for me you'll always be
and beautiful, and dancing away
rating: g through pg-13
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warning: abuse (in one drabble)
author's note: I posted the first (and, until now, only) drabble in a Clint/Natasha college!AU a year and a half ago. The remaining pieces of the story have been sitting on my hard-drive since then, waiting for me to fill in the missing moments/months. Clearly, that hasn't happened in the year and a half since. So, in the spirit of the new year, I present what I have of the rest of the story. Enjoy. :)
summary: They say you make lifelong friends in college, but they never mention you can meet them fifty feet above ground, breaking all the rules. [College AU]
pt. 1
October
She moves through the beams of sunlight in the attic, flowing and light on her feet, all grace and motion.
"Do you dance?" Clint asks, curious, meaning nothing by it. He expects her to smile - loves winning those smiles from her - but even as she does, a sad shadow slips through her eyes.
"I used to," she tells him, and continues her turn. The hem of her linen shirt lifts, revealing the red scars he's seen spreading across her back like flames, and he wonders how much he doesn't know about Natasha.
x
November
She starts dragging Clint to every classical music concert in the area. Well, he says "dragging," but really he figures out that she's going alone and finally volunteers to tag along. Her amused expression when she spots him loitering outside the auditorium the first time is entirely worth it.
"Why do you like this kind of music?" They've already established that he's a country boy at heart. Classical isn't something he wouldn't expect from her, but dance music or pop seemed more likely candidates.
"It's universal," Natasha explains as they settle into the uncomfortable seats. "It doesn't need translation."
He listens to the orchestra with a thoughtful expression, and afterwards starts to make a note of every upcoming concert he finds.
x
December
"How many have you killed?" Clint asks solemnly, face completely straight.
"Too many to count. Ferns, flowers, vegetables - all of them, dead after days." She strikes a dramatic pose, the offending hand pressed to her forehead. "Their leafy ghosts cry out for vengeance."
They exchange grins and head towards their separate classes, and she thinks nothing of it until a week later, when he fishes a clay pot from his backpack and puts it proudly in her hands.
"A cactus, Clint?" Natasha looks up from the greenery with amusement. "Normally boys give girls pretty flowers. A prickly plant does not say 'you're beautiful'."
He gives her a lopsided smile and shrugs slightly.
"Give it time."
She sets it on her windowsill, wondering how soon she'll be telling him that it's died, and resigns herself to another death on her conscience.
One month later she wanders over to the windowsill, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, and finds a single red flower has bloomed sometime in the night.
x
February
"You're pretty," he says in her ear, absurdly happy. She thinks that in another life he'd be quiet and sullen after drinking, but not here, not tonight.
"And you're drunk," she replies, keeping a firm grasp on the arm slung across her shoulders. Without her help he'd fall flat on his face; as it is, he's tripping over his own two feet.
"You should be too," he drawls.
"I'm Russian." There is no way she's going to let on that she is happily buzzed herself. It would only encourage him to try drinking her under the table again.
There are a few dicey moments when she has to juggle a swaying Clint, keys, and doors. Eventually, though, she gets him into bed with his shoes off and his clothes on, a glass of water within reach.
"Drink that," she tells him as sternly as she can manage.
"Yes ma'am." He grins at her from atop the dark purple comforter, wiggling his sock-covered toes. She smiles back ruefully, shaking her head, and starts to get up.
"Tasha." The touch of his hand stops her and she looks down at him, expecting another silly remark. He's still grinning at her, but there's a wistful edge to it now. "I love you. You're… you're my best friend."
"Really drunk," she murmurs, and kisses him softly on the forehead. "Get some sleep."
By the time that she turns out the light, he's out.
As soon as the door closes, she leans up against it, heart pounding in her chest.
x
March
warning for abuse
The bruise is already sour shades of yellow and purple by the time that he returns from his archery competition. He finds her sitting on the edge of her bed, hands clasped between her knees; she's been waiting, knowing he would come, knowing he would have dropped everything and come if she had called two nights ago.
She watches his face as he enters the dorm room, finding it difficult to read past the careful neutrality, the step between his emotions and his expression. He leans down and traces the stark outline with surprisingly gentle calloused fingers, barely brushing over the mottled skin, but she catches the flare of rage in his eyes before he spins around.
