FIC: Chasing the Light (2/2) (for ittykat) - PG-13
Title: Chasing the Light (2/2)
Author: sarea_okelani
A Gift For: ittykat
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None, really.
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Summary/Prompt Used: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
Prompt: Someone is hurt badly/quite sick and medical assistance is not readily available. The other person has to make tough decisions. I also used elements of my giftee's two other prompt proposals.
Authors Notes: Written for the be_compromised Secret Santa exchange. Thanks go out to four lovely ladies: Anuna and Koren M for running the fabulous exchange, and my two betas, Jade and Adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and being a procrastinator extraordinaire, whenever I encounter a roadblock I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! Of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done. I am truly blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner! :D
//\\
“Let’s see, I’ve got dry toast and two eggs poached medium for the young lady, and for you I’ve got three fried eggs, a ham steak, two sausage links, hash browns, a stack of Jimmy’s finest cakes, and maple syrup, all warmed up.”
“Thanks, Sue,” Clint said, ignoring Natasha’s look and tucking into his meal right away. He ate as though he hadn’t seen food in a week.
“That’s not really maple syrup, you know,” Natasha said, watching Clint pour essentially the entire contents of the jug over his enormous mound of pancakes.
“Mmm, artificial flavoring, just like Mom used to make,” he replied.
The ooze of the thick, sugary stuff as it found all the crevices in the pancakes was mesmerizing. “Are you sure?” Natasha was changing the subject, but she knew Clint would know she was no longer talking about pancake syrup.
“I’m sure.”
“You really want to go to Tombstone.”
“It’s going to be awesome, Tasha. You’ll see.” Clint cut off a large wedge of pancake with his fork, then speared a chunk of breakfast sausage and ate them together with relish.
“Vegas is the same distance away.”
“We’ve been to Vegas.”
“But think of the glorious tawdriness! The half-naked showgirls! The magicians! The buffets.” Natasha was hoping she’d hit on something Clint wouldn’t be able to say no to. She really, really had no desire to spend an entire day visiting some old boomtown of the Wild West. She had in mind the Bellagio. Champagne. Decent pillows. Bathtubs with jets.
Nothing was working. There was a set to Clint’s jaw that said, “Tombstone or bust.” Natasha resigned herself to dust in her hair and buffalo-themed antiques. It was her own fault, really. She’d told him he could pick where they would go for their next excursion. She’d been feeling generous after they’d finished their last job in the town of Wickenburg unexpectedly early. They’d gotten an official commendation from Fury. That was worth something.
Certainly something more than Tombstone, Arizona.
“Consider all the unsuspecting assholes with money to burn, waiting for you at the poker tables,” she tried again. “And all the loose women at the craps tables just dying to blow your dice.”
“Ooh, you play dirty,” Clint rejoined, looking completely untantalized, to Natasha’s disappointment. “But my mind’s made up. It’ll be fun, Tash. Just give it a chance!”
“Give me the car keys.”
“What?” Clint’s hand drifted involuntarily to the keys in his pocket, clutching them a little more tightly.
“You want to go to Tombstone, I’m driving,” she said flatly.
“But...” He looked torn.
Natasha knew Clint loved driving the new Porsche Cayman in their possession; it had been part of their cover story and they still had it for another two days. But even more than that, he was the one with the gift of operating vehicles. He loved it almost as much as he loved archery.
Apparently he was dead set on Tombstone, however, because while he handed over the keys reluctantly, he did hand them over. Natasha took them from him and smiled at his scowl.
Clint gulped coffee and waved at Sue for a fresh refill. “Now this is coffee. Be right back.” He got up, heading for the restrooms.
When he’d disappeared behind one of the doors, Natasha reached over and took his cup, taking a sip. She put it down so Sue could refill it. That was how he enjoyed his coffee? Disgusting. Her partner had no taste, in coffee or relaxation spots.
Of course, she didn’t have to go to Tombstone with him. She could contact Coulson and get back to HQ early. Or she could go to Vegas on her own if she really wanted to. Or hell, anywhere else.
Natasha picked up her fork and sank it into the soft, drenched stack of pancakes, helping herself to a bite. She wanted to hate it, but the truth was that the buttery sweet mouthful tasted heavenly.
