[FIC] Rituals - Chapter 10 (Clint/Natasha)
Characters/Pairing: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Rating: M, for swearing and sex
Word Count: 17150 (Completed)
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone. All hail the great and mighty Joss and the venerable Stan Lee.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Avengers movie; not really spoilers, just vague nods at stuff that happened.
Summary: After defeating Loki with the Avengers, Clint and Natasha spend 24 hours in a hotel suite. Together they recover from the trauma inflicted on each of them by Loki. As Clint’s memories return, he relives the various encounters with Natasha that lead them to where they are now, beginning with Agent Barton’s failed mission to kill the Black Widow in Cairo.
In this chapter, Clint finally remembers what happened in Budapest.
New York
Present Day
11:42
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Almost noon.”
She stretches lavishly against him. Grins at his body’s reaction.
“When was the last time you slept til noon?” he asks.
Her hand trails to his neck. She traces the whorl of his ear with her fingers. “Never,” she says. She ruffles the hair at his temples.
“I don’t think he let us sleep,” Clint says. “Loki, I mean. He maybe didn’t let us eat.”
“You don’t feed something you’re gonna throw away.” She frowns. Then she says, “Fury says we have time off.”
They exchange a look that’s one part confusion, one part incredulity, like, what is this time off business? and they smile.
Clint says, “It’s been since before-”
“Monaco,” Natasha finishes.
“But that was-”
“Two years ago,” she says.
“Two?” He glances at her. She nods. “But, we had five hours together. Over the course of a weekend.”
“Hmm. Great five hours, though. Made up for that really, really bad assignment with Stark.”
His kisses her forehead. “Natalie Rushman.”
“Yep. And Fury had you watching Tony’s place back in California,” she remembers. “You had that tiny bungalow on Venice Beach. Do you still have it?”
The memories in that place... All those hasty, stolen, frenzied moments brought on by stress and their mismatched schedules. They joked that they couldn’t tell if they were coming or going, so mostly they were coming...
He feels the stir of arousal. She feels it, too, and slides her hand under his cock to give him an encouraging squeeze.
“Uhm. I sold it,” he says. She hooks a leg over his hip, draws him closer. “I don’t think we slept then, either.”
“For much better reasons,” she agrees. She slides her hand down his length and up again, and just like that, she’s got his full attention. Her voice is silky as she says, “Remember what we did in Monaco?”
“Those memories got me through many lonely nights on missions.”
She licks his lip. “You have lube?”
“Of course.”
She runs her thumb over the tip of his penis. “Get it,” she says.
He rummages in his bag for all of twenty seconds before returning with it.
“Raspberry,” she says, turning the tube in her hands. “My favorite.”
“I know,” he says. They’re like giddy teenagers as she uncaps the tube and smears it across their fingers.
He stands beside the bed and she sits on the edge, her legs between his. She oils him up right and proper before taking him into her mouth. She twirls her tongue around the tip and then swallows his whole length. Then she slowly works her way back to the tip, grazing him lightly with her teeth before repeating the motion, again and again, until he thinks he might go mad.
Then he feels her fingers run along the underside of his balls, and as she runs one finger into his ass, he moans, “Monaco...”
Her laughter hums against his skin. She’s moving faster now, all tongue and lips and sneaking fingers. He’s hanging on, holding back, but it’s just so fucking hard, then it’s too much. His hands fall to her shoulders and he nudges her. She releases him and edges backward, grinning up at him, daring him.
“Let’s put a twist on this,” he says. “Shall we?”
One brow arches, intrigued.
He bends to nip at her breast. She shudders and bites into his neck. They scramble into the bed, all teeth and claws and wildness. He’s on his knees and grabs her hips. She slides one leg around his waist. The other she hooks over his shoulder. For a moment he’s dizzy at the sight of her splayed across him, the trim red hair of her sex, the supple curve of her upturned ass, all tight and pink. There’s something about flexibility, too, but she licks her lips, and rational thought packs up and leaves.
