Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
Grace's words rang through Natasha's ears on the way back to New York.
Even when she returned to her own room and tried to sleep, they hummed at the back of her mind, relentless, until she couldn't stand it anymore. She needed a distraction. Ten minutes later she ended up in Clint's bed (empty; he was still chained to IVs and monitors in a stark white room two floors down), and there her thoughts quieted enough for her to rest. She didn't dwell on why. Why shake off one train of thought just so she could call up another?
When she woke some hours later, the crisp turn of a book page came somewhere from her left. Natasha held still. She let a slit of light into her vision, blinked, and extracted her hand from the warm cocoon of the blankets to slap onto the middle of Clint's book. In the case of an awkward situation, always act first to pretend you had planned it to turn out this way.
"You just slapped the face of an old Aztec stone sculpture." He wriggled the book from under her hand.
"And you need to stop reading travel guides."
Clint closed the book and tossed it onto the table behind him, switching it for a plastic cup that he then handed to her. Natasha sat up and gulped down the water. He wasn't going to ask her what she's doing in his bed? Not even a tiny remark? The clock on the wall read 10:32 a.m. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept this late.
"Why are you out of Medical?" Natasha asked.
"Hmm. I wonder why." He faked a mystified expression.
She laughed. For some reason that dimmed the smile on his own face. Before she could ask what's wrong he spoke first, throwing her off:
"Nat, you up for a walk?"
Natasha blinked, chewing the rim of the cup.
"A walk. Y'know, outside and all." His fingers curled and uncurled with underlying tension.
Natasha shrugged. Clint probably had some stupid stunt planned. Medical would never clear him on his third day with fractured bones near the vitals. Coulson was nuts to let him get away with it.
Convinced that he was without proper authorization, she made them take the subway. She didn't want him busted before they made it outside for checking out a car. Clint complied easily enough.
The station was packed with the pushy, weekend crowd. They waited by a quieter part away from the clusters of people, where Natasha zipped up his jacket, more out of mental comfort than actual protection for letting him out of S.H.I.E.L.D while his bed in the infirmary was still warm.
"Where to?" she shouted, so he could hear her through the competitive, approaching roar of the train, and pulled him towards the closest opening door.
"Don't know."
"C'mon, what'd you read all those travel guides for then?"
"We're in New York, Nat. I don't need a travel guide to find my way around—"
"Well, just pick a place then!" She laughed, waited for the passengers to get off, then pulled him in with her, and they leaned against the door as soon as it closed—the train was packed full like a sheep pen. Natasha put her arm around his waist when the floor beneath began to move.
"Park?" Clint suggested. "It's nice out."
Central Park bustled with people, it being a sunny Saturday, with a gentle, swinging breeze to perfect the weather. Leaves rustled and birdsong rehearsed overhead, making for a pleasant walk under the trees. Clint was right. Nice was an understatement. A current of preschoolers darted, twisted, occasionally knocked into them, and Natasha would redirect them with a steering hand to their wriggling bodies. She could tell Clint held in a laugh every time it happened. Seeing him out with the sun tinting his skin and the wind tousling his hair, she realized how much she had missed him.
Wandering, they came upon the Bethesda Terrace and settled by the edge of its water fountain. Natasha skipped a handful of pennies into the water, to the envy of nearby children who in turn begged their parents for coins. Clint watched her, lost in thought now that the preschooler episode had ended. How could she feel good for once while he brooded beside her? Her mouth formed the start of a question, but he beat her to it with the same intention in mind.
"Look, Nat. What's been going on?"
Natasha shifted the pennies in her palm uneasily.
She was his problem.
Clint took her silence for stubbornness and repeated his question. Now that the stalemate broke he came more forcefully, more demanding. His gaze hardened into a glower, the last thing she expected.
"Natasha."
She couldn't stand him looking at her that way. She couldn't stand hearing her name so harsh on his tongue. Untrained and unprepared for this kind of confrontation, Natasha did the only thing she could think of and knew to do: she pinched her lips shut.
