What's in a Name
Title: What's in a Name
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: The Avengers still aren't mine. I was hoping that would change around Christmas, but it didn't. *sniff*
Genre: Friendship
Pairing: Hints of Clint/Natasha
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: General spoilers for the movie.
Characters: Natasha
Secondary Characters: Clint
Summary: When they'd first met, and he'd been the man she owed her life to and nothing more, he'd been Barton and she'd been Romanoff, and she hadn't imagined that ever changing. But it had.
A/N: I was struck by the way that Clint calls Natasha "Nat," and it got me wondering just how that started. :)
As always, I thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
What's in a Name
When they'd first met, and he'd been the man she owed her life to and nothing more, he'd been Barton and she'd been Romanoff, and she hadn't imagined that ever changing.
But, as time had passed, he'd become Clint and she'd become Natasha, and she hadn't minded that so much, because by that point, she had begun to consider him a friend, and she'd had precious few friends in her lifetime - none of them like Clint.
Perhaps that was why she hadn't been bothered when he started to call her "Tasha." He didn't use it often…sometimes, she wondered if he even realized that he used it all, since it tended to fall from his lips after long, grueling missions when he was too tired to say much of anything, let alone pronounce the syllables in her name. (She'd found herself oddly grateful once, when she'd been just as exhausted and not quite awake, that Clint's name didn't need to be shortened any more than it was already.) She'd silently decided to draw the line at "Tasha," though, because nicknames were too intimate, too filled with affection, and she'd crossed too many boundaries with Clint as it was.
But, then, they'd found themselves in the middle of a firefight in Lebanon, and Clint had said Nat in warning, and she'd spun around to take out the man who'd been trying to sneak up behind them. After that, there'd been a foot chase, an explosion, and another round of gunfire before they'd finally managed to get far enough away to call for emergency extraction. She hadn't thought about what Clint had called her until much later, when she'd been replaying the fight in her head, and by then, it had seemed pointless to bring it up.
The second time he'd called her Nat, they were in Italy, and Clint was perched on a roof high above her, his voice carrying over the comms as she strolled on the sidewalk below. But, she was dressed in the finest business suit S.H.I.E.L.D.'s money could buy, there was a string of freshwater pearls at her throat, and her hair was pulled into an impeccable French twist. It wouldn't do for her cover, a respectable British heiress, to be seen talking to herself. So, she'd let the nickname wash over her without any reaction at all.
The third time he had called her Nat, they were in Brazil, and Nat was a shout that she couldn't respond to because the breath had been forced from her lungs by six gunshots to her chest. She'd been wearing Kevlar, but Kevlar or no, the shots were at close range and her ribs felt like they'd been hit with a sledgehammer. All she could do was lay there in the street and wait for the pain to recede. She was distantly aware of a rapid volley of black arrows landing around her, the bodies of her would-be-killers falling, dead before they hit the ground.
The fourth time Clint called her Nat, his voice had been hoarse, but she hadn't minded because he'd been unconscious for four days. Abdominal wounds were serious even with immediate medical attention, but they were in Norway, miles from anywhere, with no comms and no backup waiting in the wings, and she'd had to dig the bullet out herself. By the third day Clint had been so still and pale that she'd lain there next to him with her fingers resting at his neck, just to assure herself that his heart was still beating. So, when his eyes had fluttered open blearily, and he'd rasped out Nat, she'd felt like telling him that he could call her anything he wanted to as long as he stayed with her.
The fifth time he'd called her Nat, Natasha decided to stop keeping track, because Clint still wasn't many shades darker than the white hospital sheets behind him. But, he was making sarcastic quips at the nurses and complaining about the food even as his fingers curled and flexed unconsciously, already itching to pick up his bow.
So, when she walked in the door with the chocolate milkshake she'd snuck past Coulson, and Clint smiled and said Thanks, Nat, she just rolled her eyes a little, and handed him the drink.
Someday, maybe, she would tell him not to call her Nat.
