a handful of hours later, Clint gently shook his girlfriend awake. The corners of his mouth twitched upward at the adorable way she blinked herself awake, grinning softly as she slowly rejoined the world. "We're here."
"And where is here, exactly?"
Clint had landed them on a small, private airstrip where a car was waiting. In true gentleman fashion, Clint loaded their luggage into the trunk of the car while Georgia stepped off of the plane, her jaw dropping.
"Oh...my...God. Are we...are we in-?"
"Platania," Clint answered. Georgia nodded in false understanding and Clint smirked, "In Greece." He pointed. "The ocean is five miles that way."
Georgia took a few stumbling steps toward him, one hand cupping her mouth, the other squeezing her boyfriend's arm. "Clint, it's beautiful..." Her words came out breathlessly as she gazed in wonder at the surrounding Grecian landscape. The mountains, the bluer than blue sky, the small village half a mile away. Clint slipped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to her temple as he firmly shut the trunk. "Hope you're not falling in love just yet. We've still got a ways to go."
They drove to the beach where Clint was forced to endure twenty minutes of Georgia gaping and smiling and spinning in the sand. Eventually, she calmed to a degree and, while still gigging happily, managed to climb onto the boat that Clint had waiting for them at a private dock.
"Seriously, how well does S.H.I.E.L.D. pay you?"
Clint navigated the boat over the crystal clear waters of the Aegean Sea to the island of Skiathos, one of the smaller of the Sporades Islands just off the eastern coast of Greece. Apparently, Tony owned one of the northern beaches on the island and was gracious enough to lend it to Clint for the week. As they cruised across the sea, Georgia couldn't help but feel dazed, as if in a dream. This was not simply not real. Sure, she'd been on a few decent vacations before, even went to Europe when she was in college, but this? She simply didn't get to have romantic weekend getaways with her spectacular superhero boyfriend on an island in the Aegean. These sort of thins just didn't happen to people like her. Normal people. Boring people.
She trained her gaze on Clint. The wind coming off of the water swooshed his hair, his eyes protected by a pair of black Ray Bans. The sun was just now setting over the horizon and Clint looked like a fucking movie star. And he sort of was, wasn't he? Straight out of a James Bond flick. But, then, he caught her stare and smiled at her, reaching over to give her hand a tender squeeze. This was her life.
Georgia leaned over to kiss his cheek. The slight stubble on his skin tickled her lips. She nestled her cheek against his shoulder, the smooth cotton feeling soft against her cheek. He squeezed her hand. This was her life.
The island was beautiful and Georgia instantly fell in love with it, the way Pepper and Tony assured Clint she would. They spent the first night exploring Stark's Grecian mansion, eventually curling up on the back patio in front of the roaring fire in Tony's outdoor fireplace underneath the clearest sky Georgia had ever seen. The next morning, however, they rose early and ate a breakfast full of fresh fruit and traditional Greek tiganites, or pancakes, smothered in a grape molasses called petimezi. The chef, also known as Clint, had prepared the meal wonderfully with all the love and skill Georgia would never accomplish in the kitchen. The couple intended to spend the day exploring the island, visiting the town on the southeastern side of Skiathos and leisurely hiking through the mountains. Only, once they dressed and set off for the small town on the speedboat, Georgia became enamored with the perfect Aegean waters and demanded that Clint stop - right there, in the middle of the sea, a mile off shore - for her to take a swim.
There was zero subtly in the way Georgia teased her boyfriend as she stripped of her shirt and denim shorts to her reveal her black bikini. She stepped up to the side of the boat. With a smirk, she wiggled her ass at the sexy assassin, who looked positively delectable in swim trunks and a loose white tee shirt. "Gonna join me, Agent Barton?"
Then, with as much flare as she could muster, she dove off the side of the boat and slipped underneath the sea's surface.
