Ten minutes later she has to admit that nothing will. The water is steadily rising as the ship sinks deeper and deeper into the ocean and she is irreparably stuck beneath the heavy beam. No matter how hard she tries, she can't shift it. On the bright side, her efforts have awakened a dull red ache in her hips. So, at least her spine isn't broken. Much good as it does her now.
She's in the middle of the Pacific ocean, far outside the usual trade routes or cruise lines. They're so far out at sea not even fishermen come here, and it'll take the coast guard of any country at least a good two hours to get out to her location. She'll be long dead by then. There's simply no way out of this. It's funny, she always knew this day would come, but somehow she's surprised now that it has. Of course, she thought it'd be quick like a bullet to the heart or head, bleeding out from a ripped femoral artery or a slit throat, or hell having a building collapsed over her. Never did she think that she would drown or that it would be this slow.
Her mind rages against the helplessness of the situation. She cannot die like this, alone in the cold and the dark. It's such a pointless way to die. She loses another ten minutes or so, slamming her fists against the beam, trying to buck her hips up against it to somehow dislodge it. The only thing that happens is that she's left breathless and crying into the gloom of the empty space. It doesn't change anything. This is it for her. End of the line.
But, before she goes, she'd really like to hear his voice again. Even if it's just a recorded message on his voicemail.
But, she can't do it like this. Can't break his heart like that. Natasha's always been good at compartmentalizing and now she's spinning problems out and tucking them away in boxes, stacking them all against the far side of her mind. A box for the cold of the water she's already half-submerged in. A box for the pain radiating through her hips like molten metal pouring slowly through her bones. A box for the fear clawing at her throat. A box for the water lapping at her throat. A box for the beam pinning her so solidly against the floor.
The slim Starkphone is thankfully waterproof. You can take a shower or a bath with it and it can take a depth of a thousand fathoms, though no one has ever known why Tony ever bothered with that. Natasha's grateful for it now though. She pulls it out from the custom made pocket of her battle suit; half a world away, a comma link would be useless. She's off-grid and on her own. It's how she prefers missions. But right now she could really do with some back-up.
A box for the rescue that isn't coming.
None of the numbers in her contact list are labelled. In Clint's phone her (unlisted) number is accompanied by both her name and a picture of her that he took while she was sleeping, but somehow she doesn't quite dare bring herself to do the same. Just in case. But he's always the first number on her list of recently dialed and she knows the ten digits by heart. Her fingers are stiff and unresponsive as she unlocks the phone, working one-handed so that she can use her other hand to prop herself up. The arm that holds her weight trembles precariously and it's a struggle to keep herself up.
A box for the outcome that cannot be outrun.
It leaves her with an odd sort of calm. She takes a shuddered breath and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. All it accomplishes is smearing saltwater across her cheeks, but it feels less like tears, and it makes her feel a little bit better.
The dial tone seems over loud in the small compartment, ringing out in the silence over the steady rush of water. Then there's his voice -- "Barton" -- and Natasha's whole world centers on it. It's a ray of warm light in the growing dark.
A box for the slowly sinking ship. A box for how futile this is. A box for the lingering aches of her body.
"Hey. It's me." Her voice is warm, pleased even. She's so proud of the fact that it doesn't tremble or falter. "What're you doing?"
A box for the fact that she'll never see him again.
He's surprised when he hears the voice on the other end of the line, but there's a spot of warmth that settles in his chest every time he hears her voice that shows up now, and Clint leans back into the couch, letting her hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "Hey, you." His tone is softer with her than it is with any other person on the entire fucking planet, and there's a real, honest affection there he can't even pretend to feign.
Clint lets out a laugh at her question and even though she can't see it, shakes his head. "Not much. Sitting on the couch, drinking a beer. Watching some shit movie you'd make fun of me for," He didn't even catch the title, just something that was on FX or whatever, lots of explosions and terrible one-liners. He always did love campy action movies even though Nat had never seen the appeal. It's one of those things they can argue about in their sleep because they've done it so many times, the words and protests fond and worn and familiar, like old friends. Nothing like their real fights.