“I saw that, Romanoff,” Clint said, sliding back into his side of the booth.
“Glad that sniper sight isn’t going to waste,” she replied, unconcerned with being caught.
The next time Sue passed by, Natasha ordered two pancakes for herself. She’d need the energy for the drive to southern Arizona.
//\\
When Natasha arrives at the clean room on the morning of the last day of their incarceration with some breakfast, Clint’s moving the furniture around. She’s not sure why he’s expending the energy. He’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort.
“Redecorating?” she asks, opening the slot on the door so she can slide the tray through. She closes the slot immediately afterward.
“Something like that,” Clint says, going over to open the slot on his side.
Natasha notices he’s breathing harder than such little exercise would require for a man in his shape. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hard. “Maybe you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” she points out. “You should be resting. Quarantine will break any time now.” It can’t come fast enough. She’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom last night.
“Yeah, well, I’m going stir crazy in here. I had to do something.” Clint pulls out the tray and makes a face at what’s on it. “You made coffee? What, I’m not dying fast enough for you?”
Natasha doesn’t particularly feel like joking about death; his in particular. She knows it’s his way of dealing with what’s happening to him, but she just can’t bring herself to reciprocate. Using humor to mask deeper fears isn’t her thing, but over time she’s gotten used to Clint’s methods and been able to insert a rejoinder or two of her own, occasionally. This isn’t one of those times.
“Did you do a transfusion this morning?” she asks instead. She’d given him a few more units of blood, saying that she’d found them in an unused lab. She’d held her breath, waiting for him to see through the lie, waiting for him to bring up Jordan, but he hadn’t.
Clint inclines his head. “Yeah. Did it earlier when I couldn’t sleep. How’s Jordan?”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Natasha says. She has no intention of upsetting Clint at this stage.
“He’s in good company, then,” Clint says, grinning at her, but it lacks its usual wattage. His eyes are rimmed red and his lips are pale.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” She hates nagging, has never seen herself in any role in which she’d have the right or desire to nag, has always believed that everyone should make their own choices and it isn’t up to anyone else to determine whether those choices are right or wrong... but Clint has a knack for making her behave out of character.
“Maybe later,” he says, pacing over to the other side of his temporary cage and dropping down to sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, his back to the glass wall.
Natasha reflects that she should have gone with vanilla pudding and the chocolate chip cookie, rather than the apple and string cheese. The unhealthier selections might’ve done a better job of tempting his depleted appetite.
She follows him on her side of the glass, sinking down to the ground also. They’re back to back, and she tells herself that she can feel his body heat, but she knows it’s just residual memory from the times they’ve been in this position before. Still, it’s familiar and comforting in its own way.
“When was the last time you had an injection of the antidote?” she asks.
“Christ, Nat, would you give it a rest?” Clint sounds more tired than irritated, though there’s certainly a bit of that as well.
Natasha bites back the retort. She doesn’t want to fight with him. There will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s well again.
They sit in silence for a while. Clint breaks it with:
“What do you think they’ll do with my stuff?”
Natasha stiffens, now glad they aren’t actually back-to-back, or Clint would have noticed. She turns her head slightly to see if she can catch his expression, but he’s staring straight ahead, and she can’t see his face. “What do you mean?”
“When I’m gone,” Clint says, sounding matter-of-fact. “What happens to my stuff?”
“Not something anyone has to worry about for a long time,” Natasha replies firmly, voice steady. She’s proud of how even it sounds, considering her heart feels like a hummingbird’s.
Clint lets out a chuckle, but it’s the least mirthful sound she’s ever heard. “I kept putting off filling out my ‘In the event of,’ you know? I told myself I just didn’t have time, it’s always one assignment after another. And who was I going to leave my shit to, Barney?” He scoffs, then continues quietly, “But really - it’s that I thought I was invincible.”
Natasha’s throat feels dry. She knows what he’s talking about, that feeling of invincibility. She knows it’s not true, that despite their unusual skills, at the end of the day all they are is breakable bone and fragile flesh. It’s just that sometimes, when she and Clint are in the midst of a firefight, it feels like there’s nothing in the world that can stop them, not even mortality. But as for a will... She’s never considered one because she has no children or known relatives, so what would be the point?
