[fic] The Memory of Rain, Domestic...Bliss?
Title: The Memory of Rain
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 628
Summary: Clint doesn’t like the rain.
Author’s Notes: Prompt given to me by anuna-81: “Just give me fluff! I don't care what it is about, just make it fluffy :D”
The rain had been falling steadily for three days, but it didn’t feel oppressive. Clint had grown up loathing the rain. Rain kept people in their homes, which meant the tickets stayed in the little box that Carson’s daughter kept in her truck. Rain soaked the equipment, the animals, the people. It made everything damp, and miserable, and it sounded like gunshots on the tarp over the bed of the 1957 Chevrolet truck that Clint and Barney used to curl up in at night and pretend their bones weren’t shaking loose from their skin with the cold. The crop farmers in the Midwest where Carson’s traveling circus might have cheered for the rain, but the circus performers regarded it as the greatest enemy.
A lifetime removed from that little boy, Clint Barton sat at the window and watched sheets of water drip to the streets of Seattle. Outside, locals in GoreTex wandered through, unperturbed by the wet. To them, it was simply another day. They had no reason to dislike the rain.
The assignment had been a gimme, in and out in thirty minutes to steal some information from a defense contractor that Nick Fury felt had been getting a little too nosy about SHIELD. A rookie could have done it, but Fury had sent Natasha. And she hadn’t needed backup, but Clint had tagged along anyway. SHIELD’s idea of a vacation, he knew.
They’d gone to the Pike Market place, the Space Needle, Gasworks Park, all of it. Just a couple of tourists in rain gear that was so new, it shone like a copper penny. Because they weren’t supposed to report back for days, their pace had been unhurried. Clint had dragged Natasha to a couple of local breweries; she’d returned the favor by tugging him into one art gallery after the next. They’d taken a naps and lazed the day away, piled on each other like contented puppies.
It was nice. Except for the rain.
He heard her footsteps behind him-Nat’s way of being lazy-but didn’t turn. “Next time we need to get Fury to send us somewhere sunny,” he said.
Natasha leaned over his shoulder to hand him a mug of coffee: half the reason to love Seattle. “Mm,” she said. “Though I like it here.”
“You do?” He twisted to look at her.
“Indeed.” She nudged him a little to get him to scoot forward on the window seat-SHIELD had paid a little garret-style apartment-and slid in behind him, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. He leaned back against her warmth. “I like the rain.”
“I don’t.”
She rested her forehead against the back of his neck, and he felt her lips curve against the material of his shirt. “I know.”
“It gets everywhere,” Clint said. Outside, a woman in a bright pink rain slicker waved at an old man with a dog. “Then you have mold, and rot, and it’s always either cold or too hot. You ever been on a thirty-six hour sniper post in the rain, Tash?”
“Tell you what, I shall wait in the rain next time, and you can fight off three Hydra agents while wearing five-inch heels and a cocktail dress.”
As always, her dry-as-the-Sahara tone made him laugh. He took a sip of the coffee. “I don’t have the hips for it.”
“We’ll have to see.” Natasha hooked an arm around his chest so that she was basically hugging him from behind. “But you forget something about the rain, Barton.”
“It’s inconvenient?”
“We met in the rain.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I guess it can’t be all that bad, then.”
“Guess not,” Natasha said, and they fell quiet. Dry and warm, they watched through the window as the rain continued to fall.
Title: Domestic…Bliss?
Fandom: The Avengers, Hawkguy
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 545
Summary: There are just some things you know.
Author’s Notes: Prompt given to me by alphaflyer: “She knew, just ... knew, when she saw him drinking coffee straight from the pot.”
She sees him drinking coffee straight out of the pot and just like that, she knows.
Natasha sets her go-bag on the counter and lets out a sigh. The kitchen doesn’t look damaged, but that doesn’t mean a thing. “Skrulls?”
“Mm-nope.” Clint wipes at some coffee spillage on his chin. “Bugs this time. Huge ones. Ugly as sin. They came, they saw, they broke. We are now the proud owners of one chafing dish-why do we have that?-that I think was probably Hulkproof anyway, two I Love Iron Man mugs, and a single dessert plate. And this coffeemaker that Kate just dropped off. I’ve named her Patti, as in LuPone, because damn, she sings.”