"You're calling early though," he says and there's not a bit of worry in his voice, he just assumes things went better than planned. They often do, when Nat's involved. "You get the package already?" There's really no other explanation because as a general rule, Nat doesn't call during a mission.
The warmth in Clint's voice washes over Natasha's and for a moment it drives away the cold seeping into her bones. For a moment she can almost imagine that she's safe in his arms and that everything is alright. Then the lights flicker and die and the warmth slips away instantly. The compartment is plunged into pitch black, lit only by the display of Natasha's phone sending a rippling shimmer of light through the water. Her teeth chatter hopelessly and she has to suppress a shudder. Thankfully, the emergency lights come on, washing the scene in a dim red light; Natasha is oddly relieved that she won't have to die alone in the dark.
A box for the certainty of her coming demise.
"Better enjoy it while you can," Natasha cautions teasingly. Her situation lace the words with a strange foreboding. She's hoping he won't pick up on it. "I still have that boxset of Russian silent films you promised to watch with me."
A box for the arguments they'll never have about which movie to see next. A box for the fact that she won't complain her way through another action movie curled up against him on the sofa. A box for the future with him that she'll never have.
"I hit a bit of a snag." The wince is audible in Natasha's voice. It's as much of a lie as this whole conversation, there to imply a slight annoyance but nothing she can't sort. "Had to change my plan a bit." He won't think it suspicious when she changes the subject; she never talks of missions over an unsecured line like this. "I just--" The boxes wobble precariously where they stand piled high at the back of her mind and she swallows tightly. Two breaths, and the boxes still where they are. "I wanted to call and say that I-- I miss you." The tone is wrong, she knows instantly. It was supposed to sound casual and easy, instead it came out needing and lost. Shit.
It's strange, but he swears he can hear her shivering--but that doesn't make sense, because Nat makes no action she doesn't want to, and he can't remember ever hearing her shiver. Besides, it might have been cold where she was, but nothing she was prepared for. It's when she speaks that an idea starts in the back of his mind, aching and distantly like a sore tooth, but he can't help but worry at it. Why is she calling?
"I will," He assures her, trying to cling to the warmth and comfort that he'd had when he first heard her voice. There's a short laugh and he sits up on the couch, fingers wandering absently over some of the random objects that have begun to litter their coffee table. He doesn't focus on them, he just--has to put his hands to some sort of task. "You got that promise under duress, it doesn't count."
His hand tightens on the phone and he swallows, that aching fear flaring into something bright and painful in the front of his mind even as he refuses to acknowledge just what a 'snag' might be. "Nat--" his hand has frozen now, wrapped tight around a tiny elephant figurine one of them picked up in Africa some time years ago. "Jesus, Nat--" He repeats and swallows, hard.
"Miss you too, babe." It slips out without his consent, and he longs, for a second, for her to snap at him about it, but he thinks they might be past that. "I think we should take that trip to Venice when you get back--" It's a gamble, a grasp for something because if they plan for it, she has to be coming back, right? "Tell Fury to fuck it, and spend a week alone. Hell, we could go back to Brazil, if we wanted."
"Duress?" Natasha lets her voice go incredulous. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. A promise is a promise." The chill of the water just keeps getting worse. One would think that she'd grow numb to it, but it's like she's freezing from the inside out by inches. The tone in his voice doesn't help either. The tone that tells her that maybe he's already guessed what she doesn't want him to know.
Natasha lets the pet name slip by without comment; a sure sign of how bad things are. "How about we take two weeks?" she asks, tone back under her control; now it's warm and slightly intrigued. "We could do both. Maybe swing by that cottage down in Wales as well?" The memory comes quick and unbidden, her in an over-sized knitted shirt with nothing but underwear underneath, his hands cold from the ocean air outside and slipping up along her ribs. Their bodies and mouths pressed together in a kiss that very nearly broke their promise to take things slow until he'd found himself again.