“Ironic, right, given what we do? Coulson would hound me about it from time to time. What’s it to him, I’d like to know. He’s not getting his hands on my 1969 Willie Mays, no matter what he thinks. He’s always telling me how well he takes care of those Captain America trading cards of his, trying to win me over-”
“Stop it.”
“Hell, maybe I will give Coulson that card after all,” Clint muses, ignoring her. “At least it’ll be with someone who appreciates it.”
“Just shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit about a baseball card,” Natasha says, and she hears the harshness in her tone, in her words, but she can’t take it back. Her back feels stiffer than the glass she’s leaning against.
“Don’t be mad,” Clint murmurs. “I’ll leave you my baby. My pride and joy. I’ve seen you look at it longingly.”
Natasha laughs, but it comes out sounding strange, as if her throat’s been rubbed raw. “I don’t want your goddamned bow, Clint.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust to use it correctly.” His voice has gotten so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear him.
She knows it’s the best compliment Clint could ever give another person, but she still doesn’t want to hear it. “Clint, I’m telling you, shut up.” She waits for his next retort, but it doesn’t come. “Clint?” Natasha turns at his lack of response. Dread claws its way up her throat at what she sees: Her partner is still leaning against the glass, but is unnaturally inert. His body has slumped and is no longer supporting itself; his right hand is on the floor, palm up.
“Clint!” Natasha shouts, slamming her palm against the glass. He’s only passed out, she tells herself. He’s fine. Just wake him up.
But he makes no movement whatsoever. Her shouts and pounding seem to have zero effect.
Passing out so quickly is a likely sign he’s succumbing to the virus, her mind recites clinically. “No,” Natasha says numbly. She doesn’t understand how this can be happening. The antidote was supposed to help keep him stable. He’s been doing well. He never answered you about whether he took an injection recently, her brain reminds her. Maybe he forgot. But Natasha knows, with complete certainty, that Clint didn’t forget. If he hadn’t taken the injection, it’d been a conscious choice. He’d known the survival rate of people infected with AS-81 was low, and even amongst those who had been cured, many were not the same, mentally or physically, afterward. But those people hadn’t had SHIELD or its resources and biochem division. All they’d had were some low-rate butchers masquerading as men of science.
She runs to the door, her brain pointing out with cold precision that going into the clean room will only endanger herself without any significant improvement in Clint’s chances for survival. She would be risking her own life, and the lives of everyone she could help as an agent of SHIELD, by exposing herself to the AS-81 virus. Natasha’s brain quickly conducts the cost/benefit analysis of exposing herself, taking into account everything from Clint’s own skills to the fact that they’re nearing the end of the required 72-hour quarantine, to the fact that there’s little she can actually do for him.
Natasha knows that when they look at her, what SHIELD sees, what her former handlers saw, is a world-class assassin, trained from adolescence to mete out death and destruction quickly and efficiently. But Natasha knows that what she is foremost is a survivor. She has done what she’s had to do, withstood odds that would have been insurmountable for most people, in order to be here today, living tissue and breath and blood. If she’s good at being an assassin, it’s because her will is stronger than any opponent she’s ever faced.
Rationally, she knows that there’s nothing she can do for Clint. She’s not a doctor; she’s not a scientist. She lives. That’s what she’s good at doing. And that skill will not help Clint. Running into the clean room will only put her life in jeopardy with no gain that logic can take into account.
She knows these facts. When weighing all the available variables, the conclusion is obvious - quickly and easily drawn, with no room for equivocation: She should not risk exposing herself.
“Clint!” Natasha throws her weight against the door, but it won’t budge. She notices for the first time that in moving the furniture, he’s positioned one of the chairs in such a way that it’s blocking the door, making it impossible to turn the knob. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? she thinks wildly. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? The answer is patently obvious. She’d been too concerned about his welfare to make the usual observations she would have normally made. Her affection for him had overridden common sense, had compromised her caution. “Goddammit, Clint, get up! Move this chair!”
