Gerful: Wild and wayward.
The day of the wedding dawns bright and crisp and clear, the sun peeking through the windows to find Natasha pacing back and forth, twisting her cherry curls around her fingers and worrying at made-up blemishes on her cheeks and going over her vows over and over, until she is finally sure she can recite them backwards and forwards and probably in Swahili, too, if anyone asked her to. She had a knack for picking up languages.
And Clint, that wretch, had slept through the whole thing, snoring cheerily away until ten in the bloody morning, as if he wasn't about to experience the biggest day of his life. He had woken up, bright-eyed, had the audacity to peck her on the cheek before toddling off in his boxers to have breakfast. Natasha was itching to chain a collar on him and waste a few hours flogging him, but it was their wedding day, and she supposed she could cut him a little slack.
So she sits on the edge of their bed, cross and tapping her foot impatiently on the carpet, waiting for the hours to pass.
"What do you mean, it won't stay?" Natasha asks icily a few hours later as the hairdresser tries to tame her curls into submission.
"It won't stay," the hairdresser repeats, teasing and pulling at a wayward curl that wants to straggle its way across Natasha's forehead at all costs. It has withstood the tests of the canister of hairspray, multiple brushes and combs, and even the heat of the straightening iron. It had been subdued for a few time following the last trial, before springing back into all its curly glory a scarce three minutes later.
Gwen pokes her head through the door, tapping at her wrist to tell Natasha that it is time to go, and Natasha snarls at her and scares her away before flouncing up amidst a poof of lace and satin and stalking towards the chapel doors.
"And you've been my best friend, my best love, and I hope you will never be a widow, as your name suggests," Clint finishes, and she can feel that stray curl tickling her forehead as he lifts up the veil to get his first unhindered look at her.
"It didn't want to stay," she explains, and wonders why she sounds so apologetic. One loose curl cannot possibly be the downfall of an otherwise perfect wedding, surely.
"It's got a mind of its own. Hard not to, when it's attached to your head," he says, shrugging, and kisses her.