"Clint." She grabs for his hand and catches his wrist instead, the tension in his body telegraphing how furious he is even if his face won't tell her. But he doesn't pull out of her grasp, only stops in his tracks with his back to her.
"I'm going to kill him."
"He already got what he deserves," she tells him. And it's true. The first punch only landed because she had been so surprised that he would use violence, that he would hit her - but he hadn't been able to touch her after that, when she showed him exactly what kind of girl he'd been dating.
She watches his shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath, the rigid muscles beneath her hand giving the lie to the calming motion. He stays facing away from her, hiding his thoughts, but his wrist twists so his fingers slide through and lace with hers.
Then, because she has to, because these are only some of the words have been eating away at her since Ryan spit them in her face, she asks, "Am I… am I nothing but a cold-hearted bitch?"
(In a few years she will be confident enough, sure enough that words like this can't hurt her. For now, she is still learning.)
"No." He turns, crouching in front of her to look up into her eyes. "No. Never."
She scoffs, turning her gaze away; she knows better than to accept such an absolute reassurance, knows herself well enough for that. He does, too.
"You're not. You can be, if you need to. But that's not who you are, Tasha."
And she believes him.
"C'mon." She tugs on their linked hands and he sits on the bed beside her, sliding his arm around her so they don't have to let go. "Thank you."
"Of course."
They sit in silence as she leans her head against his shoulder, finally starting to put the drunken, hateful words behind her.
"I'm still going to kill him, though."
"Don't tell me! Then I'll have to testify it was premeditated murder."
x
May
The tickets for her flight back to Russia are an absurdly cheerful red, lying like an immovable truth on the cafe table between them. She tells him of her plans to work as an English translator after graduating; he tells her of his acceptance to a study-abroad program in St. Petersburg over the summer. Languages may never have been his strong suit, Clint jokes, but he's finally found a reason to work on that.
Their fingers linked across the future that could have divided them, sunlight draped over their shoulders and blue skies overhead, they hold onto what it seems they always have: each other.
rating: g through pg-13
characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warning: abuse (in one drabble)
author's note: I posted the first (and, until now, only) drabble in a Clint/Natasha college!AU a year and a half ago. The remaining pieces of the story have been sitting on my hard-drive since then, waiting for me to fill in the missing moments/months. Clearly, that hasn't happened in the year and a half since. So, in the spirit of the new year, I present what I have of the rest of the story. Enjoy. :)
summary: They say you make lifelong friends in college, but they never mention you can meet them fifty feet above ground, breaking all the rules. [College AU]
pt. 1
October
She moves through the beams of sunlight in the attic, flowing and light on her feet, all grace and motion.
"Do you dance?" Clint asks, curious, meaning nothing by it. He expects her to smile - loves winning those smiles from her - but even as she does, a sad shadow slips through her eyes.
"I used to," she tells him, and continues her turn. The hem of her linen shirt lifts, revealing the red scars he's seen spreading across her back like flames, and he wonders how much he doesn't know about Natasha.
x
November
She starts dragging Clint to every classical music concert in the area. Well, he says "dragging," but really he figures out that she's going alone and finally volunteers to tag along. Her amused expression when she spots him loitering outside the auditorium the first time is entirely worth it.
"Why do you like this kind of music?" They've already established that he's a country boy at heart. Classical isn't something he wouldn't expect from her, but dance music or pop seemed more likely candidates.
"It's universal," Natasha explains as they settle into the uncomfortable seats. "It doesn't need translation."
He listens to the orchestra with a thoughtful expression, and afterwards starts to make a note of every upcoming concert he finds.
x
December
"How many have you killed?" Clint asks solemnly, face completely straight.
"Too many to count. Ferns, flowers, vegetables - all of them, dead after days." She strikes a dramatic pose, the offending hand pressed to her forehead. "Their leafy ghosts cry out for vengeance."
They exchange grins and head towards their separate classes, and she thinks nothing of it until a week later, when he fishes a clay pot from his backpack and puts it proudly in her hands.