Natasha makes a face. “Patti aside, that’s not promising.”
“Hey, there are positives.” Clint offers her the coffee pot; she declines. It’s a more palatable choice than using the coffee mugs Tony gave them as a housewarming present when she officially made the move into Clint’s apartment (after they took down the Tracksuit Draculas, which was a saga in its own right), but she’s been on her feet for thirty-six hours and if she drinks coffee, she’s pretty sure her system is going to jump straight out of her body and do the can-can on the counter. “The bugs got stuff everywhere, so I had to clean it up real nice. For once, you come home to a clean place.”
“I’d rather come home to dishes.” But Natasha notices another positive, one she won’t share: Clint’s only got a couple of bandages on, and one of them is probably from shaving. He has a bad habit of throwing himself into a battle, injuries be damned, so it’s a relief to see him whole. She leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Please tell me the bed is still intact.”
“And made. Look who’s a good boyfriend.”
She gives him a long kiss. “Eh, you’re all right,” she says, and he grins, shifting so that she’s stuck between the countertop and him. She gives him a gentle push. “I’m going to go get a few hours horizontal. Don’t buy any dishes until I can come with you.”
He squints at her. “Aw, why not?”
“Because the last set you picked was, to use your words, ugly as sin, Clint.”
“They had clowns. Clowns are funny.”
“And that is exactly what I’m talking about. Wait for me before you buy dishes.”
“Glad you’re back,” Clint says, and Natasha smiles a little before she stumbles in the direction of the bedroom. She pauses in the doorway and stares at the a giant four-foot hole in the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom. There are arrows embedded into the walls on either side. Magazines and spare clothes litter the floor, so that it looks like some kind of tornado has ripped through the room. In the middle of it, an island of sanity, the bed with its purple sheets and bullseye throw on top of her expensive (thankfully undamaged) duvet is neatly made.
She decides that she’ll care about the hole later, and flops onto the bed. The room might look like the ground zero for the apocalypse, but the pillows smell like him. She drifts off to sleep thinking about dishes.
Fandom: The Avengers
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 628
Summary: Clint doesn’t like the rain.
Author’s Notes: Prompt given to me by anuna-81: “Just give me fluff! I don't care what it is about, just make it fluffy :D”
The rain had been falling steadily for three days, but it didn’t feel oppressive. Clint had grown up loathing the rain. Rain kept people in their homes, which meant the tickets stayed in the little box that Carson’s daughter kept in her truck. Rain soaked the equipment, the animals, the people. It made everything damp, and miserable, and it sounded like gunshots on the tarp over the bed of the 1957 Chevrolet truck that Clint and Barney used to curl up in at night and pretend their bones weren’t shaking loose from their skin with the cold. The crop farmers in the Midwest where Carson’s traveling circus might have cheered for the rain, but the circus performers regarded it as the greatest enemy.
A lifetime removed from that little boy, Clint Barton sat at the window and watched sheets of water drip to the streets of Seattle. Outside, locals in GoreTex wandered through, unperturbed by the wet. To them, it was simply another day. They had no reason to dislike the rain.
The assignment had been a gimme, in and out in thirty minutes to steal some information from a defense contractor that Nick Fury felt had been getting a little too nosy about SHIELD. A rookie could have done it, but Fury had sent Natasha. And she hadn’t needed backup, but Clint had tagged along anyway. SHIELD’s idea of a vacation, he knew.
They’d gone to the Pike Market place, the Space Needle, Gasworks Park, all of it. Just a couple of tourists in rain gear that was so new, it shone like a copper penny. Because they weren’t supposed to report back for days, their pace had been unhurried. Clint had dragged Natasha to a couple of local breweries; she’d returned the favor by tugging him into one art gallery after the next. They’d taken a naps and lazed the day away, piled on each other like contented puppies.
It was nice. Except for the rain.
He heard her footsteps behind him-Nat’s way of being lazy-but didn’t turn. “Next time we need to get Fury to send us somewhere sunny,” he said.
Natasha leaned over his shoulder to hand him a mug of coffee: half the reason to love Seattle. “Mm,” she said. “Though I like it here.”
