Fic: Those arms (Clint/Natasha, AU)
Title: Those arms
Fandom: The Avengers
Characters & relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff, Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner are mentioned.
Type & genre: alternate universe, romance, introspection, humor and crack.
Rating: explicit
Warnings: NSFW, some language
Disclaimer: not mine, oh sooooo not mine. Shame.
Summary: She is a country singer, one of the kind who does what she wants (and sings about it), and last time when she found an inspiration in human form that was this intense, she had been sixteen, or maybe twenty.
She could certainly write a song about this.
Author's notes: written for the be_compromised promptathon, for the prompt by the lovely inkvoices:
Natasha is a musician, of the unapologetically feminist, unashamed of showing the world who she is type. (Because in the past, a la Natasha's comics type history, she has been prevented from being herself, but no longer.)
Clint is the guy - a sound tech for the tour, a last minute replacement guitar-ist for the tour, a journalist doing a review, a camera guy covering a gig, a guy out for a drink one night who meets her and at first has no idea who she is, whatever...who falls for her.
Natasha don't need no man. But maybe she'd like to have Clint. If she can figure out how that kind of thing even fits in with who she is.
I played with it and poked with it and came up with the AU where Natasha is a country music singer and musician, because I love country, but also because this genre has a long and lovely tradition of many amazing female performers singing and telling stories about women, friendships, love, relationships, life, fun (really, everything). And there are performers like Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton and Patsy Cline and Alison Krauss and Shania Twain; so when Is aw the prompt I thought of all of them, and had an imagery of Natasha on stage, holding one of those gorgeous Gibson L-200, like Emmylou Harris has see here, and the idea was born. And then I played with idea of Clint, doing all this hard manual work, but being somehow more than meets the eye. And voila, here we are. :) I hope you like it!
Last but certainly not the least, a huge thank you goes to my awesome writing pal and beta reader shenshen77 *megasuperhugs* Thank you for everything you do for me, sweetie!
*
“Admit it,” Darcy had said while she was doing her hair and makeup just before the show. “You want to tap that.”
Natasha didn't need Darcy to tell her she wanted to fuck the new guy (as a good portion of the crew probably wanted to do the same thing). She definitely wanted to fuck him. Repeatedly, if possible. If his looks were anything to go by, Clint Barton wanted to fuck her as well was making Natasha's toes tingle.
“It doesn't mean I should,” Natasha said, trying to reduce the traces of Darcy's blush brush with her fingertips. Her hair needed a few more touches, she still had to get dressed and walk out to meet the crowd. (And Barton would be there, sitting high above the crowd, between the light bars and reflectors.)
“You should stop messing up my good work,” Darcy swatted Natasha's hands away. “Just let me finish this and enjoy the view in the meantime?”
Natasha could see his reflection in the tall mirror in front of her - nice butt, solid back, absolutely fantastic arms. Fuck, she could write a song about those arms. Maybe she would. Some critic would probably call her out on it, call her a fake feminist for objectifying a guy in her song, but other than being annoyed she didn't care too much. Because critics like that Seriously. Didn't. Get. It. Have they missed all those times when women were objectified in songs? They needed someone to trash, and she had the honors at the moment.
“There,” Darcy fluffed her loose curls. Natasha was thinking about getting a haircut, about the cover she'd do this evening (Ring of fire, and just let someone dare say she wasn't supposed to, because she was a girl. She grew up listening to Cash), when Barton turned around, holding an armful of cables as he talked to Bruce. He had grime on his arms and face, and she caught a glimpse of his stomach when he handed the cables over.
She caught his eyes in the mirror and tingled in anticipation which had nothing to do with the stage awaiting her.
*
In hindsight, she was right about his arms. And hands. Because they were fucking amazing.
She was right about him too, and that was a good thing. The door had barely shut when he pushed her against it. His hands felt rough on her sides, and his mouth was demanding and hungry against hers. She felt like she was about to burn up, jump out of her skin to crawl into his. She pulled him closer by the belt and he pressed against her hard, and God, that simply wasn't enough.
“Slow down,” he said against her neck, contradicting himself in the very next moment when he tugged her shirt out of her pants.
“Don't think so, hotsauce,” she went for his shirt, because she’d fantasized about seeing that chest often enough. The tour was long and she itched for a fuck, and even more, for human contact. The shirt went up, then landed in the corner of their motel room, and when Natasha saw his chest she decided the wait was certainly worth it. “Oh, nice,” she said.
