FIC: all this devotion (for hiddencait) - R
Title: all this devotion
Author: dontbitethesun
A Gift For: hiddencait
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: Clint loses his hearing after the Avengers respond to an alien invasion. It leaves him feeling off balance until he finds a stray dog who, as it happens, is also deaf. Prompt: Strays - as in one of the pair brings home a stray or three. Can be an raggedy pet or an abandoned child or whatever else you want it to. I just want to see the reluctant rescue and their buried hearts coming to life for it if that makes sense.
Authors Notes: Happy holidays, hiddencait! I absolutely loved this prompt of yours and I also tried to stick in as many things off your like list as I could. Please excuse me if I got any of the medical information glaringly wrong, unlike Tony and Bruce, I am not a sciency person.
Banner by inkvoices
“Son of a bitch,” Clint swears, coming to with a ringing in his ears and a pounding in his head, his vision swimming in and out as he glances to the side at the feeling of Natasha’s warm hand on his bare arm.
“Hawkeye, status,” Natasha demands, her voice mission strong and authoritative, but the touch of her hand wrapping around his is gentle as she and Thor help him to sit up.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Clint says, mostly just to reassure her as he brings his free hand up to cradle his pounding forehead. At the very least, he doesn’t feel any blood.
The team has only been officially together for a little under a year and, if you’re counting that time Loki took over his brain and Natasha had to knock his head into a metal railing to bring him back to himself, this is his third head injury. The second time there’d been blood everywhere, dripping down into his eyes, down his face, but still not enough to block the vision of Natasha’s pale face, her voice tight as she’d rushed him to the jet. He’d tried to reassure her that head wounds always bleed a lot and was rewarded with her breathy, nervous laughter. He wouldn’t be surprised if this latest hit results in a concussion. He’d been seriously hoping that this getting hit in the head all the time wouldn’t become a thing.
“A giant mandible fell on your head and knocked you out,” Banner comments dryly, thankfully human again. “Somehow I think you’re a little less than okay.”
Yet another thing that is developing into a troublesome, repetitive occurrence is the invasion of New York by alien forces - this time giant mutant bugs. Clint’s been a soldier too long to ask many questions about where he’s sent and why - with a few rather notable exceptions - but Stark and Banner have been debating about it and taking samples, half jokingly and half serious, to determine if Loki’s portal left an energy signature that keeps drawing all the alien invasion forces to the city or if there’s just something indefinable about New York that is so magically appealing to extraterrestrials.
“Look at me, Clint,” Banner requests. “I need to see if you have a concussion.”
“Right,” Clint complies, looking up slowly only to find that Banner was so enthralled with the necessity of doctoring a team member, he’d forgotten to replace a few essential items of clothing that never seem to survive his transformation into either the Hulk or back to human again.
“Dude,” Clint blanches. “Pants!” He turns his head away, trying to find anywhere to look but the man in front of him. He settles on Natasha, who is always a lovely choice. “You’re pretty,” he states and is rewarded with her tight smile.
“How you feeling, Clint?” Banner asks. “A little woozy maybe?”
“Awfully uncomfortable, to be honest,” Clint answers, “seeing how I’m being examined by a doctor who’s not wearing any pants.”
“Well, your sense of humor seems to have survived unharmed at least,” Banner agrees, flashing a thin beam of light into each of Clint’s eyes. “And you don’t seem to have a concussion. All the same, let’s get you up on your feet and on your way to a S.H.E.I.L.D. infirmary.”
Clint does let Natasha and Thor pull him to his feet, Nat’s hand remaining as a warm, steadying pressure around his wrist, but he resists the request to go to all the way to S.H.E.I.L.D. “It’s just a bump on the head,” he argues. “Nothing I haven’t had before.”
“I’d still feel more comfortable if we had them run some tests, maybe a CT scan or a MRI,” Banner replies.
“Hey me too, but it’s two a.m. They’re going to have to page in the specialists and that could take hours and I can never sleep in that damn sick bay anymore. I just want to get a couple hours sleep and then I’ll go in the morning.”
Banner frowns but concedes. “You’ll stay with him, right?” he directs to Natasha.
“Of course,” she answers and Banner hesitantly acquiesces.
Natasha and Clint’s quarters at Stark Tower are set off next to each other on their own floor, a communicating door between them, with the training area taking up the rest of the floor. Thor, Bruce, and Steve are quartered on their own floor, while Tony has an entire floor all his own (it is, after all, his tower). Natasha doesn’t know if the communicating door is there because Tony accepts their status as a unit within a unit, an existing partnership that won’t be dissolved despite its incorporation until a larger team, or if it’s a silent query on the nature of their relationship. Natasha is used to the gossip, the game of are they or aren’t they that’s been played since the moment Clint brought her back to S.H.E.I.L.D., alive despite orders that specified otherwise. Natasha never confirms nor denies. She prefers her private life to remain just that - private.
Regardless of what Tony Stark may or may not think, the door stays permanently open. Natasha uses it to return to Clint’s room dressed in her normal sleeping attire - tank top and tiny shorts - despite the fact that she won’t be sleeping, an icepack in one hand and a book in the other. Clint had simply striped down to his boxers, dropping the pieces of clothing that make up his uniform haphazardly on the floor, and collapsed into bed. Perpetually neat, Natasha’s nose curls in annoyance when she sees his scattered clothing and she deftly picks them up and folds them neatly on top of his hamper.
“Where’d it hit you?” Natasha asks, voice gentle.
“Here,” Clint says, pointing to the back side of his head on the right, just behind his ear, and groans with pleasure when Natasha places the icepack there.
“I’m waking you up at 6am on the dot,” Natasha tells him, placing a quick kiss on his forehead. She climbs onto the bed, propping the pillows behind her and tucking her toes under the blanket before opening her book. This is what she does, hold a silent, wakeful vigil over Clint as he sleeps right after a mission that ends in his injury. Clint has tried before to urge her to sleep as well, but she maintains that it’s easier this way, she’s so wound up from the fighting she wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.
“Tash, it’s just a bump on the head,” Clint whispers, bringing his hand up to rest next to his head on his pillow. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I know,” she says. She props her book up against her raised knees, using one hand to flip the pages and dropping the other to rest next to Clint’s, waiting for him to wrap his own around it. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles in one brief, comforting pass before dropping off into unconsciousness.
*
What seems an exceedingly brief time later, Clint feels Nat’s hand on his shoulder, her voice soft and distant. He blinks open his eyes groggily and blinks up at her.
“How are you feeling?” he thinks she asks - that’s what he reads on her lips, but the sound of her voice is too low to make out the words. All he hears is an echo of sound, her voice an unclear murmur like speech heard underwater.
“Natasha,” he says with a hint of fear in his voice, his own words a low hum to his ears. “I can barely hear you.”
*
Natasha rushes him to the nearest S.H.E.I.L.D. facility without bothering to wake up any of their teammates - she barely spares the time to pull on some pants or let Clint step into his shoes.
Clint, who normally despises the hospital wing and all that goes on there, let’s them poke and prod him without complaint. He remains as still as possible in the MRI, the image of Nat’s pale face at the forefront of his mind, keeping him company whenever he closes his eyes. Natasha is not normally a worrier - she has her rituals, sure, but normally she approaches even the most dangerous missions with a certain vivacious abandon - and Clint can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen real fear on her face. Seeing it there now, combined with the confusion of his newly muffled world, sets his pulse racing, his knee jiggling once he’s returned to the exam room for the long wait for results. Natasha places her hand gently over his knee to stop the movement.
When the doctor does return it is not with good news. There’s 70% hearing loss in his right ear, 85% in the left - all because of that one bump on the head. The doctor tries to explain, saying words like sensorineural hearing loss and head trauma and cochlear implant and too early to tell but Clint’s head is spinning - the only thing that’s keeping him still, sitting on the edge of the exam table, is Natasha’s hand wrapped tightly around his own.
“We’re going to fit you with some hearing aids,” the doctor says, “and give it some time, see how it goes. If you’re lucky, your hearing will come back on it’s own. If not, we’ll have to consider some more permanent options.”
“But you’re sure that this is the worst that’s going to happen,” Natasha demands, as if what did already happen isn’t terrible enough. “There’s no brain bleed or, or something of that kind.”
“As far as we can be,” the doctor assures her.
They return to Stark Tower in silence. There’s no words to say, and even if there were, Clint probably couldn’t hear them anyway. There’s only Natasha’s hand on the small of his back offering wordless comfort and support. Bruce, Steve, and Thor are gathered in the common area when he and Natasha arrive. He can tell from their expressions the moment he steps off the elevator that Natasha’s already filled them in. He can’t stand the looks on their faces - worry and pity where Natasha’s is now fierce determination - but mostly he’s just glad he doesn’t have to explain it to them himself.
“How. Are. You. Faring?” Thor asks, loudly over-enunciating each word, twisting his mouth about in a comic fashion in a (failed) attempt to make them clearer.
“Dude,” Clint says, speaking at a normal volume, “don’t do that, you look stupid. Just talk normal, it’ll make it easier to read your lips. Also,” he adds, turning his head around to point at the plastic device in his ear, “hearing aids.”
“Fascinating,” Thor says, leaning in close to peer into Clint’s ear and invading his personal space. His voice is still a touch louder than necessary, but at least he’s not twisting his mouth into tortured contortions that make it impossible for Clint to tell what he’s saying. “And what do these so called ‘hearing aids’ do?”