He’d planned for this. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared in advance. He’d been more prepared than she had been. Natasha doesn’t know what’s more alarming, the fact that she’s been taken by surprise, or the fact that some part of her hadn’t prepared for the worst, hadn’t really prepared for this eventuality. But Clint had. He’d known from the start.
“Clint!“ Natasha knows it’s futile, that she’s not strong enough to break through the barrier he’s created, that she’s going to dislocate her shoulder if she continues. She knows this, but she crashes against the door again and again, ignoring logic, ignoring pain, ignoring everything but the fact that her partner is just beyond this door, dying. Without her. Natasha can taste salt in her mouth, knows it’s from sweat, and tears, and though Clint is hardly moving, she says his name over and over again, as if somehow this will enable him to find the strength to get up and move the chair so she can get in.
It’s moving. Only a tiny increment at a time, but it’s moving. Eventually the chair gives, scraping against the floor and falling over, and Natasha runs into the room. She immediately goes to Clint, feeling for a pulse in his throat. She finds it. It’s thready, but enough to help subside some of her panic. Her heart beating hard against her ribcage, Natasha quickly locates the antidote. She efficiently prepares the needle, suppressing the emotion that threatens to release, willing her mind to be clear and her hands to be steady. They are; she’s proud of that, and she has the injection ready in a matter of seconds. It’s too late,her brain says. There’s nothing that can be done. This is a bandage on a gushing wound. You’ve risked everything for nothing. Natasha crouches down next to Clint and stabs the needle into his arm.
This seems to rouse him; Clint opens his eyes and sees her hovering over him. A dawn of recognition. “Nat, no...” he whispers. “Get out of here...” He moves to get away from her, but he’s too weak and she holds him down easily.
“Zatknis,” Natasha snaps. “Shut up, you selfish bastard. How dare you do this.”
He mutters something in response, something about going out on his own terms, but he stops trying to push her away. She takes his hand and clasps it with her own. His is hot and dry, callused from years of handling his bow.
“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not going to do this. You’ll live to annoy me on countless missions to come. I’m not done with you yet.” To her horror, her voice cracks on the last two words. She tries to get herself under control, tries to rein it in and bury it deep as she always does. But then she feels him squeeze her hand - just the slightest pressure, but she feels it - and she gives in. Natasha lets the tears flow freely from her eyes, releasing the crushing emotion that’s been building in her chest. And oddly, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It just feels like relief.
She doesn’t know how long she stays in that position, holding Clint’s hand. She can’t feel her knees or her feet anymore. Her eyes feel swollen and tight. She can see the slight rise and fall of Clint’s chest so she knows he’s still there. She almost wants to lie down next to him - she’s not going to be able to carry him back to the bed - but then her honed sense of hearing picks up the sound of footsteps. Natasha’s sidearm is in her hand in less than a second.
A figure in a hazmat suit stands in the doorway, taking in the shambles. Coulson’s eyes immediately settle on Clint.
“He’s alive,” Natasha says, almost rebelliously.
Coulson nods, and she hears him convey their location to the emergency medical team. They arrive quickly, checking Clint’s vitals before loading him onto a hyperbaric stretcher. Natasha starts after them, but Coulson stops her with a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Agent Romanoff,” he says, with the same lack of inflection she’s used to from him, but his eyes are kind behind the mask.
Natasha knows she’s going to be put through a battery of tests, may even be quarantined again. But at least it will be with SHIELD’s supervision. She’ll get regular reports on Clint’s condition, Coulson will see to it. Assuming her partner makes it.
“He’ll be okay,” Coulson says, unnervingly reading her mind. “Fury won’t let him off the hook that easily.”
//\\
It was the middle of the night for most everyone else, but it was morning for them. The hotel bar was full of businessmen, high-class prostitutes, and 20-somethings playing at being sophisticated.
They had staked out a small table in the middle of the bar. Clint had ordered a red eye, then gone back up to the room to double check on their equipment - or more specifically, to make sure his favorite scope hadn’t been damaged by the careless bellhop. They were in Utah on a reconnaissance mission - SHIELD had gotten rumblings of a group of extremists who were particularly obsessed with biological warfare. Apparently, they’d been able to recruit a number of scientists who were working on a virus known only as AS-81; its specific effects were still to be determined.