Clint sucked in his bottom lip, taking a much needed deep breath. He'd never imagined being called Agent Barton would ever be a turn on. And yet. Peeling off his shirt, he tossed the garment carelessly to the floor of the boat and strapped the keys to his wrist, having already dropped the anchor. When he hit the water, a shiver tingled down his spine. The water was cool but warmed from the sun. It felt glorious against his skin, his body instantly weightless.
Georgia remained submerged, waiting for him beneath the surface. Her dark locks fanned around her in the water. She looked like a siren, the deadly temptresses of the ocean. Her legs gently swayed, keeping her in place, and she beckoned him forward with curling fingers. Clint swam to her, and her hand found his in the water. Their fingers laced together. The gesture of intimacy made Clint's chest swell and re-instilled his confidence that he'd made the right decision in bringing her to Greece.
Her body pressed against his in the water, her arms slithering around his shoulders and torso. One hand lazily traced the faint scar running sideways over his left shoulder; the other hand was still firmly in his grasp. When their lips met, a breath was passed between them and suddenly they were both kicking for the surface.
She took a huge gulp of air, still in his arms, laughing. "Remind me why haven't we taken a vacation before?"
Clint brought his hand up to brush away a wet strand of her brunette hair. A single droplet of water fell off the tip. It trickled down her skin, eventually making its way to the smooth valley between her breasts. Then, it disappeared under her black bikini top. Clint watched the droplet travels its course and, when he raised his gaze back to her face, he knew he was flushed, his skin flamed with desire. His palm flattened against her cheek and he tangled a hand in her dark locks. "That was impressive," he murmured, his thumb running over her plump, bottom lip. He gave a barely-there smile when she nipped at the tip of his thumb. "Have you been trained to hold your breath under water? That was at least two minutes."
Her nose wrinkled adorably. "That doesn't sound very impressive."
"The average length of time a person can hold their breath is one minute, thirty seconds."
She shrugged a single shoulder, her fingers dragging over her boyfriend's wet, bare skin. Fuck, he was delicious. "Grew up on Venice Beach. Did a lot of swimming as a kid and teenager."
"The way I hear it, you spent more time surfing than you did swimming." Clint smirked as Georgia frowned, "Please tell me you've been talking to Allie and there's not some government satellite full of videos of me wiping out all day long."
"Wiping out? Allie said you were a terrific surfer."
"Allie exaggerates."
The couple swam for a few hours, completely undisturbed and at peace with the universe, before cruising to the other side of the island to explore the local shops and to eat dinner at the only restaurant on the island. From the outside, the bistro simply looked like another home. It sat on the top of a hill with a huge outdoor patio overlooking the sea and the village of white stone below. A wooden sign above the door read το καλό σπίτι – the Good Home, Clint translated.
"I didn't know you speak Greek." Georgia told him. "Are you sure this is a restaurant? It really does look like someone's house."
"No faith," muttered Clint. He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "Trust me."
Inside, the restaurant was quaint but elegant. After a few words with the management, Clint negotiated a private table for himself and Georgia on the terrace. The patio was lit with a slew of vanilla scented, white candles. They sat on the tabletops and hung from the thick, wooden rafters in a variety of oddly shaped lanterns. The smell of the sea mixed with the candles. It tickled Georgia's nose in a delightful way and kept her grounded in a moment so romantically perfect it seemed surreal. The waiter brought a fresh bottle of wine and Clint placed their order, not even bothering to glance at the menu. As he reached for her hand across the table, Georgia bit her lip, gazing out at the ocean. "Clint, this is absolutely the most…"
She took a breath. Her head shook lightly. "I can't even think of an accurate adjective. This is just…perfect. I love this. Thank you."
Clint studied her for a moment. Then, he lifted her hand to his mouth, lips brushing the back of her knuckles. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. And she really didn't. Clint could see every gracious ounce of adoration in her gaze. Unlike him, Georgia was a completely open book. With her, nothing was guarded, every emotion, every thought flickering over her face. Clint never had to guess as to what she was feeling and, with her being so open, Clint worried that sometimes he wasn't expressive enough. "I've been all over the world. Been to every corner, in fact. Nowhere compares to Greece. There's just something about the atmosphere, the people, the culture."