“Just nice?” Clint's hands were confident against her ass as he pulled her close.
“Very nice,” she affirmed and bowed her head to lick his throat. The guy was just so goddamn hot and perfectly manly, a perfect package of male candy with a bow on top of its wrapping. She wasn't interested in sleeping with fanboys (even though she did it a few times. She did what she wanted. Anyone who had something to say could go stand on a lego, as far as she was concerned). Clint certainly didn't handle her like a boy. Her bra followed her shirt after which they raced to take off each other's pants and finally be naked.
“Those are glorious,” he said to her tits, which she'd mind if the situation was any different. But right now she wanted his mouth on them and she told him so as she fell backwards onto the bed.
“Yes, boss,” he mouthed against her skin and sank his teeth into her flesh.
Fuck, he was good, teeth and fingers and dirty words. Had he been a song, half of it would be censored. She spread her legs and grabbed his hair, pushed him down her body until he was grinning from between her thighs. “What are you waiting for?” she asked and barely got to see the filthy smile he gave her before he went down on her.
Eating out wasn't a term Natasha liked, but that was exactly what Clint was doing. She wanted to be fucked well and hard when she knocked on the door to his trailer, she thought about stripping him down to his naked skin as he drove for half an hour to the nearest small town; she wanted his mouth and his tongue and his fingers as they sat in a bar that had certainly seen better days. The way he looked at her was making the walls blush and getting her wet between her legs.
And between her legs he was, like the best ride she had in months or maybe years. Her body was starting to tense, anticipation and that almost - almost - almost feeling building up where his mouth was. She grabbed his hair and pulled.
“What's wrong?” he asked, but Natasha just grinned.
“Nothing's wrong,” she said, pushing herself up and offering him her backside as she positioned herself against the headboard.
“Oh fuck,” he was smart, that she had noticed before, and he didn't need directing. She felt his fingers, all of his ten digits on her ass, felt as he struggled with a condom he previously tossed onto the pillow. Then he was inside her, hard and almost rough and she cried out. “Are you gonna sing for me doll?” his voice dripped low into her ear and his fingers grabbed her breasts.
“Make me,” she hissed and pushed her ass into his hips. He groaned and slipped one hand to her hip, held her tight and started to push - slower than what she wanted, but she liked him like this, willful and challenging. She kept turning her head around so she could kiss him and her neck hurt, but she ignored it. His tongue felt perfect in her mouth as they fucked. Her back was slick and sweaty against his front, he touched her between her legs, and he did make her scream.
She shouted his name to the ceiling and pressed his fingers hard against herself, and she felt him groan into her shoulder and hold her tight as he came. They collapsed onto the bed, worn out and sweaty. She turned around to face him, intent to kiss and touch and get her fill of his appealing musculature, but when his hand skimmed between her legs, she knew they weren't even close to being done.
*
A little bit later she was still awake. Last time when she found an inspiration in human form that was this intense, she had been sixteen, or maybe twenty. She wasn't sure. Clint watched her, expression content and half amused as she sat up in bed and trailed a path down his shoulder and along his arm with her fingers.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Songwriting,” she said without much forethought. It was the truth. It was probably a bit selfish as well, but hey - she could write an entire songabout his body. He looked like a man who worked all his life, and there were stories there; stories she wanted to know or make up and tell them and just roll in the great feeling of it all. Inspiration was amazing.
Clint wasn't half bad either.
“Songwriting?” there was a smile that probably came from his growing ego. But he narrowed his eyes at her, and she could see irony and wit in his look. “About what?”
“Your arms,” she said simply. Which was just the small bit of wonderfulness she could see while he was dressed and covered up. The rest of him was just as fine.
“Oh,” he said and she assumed his ego was pleased.
She didn't mind in the least. He was the kind of guy she could sing Tequila Sunrise for. Not because it fit, even though it did (despite her suspicions that he wasn't merely a manual worker). She bit her lip and imagined Steve's reaction two days from now, as he picked up his Gibson, when she'd tell him they'd do that song. It wouldn't be her dad's birthday, or anything of the sort, and Steve would ask her what it is for. And she wouldn’t tell him. She'd look up to the reflectors and catch a glimpse of Clint's arms.
“Just my arms?” Clint asked a bit too casually.
“Hmmm, let's see,” Natasha crossed her legs and moved closer to him. “This is very pretty too,” her finger danced from the hollow of his throat down his chest.