“They amplify sound,” Natasha explains, frowning as Thor lifts a finger to try and poke at the tiny device. Steve interjects and pulls Thor away with a hand around his bicep before Natasha is tempted to do so in a far less delicate manner.
“We just wanted to check in, but now we’ll give you some time to get your bearings back,” he says. “I expect you’ll be in fighting form again soon enough,” he adds with a grin.
Banner gives Clint a companionable pat on the arm as he follows Steve and Thor out of the room. “Don’t beat yourself up about not going in sooner,” he says. “Probably wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“Gee, thanks,” Clint says, but he appreciates the sentiment, the way Banner anticipated his thought process and tried to mitigate it before he could start second guessing every move he’d made since the moment they first suited up for the alien bug invasion.
All Clint wants to do is collapse into his bed and sleep, hoping that when he wakes up this will all have been a horrible, horrible nightmare. He doesn’t like the hearing aids and he can’t wait to take them out. They make sound different in a way he can’t quite explain but still bothers him anyway. The S.H.E.I.L.D. technicians had molded them to fit his ear but this doesn’t make them feel any less foreign - cool, unforgiving plastic against his skin. The doctors had said to give it time and he’d get used to them, but right at this moment, he doesn’t think so.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Natasha asks when Clint tries to head down the hall to their quarters.
Clint shrugs. “Shower, sleep, what do you think?”
“I don’t think you’re getting off that easily,” Natasha counters.
“Tash, it’s been a long day,” Clint says, voice weary.
“Hmm, maybe that blow to the head did rattle your brain around more than I thought,” she says, giving him a little smile with the challenging curve to her lips that Clint has never, ever been able to resist. “You, me, shooting range. My gun against your bow. What do you say?”
Clint sighs, shakes his head, and returns her reckless smile. “Loser buys dinner.”
“You’re on, Barton. I’m feeling a craving for Indian.”
“Too spicy,” Clint says. “What do you have against a plain old burger joint?”
“Boring. Food should be an adventure.”
“Only if it doesn’t give you heartburn.”
The rhythm of their normal banter - their familiar verbal give and take - makes picking up his quiver and his bow and following Nat to the shooting range feel like second nature. His first few shots hit their mark exactly as they’re supposed to and Clint breathes out in relief, releasing a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d started carrying. Natasha had had the right idea when she’d gotten him back onto the shooting range so quickly. It hadn’t given him any time to dwell or let his confidence with his weapon diminish. He figures he probably can’t make anymore of those fancy trick shots without looking, the kind he’d relied so much on sound for, but his accuracy is unchanged. Gauging wind direction and speed has always been something he’s done by feel and by sight and those senses are still just as strong as ever.
Clint beats Natasha, but it’s by such a narrow margin that he knows she hadn’t been going easy on him. He does suspect that she’d let him win in the end, granting him the comfort of a regular meal from his favorite greasy spoon while still letting him feel as if he’d earned it.
“So what do you have in store for tomorrow?” Clint asks as they eat at his favorite out-of-the-way diner. Clint’s got a huge burger and an order of fries while Natasha ordered a chef’s salad that she argues is far more healthy, but that doesn’t stop her from helping herself to Clint’s fries as well.
“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it,” Natasha says, the look on her face telling him that she knows but refuses to share.
“And the stakes? Will there be stakes? Or possibly steaks?” Clint gives Natasha a pleased little smile at his joke and she retaliates by rolling her eyes and swiping another fry.
“It’ll just have to be a surprise,” Natasha answers, popping the pilfered fry into her mouth, giving him a closemouthed grin while she chews.
For the next few weeks, Natasha keeps him on his toes. She’ll never tell him what she has planned until the moment they’re walking into the training area. If Clint didn’t know Natasha and her ability to make carefully structured and well-thought out plans look effortless and stir of the moment, he’d suspect that she was coming up with each objective off the top of her head each morning. Seeing as he does know her so well, he knows the reason she keeps springing these things on him now is the same reason she encouraged him to get back to the shooting range so quickly - it doesn’t give him any time to let his worry built and fetter his natural reflexes.
Natasha forces him to train both with and without the hearing aids, arguing that if anything happens to the tiny electronic devices, he needs to be prepared to defend himself. He tends to eventually lose against her one-on-one - which is really no different than before he’d lost his hearing - but he does well enough at holding his own for a while. She also brings in Steve and Thor to test his abilities against multiple opponents.
Clint thinks Steve is there to assess how his altered senses will affect his performance in the field, both his strengths and his new weaknesses, as much as to help Clint train. Steve doesn’t bat an eyelash when he watches Clint on the shooting range, his accuracy unchanged, and Clint reminds himself that Steve’s evaluation of him doesn’t mean that Steve is against him, that the whole team has things they are good at and things they are not. It’s Steve’s job to keep those things in mind and plan accordingly so they operate together smoothly - one member’s strength balancing out another’s weakness - to make them a better team. When Clint spars against all three opponents - Natasha, Thor, and Steve himself - with his hearing aids out, Clint knows that Steve can see how difficult it is for him to keep track of the movements of anyone behind him without sound to alert him to their approach and he gets taken down every time.
“You’ll need someone on your six in hand-to-hand,” Steve says, patting Clint on the back as he towels the sweat off his face. “Good to know.”
Bruce isn’t one for fighting in his human form and Clint and Natasha both would prefer not to face him in Hulk form, but he does invite Clint to meditate with him, and offer that Clint appreciates but politely turns down. Stark, on the other hand, is conspicuously absent, locked away in his lab for days on end. Clint wonders if it’s because he simply can’t be bothered - too enthralled with his latest project to come up for air - or if he doesn’t like to be reminded of the frailty of the human body and that shard of shrapnel inching perilously close to his heart.
A few days later, Clint returns to his room to find an ear piece that hooks behind his ear with a mic attached on a small stem. When he toggles the piece on and slips it into his ear, he realizes that it is a new communicator that works though a hearing aid much like the ones he normally wears so that he can still hear what’s going on around him and communicate with the rest of his team members at the same time. It’s accompanied by a hand-written note that reads for missions and Clint realizes he’s underestimated Stark. Tony is reaching out in the only way he knows how - letting Clint know he still thinks of him as part of the team through an innovative technological invention tailored for his needs.
*
As the weeks pass and his hearing doesn’t improve, Clint starts wondering if maybe this is it for him - his superhero-ing days are over. He feels like a liability, no matter how much effort the rest of the team has put in to make him feel like he’s still wanted. The Avengers haven’t been called out for the couple of months Clint’s been relearning his altered senses; they’re a highly specialized team and alien invasions are - thankfully - few and far between. Bruce and Tony occasionally get invited to analyze various pieces of alien tech that find their way to Earth that are carefully contained in S.H.E.I.L.D. laboratories, while Steve gets a monthly briefing from Fury of what they know about nearby alien races, tracking what they can of their movements and anything that would make them potential threats.
Clint brings the subject up to Natasha at the end of the day after a long work-out. They’re relaxing on Clint’s bed, Natasha leaning up against the headboard, a book in her hand, and Clint sprawled across the bed, his head in her lap.
“Tash,” Clint says, “I’ve been thinking…”
“Hmm?” Natasha murmurs, dragging her fingers lazily through Clint’s hair.
“Maybe it’s time for me to go back to S.H.E.I.L.D. Man a desk. Train some rookies.”
Natasha looks up, instantly alert. “Is that what you want?” she asks.
“I think it might be for the best.”
“Then I’ll come with you,” Natasha states, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“Nat, no. This team needs you.”
“And you think you’re so easy to replace?”
“Sharpshooters are a dime a dozen.”
“I meant to me,” Natasha says, giving his hair a petulant little yank for thinking otherwise. She sits him up and forces him to look her in the eye. “You and me, Barton, we’re partners. That’s always been the deal. Do you honestly think I could let you go back to S.H.E.I.L.D. by yourself and leave me behind?”
He has to kiss her then, he can’t not. She melts into the kiss and he bites down hard on her lower lip, the way he knows she likes. Her hands dip under his shirt to skim over his skin, her touch like a livewire -hot and electrified - her fingers on his body the only thing keeping her grounded. She leans back against the pillows and drags him on top of her.
He straddles her hips, grinding his stiffing erection against her. His mouth drifts down her body, nuzzles and nips at her neck while he pulls her shirt up and over her head. He kisses a trail down her body, her skin soft and smelling like soap from the shower, and makes her come with his tongue alone.
He has to kiss the satisfied smirk off her lips when she presents him with the condom after he’s torn it open and rolled it on. He leaves her gasping instead when he enters her with one quick thrust, pulling her leg up and over his shoulder and starts to move, losing himself in the feel of her body.
Afterward, Natasha gently removes the slim device from Clint’s left ear. “Can you hear me now?” she jokes.
“What, what?” Clint says, leaning close to speak loudly in her ear. Natasha laughs and playacts at pushing him away, but there’s no real force behind the hand she places on his chest. “I think you need to speak up.”
Natasha fiddles with the on/off button on the hearing aid before twirling it deftly between her fingers like a coin. She reaches for his hand and places the hearing aid in the center of his palm, curling his fingers around it. “You know, you’re kind of lucky in a way,” she muses. “Just think about all the things the rest of us have to listen to that you could tune out if you wanted.”
“Thor’s new ringtone,” Clint suggests.
“Bruce’s self-actuation mediation tapes.”
“Pepper and Stark fighting.”
“Tony and Bruce talking science jargon.”
