(no subject)
three beats
rating: g
characters: Laura Barton/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: It's an honest answer for a simple question. At the end of the day, you love who you love.
author's note: For edgarblackthecyborg, who prompted, "Dancing to the rhythms of the heart. =)" This is likely not what was intended, but it stuck.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Laura says with a shrug, her elbows resting on the flour-dusted counter and traces of peach filling smeared on her rolled sleeves. And it’s true, regardless of Natasha’s amused but dubious expression. Love just works like that. (She burns a CD full of pop songs that prove her point and plays it on the kitchen stereo the next time Natasha stops by, ignoring the redhead’s faked distress until track #14 finally rolls to a close.)
Why does she want Clint? The answer is as simple as the one she gives his partner, and as complicated as the one she’s still coming to understand herself. He’s compassionate and strong and human, so prone to error and laughter and a fear that closes off his throat and shines in his eyes when he thinks she might love him any less for what he’s done. How could she? When he drops his head onto her shoulder and holds onto her like she’s the only real thing left in this world, when he grins at her from the couch after a fight with a battered offering of peonies, when he forgets anniversaries and how to handle his mother-in-law but never, ever fails to call her after a mission?
She’ll take all the offended remarks from her mother, all the nights of settling into bed wondering where he is, all that the world has to throw at her, for him. That’s just the way it is.
The heart wants what the heart wants, Laura thinks wistfully, her head tipped to watch Natasha cautiously examine the swaddled infant in her arms. And it’s true, even if hormones could be to blame for it. Love still falls where it will. (She pulls the scent of her son’s soft skin into the memory, the curious delight in Natasha’s green eyes, the bruised smile in the corner of her mouth when Cooper gurgles and waves a tiny hand blindly.)
Why does she want Natasha? The answer is one she won’t examine too closely, is a secret she never plans to untangle. She’s brilliant and cautious and a power in her own right, swift and subtle and gradually trusting her with the tangled secrets she lives behind as if each quiet revelation is one Laura could destroy her with. How could she? When she brings her errant husband home with an arm under his shoulders and an exasperated breath, when she circles the house at night to make sure all the doors are locked and thinks them unaware of it, when she sends postcards from the places they’re assigned and always ends with telling her to take care?
She’ll take all the pain of never acknowledging that love, all the careful steps of skirting the unapproachable issues, all that the future can throw at her, for her. That’s just the way it is.
‘The heart wants what the heart wants,’ Laura writes on a notepad covered with important dates for preschool and references numbers for paint colors, her pen tracing a curlicue that turns into a sketch for the remodeling of the master bath. And it’s true, nevermore so than when she feels Clint’s hand slip around her waist and Natasha kiss her cheek as the other woman pulls down two mugs. Love understands hope best of all.
(She greets them with “Good afternoon sleepy heads,” only to get a mumbled response into her shoulder from her husband that she translates into, “It’s 7 AM in Saudi Arabia.”
“Hence the fresh coffee,” Laura points out. Natasha smiles as she pours from the pot in question.
“Your wife is a smart woman, Barton.”
“Never a question,” he tells her, making grabbing motions for one of the coffee mugs. Natasha takes pity on him after half a minute and hands it over. “‘s why I love her.”
“Mm. And I love her for her heart.” She meets Laura’s gaze over the rim of her own mug. “Which wants what it wants, or so I’ve been told.”
“I’ve got the songs to prove it,” Laura mentions. Natasha winces.
“Anything but that.”
“Anything?” She asks, the suggestive lift entirely intentional, and is answered by a curving smile and a slow, coffee-laced kiss.)
Why does she want them? The answer is this: because he’s Clint, and she’s Natasha, and Laura loves them.
That’s just the way it is.
rating: g
characters: Laura Barton/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: It's an honest answer for a simple question. At the end of the day, you love who you love.
author's note: For edgarblackthecyborg, who prompted, "Dancing to the rhythms of the heart. =)" This is likely not what was intended, but it stuck.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Laura says with a shrug, her elbows resting on the flour-dusted counter and traces of peach filling smeared on her rolled sleeves. And it’s true, regardless of Natasha’s amused but dubious expression. Love just works like that. (She burns a CD full of pop songs that prove her point and plays it on the kitchen stereo the next time Natasha stops by, ignoring the redhead’s faked distress until track #14 finally rolls to a close.)
Why does she want Clint? The answer is as simple as the one she gives his partner, and as complicated as the one she’s still coming to understand herself. He’s compassionate and strong and human, so prone to error and laughter and a fear that closes off his throat and shines in his eyes when he thinks she might love him any less for what he’s done. How could she? When he drops his head onto her shoulder and holds onto her like she’s the only real thing left in this world, when he grins at her from the couch after a fight with a battered offering of peonies, when he forgets anniversaries and how to handle his mother-in-law but never, ever fails to call her after a mission?
She’ll take all the offended remarks from her mother, all the nights of settling into bed wondering where he is, all that the world has to throw at her, for him. That’s just the way it is.
The heart wants what the heart wants, Laura thinks wistfully, her head tipped to watch Natasha cautiously examine the swaddled infant in her arms. And it’s true, even if hormones could be to blame for it. Love still falls where it will. (She pulls the scent of her son’s soft skin into the memory, the curious delight in Natasha’s green eyes, the bruised smile in the corner of her mouth when Cooper gurgles and waves a tiny hand blindly.)
Why does she want Natasha? The answer is one she won’t examine too closely, is a secret she never plans to untangle. She’s brilliant and cautious and a power in her own right, swift and subtle and gradually trusting her with the tangled secrets she lives behind as if each quiet revelation is one Laura could destroy her with. How could she? When she brings her errant husband home with an arm under his shoulders and an exasperated breath, when she circles the house at night to make sure all the doors are locked and thinks them unaware of it, when she sends postcards from the places they’re assigned and always ends with telling her to take care?
She’ll take all the pain of never acknowledging that love, all the careful steps of skirting the unapproachable issues, all that the future can throw at her, for her. That’s just the way it is.
‘The heart wants what the heart wants,’ Laura writes on a notepad covered with important dates for preschool and references numbers for paint colors, her pen tracing a curlicue that turns into a sketch for the remodeling of the master bath. And it’s true, nevermore so than when she feels Clint’s hand slip around her waist and Natasha kiss her cheek as the other woman pulls down two mugs. Love understands hope best of all.
(She greets them with “Good afternoon sleepy heads,” only to get a mumbled response into her shoulder from her husband that she translates into, “It’s 7 AM in Saudi Arabia.”
“Hence the fresh coffee,” Laura points out. Natasha smiles as she pours from the pot in question.
“Your wife is a smart woman, Barton.”
“Never a question,” he tells her, making grabbing motions for one of the coffee mugs. Natasha takes pity on him after half a minute and hands it over. “‘s why I love her.”
“Mm. And I love her for her heart.” She meets Laura’s gaze over the rim of her own mug. “Which wants what it wants, or so I’ve been told.”
“I’ve got the songs to prove it,” Laura mentions. Natasha winces.
“Anything but that.”
“Anything?” She asks, the suggestive lift entirely intentional, and is answered by a curving smile and a slow, coffee-laced kiss.)
Why does she want them? The answer is this: because he’s Clint, and she’s Natasha, and Laura loves them.
That’s just the way it is.