“Mhmmm,” Clint sat up as well and all those muscles moved. Natasha licked her lips. This guy was like a tree she would climb and wouldn't ever want come down from. His eyes fell to her mouth, and then down to her breasts. “What would you write about it?”
“An appreciation song,” she said. “Like Those Jeans, only better.”
“Uh - huh,” he grinned, slow and with a hint of danger, and then moved closer to her. “Would there be a line about getting in my jeans?”
“I prefer one about getting you out of them,” she kissed him, slow and easy and when he kissed back she felt her toes curl. “And nobody is getting punched.”
“Oh good,” he pulled away and rubbed his nose against hers and that was unexpectedly affectionate and just... sweet.
Sweet was okay, Natasha thought as she looked at him.
“What else?” he kissed her chastely and she got goosebumps. Which was something she would definitely write about.
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“I am merely checking what kind of song you have in mind. Since Those Jeans is all about objectification,” he said. Natasha licked her lips again, which had a way of getting his attention.
“Do you mind being objectified by me?”
“Hmmm,” his fake frown made her laugh. “I'm not sure. You'd be using my body as inspiration to earn money.”
He pulled her onto his lap and she went without a protest. “Guys do that all the time, you know. Objectify girls in songs -”
“But girls are pretty,” he protested and made it sound really fake before he proceeded to kiss her.
She broke the kiss. “Boys are pretty too. Take you for example.”
“I object to being called a pretty boy,” he protested, but nuzzled her nose all the same.
“What if I write it romantic?” she asked.
“Do you want to objectify me or romanticize me?”
“I can do both,” she said, tilting her head to the side and touching his eyelashes with the tip of her finger. “I can sing about getting into your jeans because I want to,” she leaned closer and kissed the tip of his nose. “Or kissing you because I need to. It's not just about I need no man.”
He inclined his head and regarded her, and it was one of those moments when she knew she was being heard. That, and this man didn't seem stupid or shallow. She liked being around him, and she wondered again what it was about him that made him stand out.
“I know how they call me,” she toyed with the spiky tips of his hair on the back of his neck. “Miss - I - need - no - man,” she knew that her smile faltered. He nudged her chin with his nose, and really, she was thinking how she ought to write something about his nose as well.
“That's kinda harsh,” he said seriously.
“Is it harsh that I say I don't need a guy to breathe, get up and do my job?” he was still looking at her in the same calm manner and she thought, here she had a guy willing to listen to her rants while naked in bed. “But what makes me feel really tired is when I have to prove that I still can breathe on my own if I decide to sing I will always love you. Needing and not needing and loving and fucking for fun, it shouldn't be an issue if it's my choice.”
“No. It shouldn't,” he said simply and let her touch her forehead to his. “I think you should keep doing what you're doing,” his thumbs were gentle on her cheekbones.
“Screwing you all night long?” she crooked a smile and he chuckled.
“I won't refuse that, but what I meant is doing what you damn please.”
“Mhmmm,” she parted from him enough to see his face. The morning was still far away and she had nowhere to be until the afternoon. And in case anyone asked about Clint? She was his boss after all. “You know what I want right now?”
He smirked. “I'm sure you'll tell me.”
She didn't tell him. She kissed him and it was sweeter than she intended, longer than she was ready for, but it was still great.
*
Clint turned out to be an architect who periodically worked for his brother's big and successful company. When Natasha asked him about it (in bed) he said he didn't like the feeling of being tied down to a place, job, working hours or anything so mundane. Hearing that made her ridiculously happy.
Three months later Natasha wrote the song. She called it Those arms. It went straight to the top of the charts.
Six months later she visited a certain firm in Iowa asking for an architect to help her redesign her old house. Clint didn't need to be asked twice.
A year later the new album was out and a new tour followed shortly after. There were twelve new songs on it, plus one The Eagles cover. Nobody knew whom it was dedicated to. (It was dedicated to someone). There were also references to Clint in seven other songs, which only Clint could pick up on. Steve had his doubts, but Natasha called them all bread and cheese. Steve wasn't sure what she meant by that.
Clint still didn't like jobs that kept him tied down. That was good, because working with Natasha meant exactly the opposite.
A newspaper compared them to Johnny and June, and while Clint disagreed with the accuracy of the comparison, Natasha just smiled.
“I like it,” she said. “I think it fits.”
“I still set up the lights and sound,” Clint reminded her.
“They were partners,” Natasha said practically. “They played together and performed together, but at the core of it, they were partners. You help make my show better,” she said. “Which makes you my partner.”