“Steve’s new addiction to daytime soaps.”
“Me singing off-key in the shower.”
“Now that,” Clint says, leaning close to steal a kiss, “I’ve always enjoyed.”
*
The subject of Clint leaving the Avengers and Natasha coming with him doesn't come up again. He wakes with Natasha beside him, his hand on her hip, her left leg tangled up with his. He goes to shower like any other morning, wondering what Natasha has in store for him today.
As it turns out, the day is anything but average.
“We’re up,” Natasha says, poking her head into the bathroom as he’s brushing his teeth. “Bank robbery in Chicago. The thieves and the cops are in a stand off.”
“Isn’t that a little unusual for us?” They are not, after all, the only superheroes around and usually the local ones can arrive on the scene in a fraction of the time that the Avengers can.
“Not with the weapons these guys are packing. Illegal alien tech.”
“Got it,” Clint says. Natasha is staring at him, a look that he can’t decipher on her face. It he had to guess, he’d call it both pensive and challenging and he knows that their conversation the night before is at the forefront of both their minds. “Guess we’d better suit up.”
She tilts her head and nods as if she’d never expected any other answer, a small smile playing over her lips as she turns to leave.
*
The jet ride to Chicago feels both interminably long and over far too soon. None of his team members had said a word when he’d arrived in the hanger bay, slipping his new hearing aid/communicator over his ear, as nervous as a schoolboy on his first day of school. Later, when they’d taken their seats and strapped in, Clint had rubbed sweaty palms against his pant leg and felt the comforting touch of Natasha’s hand wrapping loosely around his wrist.
The situation with the bank robbers carrying alien weapons had quickly devolved after the Avengers had arrived. In addition to the energy weapons that could fell a building with a single well-placed shot, they are wearing full body armor - another kind of alien tech that looks more like the exoskeleton of an insect than anything crafted by human hands. The group was large in terms of what normally constituted a bank robbery - fifteen men or women, it was impossible to tell in the alien suits - with unclear leadership. Three of the robbers opt to stay in the bank with their hostages while the remainder rush out into the street, shooting indiscriminately as they go without regard for human life.
Steve starts shouting out orders, the team fanning out after their targets.
“You,” Steve says, pointing to Clint, “I need you as my eyes in the sky.”
“Got it,” Clint says. He turns to Iron Man and states, “I’m ready for a lift.”
“You know what to do?” Stark asks after depositing him on a nearby rooftop.
“The brain damage only extends to my hearing,” Clint quips.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Stark returns before jetting off again.
There is chaos in the street below. Natasha and Steve work with the police to evacuate pedestrians and workers and residents from the nearby buildings while Thor, Tony, and Bruce try and corral the bank robbers - the ugly exoskeleton armor seemingly impervious to all of their abilities. Clint calls out what he can, his bow hanging uselessly at his side until the Hulk takes on two of the robbers within Clint’s range.
“The Hulk’s cornered a pair of them right below me,” Clint says, raising his bow. “I’m gonna see if I can’t help him out a little.”
He fires regular and exploding tip arrows at any potential weak points on the suits. The Hulk’s blows don’t seem to have much effect and his assailants mostly ignore the arrows coming from up above. It’s not until Clint lands a shot on the back of the neck of the armor and one of the thieves crumples to the ground that the other finally takes notice of him. He’s got his mic on, relaying exactly where the bug suits are vulnerable when the remaining thief turns and points his weapon in Clint’s direction.
“Oh shit,” Clint says, diving toward the far side of the roof he’s standing on. The building shutters beneath him as the energy blast from the alien weapon hits home, the cement roof - apparently much thinner than the concrete used to construct the rest of the building - collapsing into the top story of the building and taking Clint with it.
“Hawkeye, you okay up there?” Steve asks over the still open mic.
Clint is actually no worse for the wear, a little sore sure, but having a hard time relaying that as he coughs on the swirl of dust rising around him.
“Clint, buddy,” Steve continues. “Say something before Black Widow breaks the fingers on my hand, she’s clutching them so tight.”
Clint manages to sit up and move toward the gabbing hole in the wall where the air is clearer. His voice is hoarse, but functional. “Just make sure that if Banner needs to take a look at them, he puts on some damn pants first this time.” He leans out the hole in the wall just enough to see the empty street. “I’m going to need to find a new position,” he says. “I’ve lost sight of the targets.”
“The fight’s pretty much over now, we’ve just got a few lose ends to tie up,” Steve says. “Thanks for the info, by the way. We’re regrouping three blocks south of you. Think you can make your way there?”
“On my way,” Clint answers.
He rappels down to the ground and starts making his way through the rubble scattered over the ground when he spots the dog. She’s some kind of spaniel, a russet red color with scattered white spots covering her coat.
“Hey Red,” Clint calls. “You should probably get out of the road.”
The dog, sniffing tentatively at a piece of rubble, has her back turned to him and doesn’t turn at the sound of his voice. Clint sighs. This is the last thing he needs today. He tries to tell himself it’s just a dog - it’ll be fine on it’s own and he doesn’t need to get involved.
As he walks up behind her, his boots sliding in the wreckage, he knows he’s making quite a racket even to his own impaired ears but still the dog doesn’t turn. When Clint finally squats down behind her, reaching out a hand to touch her back, she flinches and jumps, finally noticing his presence. He’s surprised her, and where most dogs would growl at the intrusion, Red just shies away, dropping to the ground a few small doggie steps from Clint, her head on her paws.
“Hey girl, it’s alright,” Clint says, making his voice calm and gentle although he’s not quite sure why when clearly she has hearing problems too. He offers his hand to her, inches from her nose but not making an attempt to touch, close enough that she can tentatively sniff his palm by simply lifting her head, which she does. After a long moment, she gives his hand a little lick, her tongue soft and warm against his skin and her feathery tail, grey with dust, wagging against the pavement. Clint sighs again, knowing there’s no leaving her behind now. He wonders if this is his lot in life, to rescue red-headed beauties from dire circumstances.
He gathers the dog up carefully, tucking her under his left arm. She melts like butter in his arms without the slightest squirm or wiggle, gazing up at him with warm, trusting eyes. This doesn’t make him feel any less like an idiot as he approaches his team with the dog in his arms. They fall silent as he approaches. Clint just knows that under that Iron Man mask, Tony is giving him a look like he thinks Clint is descended from rabid wild boars or something. Stupid rabid wild boars.
“And what do we have here?” Steve asks, his voice ringing with authority the way it always does when he dons the Captain America costume.
“What are we, superhero dog catchers now?” Tony demands.
“I think she’s deaf,” Clint answers. “I just couldn’t leave her.”
It’s all he needs to say. “Just keep her out of the way,” Tony sighs. “Stash her in the jet, perhaps, until we’re ready to go.”
It doesn’t take them long to wrap up and board the jet for the ride back. Clint rides with the dog in his lap, Steve stopping beside him for a moment to pet her.
“I used to have a golden retriever when I was a kid,” Steve offers, gently stroking the dog’s soft ears. The pat turns into a scratch under her chin when Red angles her head in towards Steve’s hand. “Her name was Sadie. What name are you planning to give her?”
“I’ve been calling her Red,” Clint answers.
“Red,” Steve says, giving her one last scratch. “I like it.”
“Me too,” Natasha chimes in. She doesn’t seem to be sure what to make of the dog and has been having a long staring contest with her for most of the flight. She reaches out a tentative hand once Steve’s lifts his own away, brushing her fingers lightly against Red’s muzzle. Red wags her tail and gives Natasha’s hand a happy lick. Clint grins at the delight that floods Natasha’s face.
“I guess that’s it then,” Clint answers.
*
“She’s awfully dirty,” Natasha notes, scrapping at the dried mud caked between Red’s nails.
When they’d returned to Stark Tower, Clint had managed to scrounge up some leftovers to feed Red for dinner. She had eaten quickly, scarfing down the food without pausing to chew much less taste. Once she’d finished, the little dog had crawled into Natasha’s lap and fallen asleep.
“I think she’s been out on the street for a long time,” Clint answers.
“Do you think someone lost her?”
“I don’t know,” Clint says. “We’ll have to take her to the vet in the morning, see if she’s got a microchip.”
“And tonight?”
“We gave her a good meal and now we’ll give her a soft place to sleep.”
Natasha’s gaze turns stern. “You’re planning to let her sleep in bed with us, aren’t you?”
Caught, Clint tries to evade her eyes. He is not successful. “Is that so bad?” he asks.
Natasha stares down at the little dog sleeping soundly in her lap. “I suppose not.” She looks up and gives Clint a plaintive look. “Although perhaps we could give her a bath first?”
There is a large bathtub in Natasha’s suite that comes equipped with Jacuzzi jets, so it is to her bathroom they take the dog. They fill the water up to Red’s knees and pour cups of the warm water over her body to rinse off as much of the dirt as they can before using Natasha’s strawberry scented shampoo to wash off the rest. Red stands there patiently the whole time, not trying to jump out of the tub but regarding them with sad eyes. She shivers after they pull her out and towel her off, her coat still too damp for comfort. Natasha grabs her hairdryer to get her completely dry and Red, unable to hear the roar of air moving around her, sits just as patiently as she had during her bath, her tail wagging contentedly.
When they do go to bed, Natasha lifts Red up and places her gently at the foot of the bed where Red remains for the rest of the night, her chin on Clint’s knee and her paws resting against Natasha’s shin.