Reluctantly, Natasha puts that memory in a box as well, but not before it unleashes a torrent of memories. Building a house out of Lego in a hotel room in a nameless city; his arrow lodged in her shoulder; New Years in Hong Kong, his arms tight around her waist as the fireworks went off above and the building collapsed beneath them; sleeping in his arms in Brazil in the sticky heat; her hands cuffed above her head and his breath warm against her throat... The memories keep flooding in, like the water slowly flooding the compartment. She is quiet for the longest time, furiously boxing away their life together. If she doesn't, she can't do this.
"Hell, make it three and we can do Budapest." Her voice breaks slightly on what's been their safeword for most of their partnership, but she rallies quickly. "Sort of a greatest hits tour. We've more than enough vacation days for it." They should've taken more time off when they had a chance. "If Fury doesn't like it, he can go fuck himself. We're Avengers now. Not like he can replace us."
The fact that she doesn't call him on it is what tells him this might actually be happening. That she might be in a place she can't get out of. He swallows, tightens his hand around the little elephant and realizes, randomly, that the movie is still going on in the background. He shifts his hand over and pushes the power button, the silence echoing around him in their empty apartment.
Each second that ticks past without word from her lodges another bit of ice into his heart, building around in some mockery of construction, icing out the emotions he might be having. His breath hitches slightly in his throat even as he tries to rally. She hasn't said anything yet, after all. There's nothing that says she isn't just injured and pissed about it. Except, of course, he knows her, better than he knows anyone, including himself, and he thinks a part of him already knows the truth even if he refuses to accept it.
"Budapest," He repeats, voice wrapping around the word like it's an old friend and he's trying, hard, not to break under it. "Yeah, make some new memories in some old places," He agrees. Come'n Nat, he can't make new memories on his own. You have to come back home to him.
"Nobody's replacing anyone," He agrees, but there's a deeper truth to it. "We're a team."
The moment the sounds of the film cut out in the background, Natasha's heart stutters in her chest. In the silence their conversation seems so much more serious than it did mere moments ago. The only sounds she can hear is his breaths and the steady rush of water mixing with the groan of the hull. She holds her breath to focus on the familiar sound of his breathing. A shudder so violent it drives a quiet gasp from her runs through her body and she has to clamp her mouth shut to keep from making another noise.
The silences stretch out for too long between them. But, it's the only way she can do this. Only way she can keep her voice from breaking. "We've always been a team," she confirms warmly after far too long. "Three weeks then. It's a deal."
Natasha shoots a glance down at the water. Even pushing herself up on a trembling arm, the water is already lapping at her collarbones. It won't be long now. There are so many boxes in her mind now, there is barely room to think around them. "Listen, I-- I gotta go." Even the prospect of hanging up on him, of being alone in the red sheen of the emergency lights fills her eyes with tears. Pathetic, Agent. Pull yourself together. "I have to finish up." Her Glocks are somewhere beneath the steel beam and well outside her reach or she'd finish this before the water has a chance. Now, all she can do is wait. "You-- be good, okay?"
"No!" He doesn't mean for it to sound as desperate as it does, but the idea that she's going to hang up on him claws at his heart, because he refuses for this to be the end of it. Not when there could be seconds more, not when there's a chance he could convince himself this isn't happening for a moment more.
"Come'n Nat," He says, swallowing hard, "We're a team, right? You just said it. We do this like we've done everything else. We do this together."
His hand is so tight around the phone he swears he can hear it cracking, but it's Starktech, metal, and it's stupid to think something like his grip could break it. "Okay?" His voice breaks, but he pushes through it, "We do this together. You don't get to--" He can't force the word out, can't even wrap his head around it, that it's even a possibility. "I'm not letting you do this alone."
Natasha's lower lip trembles hopelessly. Though she blames it on the cold that has every muscle in her body contracting. He knows. It makes all her carefully packed away boxes come tumbling down and spilling open. The rush of emotions and memories is almost overwhelming and it makes the tears that's been burning at her eyes roll down her cheeks. They cut a straight line through the drying sea-water on her skin.