Clint grinned. “Oh, see, that would make an awesome song.”
Fandom: The Avengers
Characters & relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff, Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner are mentioned.
Type & genre: alternate universe, romance, introspection, humor and crack.
Rating: explicit
Warnings: NSFW, some language
Disclaimer: not mine, oh sooooo not mine. Shame.
Summary: She is a country singer, one of the kind who does what she wants (and sings about it), and last time when she found an inspiration in human form that was this intense, she had been sixteen, or maybe twenty.
She could certainly write a song about this.
Author's notes: written for the be_compromised promptathon, for the prompt by the lovely inkvoices:
Natasha is a musician, of the unapologetically feminist, unashamed of showing the world who she is type. (Because in the past, a la Natasha's comics type history, she has been prevented from being herself, but no longer.)
Clint is the guy - a sound tech for the tour, a last minute replacement guitar-ist for the tour, a journalist doing a review, a camera guy covering a gig, a guy out for a drink one night who meets her and at first has no idea who she is, whatever...who falls for her.
Natasha don't need no man. But maybe she'd like to have Clint. If she can figure out how that kind of thing even fits in with who she is.
I played with it and poked with it and came up with the AU where Natasha is a country music singer and musician, because I love country, but also because this genre has a long and lovely tradition of many amazing female performers singing and telling stories about women, friendships, love, relationships, life, fun (really, everything). And there are performers like Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton and Patsy Cline and Alison Krauss and Shania Twain; so when Is aw the prompt I thought of all of them, and had an imagery of Natasha on stage, holding one of those gorgeous Gibson L-200, like Emmylou Harris has see here, and the idea was born. And then I played with idea of Clint, doing all this hard manual work, but being somehow more than meets the eye. And voila, here we are. :) I hope you like it!
Last but certainly not the least, a huge thank you goes to my awesome writing pal and beta reader shenshen77 *megasuperhugs* Thank you for everything you do for me, sweetie!
*
“Admit it,” Darcy had said while she was doing her hair and makeup just before the show. “You want to tap that.”
Natasha didn't need Darcy to tell her she wanted to fuck the new guy (as a good portion of the crew probably wanted to do the same thing). She definitely wanted to fuck him. Repeatedly, if possible. If his looks were anything to go by, Clint Barton wanted to fuck her as well was making Natasha's toes tingle.
“It doesn't mean I should,” Natasha said, trying to reduce the traces of Darcy's blush brush with her fingertips. Her hair needed a few more touches, she still had to get dressed and walk out to meet the crowd. (And Barton would be there, sitting high above the crowd, between the light bars and reflectors.)
“You should stop messing up my good work,” Darcy swatted Natasha's hands away. “Just let me finish this and enjoy the view in the meantime?”
Natasha could see his reflection in the tall mirror in front of her - nice butt, solid back, absolutely fantastic arms. Fuck, she could write a song about those arms. Maybe she would. Some critic would probably call her out on it, call her a fake feminist for objectifying a guy in her song, but other than being annoyed she didn't care too much. Because critics like that Seriously. Didn't. Get. It. Have they missed all those times when women were objectified in songs? They needed someone to trash, and she had the honors at the moment.
“There,” Darcy fluffed her loose curls. Natasha was thinking about getting a haircut, about the cover she'd do this evening (Ring of fire, and just let someone dare say she wasn't supposed to, because she was a girl. She grew up listening to Cash), when Barton turned around, holding an armful of cables as he talked to Bruce. He had grime on his arms and face, and she caught a glimpse of his stomach when he handed the cables over.
She caught his eyes in the mirror and tingled in anticipation which had nothing to do with the stage awaiting her.
*
In hindsight, she was right about his arms. And hands. Because they were fucking amazing.
She was right about him too, and that was a good thing. The door had barely shut when he pushed her against it. His hands felt rough on her sides, and his mouth was demanding and hungry against hers. She felt like she was about to burn up, jump out of her skin to crawl into his. She pulled him closer by the belt and he pressed against her hard, and God, that simply wasn't enough.
“Slow down,” he said against her neck, contradicting himself in the very next moment when he tugged her shirt out of her pants.
“Don't think so, hotsauce,” she went for his shirt, because she’d fantasized about seeing that chest often enough. The tour was long and she itched for a fuck, and even more, for human contact. The shirt went up, then landed in the corner of their motel room, and when Natasha saw his chest she decided the wait was certainly worth it. “Oh, nice,” she said.
“Just nice?” Clint's hands were confident against her ass as he pulled her close.