*
Clint makes an appointment to take Red to a nearby vet in the morning and Natasha accompanies them. Clint tells the vet tech everything he can about Red while Natasha noses around the items on the counter, fiddling with the lids on canisters of tongue depressors and long cotton swabs.
The tech is not only rude, but outright insulting.
“You sure you’re up for the hassle and extra work of a deaf dog?” he asks, holding Red in his arms as he brings her back into the room after getting her weight. “I don’t think it’d be worth it, myself.”
Doing his best not to roll his eyes, Clint turns his head and points to his hearing aids. “I think we’re pretty much made for each other,” he says.
“Oh dude,” the tech says, “you’re almost like a normal person, I couldn’t even tell. You don’t have that weird accent most deaf people do.”
Natasha snaps the tongue depressor she’d been playing with and shoots the tech a dark look that says she can break him into little tiny pieces with her pinky finger and where would he like her to start?
Red intercedes before Natasha can move, letting out a soft burp before proceeding to lose her breakfast all over the tech’s shirt. The tech makes a distressed face and quickly deposits Red on the shiny metal exam table.
“Huh. Guess she gets car-sick,” Clint says.
Nat’s lips purse into the expression she makes when she’s trying not to smile, the corners of her lips twitching up as if she could burst into laughter at a moment’s notice.
“You should maybe consider another line of work,” Clint comments dryly as the tech makes his way out the door.
“He’s more of a cat person, I think,” Clint says to Natasha as her pursed lips give way to a wide grin, deep, amused laughter bubbling up from her chest.
The vet, a kindly old man with much better people skills than the tech he employs, informs them that Red is in fact a stray. There’s no microchip to claim previous ownership and she’s slightly malnourished, attesting to a lonely life on the streets - a short period at least as she doesn’t seem to be more than six months old. He can’t find a reason for her deafness and concludes that she was probably just born that way. She’s otherwise in the clear. He gives her the appropriate vaccinations and concludes it’s too early to have her spayed.
“She’ll need to get a little more meat on those bones before we can spay her,” the vet says as Red tries to lick his face, “but you’ve got yourself a nice healthy dog here.”
*
Red is an extremely well behaved, patient dog. She spends her nights curled up between Natasha and Clint - her head resting on either of their legs as they sleep - and her days winning over the rest of the team. Steve can always be counted on to play fetch or tug of war. Red stares up at Bruce with her wide, soulful eyes - usually while he’s trying to mediate - until he concedes, reaching down to give her long, thorough belly rubs. She uses those same soulful eyes on Tony whenever he happens to be eating to beg scraps that he eventually gives in and slips her. She delicately takes the scraps from Tony’s outstretched fingers before, like most dogs do, inhaling it in one gulp then gazing back up again as if no food had ever been given.
Pepper gets her a custom dog collar with the Avenger’s insignia on it and Thor takes her on long meandering walks though the streets and parks of the city, calling Jane afterwards to relate all the places they’d been and the things they’d seen. Jane brings a multitude of toys with her when she comes to visit, and a soft dog bed that Red only uses for naps during the day. Darcy volunteers to give Red another bath, and they both emerge from the bathroom two hours later smelling of fruity soap, Red’s toenails painted a bright purple.
With Red around, Clint is beginning to finally feel comfortable in his own skin again in a way he hasn’t since his hearing loss. She seems to be having a similar effect on the rest of his teammates, softening their rough edges. It’s no secret that the Avengers are composed of strong personalities and when Fury had first tried to turn them into a team, they hadn’t exactly fit well together. In the intervening months, they’d made some effort to become a real team on their own, but it’s Red who helps them settle in fully. They make an effort to do more things together, get to know each other a little better.
Or at least that’s what Clint thinks. He’s comfortable blaming Red’s influence for the question that comes out of Steve’s mouth while they’re playing air hockey during some down time - a game that fascinates Steve, little puffs of air floating the plastic puck off the table, allowing for amazing speed.
“So what’s the deal with you and Natasha?” Steve asks.
“I would’ve thought it was obvious,” Clint replies, intent on both the quick action on the table and doing his best not to step on Red who is curled up at his feet.
The burst of laughter that Steve lets out surprises Clint into glancing up and losing track of the action on the table, the little plastic puck sliding home into his goal.
Clint frowns. “You did that on purpose,” he says.
“No,” Steve says, holding his hands up defensively. “It was just your answer. You and Natasha and whatever you two are to one another is the farthest thing from obvious.”
He’s not wrong. His and Natasha’s relationship has always been as ambiguous between the two of them as it has to other people; their working partnership has always come first between them, overshadowing anything that could be called romantic. They’re devoted to each other, with a system of give and take that helps them be exactly what the other one needs, but it’s never been something they’ve talked about - for example, the fact that neither of them ever sleep with anyone else has never been mentioned, much less analyzed.
Maybe, Clint thinks, it’s time to make a declaration.
*
Clint makes plans and waits until he can get Natasha alone. He finds her curled up on the couch - reading, of course - a few days later and flops down beside her, stealing her book right out of her hands. She flashes a smile at him and asks, bemused, “Was there something you wanted?”
“There was, actually,” Clint answers, grinning at her. “I read this review about a restaurant that allows dogs. They even have a specialized doggie menu as well as their normal fare. I was thinking you and I could take Red and check it out.”
There’s something in his demeanor that gives her pause. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was nervous.
“Are you asking me out on a real date, Barton?” she asks. She means it as a joke, but the way his lips quirk in a facsimile of a smile and looks away tells her that that was exactly what he was doing. “Oh. You were?”
“Pretty much.”
She pauses, catches his chin and forces him to meet her eyes. “That’s not something we do,” she says, her words a statement that belies the question in her eyes.
“No,” Clint answers. “But I thought maybe we could start.”
“Alright,” Natasha answers, “I’ll even wear a dress and everything.”
Clint laughs and presses a kiss to the answering smile on Natasha’s lips.
*
The date goes well, their waitress cooing at Red and bringing her extra treats whenever she comes by to check on Clint and Natasha. The food is good and they end up sharing dessert. When they’re done, they take Red on a walk through a near-by park, settling on a bench to watch the sun set. Red sits quietly at their feet, chewing a small stick she’d picked up along the way into infinitesimally small bits and pieces. There’s a slight chill in the air, summer on it’s way out with autumn just around the corner, and Clint brings his arm up to wrap around Natasha’s bare shoulders.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Clint begins.
“Sounds ominous,” Natasha answers, the last time he’d started out a conversation with those words and mentioned returning to S.H.E.I.L.D. to take a desk job fresh in her mind.
“Could be,” he answers. “Or it might be something that you like.”
“So what have you been thinking?”
“These past few months, I don’t think I could have made it through them without you.” He has the feeling that these words could be the start of a proposal, and perhaps someday, they will. But not today - today there’s something else that needs to be said first. “And I wanted to tell you thank you.”
“Clint,” Natasha answers, reaching up a her hand to stroke his face, a soft smile on her face. “There isn’t any other place I’d rather be.”
“There’s more,” Clint says. “I know this isn’t something we talk about, but I thought that you should know.”
“Yes?” Natasha chews on her bottom lip and Clint leans in the kiss her and make her stop.
“I just wanted to tell you - I’m in love with you.”
Natasha has always been a cynic about love, and with the life she’d lead, way back before she met him - the one in which she used sex to disarm her targets and love as a weapon - Clint more than understands. It’s part of the reason he’s never mentioned it before - but the way her face lights up now as she pulls him close, hugging him tightly and hiding her face against his neck, make him wish he’d risked it sooner.
“Me too,” she whispers against his skin, “I - me too. You’re everything to me.”
Natasha is fond of saying that love is for children, and in this case, Clint thinks she’s right. The devotion between the two of them is so much more. He thinks they might be each other’s soul mates - not because of some destiny or cosmic force that decided it but because of every day spent together and every mission that has brought them spiraling in towards one another and made them so.
“So this date night thing worked out pretty well,” Clint says, tangling his fingers in Natasha’s hair and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I think we should maybe try it again.”
“Yeah,” Natasha answers, laughter muffled. “I think we should too.”
*
Things change, just a little, but mostly they simply stay the same. Whatever that inconspicuous change may be though, it makes the rest of the team sit up and take notice.
“There’s something different about the two of you,” Tony says, studying them with narrowed eyes like they’re one of his science projects, one in which he has all the pieces but he’s having trouble getting them to fit together just so.
Sitting side by side, sharing a pint of ice cream at the kitchen table, Clint just quirks an eyebrow at Natasha, causing her to smile.
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “They’re way more touchy-feely than I remember them being.”
“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “They were pretty touchy-feely before.”
“Were we?” Clint asks Natasha. She shrugs in response, the amused smile still fixed firmly in place on her lips. “I don’t remember.”
“Hah,” Thor says, bending over to peer under the table, where Red is curled up on Natasha’s toes, and spots the fingers of Clint and Natasha’s non-spoon wielding hands tangled up together. “They are holding hands under the table.”
“Holding hands,” Tony muses. “I think that’s new.”
“You caught us,” Clint jokes. “We’ve recently discovered the joys of PDA. Next we’re planning to make out on the couch. Maybe indulge in a little heavy petting.
“Please don’t,” Bruce says, face perturbed as he gets up from said couch.
“So you two are taken with each other,” Thor says, making Clint laugh.
“That's one way of putting it,” Clint answers, in a way that only Thor could.
“Yeah,” Natasha answers, her eyes never leaving Clint’s face. “Yeah, we are.”