"I had to blow the ship up," she confesses in a low, miserable voice. "I'm-- I'm still on it." This is such a fuck-up. But this time he isn't there to pull her out of the pile of shit that she's brought tumbling down on herself. This time it's just her. Death has been walking in their foot steps ever since the first time they took a life, but always one step behind. It's an old companion, it shouldn't be this hard.
This reminds her of a derelict warehouse over a decade ago. The wind howled through the holes in the tin roof, but she could barely hear it over the muffled sobs of her mark and the beating of her own heart. His eyes were practically burning a hole in her. She knew he was there and she knew his mission. Her body was tense, waiting for his arrow to find its mark. It never did, but she was ready for it. Back then she longed to be stopped, and now she wants nothing more than to go on. But that's the thing about second chances, you only get one. "I'm sorry."
The hitch of her breath when the tears come rips at his heart with sharp claws that mean to maim, to shred him to ribbons. His own eyes are wet with it, but he doesn't notice, all of his attention on her and the words coming out of her mouth. That explains it, and for a moment he swears he can see her, trapped under a beam, water rising, pale skin shining with the wet under the red glow of emergency lights--
He blinks and the broken image is gone and he swallows, hard, trying to keep his voice even. Clint doesn't ask if she's got any way out, if there's anything anyone could do because if there was she wouldn't have called him like this. Wouldn't have reached out to say goodbye.
"Hey--" he starts, and despite his efforts, the tears have thickened his voice, "Hey, don't apologize." he can't handle it if she apologizes, "We've never done that bullshit before, we're not going to start now." Neither of them have ever apologized for what they are. Not to one another.
Clint takes a breath, slow and shaky, and then says; "You know it was always you, right? From the first second I saw you over that Senator. I was fucking gone--"
Natasha's arm trembles hard and threatens to give out under her. She has to brace her hand against the steel floor (or is it the wall? Natasha can't remember) and lock her elbow to keep from falling back into the water. The movement very nearly loses her the cellphone as it threatens to slip from her grip into the dark water below. Only her excellent reflexes helps her numb fingers curl tight around it before it falls. She's still sorry. So damn sorry.
Her throat works and she ducks her head. Her tears fall straight into the water, causing soft ripples that spread before fading out. "I thought you were such a kid." The memory hurts now. Back then she was courting death to just feel something, and his blade against her throat gave her such a rush. It was like a flame igniting in the dark, and for weeks to come she'd warmed her hands against the memory of it. "Inexperienced. Amateur." Barely nineteen and she'd been so damn arrogant.
"Then you shot me. I'd never felt anything for anyone. Not like I felt for you. I--" The words are thick and oddly shaped, they keep sticking in her throat. "You're everything." She wedges the phone between her shoulder and her ear so that she can wipe her nose on the back of her wrist with a soft sniffle. "I shouldn't've run. In Wales. I just didn't want to lose you." But now she's going to, forever.
There's a short, strangled sort of laugh and he leans back, closing his eyes even as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off the overwhelming ache that's battering at the edges of his mind, trying to overtake him. There will be time for that--plenty of it--after this is done. For now Clint is going to drag out every single moment he has with her. He's going to savor it so he's got them later, when he needs them most. She may be sorry this is happening, but he's sorry he's not there with her. They were supposed to do this together--he never imagined they'd live to be old, but he had imagined they'd at least go out together.
"That's kind of sick," he says, trying to tease, but it falls flat, sounds forced, "loving someone after they try to kill you." But then she mentions Wales and he's lost for a moment in the smell of the ocean, the bite of cold wind and the sight of the grey sea under thick clouds from the top of a cottage as he waited for her to return. He's lost in the feel of her lips against him for the first time, the way she looked when she came through that door.
"You came back to me, Nat," he says, and there's an aching truth to it, one that can't be denied, "That's all that matters." He wishes she could come back to him now, that somehow, between them, they have one last second chance, one last miracle that will make this not real. They're friends with gods after all. What's the point of being a superhero if you can't save the most important person in your life?