Natasha’s orange juice arrived first. She accepted it with a Black Widow smile, which came automatically because she was wearing a slinky violet dress slit up to the thigh - basically a uniform of her alter ego. Unfortunately both the smile and the dress had done their jobs too well; she had just taken a sip of her drink when a man in a well-tailored charcoal suit took the seat opposite her. His head of salt-and-pepper hair was full and styled tastefully, and his smile was friendly, not smarmy.
“You looked a bit lonely,” was his opening gambit. “I hope you don’t mind?”
Impatience flickered in her veins and her thigh rig (on the side that didn’t have the slit) itched, but Natasha kept her expression neutral. “Just waiting for my husband,” she said coolly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clint enter the room. He spotted her at the same time and his eyebrows rose when he caught sight of the fact that she had company.
Her companion chuckled. “Of course. I should have known. Lucky man.” She saw his eyes zero in on the fact that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he didn’t comment. “I’m Lee, by the way.”
Natasha shook his hand even as she sighed inwardly. The lack of a ring had likely convinced him that she wasn’t actually married, just trying to give him the brush off, so now he’d redouble his efforts in order to convince her that he was worth her while. “Allison,” she said. Clint’s expression indicated that he’d take off if she was occupied by choice. She shook her head and tried to send the message Get your ass over here telepathically.
Lee was doing his best to be engaging - and he was; if Natasha were a different woman she’d count herself lucky to be hit on by an attractive, obviously successful, and charming man, but she wasn’t a different woman, and she had a job to do. She made small talk with Lee for as long as it took Clint to reach the table. His red eye arrived at the same time.
“Here’s your coffee, sir,” the waiter said somewhat awkwardly, looking from Clint to the man who was sitting in the seat Clint had vacated not too long ago. He set down the drink and departed.
“Oh honey, there you are,” Natasha fairly gushed. “This is Lee, he was just telling me about all the great sights to catch while we’re in Chicago.”
Lee got up swiftly, a dull red flush creeping up his neck as he realized that Natasha had, in fact, been telling the truth - as far as he knew, anyway. “Hi,” he said, offering Clint his hand. “Your wife’s a lovely woman.”
“I know,” Clint replied in a friendly way, not losing a beat. They weren’t posing as a married couple in their official cover story, but he didn’t blink. He shook the other man’s hand gamely. “Let me tell you, the day she said yes was the brightest day an ordinary guy like me could ever hope to have. When I asked her father-” He suppressed a slight yelp as Natasha’s stiletto caressed his wing-tip loafers. Laying it on a bit thick was the message. “Anyway, thanks for the tips about the city. I’m sure we’ll put them to good use.”
“Great, I hope you do. Excuse me. It was nice to meet you,” Lee directed toward Natasha.
“Likewise,” said Natasha, not sorry to see the back of him.
Clint sat down and reached for the cream, a slight smirk on his face. “Can’t leave you alone for a second.”
Natasha ignored this. “Everything in order?”
“Yep, scope was fine. He seemed all right,” Clint said, clearly not ready to give up on the other topic. “Not your type?”
“We’re working,” Natasha reminded him, pushing the sugar cubes in his direction.
“We have an hour. I would have made myself scarce if you’d wanted to get to know him better.” He seemed to be fishing for something, but she didn’t know what.
“Nope.” Natasha studied her partner. Lee might have looked good in his charcoal suit, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Clint in his tailored gray suit and midnight blue dress shirt. Clint had chosen to go tieless, and Natasha found herself staring at the smooth, tanned skin of his clavicle.
“I suppose he is a bit distinguished,” Clint said, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What?” She raised her eyes to meet his, which were crinkled in amusement.
“He’s too old for you,” Clint elucidated bluntly.
Lee could have been only a year or two older than Clint himself. “No, he’s not,” Natasha said swiftly, a little surprised by the vehemence of her own denial. “Physical age is only a small, insignificant element when determining compatibility.”
“Awww, I didn’t figure you for a sentimentalist. Are you saying it’s about how old two people are at heart?” Clint smiled, teeth flashing white. “In that case, we could be a perfect match, Tash.”
Natasha ignored the weird twinge in her chest. “Are you kidding me?” she retorted. “If that were true, you’d be way too young for me.”