So he rubs the lube over his fingers.
“Go slow,” she says.
He grunts in response; that’s all he’s capable of.
Clint slides a finger into her ass, all the way to the knuckle. She bows up against him, her eyes closed. He moves it in slow circles before inserting the second. And now she groans, a deep, throaty sound.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Mmm,” she answers.
He angles her body and enters her. It’s all cock and cunt and fingers in her ass and it’s fucking beautiful and delicious and vulgar. She tightens around him and it’s all he can do to just... go... slow. But he does. He cups her ass with his hand as his fingers move inside her. He matches the rhythm with his cock, sliding all the way to the tip with each stroke, then plunging down again and again, each time with more force, just to make her breathing catch.
She grips his elbow and he pulls her upright, deepening the angle of penetration. She folds her leg, bending it close to his arm, bringing them face to face.
“Not yet,” she whispers. She presses into him, matching him. She utters a sharp strangled noise, then, “Not yet. Clint-”
His pulse thrums through them with each deepening stroke. It aches in them. She throws her head back, suddenly, crushing her body to his. She rocks hard and cries out. He withdraws his fingers and she screams into his shoulder.
“Now, oh god, now,” she gasps, and he releases inside her. She comes again, this time riding down with him, and they collapse in a tangle onto the sheets.
When he’s capable of speech, he says, “Jesus, Nat-”
And she says, “I think... I might have... actually... lost consciousness... a minute there.”
He nuzzles into her neck. “Fuck yeah.”
They laugh. It hurts, but they laugh anyway.
New York
13:42
The city is alive with light. Work crews bustle on sidewalks and in the streets, cleaning and rebuilding. Clint drives down to Central Park, Natasha in the passenger’s seat and Banner is awkwardly polite in the back. The trip takes them through several detours due to street closures, but once they arrive, Bruce meanders off on his own, looking at everything like it’s all brand new. They follow several paces behind, walking together through the blustery afternoon toward Bethesda Fountain.
She’s talking about a cafe on 7th and 56th, about how she hopes it’s still standing because it has great baklava. He senses she’s trying to distract him. He needs it, too. The thought of seeing Loki, of not putting that arrow through his eye, sickens him. Having left the cool cocoon of their hotel suite, he feels jittery and nauseated.
She touches his arm. “Clint.”
He nods. “So, this time off business,” he says, taking a stab at redirecting his thoughts. “What do you think it entails?”
Without pause, she answers, “Grocery shopping.”
He chuckles. “That’s what you’d do? Groceries?”
“Yeah.” She buries her hands in her pockets. “Normal stuff. You know, read a book that’s not a mission brief. Shop for actual food. See a movie, in a theater.”
He blows out a breath. “Haven’t seen a movie since-”
“-Barcelona,” she finishes.
“Conseguido un sentimiento malo, el doctor Jones,” he says.
She responds with, “Dónde está el cráneo de cristal, el doctor Jones!”
Smiling, they walk on in silence. The park is full of color. The light stings his eyes, even through his sunglasses. It’s crazy bright, like the buildings and trees and the air are out to celebrate.
A flicker of red catches his eye - a cardinal feather caught in the ivy - and a memory grips him. He sees a lock of hair floating on water, and suddenly, with an intensity that almost knocks his knees out from under him, he remembers what happened to her hair.
Their last mission together. Six months ago. Budapest. They fought a group of militant Ukrainian separatists who had, thanks to Justin Hammer, high-voltage plasma weapons. He recalls the excruciating burns, their destroyed uniforms. And her hair... He remembers sitting behind her in a clawfoot tub of cold water, cutting out the scorched pieces with a shard of mirror glass. When it was all said and done, she had a jagged boy cut that hung to the length of her jaw.
He remembers she cried. It hurts him all over again. Their sore and blistered bodies. The icy water bracing their skin. The blackened coils of her hair across the buckled floor.