"We--should have gotten married. With a paper trail and all. Could have used fake IDs--"
There's a brief moment where Natasha thinks that maybe she can box it all away again. If he laughs and just goes soft with her again, maybe she can forget the cold and the pain and the panic slowly clawing at her throat. The truth of the matter is that she doesn't want to die. She has a life with him and she'd give anything for another day together, for one final chance to touch him.
"But I left first, and I shouldn't've." It's not that she doesn't remember the panic clawing at her chest or the need to put some distance between them. Her leaving was the only thing she could do to salvage who they were. But, she wishes that she'd been able to see beyond that to the fact that she's always loved him, that expanding their relationship would only mean having more of him.
"We never needed the paperwork." Her hand presses against her chest where her two rings rest just above her heart, strung as they are on the reinforced titanium chain she wears for missions. "Or to make promises in some church." She chokes back a sob. If she had a chance to go back and do it all over again, she'd give him that damn wedding. Church, huge white dress and all. The ceremony has always been important to him, like it never was to her. "I made my promises to you a long time ago, Clint. They're etched on my heart."
Her hand curls into a too tight fist above the rings and she fights to keep the sobs at bay. "Listen. I need you to promise me-- When this is-- When we hang up, you have to go find Tony. I don't care what you do, but you're not spending tonight alone. Do you hear?" The water is up to her throat already, they're fast approaching the end of the line here. There are so many things she needs to tell him and there's just not enough time.
"I should have kissed you in Hong Kong," He says, quietly, and it's true. Just imagine what they could have done with ten extra years with one another. God, they would have rewritten history. Clint had thought about it, then, as the minutes ticked toward midnight, about tucking her slim body close and kissing her deep and heavy--and then the building had fallen out from underneath them.
Mimicking her, even though he can't see, he moves his hand over to wrap tight around his ring, holding them tight enough he can feel them press into his hand. Later, when he opens it, there'll be a mark there that matches the shape of that band. The church wasn't important to him, hell, they could have done it in the Justice of the Peace's office if she'd have preferred, but he would have liked to tell people about them, to show the world that he was hers as much as she was his, to stand in front of their friends and make a commitment. He would have liked that.
"Love you," he murmurs, because he needs her to know it, can't let her go without making sure she understands.
There's another one of those pained laughs as she tells him to find Tony, and he shakes his head, "Yeah, sure," He's not going to go find him. Doesn't know if he'll make it off the couch. He could notify JARVIS he guesses, but--he doesn't think he has it in him. But he's not going to deny her that wish, "'Course."
She's in the middle of the Pacific ocean, far outside the usual trade routes or cruise lines. They're so far out at sea not even fishermen come here, and it'll take the coast guard of any country at least a good two hours to get out to her location. She'll be long dead by then. There's simply no way out of this. It's funny, she always knew this day would come, but somehow she's surprised now that it has. Of course, she thought it'd be quick like a bullet to the heart or head, bleeding out from a ripped femoral artery or a slit throat, or hell having a building collapsed over her. Never did she think that she would drown or that it would be this slow.
Her mind rages against the helplessness of the situation. She cannot die like this, alone in the cold and the dark. It's such a pointless way to die. She loses another ten minutes or so, slamming her fists against the beam, trying to buck her hips up against it to somehow dislodge it. The only thing that happens is that she's left breathless and crying into the gloom of the empty space. It doesn't change anything. This is it for her. End of the line.
But, before she goes, she'd really like to hear his voice again. Even if it's just a recorded message on his voicemail.
But, she can't do it like this. Can't break his heart like that. Natasha's always been good at compartmentalizing and now she's spinning problems out and tucking them away in boxes, stacking them all against the far side of her mind. A box for the cold of the water she's already half-submerged in. A box for the pain radiating through her hips like molten metal pouring slowly through her bones. A box for the fear clawing at her throat. A box for the water lapping at her throat. A box for the beam pinning her so solidly against the floor.
The slim Starkphone is thankfully waterproof. You can take a shower or a bath with it and it can take a depth of a thousand fathoms, though no one has ever known why Tony ever bothered with that. Natasha's grateful for it now though. She pulls it out from the custom made pocket of her battle suit; half a world away, a comma link would be useless. She's off-grid and on her own. It's how she prefers missions. But right now she could really do with some back-up.