Clint scooted his chair closer to hers and draped his arm across the back of her seat possessively. The heat of him along her bare shoulders and back felt good, and he smelled like soap and Clint. She would never admit it, but she liked the feeling of being physically close to him like this. She even let herself lean into him closer than she normally would, rationalizing that it was for other people’s benefit. They were supposed to be married, at least as far as one of the patrons knew, so they might as well act the part.
“Every man in this room wants to be me right now,” he said, and something in his voice made her eyes search his. But they were dark and unreadable in the dim lighting of the lounge. Natasha had heard such flattery thousands of times before, but never in Clint’s voice, with his mouth so close to hers. She swallowed. It would be easy, so easy, to close that short distance...
“Can I refill your drinks?” The appearance of the waiter broke whatever strange moment had fallen between them, and though Clint moved away only slightly, it was enough to introduce a cold draft where she had previously been warm.
At least, that was how Natasha accounted for the sudden trembling that went through her body.
//\\
From here the gray light of dawn falls gently over the bed where he lies, doing little to put color into his pale face. It’s the first time she’s seen him since their rescue; she’s spent a couple of days in additional quarantine and debriefing. He’s so still that for a moment Natasha wonders if they’ve lied to her, told her things she wants to hear in order to keep the Black Widow controlled. Then she sees the movement of the sheets as he breathes, his lips slightly parted, and she lets go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Reason returns at the same time. Of course they didn’t lie to her. Not because SHIELD wouldn’t lie to one of their agents, but because they have no idea what Clint means to her. How could they, when until a week ago, she’s not sure she realized it?
He’s her partner, the man who has saved her life more than once, who made it possible to reconstruct herself after she’d been torn down and reassembled again and again by people who saw her only as a weapon to be used. SHIELD knows they have a close connection; it happens naturally when two people put their lives into each other’s hands as often as they have. But he means more to her than that. Clint is more than her partner, more than a comrade, more than a lover. Clint is herself. Somehow, in her last rebuilding, she had remade herself around him without even realizing it, the way living tissue grows around a foreign obstruction until it becomes one entity. To excise him from her now would be to risk the same life.
She can’t help but wonder what other truths she’s been keeping from herself - how many other truths are still in her, waiting to be realized.
“Hey.”
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when Clint opened his eyes and trained them on her. “Hey,” she replies, and wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She moves over to the bed and looks down at him, keeping her face impassive. She’s careful not to touch him, though she wants to, wants to feel the tangible proof that he’s still there with her.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, reaching out to take her hand in his, as easy as that. Clint’s never had her issues with intimacy; he’s always been almost belligerent about it. His hand is rough, and dry, and warm, and it’s shocking that something so simple can fill her up so satisfyingly. Nothing has ever felt like this.
Natasha’s eyes suddenly sting, but she doesn’t pull away. She curls her fingers to return the gesture, lightly at first, then with increased pressure until he’s almost wincing. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she counters.
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” he teases.
Her eyes trace the various crinkles in his face, the curve of his lips, the slash of his eyebrows, the line of his jaw. Each feature strangely and unexpectedly precious to her. How had he done it? Wormed his way into her defenses and filled her heart with unnamable things?
“You’re looking at me weird again,” Clint says. “I feel like I’m dying from another horrible disease or something. You’re going to give me a complex.”
If anyone’s been infected with something it’s me, Natasha thinks, but she says, “Durlak.”
“I’m not!” Clint objects. “That’s mean. I was trying to-”
“Get yourself killed,” she says, and squeezes his hand to reassure herself again that he hadn’t been successful. Coulson had explained that in later stages of infection, chemical imbalances in the brain caused by the AS-81 virus could cause someone to act out of character. That doesn’t mean she’s going to let Clint off the hook. She has to emphasize to him that what he’d done, what he’d tried to do, is out of the question, that such a thing is completely unacceptable.
“I wasn’t. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. It wasn’t my fault,” he whines. “If I actually wanted to kill myself I could just drink your coffee.”
Natasha lands a fist into his arm, just below the shoulder.
“Ow, Jesus,” Clint says, using his other hand to rub the spot. “Go easy, would ya, Nat? You really need to work on your bedside manner,” he grumbles.