“Budapest,” he whispers, brushing his fingers through the fringe of her curls.
They move to kiss, right out in the open. Just as Steve pulls up on his motorbike.
“Of course he does,” Clint says, half not-smiling.
If he saw anything, he doesn’t say so. Instead he gets off his bike and, all smiles, greets them with a chipper, “Hey team!”
Natasha leans in for a side-hug. “Steve,” she says.
“Captain,” Clint says, and they clasp hands.
Bruce wanders up, hands in pockets. “Cap,” he says.
“Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Steve says. He and Bruce strike up a conversation and lead the way down to the plaza near the fountain.
After several seconds, Natasha says, “I think they know about us.” Her voice is quiet, playfully conspiratorial.
He grimaces. “Stark does, too.”
She bumps his shoulder with hers. They follow the others.
This is new ground for them. Being in the open. Coulson knew, of course. Possibly Fury as well. It never came up. It was never questioned or scrutinized, and he’s nervous. Because it’s always been a secret, separate thing; something hidden, protected. Sacred...
That word sends him spinning. It’s too heavy a yoke for what they share. He doesn’t ascribe to religious memes, but he knows the power of rituals. Their rituals, anyway.
The others arrive without ceremony over the next half hour. Tony’s in his convertible, riding shotgun with the Tesseract. Thor’s last, driven by Dr. Selvig in a SHIELD van, with Loki shackled in back. They’re all relieved to see that Loki is both bound and gagged.
It’s hard for Clint to watch and not do... something. His fingers drift to the knife on his belt. It’d be an easy shot. He knows it won’t kill Loki, but damned if it wouldn’t feel awesome to lodge it hilt-deep in Loki’s suprasternal notch.
Then Clint notices how Natasha keeps putting herself between him and Loki. Like she’s protecting Clint. He realizes, she is protecting him.
Another ritual. They look out for each other.
Then as they watch Tony and Dr. Selvig load the Tesseract into the canister for transport, Natasha leans in and whispers, “Think Loki’s gonna need an Ass-guardian where he’s going.”
A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. Clint doesn’t know a thing about Asgardian justice, but he likes the idea of a burly frost giant making Loki into his personal fuck puppet.
Then Thor engages the Tesseract, the air fills with the scent of ozone and the pulse of an electric charge. He and Loki seize the opposite ends of the canister, and in a blinding blue flash, it’s all over. Thor and Loki are gone, and the others stand there, nodding, impressed, and relieved.
“So that’s that,” Tony says, turning to them. “Everyone good? Everyone okay? Nobody singed? Flashblind? Nauseous?”
Natasha tucks her hands in her pockets. “Nope, we’re all good.”
“Great, so Bruce,” Tony says, “Stark Tower’s seen better days, and by that I mean, day before yesterday, but R&D’s still open for business. What d’ya say to that tour? Shall we science?” He turns to Clint. “Can I take this guy off your hands?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
Tony turns to Steve. “Cap?”
Steve’s not sure if it’s an invitation or asking permission. He says, “Yeah. Go on. We all have the phone things, right?”
“That is right,” Tony says, and then he’s waving at them like he’s a rock star. “We will definitely catch up. Soon. All right. Stay cool. Bye bye. Play nice. Don’t do drugs. Peace out.” Tony hooks an arm over Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce looks bewildered for a moment, but defers as Tony leads him to the car.
Dr. Selvig shakes his head as Tony and Bruce speed away. He turns to Clint. “So. Nightmares?” he asks.
Clint swallows. “Some,” he admits.
“And me as well,” he says. “My intent is to balance them with a healthy of dose of beer and clinical research. Perhaps some porn.” He winks at the Captain, whose smile falters. Selvig laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Forgive me, I’m kidding,” he says. “Partly.” He takes Natasha’s hands in his. “Look after him. We’ve seen worse things than what he’s let on, I’d wager.”
“I will,” she says.
And with that, Selvig climbs into his van and drives away.