"The kickass view," Georgia added. Clint nodded, "That, too." Only, he wasn't looking at the sea. Clint's suggestive stare made Georgia blush but, before she could pretend to not absolutely love the attention, their waiter was placing salads down in front of them.
Clint and Georgia chatted softly while they ate. At the other end of the terrace, there was an in-house band playing. The music provided a nice backdrop for their conversation and they ended the night swaying in one another's arms beneath the blanket of a Grecian moon.
The following day started off much the same – breakfast, boat, swim, town – except, they never made it to town.
Georgia's feet were propped on the dashboard of the boat, a beer in hand, water dripping off her legs and pooling on the boat's leather seat. She was watching Clint retrieve the anchor, marveling in the way the muscles of his back practically danced with his every move. The few days of sun exposure were doing the archer good. Even Georgia's skin, malnourished from too many months in the cloudy Big Apple, was getting back some of its sun-kissed glow. Georgia loved New York, but, God, did she miss Los Angeles.
Setting her beer down, Georgia stood and made her way to Clint. Wordlessly, she touched his lower back, right above the band of his swim trunks, and stroked her hand up his spine. Her fingers curled around his neck and she turned his face toward hers. The moment her lips touched his, Clint closed his eyes. Neither moved. They just let their lips brush, both breathing slowly through their nose. Eventually, Clint's hands came to gently relax on her hips. Foreheads resting together, they held onto one another, both feeling that something about this moment, this kiss, made it different than all the others.
She tenderly massaged the nape of his neck, her free hand skimming across his smooth jawline; he'd shaved for her. She titled her head so their mouths would graze and she whispered, "Tell me your middle name, Clint."
Amusement shown in his beautiful, soul-seeing eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He pulled her closer, her delicate body pressing into every inch of his, his arms coiling around her torso. He allowed for a beat to lapse, his heart racing, his stomach flipping. Christ, he was really going to do this. Swallowing, Clint steeled his nerves and confessed, "Francis."
Georgia couldn't suppress the half-hysterical, half-shocked snort/laugh/awkward giggle that burst out of her. "Oh, Jesus, baby, that is bad."
Clint clicked his teeth, rapidly nodding, as if to say 'Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,' and, ultimately, dissolved into laughter himself. When their hysterics calmed, Georgia tightened her hold on him and began to pepper sweet, little kisses along his chin and jaw. "I'm sorry, baby…at least Clint's a pretty good name. It's strong…sexy."
"You think so?" he asked, right by her ear, his voice abruptly husky. Dragging his nose through her hair, he breathed her scent and sighed, though it sounded more like a moan, and when he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth, Georgia shivered, echoing the moan back to him. Her legs became jelly and her hands fell from his shoulders to latch onto his biceps for support. His assault on her ear was making her gasp and, with a quivering whimper, Georgia forced herself to speak. Because if she couldn't tell him in this moment – this perfect, wonderful, epitome of a moment – then she never would.
"I love you," admitted Georgia, softly. Her voice wavered with lust and was thick with emotion and sincerity. Though Clint was the first to utter those three coveted words, he had done so four months ago while under the influence of prescription painkillers and they had not spoken of it since. Georgia was faintly worried that now, sober and faced with her proclamation, Clint would not be able to say those precious words again.
Clint knew Georgia loved him. Or, at least, he had made an educated guess and prayed to whatever God there was that he was right. But hearing her actually say it? Hearing the words fall from Georgia's lips in her voice, the voice that somehow managed to be unbelievably sexy and cute all at once? Hearing it, Clint's chest grew tight. Fuck, she said it. She came right out and said it. She loved him.
His tongue slide along the curve of her ear as he tasted the words on his lip. With a teasing slowness, his hands cupped her face. He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, then over her closed eyelids and the tops of her cheeks, sweeping his lips across her forehead, before finally bringing their mouths together for a searing kiss so intense he swore it touched his soul. "I love you, too, G."