.end
Author: dontbitethesun
A Gift For: hiddencait
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: Clint loses his hearing after the Avengers respond to an alien invasion. It leaves him feeling off balance until he finds a stray dog who, as it happens, is also deaf. Prompt: Strays - as in one of the pair brings home a stray or three. Can be an raggedy pet or an abandoned child or whatever else you want it to. I just want to see the reluctant rescue and their buried hearts coming to life for it if that makes sense.
Authors Notes: Happy holidays, hiddencait! I absolutely loved this prompt of yours and I also tried to stick in as many things off your like list as I could. Please excuse me if I got any of the medical information glaringly wrong, unlike Tony and Bruce, I am not a sciency person.
Banner by inkvoices
“Son of a bitch,” Clint swears, coming to with a ringing in his ears and a pounding in his head, his vision swimming in and out as he glances to the side at the feeling of Natasha’s warm hand on his bare arm.
“Hawkeye, status,” Natasha demands, her voice mission strong and authoritative, but the touch of her hand wrapping around his is gentle as she and Thor help him to sit up.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Clint says, mostly just to reassure her as he brings his free hand up to cradle his pounding forehead. At the very least, he doesn’t feel any blood.
The team has only been officially together for a little under a year and, if you’re counting that time Loki took over his brain and Natasha had to knock his head into a metal railing to bring him back to himself, this is his third head injury. The second time there’d been blood everywhere, dripping down into his eyes, down his face, but still not enough to block the vision of Natasha’s pale face, her voice tight as she’d rushed him to the jet. He’d tried to reassure her that head wounds always bleed a lot and was rewarded with her breathy, nervous laughter. He wouldn’t be surprised if this latest hit results in a concussion. He’d been seriously hoping that this getting hit in the head all the time wouldn’t become a thing.
“A giant mandible fell on your head and knocked you out,” Banner comments dryly, thankfully human again. “Somehow I think you’re a little less than okay.”
Yet another thing that is developing into a troublesome, repetitive occurrence is the invasion of New York by alien forces - this time giant mutant bugs. Clint’s been a soldier too long to ask many questions about where he’s sent and why - with a few rather notable exceptions - but Stark and Banner have been debating about it and taking samples, half jokingly and half serious, to determine if Loki’s portal left an energy signature that keeps drawing all the alien invasion forces to the city or if there’s just something indefinable about New York that is so magically appealing to extraterrestrials.
“Look at me, Clint,” Banner requests. “I need to see if you have a concussion.”
“Right,” Clint complies, looking up slowly only to find that Banner was so enthralled with the necessity of doctoring a team member, he’d forgotten to replace a few essential items of clothing that never seem to survive his transformation into either the Hulk or back to human again.
“Dude,” Clint blanches. “Pants!” He turns his head away, trying to find anywhere to look but the man in front of him. He settles on Natasha, who is always a lovely choice. “You’re pretty,” he states and is rewarded with her tight smile.
“How you feeling, Clint?” Banner asks. “A little woozy maybe?”
“Awfully uncomfortable, to be honest,” Clint answers, “seeing how I’m being examined by a doctor who’s not wearing any pants.”
“Well, your sense of humor seems to have survived unharmed at least,” Banner agrees, flashing a thin beam of light into each of Clint’s eyes. “And you don’t seem to have a concussion. All the same, let’s get you up on your feet and on your way to a S.H.E.I.L.D. infirmary.”
Clint does let Natasha and Thor pull him to his feet, Nat’s hand remaining as a warm, steadying pressure around his wrist, but he resists the request to go to all the way to S.H.E.I.L.D. “It’s just a bump on the head,” he argues. “Nothing I haven’t had before.”
“I’d still feel more comfortable if we had them run some tests, maybe a CT scan or a MRI,” Banner replies.
“Hey me too, but it’s two a.m. They’re going to have to page in the specialists and that could take hours and I can never sleep in that damn sick bay anymore. I just want to get a couple hours sleep and then I’ll go in the morning.”
Banner frowns but concedes. “You’ll stay with him, right?” he directs to Natasha.
“Of course,” she answers and Banner hesitantly acquiesces.
Natasha and Clint’s quarters at Stark Tower are set off next to each other on their own floor, a communicating door between them, with the training area taking up the rest of the floor. Thor, Bruce, and Steve are quartered on their own floor, while Tony has an entire floor all his own (it is, after all, his tower). Natasha doesn’t know if the communicating door is there because Tony accepts their status as a unit within a unit, an existing partnership that won’t be dissolved despite its incorporation until a larger team, or if it’s a silent query on the nature of their relationship. Natasha is used to the gossip, the game of are they or aren’t they that’s been played since the moment Clint brought her back to S.H.E.I.L.D., alive despite orders that specified otherwise. Natasha never confirms nor denies. She prefers her private life to remain just that - private.
Regardless of what Tony Stark may or may not think, the door stays permanently open. Natasha uses it to return to Clint’s room dressed in her normal sleeping attire - tank top and tiny shorts - despite the fact that she won’t be sleeping, an icepack in one hand and a book in the other. Clint had simply striped down to his boxers, dropping the pieces of clothing that make up his uniform haphazardly on the floor, and collapsed into bed. Perpetually neat, Natasha’s nose curls in annoyance when she sees his scattered clothing and she deftly picks them up and folds them neatly on top of his hamper.
“Where’d it hit you?” Natasha asks, voice gentle.
“Here,” Clint says, pointing to the back side of his head on the right, just behind his ear, and groans with pleasure when Natasha places the icepack there.
“I’m waking you up at 6am on the dot,” Natasha tells him, placing a quick kiss on his forehead. She climbs onto the bed, propping the pillows behind her and tucking her toes under the blanket before opening her book. This is what she does, hold a silent, wakeful vigil over Clint as he sleeps right after a mission that ends in his injury. Clint has tried before to urge her to sleep as well, but she maintains that it’s easier this way, she’s so wound up from the fighting she wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.
“Tash, it’s just a bump on the head,” Clint whispers, bringing his hand up to rest next to his head on his pillow. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I know,” she says. She props her book up against her raised knees, using one hand to flip the pages and dropping the other to rest next to Clint’s, waiting for him to wrap his own around it. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles in one brief, comforting pass before dropping off into unconsciousness.
*
What seems an exceedingly brief time later, Clint feels Nat’s hand on his shoulder, her voice soft and distant. He blinks open his eyes groggily and blinks up at her.
“How are you feeling?” he thinks she asks - that’s what he reads on her lips, but the sound of her voice is too low to make out the words. All he hears is an echo of sound, her voice an unclear murmur like speech heard underwater.
“Natasha,” he says with a hint of fear in his voice, his own words a low hum to his ears. “I can barely hear you.”
*
Natasha rushes him to the nearest S.H.E.I.L.D. facility without bothering to wake up any of their teammates - she barely spares the time to pull on some pants or let Clint step into his shoes.
Clint, who normally despises the hospital wing and all that goes on there, let’s them poke and prod him without complaint. He remains as still as possible in the MRI, the image of Nat’s pale face at the forefront of his mind, keeping him company whenever he closes his eyes. Natasha is not normally a worrier - she has her rituals, sure, but normally she approaches even the most dangerous missions with a certain vivacious abandon - and Clint can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen real fear on her face. Seeing it there now, combined with the confusion of his newly muffled world, sets his pulse racing, his knee jiggling once he’s returned to the exam room for the long wait for results. Natasha places her hand gently over his knee to stop the movement.
When the doctor does return it is not with good news. There’s 70% hearing loss in his right ear, 85% in the left - all because of that one bump on the head. The doctor tries to explain, saying words like sensorineural hearing loss and head trauma and cochlear implant and too early to tell but Clint’s head is spinning - the only thing that’s keeping him still, sitting on the edge of the exam table, is Natasha’s hand wrapped tightly around his own.
“We’re going to fit you with some hearing aids,” the doctor says, “and give it some time, see how it goes. If you’re lucky, your hearing will come back on it’s own. If not, we’ll have to consider some more permanent options.”
“But you’re sure that this is the worst that’s going to happen,” Natasha demands, as if what did already happen isn’t terrible enough. “There’s no brain bleed or, or something of that kind.”
“As far as we can be,” the doctor assures her.
They return to Stark Tower in silence. There’s no words to say, and even if there were, Clint probably couldn’t hear them anyway. There’s only Natasha’s hand on the small of his back offering wordless comfort and support. Bruce, Steve, and Thor are gathered in the common area when he and Natasha arrive. He can tell from their expressions the moment he steps off the elevator that Natasha’s already filled them in. He can’t stand the looks on their faces - worry and pity where Natasha’s is now fierce determination - but mostly he’s just glad he doesn’t have to explain it to them himself.
“How. Are. You. Faring?” Thor asks, loudly over-enunciating each word, twisting his mouth about in a comic fashion in a (failed) attempt to make them clearer.
“Dude,” Clint says, speaking at a normal volume, “don’t do that, you look stupid. Just talk normal, it’ll make it easier to read your lips. Also,” he adds, turning his head around to point at the plastic device in his ear, “hearing aids.”
“Fascinating,” Thor says, leaning in close to peer into Clint’s ear and invading his personal space. His voice is still a touch louder than necessary, but at least he’s not twisting his mouth into tortured contortions that make it impossible for Clint to tell what he’s saying. “And what do these so called ‘hearing aids’ do?”