“Well.” Steve tips them a salute. “It’s been an honor. Now if you’ll excuse me-” he smiles “-I have a date.”
Natasha returns his salute. “Good luck, Captain.”
They watch as he gets onto his bike and heads off into the horizon.
Clint turns to her. “Date?”
“Long overdue,” Natasha says. “Seventy years.”
“Damn.”
She loops her arms in his. They take their time on the path, because the air smells of plaster and spring and the sunlight feels warm on their shoulders. And because it’s just them: No labels, no secrets, no assignments. They’re like any other couple in Central Park on a Friday afternoon.
“So,” she says. “I, um, know this really great Italian place.”
“Hm, is it nearby?”
That half smile quirks her lips. “It’s in Italy.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “Naples.”
“Pretty sure I can requisition a jet,” he says. Then he thinks, So maybe not like any other couple in Central Park...
They walk on a few more steps before she asks, “You ever seen Pompeii?”
“I have not.”
“Me neither,” she says. She stops and faces him. Tucks her hair behind her ears. “We should go. There’s all this stuff in Italy.”
“That’s what I hear.” They stare at each other, smiling til their cheeks hurt, and he feels almost bashful, like he’s a kid with his first crush all over again. His mind is awash with memories and blood, and he was compromised. It split him open, and it’s a big mess, like a sidewalk after a terrible storm. But he’s okay. It’s over and they survived, and it’s better than that.
That’s what was unearthed, he realizes. The reality of what they have. It’s more than debts owed or shared experiences. It’s more than ritual that gets them through. And it’s not something Loki or anyone else can break.
They walk on together. Natasha takes his arm in hers, pulls him close. She says, “Hey Clint.”
“Hm?”
She kisses him. Then, “Remember that time in New York?”
He kisses her right back, a long, deep, dizzying kiss that makes them both want to run back to the Carlyle to book another several days in the comforting cocoon of their suite. When they resurface, he laces their fingers and brings their joined hands to his heart.
“New York,” he says. “My favorite so far.”
Rating: M, for swearing and sex
Word Count: 17150 (Completed)
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone. All hail the great and mighty Joss and the venerable Stan Lee.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Avengers movie; not really spoilers, just vague nods at stuff that happened.
Summary: After defeating Loki with the Avengers, Clint and Natasha spend 24 hours in a hotel suite. Together they recover from the trauma inflicted on each of them by Loki. As Clint’s memories return, he relives the various encounters with Natasha that lead them to where they are now, beginning with Agent Barton’s failed mission to kill the Black Widow in Cairo.
In this chapter, Clint finally remembers what happened in Budapest.
New York
Present Day
11:42
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Almost noon.”
She stretches lavishly against him. Grins at his body’s reaction.
“When was the last time you slept til noon?” he asks.
Her hand trails to his neck. She traces the whorl of his ear with her fingers. “Never,” she says. She ruffles the hair at his temples.
“I don’t think he let us sleep,” Clint says. “Loki, I mean. He maybe didn’t let us eat.”
“You don’t feed something you’re gonna throw away.” She frowns. Then she says, “Fury says we have time off.”
They exchange a look that’s one part confusion, one part incredulity, like, what is this time off business? and they smile.
Clint says, “It’s been since before-”
“Monaco,” Natasha finishes.
“But that was-”
“Two years ago,” she says.
“Two?” He glances at her. She nods. “But, we had five hours together. Over the course of a weekend.”
“Hmm. Great five hours, though. Made up for that really, really bad assignment with Stark.”
His kisses her forehead. “Natalie Rushman.”
“Yep. And Fury had you watching Tony’s place back in California,” she remembers. “You had that tiny bungalow on Venice Beach. Do you still have it?”
The memories in that place... All those hasty, stolen, frenzied moments brought on by stress and their mismatched schedules. They joked that they couldn’t tell if they were coming or going, so mostly they were coming...