“You do?” He twisted to look at her.
“Indeed.” She nudged him a little to get him to scoot forward on the window seat-SHIELD had paid a little garret-style apartment-and slid in behind him, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. He leaned back against her warmth. “I like the rain.”
“I don’t.”
She rested her forehead against the back of his neck, and he felt her lips curve against the material of his shirt. “I know.”
“It gets everywhere,” Clint said. Outside, a woman in a bright pink rain slicker waved at an old man with a dog. “Then you have mold, and rot, and it’s always either cold or too hot. You ever been on a thirty-six hour sniper post in the rain, Tash?”
“Tell you what, I shall wait in the rain next time, and you can fight off three Hydra agents while wearing five-inch heels and a cocktail dress.”
As always, her dry-as-the-Sahara tone made him laugh. He took a sip of the coffee. “I don’t have the hips for it.”
“We’ll have to see.” Natasha hooked an arm around his chest so that she was basically hugging him from behind. “But you forget something about the rain, Barton.”
“It’s inconvenient?”
“We met in the rain.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I guess it can’t be all that bad, then.”
“Guess not,” Natasha said, and they fell quiet. Dry and warm, they watched through the window as the rain continued to fall.
Title: Domestic…Bliss?
Fandom: The Avengers, Hawkguy
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Word Count: 545
Summary: There are just some things you know.
Author’s Notes: Prompt given to me by alphaflyer: “She knew, just ... knew, when she saw him drinking coffee straight from the pot.”
She sees him drinking coffee straight out of the pot and just like that, she knows.
Natasha sets her go-bag on the counter and lets out a sigh. The kitchen doesn’t look damaged, but that doesn’t mean a thing. “Skrulls?”
“Mm-nope.” Clint wipes at some coffee spillage on his chin. “Bugs this time. Huge ones. Ugly as sin. They came, they saw, they broke. We are now the proud owners of one chafing dish-why do we have that?-that I think was probably Hulkproof anyway, two I Love Iron Man mugs, and a single dessert plate. And this coffeemaker that Kate just dropped off. I’ve named her Patti, as in LuPone, because damn, she sings.”
Natasha makes a face. “Patti aside, that’s not promising.”
“Hey, there are positives.” Clint offers her the coffee pot; she declines. It’s a more palatable choice than using the coffee mugs Tony gave them as a housewarming present when she officially made the move into Clint’s apartment (after they took down the Tracksuit Draculas, which was a saga in its own right), but she’s been on her feet for thirty-six hours and if she drinks coffee, she’s pretty sure her system is going to jump straight out of her body and do the can-can on the counter. “The bugs got stuff everywhere, so I had to clean it up real nice. For once, you come home to a clean place.”
“I’d rather come home to dishes.” But Natasha notices another positive, one she won’t share: Clint’s only got a couple of bandages on, and one of them is probably from shaving. He has a bad habit of throwing himself into a battle, injuries be damned, so it’s a relief to see him whole. She leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Please tell me the bed is still intact.”
“And made. Look who’s a good boyfriend.”
She gives him a long kiss. “Eh, you’re all right,” she says, and he grins, shifting so that she’s stuck between the countertop and him. She gives him a gentle push. “I’m going to go get a few hours horizontal. Don’t buy any dishes until I can come with you.”
He squints at her. “Aw, why not?”
“Because the last set you picked was, to use your words, ugly as sin, Clint.”
“They had clowns. Clowns are funny.”
“And that is exactly what I’m talking about. Wait for me before you buy dishes.”
“Glad you’re back,” Clint says, and Natasha smiles a little before she stumbles in the direction of the bedroom. She pauses in the doorway and stares at the a giant four-foot hole in the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom. There are arrows embedded into the walls on either side. Magazines and spare clothes litter the floor, so that it looks like some kind of tornado has ripped through the room. In the middle of it, an island of sanity, the bed with its purple sheets and bullseye throw on top of her expensive (thankfully undamaged) duvet is neatly made.
She decides that she’ll care about the hole later, and flops onto the bed. The room might look like the ground zero for the apocalypse, but the pillows smell like him. She drifts off to sleep thinking about dishes.