Her hands resting against his bare chest, Georgia peered up at him with her slightly too-large eyes. They were almost as blue as the sea and now they were shining with moisture. One hand balled into a fist. She playfully thumped her fist against his chest in the lamest mock-punch ever known to man. "You better," she quipped before launching upward and capturing his lips with hers.
They made love one the boat for the rest of the day. When they came, first Georgia, Clint following shortly, they lay naked and sweaty in one another's embrace as the sun melted into the horizon, becoming one with the ocean. Clint cooked them a small, but delicious dinner when they returned to Stark's island mansion, where they made love once more in front of the outdoor fire, the flames dancing along their joined bodies. Later, they moved inside to the obnoxiously large bed and made love yet again before the exhaustion set in and they slipped into the land of dreams.
The previous day's affairs had worn them, so much sex in so little time leaving their bodies spent. The couple slept through the day, waking just after noon, content to lie in bed, whispering and conspiring, hands softly stroking bare skin, until hunger got the better of them. Georgia would have been satisfied to munch on the remains of the fruit bowl if it meant they could stay in bed. Clint, however, had other plans. He insisted Georgia dress while he packed them a picnic lunch and then they were off.
Clint forewent the boat, choosing instead to stay on Tony's lot of the island. Hand in hand, Clint led Georgia as they strolled over the white sands in front of the mansion down to the shoreline. He set down the picnic basket, spreading out a beach towel while Georgia took a few pictures of the Aegean on her iPhone before twisting to take a few snapshots of him. She smirked. "I think that's the first time I've gotten a picture of you…"
Clint pulled a face. "Yeah? Well, you should delete it. I'm not photogenic at all."
"Oh, please," she scoffed. Clint wasn't simply good-looking, the man was attractive. There was just something about him. His classic, All-American features were pleasant to look at, sure, but that coupled with his toned and skilled body added with his mischievous flirting habits – the coy way he glanced at her that said he knew just how badly she wanted him, the haughty grin he gave whenever he made her ache for his touch (a grin that he somehow made sexy despite being laced with obnoxious overconfidence), the satisfied glint in his gaze that shone when he knew he'd get what he wanted – he was pure deliciousness. He was one hundred percent male. Perfect, lustful, sinful male. He practically called every female within a fifty mile radius to him. Thus, Georgia refused to believe he wasn't just as charming to the camera.
And, whatta ya know, she was right.
"Christ, you look like a fucking Calvin Kline model," she grumbled, gazing down at the picture on her phone's screen. "This is not fair. Where are your faults, spy boy? Where?"
He appeared thoughtful for a moment. Then, replied, "Animals hate me. We can never get a dog."
Ignoring his use of "we," as in them together, Georgia shrugged. "I don't have the patience for animals, anyway. They have too many needs. That's why I like you. You can feed yourself and go to the bathroom and everything."
While Georgia was teetering on the brink of starvation, the crystal blue waters were too mesmerizing to resist. She told Clint he could go ahead and eat – she wanted to go for a quick swim. He didn't, of course, choosing to follow her into the sea. When the water reached her knees, Georgia stopped and stared out at the world beyond the horizon. Clint came to rest behind her, his bare chest against her back. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders, winding them down her arms to intertwine with her own hands, and he pulled her back against him.
He said it the night before – those famous words with the power to destroy a man, or save him – but, all of a sudden, he felt the emotion swelling within his chest. It pushed against his insides like a balloon, filling every crevice of his being. He wanted to say those words again. He wanted to say them to her every day for the rest of his life and then every day after that. Nuzzling the top of her head, Clint pressed a long, sweet kiss on her temple. "I love you."
Georgia gave a happy hum and squeezed his hands. "I love you, too, baby. Ooh, hey, look at those waves coming in? C'mon! Let's go get 'em."