He feels the stir of arousal. She feels it, too, and slides her hand under his cock to give him an encouraging squeeze.
“Uhm. I sold it,” he says. She hooks a leg over his hip, draws him closer. “I don’t think we slept then, either.”
“For much better reasons,” she agrees. She slides her hand down his length and up again, and just like that, she’s got his full attention. Her voice is silky as she says, “Remember what we did in Monaco?”
“Those memories got me through many lonely nights on missions.”
She licks his lip. “You have lube?”
“Of course.”
She runs her thumb over the tip of his penis. “Get it,” she says.
He rummages in his bag for all of twenty seconds before returning with it.
“Raspberry,” she says, turning the tube in her hands. “My favorite.”
“I know,” he says. They’re like giddy teenagers as she uncaps the tube and smears it across their fingers.
He stands beside the bed and she sits on the edge, her legs between his. She oils him up right and proper before taking him into her mouth. She twirls her tongue around the tip and then swallows his whole length. Then she slowly works her way back to the tip, grazing him lightly with her teeth before repeating the motion, again and again, until he thinks he might go mad.
Then he feels her fingers run along the underside of his balls, and as she runs one finger into his ass, he moans, “Monaco...”
Her laughter hums against his skin. She’s moving faster now, all tongue and lips and sneaking fingers. He’s hanging on, holding back, but it’s just so fucking hard, then it’s too much. His hands fall to her shoulders and he nudges her. She releases him and edges backward, grinning up at him, daring him.
“Let’s put a twist on this,” he says. “Shall we?”
One brow arches, intrigued.
He bends to nip at her breast. She shudders and bites into his neck. They scramble into the bed, all teeth and claws and wildness. He’s on his knees and grabs her hips. She slides one leg around his waist. The other she hooks over his shoulder. For a moment he’s dizzy at the sight of her splayed across him, the trim red hair of her sex, the supple curve of her upturned ass, all tight and pink. There’s something about flexibility, too, but she licks her lips, and rational thought packs up and leaves.
So he rubs the lube over his fingers.
“Go slow,” she says.
He grunts in response; that’s all he’s capable of.
Clint slides a finger into her ass, all the way to the knuckle. She bows up against him, her eyes closed. He moves it in slow circles before inserting the second. And now she groans, a deep, throaty sound.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Mmm,” she answers.
He angles her body and enters her. It’s all cock and cunt and fingers in her ass and it’s fucking beautiful and delicious and vulgar. She tightens around him and it’s all he can do to just... go... slow. But he does. He cups her ass with his hand as his fingers move inside her. He matches the rhythm with his cock, sliding all the way to the tip with each stroke, then plunging down again and again, each time with more force, just to make her breathing catch.
She grips his elbow and he pulls her upright, deepening the angle of penetration. She folds her leg, bending it close to his arm, bringing them face to face.
“Not yet,” she whispers. She presses into him, matching him. She utters a sharp strangled noise, then, “Not yet. Clint-”
His pulse thrums through them with each deepening stroke. It aches in them. She throws her head back, suddenly, crushing her body to his. She rocks hard and cries out. He withdraws his fingers and she screams into his shoulder.
“Now, oh god, now,” she gasps, and he releases inside her. She comes again, this time riding down with him, and they collapse in a tangle onto the sheets.
When he’s capable of speech, he says, “Jesus, Nat-”
And she says, “I think... I might have... actually... lost consciousness... a minute there.”
He nuzzles into her neck. “Fuck yeah.”
They laugh. It hurts, but they laugh anyway.
New York
13:42
The city is alive with light. Work crews bustle on sidewalks and in the streets, cleaning and rebuilding. Clint drives down to Central Park, Natasha in the passenger’s seat and Banner is awkwardly polite in the back. The trip takes them through several detours due to street closures, but once they arrive, Bruce meanders off on his own, looking at everything like it’s all brand new. They follow several paces behind, walking together through the blustery afternoon toward Bethesda Fountain.