"I'm worried, Natasha. I'm worried about you. I don't know what's been going on and that's the problem. You don't tell me anything and I'm too much of a wimp to ask. I can't let you on like this anymore."
Natasha shivered despite the sun grilling her skin through her jeans. She grated her nail against a penny. 2008, the year read. She threw it high, so it caught the light and collided against the angel statue at the center of the fountain—smack on the left wing.
Clint shook her by her shoulder. "I'm serious, Natasha. This is not going to work—"
"What's this?" She found her voice, icier and sharper than his. "What's not going to work out?"
Their eyes were warnings flashing, wanting the other to back down first. Natasha didn't want it to get any messier. She could tell Clint thought the same, but the unyielding determination in his eyes told her he meant business.
"You know what happened." He reached for her.
She pulled away from him. What did he think, that she had some kind of package deal stamped onto her forehead? She dropped the rest of her pennies into her pocket and rose, the relief and comfort she took from being with him long gone. She wanted to run. A cruel trick to run off on Clint when his condition guaranteed he'd never catch up, but he had forced her hand. Why did he have to bring things up when he knew how rare her better days were? Why bring them up at all?
"You can't get away from this, Natasha. Hiding won't fix anything." Clint raised his voice.
She walked faster. He didn't follow after her and couldn't, not in that shape. Natasha sent a silent thanks to his injuries, too racked up with blind fire to feel guilt.
She had the whole city at her disposal but couldn't think of where to go, so she wandered, tried to walk off the fume, spend her clenched jaws and tight fists on the ground she covered. The asphalt felt nonexistent beneath her shoes. She felt free-floating, like a smoldering spark drifting through the air, ready to ignite anything in her way. Time did little to dim that flame. When her phone buzzed in her pocket some time later she answered with a too-snappish "What?"
"Where are you?" Coulson snapped back.
"Out."
"With Barton?"
"Well, he's not at S.H.I.E.L.D, is he?"
"Break that attitude. I want you two back within an hour."
Within an hour? She wouldn't be prepared to go in two. Natasha hung up and resumed her wandering, though she lingered by the edge of Central Park, because no matter how much she told herself she didn't want to see Clint, she couldn't leave him behind.
The sun began to retreat. The blue veil of the sky kindled, then darkened into a charred sheet, rousing city lights to life. The trees in the park threw longer shadows onto the ground. The crowds thinned, evacuated in a constant stream until only a few joggers bobbed on the sidewalk. Natasha made her way back to the Bethesda Fountain. Clint had left, of course, but she didn't know where else to go.
Her contempt dissipated along with the sun and heat, until all that was left were the dark, shimmering water of the fountain and an emptiness in her stomach that wasn't from a lack of food.
The wind tugged at the ends of her cardigan. Natasha buttoned up and crossed her arms tight across her chest. She unlocked her phone, ignoring the dozen missed calls from Coulson, and opened the tracking program S.H.I.E.L.D installed. When Clint's location generated on the screen, she let out a pent-up breath. He didn't go far—just the bridge two-hundred yards away.
Slumped over that park bench at the far end of the bridge, the angle he twisted his spine in made her walk faster. Coulson would kill him—and her—for this. More her than him. When he was close enough to touch Natasha reached out and brushed her hand over his clammy forehead.
"C'mon, get up. Don't sleep here."
Clint raised his head and blinked.
She let him yank her down by her arm, hold her as tight as he wanted.
"I thought you left." He panted on her neck.
"I'm here." She ran her hands over his back gently. "I'm here. Let go, you're hurting yourself."
His head shook against her cheek. "I thought you left."
"Not so tight. You're hurting yourself, god dammit." She pried his fingers from her cardigan. The bastard, he snagged.
"I thought you left. You looked so pissed I thought you'd never want to see me again."
"I still am," she retorted, but it was just for show.