“They amplify sound,” Natasha explains, frowning as Thor lifts a finger to try and poke at the tiny device. Steve interjects and pulls Thor away with a hand around his bicep before Natasha is tempted to do so in a far less delicate manner.
“We just wanted to check in, but now we’ll give you some time to get your bearings back,” he says. “I expect you’ll be in fighting form again soon enough,” he adds with a grin.
Banner gives Clint a companionable pat on the arm as he follows Steve and Thor out of the room. “Don’t beat yourself up about not going in sooner,” he says. “Probably wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“Gee, thanks,” Clint says, but he appreciates the sentiment, the way Banner anticipated his thought process and tried to mitigate it before he could start second guessing every move he’d made since the moment they first suited up for the alien bug invasion.
All Clint wants to do is collapse into his bed and sleep, hoping that when he wakes up this will all have been a horrible, horrible nightmare. He doesn’t like the hearing aids and he can’t wait to take them out. They make sound different in a way he can’t quite explain but still bothers him anyway. The S.H.E.I.L.D. technicians had molded them to fit his ear but this doesn’t make them feel any less foreign - cool, unforgiving plastic against his skin. The doctors had said to give it time and he’d get used to them, but right at this moment, he doesn’t think so.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Natasha asks when Clint tries to head down the hall to their quarters.
Clint shrugs. “Shower, sleep, what do you think?”
“I don’t think you’re getting off that easily,” Natasha counters.
“Tash, it’s been a long day,” Clint says, voice weary.
“Hmm, maybe that blow to the head did rattle your brain around more than I thought,” she says, giving him a little smile with the challenging curve to her lips that Clint has never, ever been able to resist. “You, me, shooting range. My gun against your bow. What do you say?”
Clint sighs, shakes his head, and returns her reckless smile. “Loser buys dinner.”
“You’re on, Barton. I’m feeling a craving for Indian.”
“Too spicy,” Clint says. “What do you have against a plain old burger joint?”
“Boring. Food should be an adventure.”
“Only if it doesn’t give you heartburn.”
The rhythm of their normal banter - their familiar verbal give and take - makes picking up his quiver and his bow and following Nat to the shooting range feel like second nature. His first few shots hit their mark exactly as they’re supposed to and Clint breathes out in relief, releasing a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d started carrying. Natasha had had the right idea when she’d gotten him back onto the shooting range so quickly. It hadn’t given him any time to dwell or let his confidence with his weapon diminish. He figures he probably can’t make anymore of those fancy trick shots without looking, the kind he’d relied so much on sound for, but his accuracy is unchanged. Gauging wind direction and speed has always been something he’s done by feel and by sight and those senses are still just as strong as ever.
Clint beats Natasha, but it’s by such a narrow margin that he knows she hadn’t been going easy on him. He does suspect that she’d let him win in the end, granting him the comfort of a regular meal from his favorite greasy spoon while still letting him feel as if he’d earned it.
“So what do you have in store for tomorrow?” Clint asks as they eat at his favorite out-of-the-way diner. Clint’s got a huge burger and an order of fries while Natasha ordered a chef’s salad that she argues is far more healthy, but that doesn’t stop her from helping herself to Clint’s fries as well.
“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it,” Natasha says, the look on her face telling him that she knows but refuses to share.
“And the stakes? Will there be stakes? Or possibly steaks?” Clint gives Natasha a pleased little smile at his joke and she retaliates by rolling her eyes and swiping another fry.
“It’ll just have to be a surprise,” Natasha answers, popping the pilfered fry into her mouth, giving him a closemouthed grin while she chews.
For the next few weeks, Natasha keeps him on his toes. She’ll never tell him what she has planned until the moment they’re walking into the training area. If Clint didn’t know Natasha and her ability to make carefully structured and well-thought out plans look effortless and stir of the moment, he’d suspect that she was coming up with each objective off the top of her head each morning. Seeing as he does know her so well, he knows the reason she keeps springing these things on him now is the same reason she encouraged him to get back to the shooting range so quickly - it doesn’t give him any time to let his worry built and fetter his natural reflexes.
Natasha forces him to train both with and without the hearing aids, arguing that if anything happens to the tiny electronic devices, he needs to be prepared to defend himself. He tends to eventually lose against her one-on-one - which is really no different than before he’d lost his hearing - but he does well enough at holding his own for a while. She also brings in Steve and Thor to test his abilities against multiple opponents.
Clint thinks Steve is there to assess how his altered senses will affect his performance in the field, both his strengths and his new weaknesses, as much as to help Clint train. Steve doesn’t bat an eyelash when he watches Clint on the shooting range, his accuracy unchanged, and Clint reminds himself that Steve’s evaluation of him doesn’t mean that Steve is against him, that the whole team has things they are good at and things they are not. It’s Steve’s job to keep those things in mind and plan accordingly so they operate together smoothly - one member’s strength balancing out another’s weakness - to make them a better team. When Clint spars against all three opponents - Natasha, Thor, and Steve himself - with his hearing aids out, Clint knows that Steve can see how difficult it is for him to keep track of the movements of anyone behind him without sound to alert him to their approach and he gets taken down every time.
“You’ll need someone on your six in hand-to-hand,” Steve says, patting Clint on the back as he towels the sweat off his face. “Good to know.”
Bruce isn’t one for fighting in his human form and Clint and Natasha both would prefer not to face him in Hulk form, but he does invite Clint to meditate with him, and offer that Clint appreciates but politely turns down. Stark, on the other hand, is conspicuously absent, locked away in his lab for days on end. Clint wonders if it’s because he simply can’t be bothered - too enthralled with his latest project to come up for air - or if he doesn’t like to be reminded of the frailty of the human body and that shard of shrapnel inching perilously close to his heart.
A few days later, Clint returns to his room to find an ear piece that hooks behind his ear with a mic attached on a small stem. When he toggles the piece on and slips it into his ear, he realizes that it is a new communicator that works though a hearing aid much like the ones he normally wears so that he can still hear what’s going on around him and communicate with the rest of his team members at the same time. It’s accompanied by a hand-written note that reads for missions and Clint realizes he’s underestimated Stark. Tony is reaching out in the only way he knows how - letting Clint know he still thinks of him as part of the team through an innovative technological invention tailored for his needs.
*
As the weeks pass and his hearing doesn’t improve, Clint starts wondering if maybe this is it for him - his superhero-ing days are over. He feels like a liability, no matter how much effort the rest of the team has put in to make him feel like he’s still wanted. The Avengers haven’t been called out for the couple of months Clint’s been relearning his altered senses; they’re a highly specialized team and alien invasions are - thankfully - few and far between. Bruce and Tony occasionally get invited to analyze various pieces of alien tech that find their way to Earth that are carefully contained in S.H.E.I.L.D. laboratories, while Steve gets a monthly briefing from Fury of what they know about nearby alien races, tracking what they can of their movements and anything that would make them potential threats.
Clint brings the subject up to Natasha at the end of the day after a long work-out. They’re relaxing on Clint’s bed, Natasha leaning up against the headboard, a book in her hand, and Clint sprawled across the bed, his head in her lap.
“Tash,” Clint says, “I’ve been thinking…”
“Hmm?” Natasha murmurs, dragging her fingers lazily through Clint’s hair.
“Maybe it’s time for me to go back to S.H.E.I.L.D. Man a desk. Train some rookies.”
Natasha looks up, instantly alert. “Is that what you want?” she asks.
“I think it might be for the best.”
“Then I’ll come with you,” Natasha states, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“Nat, no. This team needs you.”
“And you think you’re so easy to replace?”
“Sharpshooters are a dime a dozen.”
“I meant to me,” Natasha says, giving his hair a petulant little yank for thinking otherwise. She sits him up and forces him to look her in the eye. “You and me, Barton, we’re partners. That’s always been the deal. Do you honestly think I could let you go back to S.H.E.I.L.D. by yourself and leave me behind?”
He has to kiss her then, he can’t not. She melts into the kiss and he bites down hard on her lower lip, the way he knows she likes. Her hands dip under his shirt to skim over his skin, her touch like a livewire -hot and electrified - her fingers on his body the only thing keeping her grounded. She leans back against the pillows and drags him on top of her.
He straddles her hips, grinding his stiffing erection against her. His mouth drifts down her body, nuzzles and nips at her neck while he pulls her shirt up and over her head. He kisses a trail down her body, her skin soft and smelling like soap from the shower, and makes her come with his tongue alone.
He has to kiss the satisfied smirk off her lips when she presents him with the condom after he’s torn it open and rolled it on. He leaves her gasping instead when he enters her with one quick thrust, pulling her leg up and over his shoulder and starts to move, losing himself in the feel of her body.
Afterward, Natasha gently removes the slim device from Clint’s left ear. “Can you hear me now?” she jokes.
“What, what?” Clint says, leaning close to speak loudly in her ear. Natasha laughs and playacts at pushing him away, but there’s no real force behind the hand she places on his chest. “I think you need to speak up.”
Natasha fiddles with the on/off button on the hearing aid before twirling it deftly between her fingers like a coin. She reaches for his hand and places the hearing aid in the center of his palm, curling his fingers around it. “You know, you’re kind of lucky in a way,” she muses. “Just think about all the things the rest of us have to listen to that you could tune out if you wanted.”
“Thor’s new ringtone,” Clint suggests.
“Bruce’s self-actuation mediation tapes.”
“Pepper and Stark fighting.”
“Tony and Bruce talking science jargon.”
“Steve’s new addiction to daytime soaps.”