She’s talking about a cafe on 7th and 56th, about how she hopes it’s still standing because it has great baklava. He senses she’s trying to distract him. He needs it, too. The thought of seeing Loki, of not putting that arrow through his eye, sickens him. Having left the cool cocoon of their hotel suite, he feels jittery and nauseated.
She touches his arm. “Clint.”
He nods. “So, this time off business,” he says, taking a stab at redirecting his thoughts. “What do you think it entails?”
Without pause, she answers, “Grocery shopping.”
He chuckles. “That’s what you’d do? Groceries?”
“Yeah.” She buries her hands in her pockets. “Normal stuff. You know, read a book that’s not a mission brief. Shop for actual food. See a movie, in a theater.”
He blows out a breath. “Haven’t seen a movie since-”
“-Barcelona,” she finishes.
“Conseguido un sentimiento malo, el doctor Jones,” he says.
She responds with, “Dónde está el cráneo de cristal, el doctor Jones!”
Smiling, they walk on in silence. The park is full of color. The light stings his eyes, even through his sunglasses. It’s crazy bright, like the buildings and trees and the air are out to celebrate.
A flicker of red catches his eye - a cardinal feather caught in the ivy - and a memory grips him. He sees a lock of hair floating on water, and suddenly, with an intensity that almost knocks his knees out from under him, he remembers what happened to her hair.
Their last mission together. Six months ago. Budapest. They fought a group of militant Ukrainian separatists who had, thanks to Justin Hammer, high-voltage plasma weapons. He recalls the excruciating burns, their destroyed uniforms. And her hair... He remembers sitting behind her in a clawfoot tub of cold water, cutting out the scorched pieces with a shard of mirror glass. When it was all said and done, she had a jagged boy cut that hung to the length of her jaw.
He remembers she cried. It hurts him all over again. Their sore and blistered bodies. The icy water bracing their skin. The blackened coils of her hair across the buckled floor.
“Budapest,” he whispers, brushing his fingers through the fringe of her curls.
They move to kiss, right out in the open. Just as Steve pulls up on his motorbike.
“Of course he does,” Clint says, half not-smiling.
If he saw anything, he doesn’t say so. Instead he gets off his bike and, all smiles, greets them with a chipper, “Hey team!”
Natasha leans in for a side-hug. “Steve,” she says.
“Captain,” Clint says, and they clasp hands.
Bruce wanders up, hands in pockets. “Cap,” he says.
“Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Steve says. He and Bruce strike up a conversation and lead the way down to the plaza near the fountain.
After several seconds, Natasha says, “I think they know about us.” Her voice is quiet, playfully conspiratorial.
He grimaces. “Stark does, too.”
She bumps his shoulder with hers. They follow the others.
This is new ground for them. Being in the open. Coulson knew, of course. Possibly Fury as well. It never came up. It was never questioned or scrutinized, and he’s nervous. Because it’s always been a secret, separate thing; something hidden, protected. Sacred...
That word sends him spinning. It’s too heavy a yoke for what they share. He doesn’t ascribe to religious memes, but he knows the power of rituals. Their rituals, anyway.
The others arrive without ceremony over the next half hour. Tony’s in his convertible, riding shotgun with the Tesseract. Thor’s last, driven by Dr. Selvig in a SHIELD van, with Loki shackled in back. They’re all relieved to see that Loki is both bound and gagged.
It’s hard for Clint to watch and not do... something. His fingers drift to the knife on his belt. It’d be an easy shot. He knows it won’t kill Loki, but damned if it wouldn’t feel awesome to lodge it hilt-deep in Loki’s suprasternal notch.
Then Clint notices how Natasha keeps putting herself between him and Loki. Like she’s protecting Clint. He realizes, she is protecting him.
Another ritual. They look out for each other.
Then as they watch Tony and Dr. Selvig load the Tesseract into the canister for transport, Natasha leans in and whispers, “Think Loki’s gonna need an Ass-guardian where he’s going.”