"A cactus, Clint?" Natasha looks up from the greenery with amusement. "Normally boys give girls pretty flowers. A prickly plant does not say 'you're beautiful'."
He gives her a lopsided smile and shrugs slightly.
"Give it time."
She sets it on her windowsill, wondering how soon she'll be telling him that it's died, and resigns herself to another death on her conscience.
One month later she wanders over to the windowsill, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, and finds a single red flower has bloomed sometime in the night.
x
February
"You're pretty," he says in her ear, absurdly happy. She thinks that in another life he'd be quiet and sullen after drinking, but not here, not tonight.
"And you're drunk," she replies, keeping a firm grasp on the arm slung across her shoulders. Without her help he'd fall flat on his face; as it is, he's tripping over his own two feet.
"You should be too," he drawls.
"I'm Russian." There is no way she's going to let on that she is happily buzzed herself. It would only encourage him to try drinking her under the table again.
There are a few dicey moments when she has to juggle a swaying Clint, keys, and doors. Eventually, though, she gets him into bed with his shoes off and his clothes on, a glass of water within reach.
"Drink that," she tells him as sternly as she can manage.
"Yes ma'am." He grins at her from atop the dark purple comforter, wiggling his sock-covered toes. She smiles back ruefully, shaking her head, and starts to get up.
"Tasha." The touch of his hand stops her and she looks down at him, expecting another silly remark. He's still grinning at her, but there's a wistful edge to it now. "I love you. You're… you're my best friend."
"Really drunk," she murmurs, and kisses him softly on the forehead. "Get some sleep."
By the time that she turns out the light, he's out.
As soon as the door closes, she leans up against it, heart pounding in her chest.
x
March
warning for abuse
The bruise is already sour shades of yellow and purple by the time that he returns from his archery competition. He finds her sitting on the edge of her bed, hands clasped between her knees; she's been waiting, knowing he would come, knowing he would have dropped everything and come if she had called two nights ago.
She watches his face as he enters the dorm room, finding it difficult to read past the careful neutrality, the step between his emotions and his expression. He leans down and traces the stark outline with surprisingly gentle calloused fingers, barely brushing over the mottled skin, but she catches the flare of rage in his eyes before he spins around.
"Clint." She grabs for his hand and catches his wrist instead, the tension in his body telegraphing how furious he is even if his face won't tell her. But he doesn't pull out of her grasp, only stops in his tracks with his back to her.
"I'm going to kill him."
"He already got what he deserves," she tells him. And it's true. The first punch only landed because she had been so surprised that he would use violence, that he would hit her - but he hadn't been able to touch her after that, when she showed him exactly what kind of girl he'd been dating.
She watches his shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath, the rigid muscles beneath her hand giving the lie to the calming motion. He stays facing away from her, hiding his thoughts, but his wrist twists so his fingers slide through and lace with hers.
Then, because she has to, because these are only some of the words have been eating away at her since Ryan spit them in her face, she asks, "Am I… am I nothing but a cold-hearted bitch?"
(In a few years she will be confident enough, sure enough that words like this can't hurt her. For now, she is still learning.)
"No." He turns, crouching in front of her to look up into her eyes. "No. Never."
She scoffs, turning her gaze away; she knows better than to accept such an absolute reassurance, knows herself well enough for that. He does, too.
"You're not. You can be, if you need to. But that's not who you are, Tasha."
And she believes him.
"C'mon." She tugs on their linked hands and he sits on the bed beside her, sliding his arm around her so they don't have to let go. "Thank you."
"Of course."
They sit in silence as she leans her head against his shoulder, finally starting to put the drunken, hateful words behind her.
"I'm still going to kill him, though."
"Don't tell me! Then I'll have to testify it was premeditated murder."
x
May
The tickets for her flight back to Russia are an absurdly cheerful red, lying like an immovable truth on the cafe table between them. She tells him of her plans to work as an English translator after graduating; he tells her of his acceptance to a study-abroad program in St. Petersburg over the summer. Languages may never have been his strong suit, Clint jokes, but he's finally found a reason to work on that.
Their fingers linked across the future that could have divided them, sunlight draped over their shoulders and blue skies overhead, they hold onto what it seems they always have: each other.