“Very nice,” she affirmed and bowed her head to lick his throat. The guy was just so goddamn hot and perfectly manly, a perfect package of male candy with a bow on top of its wrapping. She wasn't interested in sleeping with fanboys (even though she did it a few times. She did what she wanted. Anyone who had something to say could go stand on a lego, as far as she was concerned). Clint certainly didn't handle her like a boy. Her bra followed her shirt after which they raced to take off each other's pants and finally be naked.
“Those are glorious,” he said to her tits, which she'd mind if the situation was any different. But right now she wanted his mouth on them and she told him so as she fell backwards onto the bed.
“Yes, boss,” he mouthed against her skin and sank his teeth into her flesh.
Fuck, he was good, teeth and fingers and dirty words. Had he been a song, half of it would be censored. She spread her legs and grabbed his hair, pushed him down her body until he was grinning from between her thighs. “What are you waiting for?” she asked and barely got to see the filthy smile he gave her before he went down on her.
Eating out wasn't a term Natasha liked, but that was exactly what Clint was doing. She wanted to be fucked well and hard when she knocked on the door to his trailer, she thought about stripping him down to his naked skin as he drove for half an hour to the nearest small town; she wanted his mouth and his tongue and his fingers as they sat in a bar that had certainly seen better days. The way he looked at her was making the walls blush and getting her wet between her legs.
And between her legs he was, like the best ride she had in months or maybe years. Her body was starting to tense, anticipation and that almost - almost - almost feeling building up where his mouth was. She grabbed his hair and pulled.
“What's wrong?” he asked, but Natasha just grinned.
“Nothing's wrong,” she said, pushing herself up and offering him her backside as she positioned herself against the headboard.
“Oh fuck,” he was smart, that she had noticed before, and he didn't need directing. She felt his fingers, all of his ten digits on her ass, felt as he struggled with a condom he previously tossed onto the pillow. Then he was inside her, hard and almost rough and she cried out. “Are you gonna sing for me doll?” his voice dripped low into her ear and his fingers grabbed her breasts.
“Make me,” she hissed and pushed her ass into his hips. He groaned and slipped one hand to her hip, held her tight and started to push - slower than what she wanted, but she liked him like this, willful and challenging. She kept turning her head around so she could kiss him and her neck hurt, but she ignored it. His tongue felt perfect in her mouth as they fucked. Her back was slick and sweaty against his front, he touched her between her legs, and he did make her scream.
She shouted his name to the ceiling and pressed his fingers hard against herself, and she felt him groan into her shoulder and hold her tight as he came. They collapsed onto the bed, worn out and sweaty. She turned around to face him, intent to kiss and touch and get her fill of his appealing musculature, but when his hand skimmed between her legs, she knew they weren't even close to being done.
*
A little bit later she was still awake. Last time when she found an inspiration in human form that was this intense, she had been sixteen, or maybe twenty. She wasn't sure. Clint watched her, expression content and half amused as she sat up in bed and trailed a path down his shoulder and along his arm with her fingers.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Songwriting,” she said without much forethought. It was the truth. It was probably a bit selfish as well, but hey - she could write an entire songabout his body. He looked like a man who worked all his life, and there were stories there; stories she wanted to know or make up and tell them and just roll in the great feeling of it all. Inspiration was amazing.
Clint wasn't half bad either.
“Songwriting?” there was a smile that probably came from his growing ego. But he narrowed his eyes at her, and she could see irony and wit in his look. “About what?”
“Your arms,” she said simply. Which was just the small bit of wonderfulness she could see while he was dressed and covered up. The rest of him was just as fine.
“Oh,” he said and she assumed his ego was pleased.
She didn't mind in the least. He was the kind of guy she could sing Tequila Sunrise for. Not because it fit, even though it did (despite her suspicions that he wasn't merely a manual worker). She bit her lip and imagined Steve's reaction two days from now, as he picked up his Gibson, when she'd tell him they'd do that song. It wouldn't be her dad's birthday, or anything of the sort, and Steve would ask her what it is for. And she wouldn’t tell him. She'd look up to the reflectors and catch a glimpse of Clint's arms.
“Just my arms?” Clint asked a bit too casually.
“Hmmm, let's see,” Natasha crossed her legs and moved closer to him. “This is very pretty too,” her finger danced from the hollow of his throat down his chest.
“Mhmmm,” Clint sat up as well and all those muscles moved. Natasha licked her lips. This guy was like a tree she would climb and wouldn't ever want come down from. His eyes fell to her mouth, and then down to her breasts. “What would you write about it?”