“I’m not your nurse.”
“Obviously. You’re not even wearing a nurse’s uniform,” he scoffs, his eyes traveling down to her chest.
Natasha’s about to punch him again when there’s a knock on the door. She drops her arm and tugs her other hand out of Clint’s - or tries to, anyway, but he’s holding on tight. She just manages to snatch her hand back and assume a more professional decorum when Coulson walks into the room. Clint’s lower lip is jutting out just slightly as he looks at her, before turning his attention to their handler.
She ignores the way her hand feels bereft without his in it. What is the matter with her? She is thinking and acting like the schoolgirl she’s never been. The Black Widow’s notoriety as a femme fatale is nearly as legendary as that of her skill as an assassin, yet now the idea of someone witnessing the intimacy of her holding her partner’s hand is something that sends uncomfortable prickles into her neck and cheeks?
“Agent Barton, glad to see you’re awake and well,” Coulson says mildly, a slight upturn to the corners of his mouth that could indicate a smile. Or it might not. “Agent Romanoff, a word?”
“She just got here,” Clint says, an edge to his voice.
“It’ll only take a second,” Coulson replies without changing expression.
Natasha follows Coulson out of the room while Clint hollers after them, “Don’t talk about me behind my back!”
“About Agent Barton,” Coulson says immediately as soon as the door’s closed behind them.
“What about him?” Natasha asks, senses going on full alert. “Is he all right?”
“He’s going to be fine, don’t worry.”
Her first reaction is to deny that she’s worried, that she’s just expressing concern for a colleague, but it’d be a lie and they both know it. So she bites the inside of her lip and waits.
“However, he’s going to be out of commission for a couple of weeks as he recovers his strength and stamina. The Director is likely going to send him out on a detail to New Mexico. It’ll probably entail light duties, nothing physically strenuous.”
“And me? I don’t want another partner in the interim,” Natasha says. The feelings she’s been having about Clint are confusing, but it doesn’t mean she wants to work with someone else. If the dangerous fact that she finds her partner attractive - she’s willing to admit that now - is removed from the equation, there’s no denying the plain truth that they are the most effective assassin team SHIELD has ever produced. And even if those feelings are taken into account, there’s no reason she and Clint can’t continue to be highly valuable assets; they are both professionals, the best at what they do.
Besides, Natasha’s not even sure these feelings will last, or if they’re just a form of momentary madness. She could wake up tomorrow and they might be gone, and Clint will just be her partner again, nothing more.
Coulson doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the latter part of her statement. “You’ll be babysitting,” he says.
“Who’s the baby?” Natasha takes the folder Coulson hands over, studying the photo and notes inside. “This baby has a goatee,” she remarks.
//\\
Natasha opens one eye and stretches comfortably. She allows herself a few moments to soak in the soft sheets and warm sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She smiles as she remembers that they were staying in a decent hotel for once. She turns her head. The sheets are slightly rumpled and there is a slight indent where his head had been, but that is the only evidence he’s been there. She listens for telltale signs that he’s in the bathroom showering, shaving, or brushing his teeth, but all is quiet. She’s alone in the room.
He’d once again been able to leave without waking her. Natasha feels a bit disconcerted. It’s happening more and more lately. Is she losing her edge? How does she sleep so soundly around him?
Her toes sink into deep plush carpeting when she pads to the bathroom. She takes a long, hot shower, half hoping Clint will return and join her, but he doesn’t. She gets ready at a leisurely pace. For once they aren’t on anyone’s timetable but their own, and she is going to take full advantage. After Loki was sent off to Asgard with Thor, Fury had given his unofficial official blessing that she and Clint could go off the grid for a while, and they didn’t need to be invited twice. Their first stop had been one of their favorite B&Bs in Virginia, where they’d decompressed for a day or two. After that they’d headed south, without a specific destination in mind, and eventually found themselves in North Carolina. Last night Clint had brought out a map, and they’d sketched out a plan in broad strokes.
Today they’re going to drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway and take in the scenes to Boone. They might stop to hike for a bit, admiring the tulip trees and red maples, but they also might just drive right on through. Natasha can see through the windows that it’s a perfect day; the Appalachians are going to look amazing against the deep blue sky.
