that's where you'll find me
the spaces we have made for you
rating: g
characters: Clint Barton
warnings: off-screen major illness leading to past character death
summary: He owes Natasha this, this last step of collecting her life together, this last piece of letting her go.
author's note: Written ages ago for crazy4orcas's Valentine's Day prompt of, "Clint knows it's love when Natasha makes space in her weapons vault for his bow." As is the way of my things, it is likely not what was intended.
Clint nods to the guard on duty, swinging open the door once he’s been buzzed in. Hill offered to clean out Natasha’s locker herself but - it’s a piece of his partner, a haven for her heart and hands and soul, and Clint can’t imagine anyone else cataloging her guns, carefully removing the utility belts, putting all that the Black Widow had crafted into cardboard boxes like they were simple effects.
To be honest, he can’t even see himself doing it. But he owes her this, this last honor for the tools that had kept her alive (until they hadn’t, until even bullets and tazers and garroting wires couldn’t fight her enemy), that had kept her for so long beside him. So he walks into the on-duty locker room and heads for her weapons locker, right where it has always been; right beside his.
The combo lock spins easily in his hand, dial clicking as it analyzes his fingerprints and SHIELD ID for authenticity. Access Granted flashes on the screen, Natasha’s idea of a joke (“Tasha, can you seriously see me with a stiletto strapped to my thigh? Why would I need to get into your locker?”), and Clint opens it.
It’s neat and orderly, her weapons stacked in their cases and clearly well cared for. And yet there’s a wooden case sitting in front, out of place among the gun cases and utility belt pouches. He knows it as soon as he sees it, knows the bow inside is the one he taught her archery with, knows Layla should have been tucked away back at his apartment (the rooms he hasn’t been into in months, hasn’t entered to do more than grab another change of clothes for the hospital). There’s a simple Post-It on the front, marked with her neat handwriting, and Clint can’t say when he decides to pick it up, to read it.
Clint, you idiot. And he can hear her saying it with affectionate exasperation, can see the way she would lift her eyes up and shake her head ever so slightly. The note blurs in his hand and he lifts it before the ink can get smeared, leaning against her locker as his shoulders shake, as he lets go of the tension that’s been threading through his life for the past three months.
He takes the bow out on the range, running his hands over the polished grip in remembrance, in a silent apology for leaving it alone for so long. It’s easy to string it, the draw achingly familiar when he pulls it back, when he tests the limits he remembers in the marrow of his bones. And there, somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the shadowed targets, he finds her heartbeat again in the humming of his bow.
rating: g
characters: Clint Barton
warnings: off-screen major illness leading to past character death
summary: He owes Natasha this, this last step of collecting her life together, this last piece of letting her go.
author's note: Written ages ago for crazy4orcas's Valentine's Day prompt of, "Clint knows it's love when Natasha makes space in her weapons vault for his bow." As is the way of my things, it is likely not what was intended.
Clint nods to the guard on duty, swinging open the door once he’s been buzzed in. Hill offered to clean out Natasha’s locker herself but - it’s a piece of his partner, a haven for her heart and hands and soul, and Clint can’t imagine anyone else cataloging her guns, carefully removing the utility belts, putting all that the Black Widow had crafted into cardboard boxes like they were simple effects.
To be honest, he can’t even see himself doing it. But he owes her this, this last honor for the tools that had kept her alive (until they hadn’t, until even bullets and tazers and garroting wires couldn’t fight her enemy), that had kept her for so long beside him. So he walks into the on-duty locker room and heads for her weapons locker, right where it has always been; right beside his.
The combo lock spins easily in his hand, dial clicking as it analyzes his fingerprints and SHIELD ID for authenticity. Access Granted flashes on the screen, Natasha’s idea of a joke (“Tasha, can you seriously see me with a stiletto strapped to my thigh? Why would I need to get into your locker?”), and Clint opens it.
It’s neat and orderly, her weapons stacked in their cases and clearly well cared for. And yet there’s a wooden case sitting in front, out of place among the gun cases and utility belt pouches. He knows it as soon as he sees it, knows the bow inside is the one he taught her archery with, knows Layla should have been tucked away back at his apartment (the rooms he hasn’t been into in months, hasn’t entered to do more than grab another change of clothes for the hospital). There’s a simple Post-It on the front, marked with her neat handwriting, and Clint can’t say when he decides to pick it up, to read it.
Clint, you idiot. And he can hear her saying it with affectionate exasperation, can see the way she would lift her eyes up and shake her head ever so slightly. The note blurs in his hand and he lifts it before the ink can get smeared, leaning against her locker as his shoulders shake, as he lets go of the tension that’s been threading through his life for the past three months.
He takes the bow out on the range, running his hands over the polished grip in remembrance, in a silent apology for leaving it alone for so long. It’s easy to string it, the draw achingly familiar when he pulls it back, when he tests the limits he remembers in the marrow of his bones. And there, somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the shadowed targets, he finds her heartbeat again in the humming of his bow.