Clint gave a chuckle. She was so blessedly normal, his girlfriend. What seemed to him like the hardest thing to admit to someone – a confession of love made you vulnerable, weak, an easy target – was the most natural thing in the world to her. She loved so much, so deeply, and she loved him. It was a fucking miracle. Somewhere along the harsh struggle that was his life Clint had made the right decisions and now Georgia was his and he intended to keep it that way.
The couple stayed in the water for a few hours, chasing waves and such, before they finally returned to land. They ate as if they would never again eat another meal. When their hunger was sated, they sat back in the sand, their arms around one another and watched the sunset. Georgia took a picture of the beautiful landscape on her phone before flipping the camera around in, what she called, Selfie-Mode. "Smile," she told him, her voice a whisper. In a silly impulse, Clint scrunched up his nose and crossed his eyes. He felt like an idiot but received the desired effect, a string of happy giggles from Georgia, who playfully smacking his shoulder and demanded that he "be serious!"
She took the picture once more and he obediently smiled. Then, she took another and he kissed her cheek.
A few more clicks of her iPhone later and Georgia was satisfied. She put her phone away and kissed the side of his neck, just below his ear, beneath his jaw. "Thank you," she murmured, twisting back in his embrace to face the sea. Clint cleared his throat. "You're welcome…I, uh, I have something for you. Come here." He helped her to her feet in the sand and fished something out of the picnic basket. He withdrew a small, tan box. It was very plain and he handed it to her without much fuss. She smiled grateful and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "It better not be jewelry, Clint Barton. You've done enough for me already."
Her words were meant to be a tease but, when Clint nervously shoved his hands in the pockets of his swim trunks, her stomach tightened. Clint was nervous? Clint never got nervous. She peered down at the box in her palm. What was in that thing? Slowly, she lifted the lid and, sure enough, there was a small, black velvet jewelry box. Unconsciously holding her breath, Georgia withdrew the jewelry box and held it in her hand. She bit her lip as she opened the case.
A barely audible gasp flew from her mouth at the diamond engagement ring. She was so stunned that she almost missed Clint sliding down to one knee before her. Clint swallowed thickly and gave a shaky smile. "I know it's cheesy, the one knee thing, but my dad did it when he proposed to my mother so…I'm doing it now."
He took a breath and reached for her free hand. Tenderly grazed his thumb over the back of her palm, Clint licked his lips and began to speak, "Georgia, I never thought…marriage is never in the cards for people like me. We don't even give ourselves the option to hope for it…I don't know how our marriage will work, if it will make things different or more difficult or what. I just know that I want to be with you. There's never been anyone but you, G…"
And, truly, there hadn't. Clint had been socially awkward in school, never quite recovering from his parents' and brother's death, and there weren't many romantic opportunities in the military. Aside from the occasional one night stand, Clint only upheld professional and friendly relationships with women like Natasha and Agent Maria Hill. While Clint could admit to himself on some level deep, deep within his soul that he loved Natasha, it was a sibling kind of love fueled by their competitive partnership and forged like steel from years of life-threatening missions together. Natasha was cuddly by no means and she simply didn't inspire the warm, comfortable feeling that seemed to overwhelm him whenever he was by Georgia's side.
When he confessed this to Georgia, she let out a surprised laugh and bit her lip. "I'm serious," Clint chuckled. The laugh wrinkled the corners of his eyes and showed off the cute dimples in his cheeks. Sobering slightly, Clint mustered up the most sincere, adoring gaze he could and smiled fondly. "I love you, Georgia. I can't promise that it will be easy, or that I'll make it for every Christmas or birthday. But I can't imagine not coming home to you, not anymore. And I promise I will love you better than anyone else could…"
Facing down Syrian Al Qaeda terrorists with nothing more than a bowie knife and a can of gasoline. Infiltrating a KGB cell on a disavowed mission to steal a 3.7 million dollar computer software system. Jumping out of a Quinjet flying 120mph into a tropical storm off the coast of the Philippines. Clint had done these things and worse, without a second thought. But here, on a beach in the middle of the Aegean, knees in the sand, staring up at the woman that he loved, her face haloed by the sun, trying to force out the most important question of his life – he couldn't do it. His mouth ran dry. His heart hammered in his chest so powerfully that he was positive it was causing internal bruising.