“An appreciation song,” she said. “Like Those Jeans, only better.”
“Uh - huh,” he grinned, slow and with a hint of danger, and then moved closer to her. “Would there be a line about getting in my jeans?”
“I prefer one about getting you out of them,” she kissed him, slow and easy and when he kissed back she felt her toes curl. “And nobody is getting punched.”
“Oh good,” he pulled away and rubbed his nose against hers and that was unexpectedly affectionate and just... sweet.
Sweet was okay, Natasha thought as she looked at him.
“What else?” he kissed her chastely and she got goosebumps. Which was something she would definitely write about.
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“I am merely checking what kind of song you have in mind. Since Those Jeans is all about objectification,” he said. Natasha licked her lips again, which had a way of getting his attention.
“Do you mind being objectified by me?”
“Hmmm,” his fake frown made her laugh. “I'm not sure. You'd be using my body as inspiration to earn money.”
He pulled her onto his lap and she went without a protest. “Guys do that all the time, you know. Objectify girls in songs -”
“But girls are pretty,” he protested and made it sound really fake before he proceeded to kiss her.
She broke the kiss. “Boys are pretty too. Take you for example.”
“I object to being called a pretty boy,” he protested, but nuzzled her nose all the same.
“What if I write it romantic?” she asked.
“Do you want to objectify me or romanticize me?”
“I can do both,” she said, tilting her head to the side and touching his eyelashes with the tip of her finger. “I can sing about getting into your jeans because I want to,” she leaned closer and kissed the tip of his nose. “Or kissing you because I need to. It's not just about I need no man.”
He inclined his head and regarded her, and it was one of those moments when she knew she was being heard. That, and this man didn't seem stupid or shallow. She liked being around him, and she wondered again what it was about him that made him stand out.
“I know how they call me,” she toyed with the spiky tips of his hair on the back of his neck. “Miss - I - need - no - man,” she knew that her smile faltered. He nudged her chin with his nose, and really, she was thinking how she ought to write something about his nose as well.
“That's kinda harsh,” he said seriously.
“Is it harsh that I say I don't need a guy to breathe, get up and do my job?” he was still looking at her in the same calm manner and she thought, here she had a guy willing to listen to her rants while naked in bed. “But what makes me feel really tired is when I have to prove that I still can breathe on my own if I decide to sing I will always love you. Needing and not needing and loving and fucking for fun, it shouldn't be an issue if it's my choice.”
“No. It shouldn't,” he said simply and let her touch her forehead to his. “I think you should keep doing what you're doing,” his thumbs were gentle on her cheekbones.
“Screwing you all night long?” she crooked a smile and he chuckled.
“I won't refuse that, but what I meant is doing what you damn please.”
“Mhmmm,” she parted from him enough to see his face. The morning was still far away and she had nowhere to be until the afternoon. And in case anyone asked about Clint? She was his boss after all. “You know what I want right now?”
He smirked. “I'm sure you'll tell me.”
She didn't tell him. She kissed him and it was sweeter than she intended, longer than she was ready for, but it was still great.
*
Clint turned out to be an architect who periodically worked for his brother's big and successful company. When Natasha asked him about it (in bed) he said he didn't like the feeling of being tied down to a place, job, working hours or anything so mundane. Hearing that made her ridiculously happy.
Three months later Natasha wrote the song. She called it Those arms. It went straight to the top of the charts.
Six months later she visited a certain firm in Iowa asking for an architect to help her redesign her old house. Clint didn't need to be asked twice.
A year later the new album was out and a new tour followed shortly after. There were twelve new songs on it, plus one The Eagles cover. Nobody knew whom it was dedicated to. (It was dedicated to someone). There were also references to Clint in seven other songs, which only Clint could pick up on. Steve had his doubts, but Natasha called them all bread and cheese. Steve wasn't sure what she meant by that.
Clint still didn't like jobs that kept him tied down. That was good, because working with Natasha meant exactly the opposite.
A newspaper compared them to Johnny and June, and while Clint disagreed with the accuracy of the comparison, Natasha just smiled.
“I like it,” she said. “I think it fits.”
“I still set up the lights and sound,” Clint reminded her.
“They were partners,” Natasha said practically. “They played together and performed together, but at the core of it, they were partners. You help make my show better,” she said. “Which makes you my partner.”
Clint grinned. “Oh, see, that would make an awesome song.”