A box for the rescue that isn't coming.
None of the numbers in her contact list are labelled. In Clint's phone her (unlisted) number is accompanied by both her name and a picture of her that he took while she was sleeping, but somehow she doesn't quite dare bring herself to do the same. Just in case. But he's always the first number on her list of recently dialed and she knows the ten digits by heart. Her fingers are stiff and unresponsive as she unlocks the phone, working one-handed so that she can use her other hand to prop herself up. The arm that holds her weight trembles precariously and it's a struggle to keep herself up.
A box for the outcome that cannot be outrun.
It leaves her with an odd sort of calm. She takes a shuddered breath and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. All it accomplishes is smearing saltwater across her cheeks, but it feels less like tears, and it makes her feel a little bit better.
The dial tone seems over loud in the small compartment, ringing out in the silence over the steady rush of water. Then there's his voice -- "Barton" -- and Natasha's whole world centers on it. It's a ray of warm light in the growing dark.
A box for the slowly sinking ship. A box for how futile this is. A box for the lingering aches of her body.
"Hey. It's me." Her voice is warm, pleased even. She's so proud of the fact that it doesn't tremble or falter. "What're you doing?"
A box for the fact that she'll never see him again.
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Clint lets out a laugh at her question and even though she can't see it, shakes his head. "Not much. Sitting on the couch, drinking a beer. Watching some shit movie you'd make fun of me for," He didn't even catch the title, just something that was on FX or whatever, lots of explosions and terrible one-liners. He always did love campy action movies even though Nat had never seen the appeal. It's one of those things they can argue about in their sleep because they've done it so many times, the words and protests fond and worn and familiar, like old friends. Nothing like their real fights.
"You're calling early though," he says and there's not a bit of worry in his voice, he just assumes things went better than planned. They often do, when Nat's involved. "You get the package already?" There's really no other explanation because as a general rule, Nat doesn't call during a mission.
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A box for the certainty of her coming demise.
"Better enjoy it while you can," Natasha cautions teasingly. Her situation lace the words with a strange foreboding. She's hoping he won't pick up on it. "I still have that boxset of Russian silent films you promised to watch with me."
A box for the arguments they'll never have about which movie to see next. A box for the fact that she won't complain her way through another action movie curled up against him on the sofa. A box for the future with him that she'll never have.
"I hit a bit of a snag." The wince is audible in Natasha's voice. It's as much of a lie as this whole conversation, there to imply a slight annoyance but nothing she can't sort. "Had to change my plan a bit." He won't think it suspicious when she changes the subject; she never talks of missions over an unsecured line like this. "I just--" The boxes wobble precariously where they stand piled high at the back of her mind and she swallows tightly. Two breaths, and the boxes still where they are. "I wanted to call and say that I-- I miss you." The tone is wrong, she knows instantly. It was supposed to sound casual and easy, instead it came out needing and lost. Shit.
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"I will," He assures her, trying to cling to the warmth and comfort that he'd had when he first heard her voice. There's a short laugh and he sits up on the couch, fingers wandering absently over some of the random objects that have begun to litter their coffee table. He doesn't focus on them, he just--has to put his hands to some sort of task. "You got that promise under duress, it doesn't count."
His hand tightens on the phone and he swallows, that aching fear flaring into something bright and painful in the front of his mind even as he refuses to acknowledge just what a 'snag' might be. "Nat--" his hand has frozen now, wrapped tight around a tiny elephant figurine one of them picked up in Africa some time years ago. "Jesus, Nat--" He repeats and swallows, hard.
"Miss you too, babe." It slips out without his consent, and he longs, for a second, for her to snap at him about it, but he thinks they might be past that. "I think we should take that trip to Venice when you get back--" It's a gamble, a grasp for something because if they plan for it, she has to be coming back, right? "Tell Fury to fuck it, and spend a week alone. Hell, we could go back to Brazil, if we wanted."
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Natasha lets the pet name slip by without comment; a sure sign of how bad things are. "How about we take two weeks?" she asks, tone back under her control; now it's warm and slightly intrigued. "We could do both. Maybe swing by that cottage down in Wales as well?" The memory comes quick and unbidden, her in an over-sized knitted shirt with nothing but underwear underneath, his hands cold from the ocean air outside and slipping up along her ribs. Their bodies and mouths pressed together in a kiss that very nearly broke their promise to take things slow until he'd found himself again.
Reluctantly, Natasha puts that memory in a box as well, but not before it unleashes a torrent of memories. Building a house out of Lego in a hotel room in a nameless city; his arrow lodged in her shoulder; New Years in Hong Kong, his arms tight around her waist as the fireworks went off above and the building collapsed beneath them; sleeping in his arms in Brazil in the sticky heat; her hands cuffed above her head and his breath warm against her throat... The memories keep flooding in, like the water slowly flooding the compartment. She is quiet for the longest time, furiously boxing away their life together. If she doesn't, she can't do this.
"Hell, make it three and we can do Budapest." Her voice breaks slightly on what's been their safeword for most of their partnership, but she rallies quickly. "Sort of a greatest hits tour. We've more than enough vacation days for it." They should've taken more time off when they had a chance. "If Fury doesn't like it, he can go fuck himself. We're Avengers now. Not like he can replace us."
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Each second that ticks past without word from her lodges another bit of ice into his heart, building around in some mockery of construction, icing out the emotions he might be having. His breath hitches slightly in his throat even as he tries to rally. She hasn't said anything yet, after all. There's nothing that says she isn't just injured and pissed about it. Except, of course, he knows her, better than he knows anyone, including himself, and he thinks a part of him already knows the truth even if he refuses to accept it.
"Budapest," He repeats, voice wrapping around the word like it's an old friend and he's trying, hard, not to break under it. "Yeah, make some new memories in some old places," He agrees. Come'n Nat, he can't make new memories on his own. You have to come back home to him.
"Nobody's replacing anyone," He agrees, but there's a deeper truth to it. "We're a team."
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The silences stretch out for too long between them. But, it's the only way she can do this. Only way she can keep her voice from breaking. "We've always been a team," she confirms warmly after far too long. "Three weeks then. It's a deal."
Natasha shoots a glance down at the water. Even pushing herself up on a trembling arm, the water is already lapping at her collarbones. It won't be long now. There are so many boxes in her mind now, there is barely room to think around them. "Listen, I-- I gotta go." Even the prospect of hanging up on him, of being alone in the red sheen of the emergency lights fills her eyes with tears. Pathetic, Agent. Pull yourself together. "I have to finish up." Her Glocks are somewhere beneath the steel beam and well outside her reach or she'd finish this before the water has a chance. Now, all she can do is wait. "You-- be good, okay?"
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"Come'n Nat," He says, swallowing hard, "We're a team, right? You just said it. We do this like we've done everything else. We do this together."
His hand is so tight around the phone he swears he can hear it cracking, but it's Starktech, metal, and it's stupid to think something like his grip could break it. "Okay?" His voice breaks, but he pushes through it, "We do this together. You don't get to--" He can't force the word out, can't even wrap his head around it, that it's even a possibility. "I'm not letting you do this alone."
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"I had to blow the ship up," she confesses in a low, miserable voice. "I'm-- I'm still on it." This is such a fuck-up. But this time he isn't there to pull her out of the pile of shit that she's brought tumbling down on herself. This time it's just her. Death has been walking in their foot steps ever since the first time they took a life, but always one step behind. It's an old companion, it shouldn't be this hard.
This reminds her of a derelict warehouse over a decade ago. The wind howled through the holes in the tin roof, but she could barely hear it over the muffled sobs of her mark and the beating of her own heart. His eyes were practically burning a hole in her. She knew he was there and she knew his mission. Her body was tense, waiting for his arrow to find its mark. It never did, but she was ready for it. Back then she longed to be stopped, and now she wants nothing more than to go on. But that's the thing about second chances, you only get one. "I'm sorry."
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He blinks and the broken image is gone and he swallows, hard, trying to keep his voice even. Clint doesn't ask if she's got any way out, if there's anything anyone could do because if there was she wouldn't have called him like this. Wouldn't have reached out to say goodbye.
"Hey--" he starts, and despite his efforts, the tears have thickened his voice, "Hey, don't apologize." he can't handle it if she apologizes, "We've never done that bullshit before, we're not going to start now." Neither of them have ever apologized for what they are. Not to one another.
Clint takes a breath, slow and shaky, and then says; "You know it was always you, right? From the first second I saw you over that Senator. I was fucking gone--"
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Her throat works and she ducks her head. Her tears fall straight into the water, causing soft ripples that spread before fading out. "I thought you were such a kid." The memory hurts now. Back then she was courting death to just feel something, and his blade against her throat gave her such a rush. It was like a flame igniting in the dark, and for weeks to come she'd warmed her hands against the memory of it. "Inexperienced. Amateur." Barely nineteen and she'd been so damn arrogant.
"Then you shot me. I'd never felt anything for anyone. Not like I felt for you. I--" The words are thick and oddly shaped, they keep sticking in her throat. "You're everything." She wedges the phone between her shoulder and her ear so that she can wipe her nose on the back of her wrist with a soft sniffle. "I shouldn't've run. In Wales. I just didn't want to lose you." But now she's going to, forever.
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"That's kind of sick," he says, trying to tease, but it falls flat, sounds forced, "loving someone after they try to kill you." But then she mentions Wales and he's lost for a moment in the smell of the ocean, the bite of cold wind and the sight of the grey sea under thick clouds from the top of a cottage as he waited for her to return. He's lost in the feel of her lips against him for the first time, the way she looked when she came through that door.
"You came back to me, Nat," he says, and there's an aching truth to it, one that can't be denied, "That's all that matters." He wishes she could come back to him now, that somehow, between them, they have one last second chance, one last miracle that will make this not real. They're friends with gods after all. What's the point of being a superhero if you can't save the most important person in your life?
"We--should have gotten married. With a paper trail and all. Could have used fake IDs--"
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"But I left first, and I shouldn't've." It's not that she doesn't remember the panic clawing at her chest or the need to put some distance between them. Her leaving was the only thing she could do to salvage who they were. But, she wishes that she'd been able to see beyond that to the fact that she's always loved him, that expanding their relationship would only mean having more of him.
"We never needed the paperwork." Her hand presses against her chest where her two rings rest just above her heart, strung as they are on the reinforced titanium chain she wears for missions. "Or to make promises in some church." She chokes back a sob. If she had a chance to go back and do it all over again, she'd give him that damn wedding. Church, huge white dress and all. The ceremony has always been important to him, like it never was to her. "I made my promises to you a long time ago, Clint. They're etched on my heart."
Her hand curls into a too tight fist above the rings and she fights to keep the sobs at bay. "Listen. I need you to promise me-- When this is-- When we hang up, you have to go find Tony. I don't care what you do, but you're not spending tonight alone. Do you hear?" The water is up to her throat already, they're fast approaching the end of the line here. There are so many things she needs to tell him and there's just not enough time.
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Mimicking her, even though he can't see, he moves his hand over to wrap tight around his ring, holding them tight enough he can feel them press into his hand. Later, when he opens it, there'll be a mark there that matches the shape of that band. The church wasn't important to him, hell, they could have done it in the Justice of the Peace's office if she'd have preferred, but he would have liked to tell people about them, to show the world that he was hers as much as she was his, to stand in front of their friends and make a commitment. He would have liked that.
"Love you," he murmurs, because he needs her to know it, can't let her go without making sure she understands.
There's another one of those pained laughs as she tells him to find Tony, and he shakes his head, "Yeah, sure," He's not going to go find him. Doesn't know if he'll make it off the couch. He could notify JARVIS he guesses, but--he doesn't think he has it in him. But he's not going to deny her that wish, "'Course."
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