A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. Clint doesn’t know a thing about Asgardian justice, but he likes the idea of a burly frost giant making Loki into his personal fuck puppet.
Then Thor engages the Tesseract, the air fills with the scent of ozone and the pulse of an electric charge. He and Loki seize the opposite ends of the canister, and in a blinding blue flash, it’s all over. Thor and Loki are gone, and the others stand there, nodding, impressed, and relieved.
“So that’s that,” Tony says, turning to them. “Everyone good? Everyone okay? Nobody singed? Flashblind? Nauseous?”
Natasha tucks her hands in her pockets. “Nope, we’re all good.”
“Great, so Bruce,” Tony says, “Stark Tower’s seen better days, and by that I mean, day before yesterday, but R&D’s still open for business. What d’ya say to that tour? Shall we science?” He turns to Clint. “Can I take this guy off your hands?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
Tony turns to Steve. “Cap?”
Steve’s not sure if it’s an invitation or asking permission. He says, “Yeah. Go on. We all have the phone things, right?”
“That is right,” Tony says, and then he’s waving at them like he’s a rock star. “We will definitely catch up. Soon. All right. Stay cool. Bye bye. Play nice. Don’t do drugs. Peace out.” Tony hooks an arm over Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce looks bewildered for a moment, but defers as Tony leads him to the car.
Dr. Selvig shakes his head as Tony and Bruce speed away. He turns to Clint. “So. Nightmares?” he asks.
Clint swallows. “Some,” he admits.
“And me as well,” he says. “My intent is to balance them with a healthy of dose of beer and clinical research. Perhaps some porn.” He winks at the Captain, whose smile falters. Selvig laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Forgive me, I’m kidding,” he says. “Partly.” He takes Natasha’s hands in his. “Look after him. We’ve seen worse things than what he’s let on, I’d wager.”
“I will,” she says.
And with that, Selvig climbs into his van and drives away.
“Well.” Steve tips them a salute. “It’s been an honor. Now if you’ll excuse me-” he smiles “-I have a date.”
Natasha returns his salute. “Good luck, Captain.”
They watch as he gets onto his bike and heads off into the horizon.
Clint turns to her. “Date?”
“Long overdue,” Natasha says. “Seventy years.”
“Damn.”
She loops her arms in his. They take their time on the path, because the air smells of plaster and spring and the sunlight feels warm on their shoulders. And because it’s just them: No labels, no secrets, no assignments. They’re like any other couple in Central Park on a Friday afternoon.
“So,” she says. “I, um, know this really great Italian place.”
“Hm, is it nearby?”
That half smile quirks her lips. “It’s in Italy.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “Naples.”
“Pretty sure I can requisition a jet,” he says. Then he thinks, So maybe not like any other couple in Central Park...
They walk on a few more steps before she asks, “You ever seen Pompeii?”
“I have not.”
“Me neither,” she says. She stops and faces him. Tucks her hair behind her ears. “We should go. There’s all this stuff in Italy.”
“That’s what I hear.” They stare at each other, smiling til their cheeks hurt, and he feels almost bashful, like he’s a kid with his first crush all over again. His mind is awash with memories and blood, and he was compromised. It split him open, and it’s a big mess, like a sidewalk after a terrible storm. But he’s okay. It’s over and they survived, and it’s better than that.
That’s what was unearthed, he realizes. The reality of what they have. It’s more than debts owed or shared experiences. It’s more than ritual that gets them through. And it’s not something Loki or anyone else can break.
They walk on together. Natasha takes his arm in hers, pulls him close. She says, “Hey Clint.”
“Hm?”
She kisses him. Then, “Remember that time in New York?”
He kisses her right back, a long, deep, dizzying kiss that makes them both want to run back to the Carlyle to book another several days in the comforting cocoon of their suite. When they resurface, he laces their fingers and brings their joined hands to his heart.
“New York,” he says. “My favorite so far.”