"Fuck," he muttered. His eyes dropped to the sand around her feet. Mhmm, she even had cute toes. Christ, did I really just think that? Get a hold of yourself, Barton. You are Clint fucking Barton. You're Hawkeye, the world's greatest marksman. You're an Avenger. You can do this. Man up.
"Clint?" Her voice was soft. When her fingers found his face, Clint instinctively leaned into her palm. She drove her fingers gently through his hair in the soothing way she knew he loved. "It's okay, Clint. You don't have to-"
"What?" Clint's head jerked upward. "No. I want to. I want- Georgia, will you marry me?"
A heartbreaking smile consumed her face and Georgia replied immediately that she would love to be Mrs. Clint Barton. Clint was so damn relieved that he nearly forgot to actually put the ring on her finger. Once he did so, Georgia tackled him into the sand, her diamond sparkling in the final fading rays of sunlight, and teased him, singing "You wanna kiss me, you wanna hug me, you wanna marry me," circa Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality and placing a dozen butterfly kisses all over his face. He wanted to marry her. Holy shit! Clint reacted in kind to her teasing, tickling her mercilessly and playfully tossing handfuls of sand at her, aiming for her bikini top. A few shrieks and some not-so-nice words later, Georgia called for a truce. When she felt certain that Clint was through retaliating, she snuggled against him in the sand, his body solid and warm beneath her, to study her lovely engagement ring.
Then, Clint and Georgia did what they always do – they made love. They came together in that beautiful, perfect, passionate way. The intense type of love making that's so much more than sex; the thorough exploration of another person's body driven by raw lust and unrelenting need; the joining of two people so in love they never want to stop making love. They made love right there on the beach where the waves met the shore. Which wasn't nearly as romantic as the movies made it seem. The couple walked away from that one with sand in places where sand should never be and an awkward cut on Georgia's hip from a broken seashell. None of that mattered, though, because Clint loved her and she loved him and they were going to get married. So suck it, seashells.
Best. Vacation. Ever.
Sometime in 2014
No one saw it coming. By no one, I mean Tony Stark.
"I just don't get it. How does Rogers, a walking, talking Time Capsule, a man stuck so far in the past he can't even look a woman in the eyes without blushing unless she's in uniform or he's rescuing her from a burning building-"
"It's called manners, Tony," interjected Bruce.
"-bag someone like Romanoff. I mean, sure, the Cap's got it goin' on with the hair and the All-American shit-"
"'Got it goin' on?' What is this, 1980?"
"-and I could understand if it was purely physical. Christ, Romanoff's not blind but, and here's where it gets confusing, apparently, the two have been sleeping together. As in the great big R.E.M. As in, laying side-by-side unconscious. In pajamas. Snoring. The whole nine. And they've been having breakfast together and-"
"Tony, don't you think you're reading a bit too much into this?" asked Bruce. Sighing, Dr. Banner took off his lab goggles and faced his best friend. It was times like these that Bruce wasn't sure if he was Tony's Science Bro, or his therapist. "Look at their line of work. It's not surprising that they've grown close, especially since they've been teaming up on a lot of missions recently. People grow close in life or death situations. Look at us, the Avengers-" Here, Bruce have a sarcastic eye roll. Sometimes the superhero stuff - the names, the capes - was hard to take seriously. "- one alien invasion and suddenly we're all moving in together like it's Grey's Anatomy, or something..."
Tony paused. "Grey's Anatomy? Really?"
Bruce cringed. "Pepper was watching a marathon last week..."
Tony's lips thinned out. He shook his head. "I dunno, doc." Honestly, this Rogers/Romanoff thing was starting to eat at him.
Many, many, many, many thanks to those that reviewed the last chapter after my (as SophStratt put it) not-so-subtle death-by-fictional-character threat regarding reviews. And, of course, thanks to those who have been reviewing throughout.
I love you all!