"I thought you left."
"Shut up. You know me better than that."
"Maybe I don't." Clint's grip tightened. "I'm going to ask you again, Natasha. What's been going on?"
"C'mon, get up." She tried to wriggle away.
"You heard me."
"I'll get you something warm to drink."
"Natasha."
"Fine. I get it, ok? " The words escaped before she could catch herself. Did she regret them? She couldn't decide.
Breaking their embrace, Natasha pulled his hood over his head and took his hands in hers. Ice against ice. She started to lead them towards the nearest path out the park, but Clint tugged her the other way, back across the bridge. She wanted to stop him, to pull him away, but he plowed on insistently.
He stood her in front of the same fountain they were at this morning, dug around his jean pockets, and pressed a coin into her palm. Natasha wanted to scoff at the absurdity of the action, but the earnest look he had on held her back.
"You dropped this."
"...Thanks?"
"It's an old one," he added, as if it meant the world.
Natasha turned the penny into the moonlight, the fading 1938 barely visible. She tucked it back into his hand. "You keep it."
Clint threw it into the water, the soft plop it made loud and clear now that the wind left.
What's he getting at? She tugged him by the inside of his elbow. "Let's go."
A considerable amount of the cafes littering the rim of the park still had their lights on. They picked a random one and entered, sat at opposite ends of a bistro table parked against the far wall. A sweet, buttery smell about the place. Soft, elevator music played on the speakers by the cashier.
Clint went up and bought them both coffee and muffins. Once he passed the mug to Natasha and the fragrant steam hit her nose, she wanted to do nothing else—talking included—but drink.
Clint had other ideas. After he finished his muffin in a few bites, he put his elbows onto the table and clasped his hands, giving her an expectant look.
"Not here," Natasha muttered, motioning to the customers at the other end of the cafe.
"We're not always going to have time for this. You're going to hold it off once we're back in the field."
"We have a month," she bargained. "You and your injuries will—"
"Nat, I'm serious. I think you know that."
"It's not something I can talk about over coffee and cakes. I think you know that too."
"What happened in that assignment for Hill?"
"Nothing—"
"Stop lying."
The old man in the corner with the newspaper lumbered out, and a teenage girl from behind the counter wiped his table and took away his empty plate and cup. She said something to the remaining two women a few tables away and they started to pack their handbags. Clint nodded when the girl turned towards their table. She looked relieved, smiled, then carried on wiping tables.
Clint drained the rest of his coffee and took the rest of Natasha's muffin off her hand. Might as well, he needed to eat more than she did. She felt like throwing up.
"Let's go," he said, and got up.
When they went outside and was about to head for the subway station, a car stopped right beside them on the road. One look at the driver, and Natasha rolled her eyes.
"Phil?" Clint's hand dropped from around her waist.
"Get in the car," Coulson snapped.
"We were just—"
"Save it, Barton."
They piled into the backseats. Once the car started up Coulson unleashed his nterrogation. "Who's idea was this?"
"Mine," Clint said.
"What the hell were you thinking? I do have my limits, Barton. I worried about you bouncing around the grounds, not—hey, are you even listening?" Coulson turned around.
"Eyes on the road, Phil."
"You need to learn to appreciate the degree of freedom I give you, not abuse it. One more time, and your clearance goes away."
Clint reached for a beat-up yellowed box resting on the cup holder. He shook out the contents and dealt the cards into four piles on his lap. "You wanna call up Fury? We should play a round. Too bad there's like... twelve of them."
Coulson looked back again. "Put those away."
"I want you to buy war bonds now." Clint read off the last card in his hand, mockingly deepening the bolded word.
"Barton."
He wiped his nose on his sleeve, collected the cards, and tossed them to Coulson, who stowed them away like artifacts inside his pocket. "I can't remember the last time you caught a cold." Coulson tossed a box of Kleenex to Clint. "And Romanoff, don't think you're invisible. I'm almost through with Barton."