“Me singing off-key in the shower.”
“Now that,” Clint says, leaning close to steal a kiss, “I’ve always enjoyed.”
*
The subject of Clint leaving the Avengers and Natasha coming with him doesn't come up again. He wakes with Natasha beside him, his hand on her hip, her left leg tangled up with his. He goes to shower like any other morning, wondering what Natasha has in store for him today.
As it turns out, the day is anything but average.
“We’re up,” Natasha says, poking her head into the bathroom as he’s brushing his teeth. “Bank robbery in Chicago. The thieves and the cops are in a stand off.”
“Isn’t that a little unusual for us?” They are not, after all, the only superheroes around and usually the local ones can arrive on the scene in a fraction of the time that the Avengers can.
“Not with the weapons these guys are packing. Illegal alien tech.”
“Got it,” Clint says. Natasha is staring at him, a look that he can’t decipher on her face. It he had to guess, he’d call it both pensive and challenging and he knows that their conversation the night before is at the forefront of both their minds. “Guess we’d better suit up.”
She tilts her head and nods as if she’d never expected any other answer, a small smile playing over her lips as she turns to leave.
*
The jet ride to Chicago feels both interminably long and over far too soon. None of his team members had said a word when he’d arrived in the hanger bay, slipping his new hearing aid/communicator over his ear, as nervous as a schoolboy on his first day of school. Later, when they’d taken their seats and strapped in, Clint had rubbed sweaty palms against his pant leg and felt the comforting touch of Natasha’s hand wrapping loosely around his wrist.
The situation with the bank robbers carrying alien weapons had quickly devolved after the Avengers had arrived. In addition to the energy weapons that could fell a building with a single well-placed shot, they are wearing full body armor - another kind of alien tech that looks more like the exoskeleton of an insect than anything crafted by human hands. The group was large in terms of what normally constituted a bank robbery - fifteen men or women, it was impossible to tell in the alien suits - with unclear leadership. Three of the robbers opt to stay in the bank with their hostages while the remainder rush out into the street, shooting indiscriminately as they go without regard for human life.
Steve starts shouting out orders, the team fanning out after their targets.
“You,” Steve says, pointing to Clint, “I need you as my eyes in the sky.”
“Got it,” Clint says. He turns to Iron Man and states, “I’m ready for a lift.”
“You know what to do?” Stark asks after depositing him on a nearby rooftop.
“The brain damage only extends to my hearing,” Clint quips.
“Let’s keep it that way,” Stark returns before jetting off again.
There is chaos in the street below. Natasha and Steve work with the police to evacuate pedestrians and workers and residents from the nearby buildings while Thor, Tony, and Bruce try and corral the bank robbers - the ugly exoskeleton armor seemingly impervious to all of their abilities. Clint calls out what he can, his bow hanging uselessly at his side until the Hulk takes on two of the robbers within Clint’s range.
“The Hulk’s cornered a pair of them right below me,” Clint says, raising his bow. “I’m gonna see if I can’t help him out a little.”
He fires regular and exploding tip arrows at any potential weak points on the suits. The Hulk’s blows don’t seem to have much effect and his assailants mostly ignore the arrows coming from up above. It’s not until Clint lands a shot on the back of the neck of the armor and one of the thieves crumples to the ground that the other finally takes notice of him. He’s got his mic on, relaying exactly where the bug suits are vulnerable when the remaining thief turns and points his weapon in Clint’s direction.
“Oh shit,” Clint says, diving toward the far side of the roof he’s standing on. The building shutters beneath him as the energy blast from the alien weapon hits home, the cement roof - apparently much thinner than the concrete used to construct the rest of the building - collapsing into the top story of the building and taking Clint with it.
“Hawkeye, you okay up there?” Steve asks over the still open mic.
Clint is actually no worse for the wear, a little sore sure, but having a hard time relaying that as he coughs on the swirl of dust rising around him.
“Clint, buddy,” Steve continues. “Say something before Black Widow breaks the fingers on my hand, she’s clutching them so tight.”
Clint manages to sit up and move toward the gabbing hole in the wall where the air is clearer. His voice is hoarse, but functional. “Just make sure that if Banner needs to take a look at them, he puts on some damn pants first this time.” He leans out the hole in the wall just enough to see the empty street. “I’m going to need to find a new position,” he says. “I’ve lost sight of the targets.”
“The fight’s pretty much over now, we’ve just got a few lose ends to tie up,” Steve says. “Thanks for the info, by the way. We’re regrouping three blocks south of you. Think you can make your way there?”
“On my way,” Clint answers.
He rappels down to the ground and starts making his way through the rubble scattered over the ground when he spots the dog. She’s some kind of spaniel, a russet red color with scattered white spots covering her coat.
“Hey Red,” Clint calls. “You should probably get out of the road.”
The dog, sniffing tentatively at a piece of rubble, has her back turned to him and doesn’t turn at the sound of his voice. Clint sighs. This is the last thing he needs today. He tries to tell himself it’s just a dog - it’ll be fine on it’s own and he doesn’t need to get involved.
As he walks up behind her, his boots sliding in the wreckage, he knows he’s making quite a racket even to his own impaired ears but still the dog doesn’t turn. When Clint finally squats down behind her, reaching out a hand to touch her back, she flinches and jumps, finally noticing his presence. He’s surprised her, and where most dogs would growl at the intrusion, Red just shies away, dropping to the ground a few small doggie steps from Clint, her head on her paws.
“Hey girl, it’s alright,” Clint says, making his voice calm and gentle although he’s not quite sure why when clearly she has hearing problems too. He offers his hand to her, inches from her nose but not making an attempt to touch, close enough that she can tentatively sniff his palm by simply lifting her head, which she does. After a long moment, she gives his hand a little lick, her tongue soft and warm against his skin and her feathery tail, grey with dust, wagging against the pavement. Clint sighs again, knowing there’s no leaving her behind now. He wonders if this is his lot in life, to rescue red-headed beauties from dire circumstances.
He gathers the dog up carefully, tucking her under his left arm. She melts like butter in his arms without the slightest squirm or wiggle, gazing up at him with warm, trusting eyes. This doesn’t make him feel any less like an idiot as he approaches his team with the dog in his arms. They fall silent as he approaches. Clint just knows that under that Iron Man mask, Tony is giving him a look like he thinks Clint is descended from rabid wild boars or something. Stupid rabid wild boars.
“And what do we have here?” Steve asks, his voice ringing with authority the way it always does when he dons the Captain America costume.
“What are we, superhero dog catchers now?” Tony demands.
“I think she’s deaf,” Clint answers. “I just couldn’t leave her.”
It’s all he needs to say. “Just keep her out of the way,” Tony sighs. “Stash her in the jet, perhaps, until we’re ready to go.”
It doesn’t take them long to wrap up and board the jet for the ride back. Clint rides with the dog in his lap, Steve stopping beside him for a moment to pet her.
“I used to have a golden retriever when I was a kid,” Steve offers, gently stroking the dog’s soft ears. The pat turns into a scratch under her chin when Red angles her head in towards Steve’s hand. “Her name was Sadie. What name are you planning to give her?”
“I’ve been calling her Red,” Clint answers.
“Red,” Steve says, giving her one last scratch. “I like it.”
“Me too,” Natasha chimes in. She doesn’t seem to be sure what to make of the dog and has been having a long staring contest with her for most of the flight. She reaches out a tentative hand once Steve’s lifts his own away, brushing her fingers lightly against Red’s muzzle. Red wags her tail and gives Natasha’s hand a happy lick. Clint grins at the delight that floods Natasha’s face.
“I guess that’s it then,” Clint answers.
*
“She’s awfully dirty,” Natasha notes, scrapping at the dried mud caked between Red’s nails.
When they’d returned to Stark Tower, Clint had managed to scrounge up some leftovers to feed Red for dinner. She had eaten quickly, scarfing down the food without pausing to chew much less taste. Once she’d finished, the little dog had crawled into Natasha’s lap and fallen asleep.
“I think she’s been out on the street for a long time,” Clint answers.
“Do you think someone lost her?”
“I don’t know,” Clint says. “We’ll have to take her to the vet in the morning, see if she’s got a microchip.”
“And tonight?”
“We gave her a good meal and now we’ll give her a soft place to sleep.”
Natasha’s gaze turns stern. “You’re planning to let her sleep in bed with us, aren’t you?”
Caught, Clint tries to evade her eyes. He is not successful. “Is that so bad?” he asks.
Natasha stares down at the little dog sleeping soundly in her lap. “I suppose not.” She looks up and gives Clint a plaintive look. “Although perhaps we could give her a bath first?”
There is a large bathtub in Natasha’s suite that comes equipped with Jacuzzi jets, so it is to her bathroom they take the dog. They fill the water up to Red’s knees and pour cups of the warm water over her body to rinse off as much of the dirt as they can before using Natasha’s strawberry scented shampoo to wash off the rest. Red stands there patiently the whole time, not trying to jump out of the tub but regarding them with sad eyes. She shivers after they pull her out and towel her off, her coat still too damp for comfort. Natasha grabs her hairdryer to get her completely dry and Red, unable to hear the roar of air moving around her, sits just as patiently as she had during her bath, her tail wagging contentedly.
When they do go to bed, Natasha lifts Red up and places her gently at the foot of the bed where Red remains for the rest of the night, her chin on Clint’s knee and her paws resting against Natasha’s shin.