But not today.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG
Fandom: Avengers
Disclaimer: The Avengers still aren't mine. I was hoping that would change around Christmas, but it didn't. *sniff*
Genre: Friendship
Pairing: Hints of Clint/Natasha
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: General spoilers for the movie.
Characters: Natasha
Secondary Characters: Clint
Summary: When they'd first met, and he'd been the man she owed her life to and nothing more, he'd been Barton and she'd been Romanoff, and she hadn't imagined that ever changing. But it had.
A/N: I was struck by the way that Clint calls Natasha "Nat," and it got me wondering just how that started. :)
As always, I thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
What's in a Name
When they'd first met, and he'd been the man she owed her life to and nothing more, he'd been Barton and she'd been Romanoff, and she hadn't imagined that ever changing.
But, as time had passed, he'd become Clint and she'd become Natasha, and she hadn't minded that so much, because by that point, she had begun to consider him a friend, and she'd had precious few friends in her lifetime - none of them like Clint.
Perhaps that was why she hadn't been bothered when he started to call her "Tasha." He didn't use it often…sometimes, she wondered if he even realized that he used it all, since it tended to fall from his lips after long, grueling missions when he was too tired to say much of anything, let alone pronounce the syllables in her name. (She'd found herself oddly grateful once, when she'd been just as exhausted and not quite awake, that Clint's name didn't need to be shortened any more than it was already.) She'd silently decided to draw the line at "Tasha," though, because nicknames were too intimate, too filled with affection, and she'd crossed too many boundaries with Clint as it was.
But, then, they'd found themselves in the middle of a firefight in Lebanon, and Clint had said Nat in warning, and she'd spun around to take out the man who'd been trying to sneak up behind them. After that, there'd been a foot chase, an explosion, and another round of gunfire before they'd finally managed to get far enough away to call for emergency extraction. She hadn't thought about what Clint had called her until much later, when she'd been replaying the fight in her head, and by then, it had seemed pointless to bring it up.
The second time he'd called her Nat, they were in Italy, and Clint was perched on a roof high above her, his voice carrying over the comms as she strolled on the sidewalk below. But, she was dressed in the finest business suit S.H.I.E.L.D.'s money could buy, there was a string of freshwater pearls at her throat, and her hair was pulled into an impeccable French twist. It wouldn't do for her cover, a respectable British heiress, to be seen talking to herself. So, she'd let the nickname wash over her without any reaction at all.
The third time he had called her Nat, they were in Brazil, and Nat was a shout that she couldn't respond to because the breath had been forced from her lungs by six gunshots to her chest. She'd been wearing Kevlar, but Kevlar or no, the shots were at close range and her ribs felt like they'd been hit with a sledgehammer. All she could do was lay there in the street and wait for the pain to recede. She was distantly aware of a rapid volley of black arrows landing around her, the bodies of her would-be-killers falling, dead before they hit the ground.
The fourth time Clint called her Nat, his voice had been hoarse, but she hadn't minded because he'd been unconscious for four days. Abdominal wounds were serious even with immediate medical attention, but they were in Norway, miles from anywhere, with no comms and no backup waiting in the wings, and she'd had to dig the bullet out herself. By the third day Clint had been so still and pale that she'd lain there next to him with her fingers resting at his neck, just to assure herself that his heart was still beating. So, when his eyes had fluttered open blearily, and he'd rasped out Nat, she'd felt like telling him that he could call her anything he wanted to as long as he stayed with her.
The fifth time he'd called her Nat, Natasha decided to stop keeping track, because Clint still wasn't many shades darker than the white hospital sheets behind him. But, he was making sarcastic quips at the nurses and complaining about the food even as his fingers curled and flexed unconsciously, already itching to pick up his bow.
So, when she walked in the door with the chocolate milkshake she'd snuck past Coulson, and Clint smiled and said Thanks, Nat, she just rolled her eyes a little, and handed him the drink.
Someday, maybe, she would tell him not to call her Nat.
But not today.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter