a testament to you and I
a babylon for us
rating: PG-13
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff, obligatory OCs
warnings: adultery, brief NSWFish section
summary: Soulmate universe AU, where Clint and Natasha are NOT soulmates.
author's note: For hufflepuffsneak's prompt at the ATTF. Since I'm pretty sure it's not the kind of AU you were looking for, don't worry about the taxes. I hope you enjoy anyway!
It’s the simple joy of choosing something, like chocolate tucked in pockets and treasured until it’s warm and melts in your fingers, on your lips, sweet and blissful and a decision you’ve made on your own terms. It’s the thrill of illicit love, of breaking the boundaries and the rules society has tried to make them bend to, the lines they’ve had to walk in (but maybe they’re more guidelines, maybe you only need rules in order to break them). He thinks, lost in the tangle of her arms and pale skin, kissing and biting until it flushes red under his tongue and she pays him back with bruised arms, a raked back, that people have always loved to break the law, the unwritten expectations and institutions. She’s not his, but she’s his in every way that matters.
They start slow and sweet, like an autumn day with dashes of falling leaves, colorful and beautiful and dying, scattered across a sidewalk and street by a crisp and biting wind. A smile for a stranger, prompted by nothing more than catching each other looking; laughter, an invitation to the tea shop with tables still set out, pumpkin decorations in the window. Over a steaming cup she studies him, mouth hidden behind the rim, and he lazily answers her questions, makes her laugh again. They aren’t his, aren’t hers, but they are beautiful regardless.
Then it’s movie nights and stale popcorn, exploring the state fairs and glorying in the sensation of being at the top of the world, the top of it all. Their friends begin to notice after a few months, start asking around the edges of the issue, the question; why aren’t you moving on? If they’re not the one, why aren’t you still looking? And she knows what is expected of her, understands that somewhere out there in the humming metropolis someone may be looking for her with a yearning heart and an ache he can’t understand, but she pulls her coat tighter and revels in the snow on her face, her cheeks. He knows he should be searching, but he stops at window displays and stares at jewelry he wants to buy for her anyway.
Half a year passes; their families are concerned, are worried, are asking is he giving you drugs or something? Honey, do you need help? Their circles shrink, when friends stop calling and the remaining couples or singles, ever wandering singles, look uneasy when they bring each other up. They’re never invited out together, never asked to attend the same events, and she breaks a vase in the hallway when they realize they’ve been deftly maneuvered to separate events for the night. It’s not fair, she says, standing over the smashed pieces like a warrior, like a goddess, terrifying and set in her anger. He catches her hand, kisses along the bleeding stretch of her fingers, cradles the back of her neck with a hand. I know, he tells her, sad for reasons he can’t explain. They go to the festival hand in hand, daring anyone to call them on it, and the crowd parts around them like water.
Thirteen months later she’s stopped in her tracks by a man across the street, his long face handsome and searching, his dark eyes pulling her in.
Fourteen months and they fight about it, that she sees him in the day for coffee and walks to work with him in the morning, comes back to him in the fading hours of evening. I can’t help it, she tells him, fists clenched and on the defensive, then let’s move, he yells, throwing his hands up, frustrated beyond all reason, let’s go somewhere else, I thought you loved me in a whisper, in fear, in words he never thought he would have to question. She flinches like he’s hit her, like he’s beaten her with his hands instead of his words, and there is not enough anger in her to answer him. The snowflakes swirl onto the patterned carpet, drift onto the table and the pictures in the hallway, and he stands on the stoop in bare feet willing her to come back, come back, come home.
Fifteen months he’s walking back to his empty apartment when she drops her keys and he scoops them up, offers them back to a face his soul knows like his own.
Two years to the day, leaves have piled up against the wrought iron legs of her chair, her boots as she sips a cup of tea. He walks over the cobblestones and halts when he sees her, his hands in his pockets, a ring box against his breast. When he starts to move again he doesn’t stop until he’s standing against the quaint iron fence, standing in front of her. Hey, he says, and she studies him silently, her mouth hidden behind the rim of the cup. Can I get you a coffee? She asks finally, long fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, and he nods. Sure.
No, it’s not the possibility of being discovered, of their soulmates shadowing them to the nooks and hidden corners they meet at, make love at. It’s not even that it’s forbidden, in more ways than by law. Somewhere in the chemistry of him and her is a spark their own have never given, a fire that lasts against the cold and draws warmth into their bones. His knows him, hers understands her, but they have to, they are made to. What they are building is a sculpture that reaches for the autumn sky, made of differences and disagreements and decisions, of accepting each other for everything they are and, in a way their soulmates cannot fathom, everything they aren’t.
He hands her a cup of tea, already holding his coffee in his other hand, drawls you know you’re old when they actually offer you the senior discount. She laughs, tucking her arm through his and resting her gray head on his shoulder, and together they wander through the fall city streets, reliving moments from years ago.