*
Clint makes an appointment to take Red to a nearby vet in the morning and Natasha accompanies them. Clint tells the vet tech everything he can about Red while Natasha noses around the items on the counter, fiddling with the lids on canisters of tongue depressors and long cotton swabs.
The tech is not only rude, but outright insulting.
“You sure you’re up for the hassle and extra work of a deaf dog?” he asks, holding Red in his arms as he brings her back into the room after getting her weight. “I don’t think it’d be worth it, myself.”
Doing his best not to roll his eyes, Clint turns his head and points to his hearing aids. “I think we’re pretty much made for each other,” he says.
“Oh dude,” the tech says, “you’re almost like a normal person, I couldn’t even tell. You don’t have that weird accent most deaf people do.”
Natasha snaps the tongue depressor she’d been playing with and shoots the tech a dark look that says she can break him into little tiny pieces with her pinky finger and where would he like her to start?
Red intercedes before Natasha can move, letting out a soft burp before proceeding to lose her breakfast all over the tech’s shirt. The tech makes a distressed face and quickly deposits Red on the shiny metal exam table.
“Huh. Guess she gets car-sick,” Clint says.
Nat’s lips purse into the expression she makes when she’s trying not to smile, the corners of her lips twitching up as if she could burst into laughter at a moment’s notice.
“You should maybe consider another line of work,” Clint comments dryly as the tech makes his way out the door.
“He’s more of a cat person, I think,” Clint says to Natasha as her pursed lips give way to a wide grin, deep, amused laughter bubbling up from her chest.
The vet, a kindly old man with much better people skills than the tech he employs, informs them that Red is in fact a stray. There’s no microchip to claim previous ownership and she’s slightly malnourished, attesting to a lonely life on the streets - a short period at least as she doesn’t seem to be more than six months old. He can’t find a reason for her deafness and concludes that she was probably just born that way. She’s otherwise in the clear. He gives her the appropriate vaccinations and concludes it’s too early to have her spayed.
“She’ll need to get a little more meat on those bones before we can spay her,” the vet says as Red tries to lick his face, “but you’ve got yourself a nice healthy dog here.”
*
Red is an extremely well behaved, patient dog. She spends her nights curled up between Natasha and Clint - her head resting on either of their legs as they sleep - and her days winning over the rest of the team. Steve can always be counted on to play fetch or tug of war. Red stares up at Bruce with her wide, soulful eyes - usually while he’s trying to mediate - until he concedes, reaching down to give her long, thorough belly rubs. She uses those same soulful eyes on Tony whenever he happens to be eating to beg scraps that he eventually gives in and slips her. She delicately takes the scraps from Tony’s outstretched fingers before, like most dogs do, inhaling it in one gulp then gazing back up again as if no food had ever been given.
Pepper gets her a custom dog collar with the Avenger’s insignia on it and Thor takes her on long meandering walks though the streets and parks of the city, calling Jane afterwards to relate all the places they’d been and the things they’d seen. Jane brings a multitude of toys with her when she comes to visit, and a soft dog bed that Red only uses for naps during the day. Darcy volunteers to give Red another bath, and they both emerge from the bathroom two hours later smelling of fruity soap, Red’s toenails painted a bright purple.
With Red around, Clint is beginning to finally feel comfortable in his own skin again in a way he hasn’t since his hearing loss. She seems to be having a similar effect on the rest of his teammates, softening their rough edges. It’s no secret that the Avengers are composed of strong personalities and when Fury had first tried to turn them into a team, they hadn’t exactly fit well together. In the intervening months, they’d made some effort to become a real team on their own, but it’s Red who helps them settle in fully. They make an effort to do more things together, get to know each other a little better.
Or at least that’s what Clint thinks. He’s comfortable blaming Red’s influence for the question that comes out of Steve’s mouth while they’re playing air hockey during some down time - a game that fascinates Steve, little puffs of air floating the plastic puck off the table, allowing for amazing speed.
“So what’s the deal with you and Natasha?” Steve asks.
“I would’ve thought it was obvious,” Clint replies, intent on both the quick action on the table and doing his best not to step on Red who is curled up at his feet.
The burst of laughter that Steve lets out surprises Clint into glancing up and losing track of the action on the table, the little plastic puck sliding home into his goal.
Clint frowns. “You did that on purpose,” he says.
“No,” Steve says, holding his hands up defensively. “It was just your answer. You and Natasha and whatever you two are to one another is the farthest thing from obvious.”
He’s not wrong. His and Natasha’s relationship has always been as ambiguous between the two of them as it has to other people; their working partnership has always come first between them, overshadowing anything that could be called romantic. They’re devoted to each other, with a system of give and take that helps them be exactly what the other one needs, but it’s never been something they’ve talked about - for example, the fact that neither of them ever sleep with anyone else has never been mentioned, much less analyzed.
Maybe, Clint thinks, it’s time to make a declaration.
*
Clint makes plans and waits until he can get Natasha alone. He finds her curled up on the couch - reading, of course - a few days later and flops down beside her, stealing her book right out of her hands. She flashes a smile at him and asks, bemused, “Was there something you wanted?”
“There was, actually,” Clint answers, grinning at her. “I read this review about a restaurant that allows dogs. They even have a specialized doggie menu as well as their normal fare. I was thinking you and I could take Red and check it out.”
There’s something in his demeanor that gives her pause. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was nervous.
“Are you asking me out on a real date, Barton?” she asks. She means it as a joke, but the way his lips quirk in a facsimile of a smile and looks away tells her that that was exactly what he was doing. “Oh. You were?”
“Pretty much.”
She pauses, catches his chin and forces him to meet her eyes. “That’s not something we do,” she says, her words a statement that belies the question in her eyes.
“No,” Clint answers. “But I thought maybe we could start.”
“Alright,” Natasha answers, “I’ll even wear a dress and everything.”
Clint laughs and presses a kiss to the answering smile on Natasha’s lips.
*
The date goes well, their waitress cooing at Red and bringing her extra treats whenever she comes by to check on Clint and Natasha. The food is good and they end up sharing dessert. When they’re done, they take Red on a walk through a near-by park, settling on a bench to watch the sun set. Red sits quietly at their feet, chewing a small stick she’d picked up along the way into infinitesimally small bits and pieces. There’s a slight chill in the air, summer on it’s way out with autumn just around the corner, and Clint brings his arm up to wrap around Natasha’s bare shoulders.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Clint begins.
“Sounds ominous,” Natasha answers, the last time he’d started out a conversation with those words and mentioned returning to S.H.E.I.L.D. to take a desk job fresh in her mind.
“Could be,” he answers. “Or it might be something that you like.”
“So what have you been thinking?”
“These past few months, I don’t think I could have made it through them without you.” He has the feeling that these words could be the start of a proposal, and perhaps someday, they will. But not today - today there’s something else that needs to be said first. “And I wanted to tell you thank you.”
“Clint,” Natasha answers, reaching up a her hand to stroke his face, a soft smile on her face. “There isn’t any other place I’d rather be.”
“There’s more,” Clint says. “I know this isn’t something we talk about, but I thought that you should know.”
“Yes?” Natasha chews on her bottom lip and Clint leans in the kiss her and make her stop.
“I just wanted to tell you - I’m in love with you.”
Natasha has always been a cynic about love, and with the life she’d lead, way back before she met him - the one in which she used sex to disarm her targets and love as a weapon - Clint more than understands. It’s part of the reason he’s never mentioned it before - but the way her face lights up now as she pulls him close, hugging him tightly and hiding her face against his neck, make him wish he’d risked it sooner.
“Me too,” she whispers against his skin, “I - me too. You’re everything to me.”
Natasha is fond of saying that love is for children, and in this case, Clint thinks she’s right. The devotion between the two of them is so much more. He thinks they might be each other’s soul mates - not because of some destiny or cosmic force that decided it but because of every day spent together and every mission that has brought them spiraling in towards one another and made them so.
“So this date night thing worked out pretty well,” Clint says, tangling his fingers in Natasha’s hair and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I think we should maybe try it again.”
“Yeah,” Natasha answers, laughter muffled. “I think we should too.”
*
Things change, just a little, but mostly they simply stay the same. Whatever that inconspicuous change may be though, it makes the rest of the team sit up and take notice.
“There’s something different about the two of you,” Tony says, studying them with narrowed eyes like they’re one of his science projects, one in which he has all the pieces but he’s having trouble getting them to fit together just so.
Sitting side by side, sharing a pint of ice cream at the kitchen table, Clint just quirks an eyebrow at Natasha, causing her to smile.
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “They’re way more touchy-feely than I remember them being.”
“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “They were pretty touchy-feely before.”
“Were we?” Clint asks Natasha. She shrugs in response, the amused smile still fixed firmly in place on her lips. “I don’t remember.”
“Hah,” Thor says, bending over to peer under the table, where Red is curled up on Natasha’s toes, and spots the fingers of Clint and Natasha’s non-spoon wielding hands tangled up together. “They are holding hands under the table.”
“Holding hands,” Tony muses. “I think that’s new.”
“You caught us,” Clint jokes. “We’ve recently discovered the joys of PDA. Next we’re planning to make out on the couch. Maybe indulge in a little heavy petting.
“Please don’t,” Bruce says, face perturbed as he gets up from said couch.
“So you two are taken with each other,” Thor says, making Clint laugh.
“That's one way of putting it,” Clint answers, in a way that only Thor could.
“Yeah,” Natasha answers, her eyes never leaving Clint’s face. “Yeah, we are.”
.end