She frowns when she sees that Clint has packed both of their overnight bags, not because she didn’t want him to, but because she’s slightly discomfited by the fact that she’d apparently slept through that as well.
Natasha has just started the in-room coffee maker and is putting the finishing touches on her lip gloss when the phone rings.
“You still in bed?”
She suppresses a ridiculous shiver at the sound of his voice. What is the matter with her? “Nope, I’m about ready.”
“Great,” Clint says. “I’m having them bring the car around. Ready to hit the road? I’ve got warm croissants.”
“Be right down.”
Natasha fixes the two coffees and grabs their bags, making her way to the elevator. Clint is waiting for her in the hotel lobby, in jeans like her. He looks relaxed and comfortable, and smiles when he sees her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He takes his bag and a coffee.
“Where are the croissants?” Natasha demands, donning her sunglasses. “I hope you didn’t get me down here under false pretenses.”
“Would I dare?” he retorts with a grin. “They’re in the car. I’ve already checked out.”
Their white convertible, a Lexus IS C borrowed from Tony, is waiting for them out front, next to an opulent fountain that gurgles and splashes pleasantly. Natasha gets into the car while Clint tips the valet. She opens the pastry bag, inhaling deep. “Mmm.” She pulls one of the croissants apart. It’s just right, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and buttery all around.
Clint slides into the driver’s seat and takes a deep gulp of coffee. He turns to meet her expectant look. “Perfect,” he says with a smile that makes her want to purr like the engine of their car and blink unexpected moisture from her eyes at the same time. So many times. He has been lost to her so many times, but he has always returned to her. She will always find a way to get him back.
Natasha can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses she’s wearing, but she knows they’re the same color as the sea. She arches an eyebrow, then reaches over and puts the car into gear.
“Drive,” she says.
Every hope and dream that’s dying
Every time that I see you crying
Every step that you keep on climbing
Pray for you now, baby that you figure it out
As you keep chasing the light
= end =
Author's end notes: Author’s notes: Here’s where I apologize for any inaccuracies in the medical details found in the story. It was oddly difficult to research, but I did my best to make it believable! The title of the story and lyrics are from Mat Kearney’s song “Chasing the Light.”
Author: sarea_okelani
A Gift For: ittykat
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None, really.
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Summary/Prompt Used: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
Prompt: Someone is hurt badly/quite sick and medical assistance is not readily available. The other person has to make tough decisions. I also used elements of my giftee's two other prompt proposals.
Authors Notes: Written for the be_compromised Secret Santa exchange. Thanks go out to four lovely ladies: Anuna and Koren M for running the fabulous exchange, and my two betas, Jade and Adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and being a procrastinator extraordinaire, whenever I encounter a roadblock I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! Of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done. I am truly blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner! :D
//\\
“Let’s see, I’ve got dry toast and two eggs poached medium for the young lady, and for you I’ve got three fried eggs, a ham steak, two sausage links, hash browns, a stack of Jimmy’s finest cakes, and maple syrup, all warmed up.”
“Thanks, Sue,” Clint said, ignoring Natasha’s look and tucking into his meal right away. He ate as though he hadn’t seen food in a week.
“That’s not really maple syrup, you know,” Natasha said, watching Clint pour essentially the entire contents of the jug over his enormous mound of pancakes.
“Mmm, artificial flavoring, just like Mom used to make,” he replied.
The ooze of the thick, sugary stuff as it found all the crevices in the pancakes was mesmerizing. “Are you sure?” Natasha was changing the subject, but she knew Clint would know she was no longer talking about pancake syrup.
“I’m sure.”
“You really want to go to Tombstone.”
“It’s going to be awesome, Tasha. You’ll see.” Clint cut off a large wedge of pancake with his fork, then speared a chunk of breakfast sausage and ate them together with relish.
“Vegas is the same distance away.”
“We’ve been to Vegas.”
“But think of the glorious tawdriness! The half-naked showgirls! The magicians! The buffets.” Natasha was hoping she’d hit on something Clint wouldn’t be able to say no to. She really, really had no desire to spend an entire day visiting some old boomtown of the Wild West. She had in mind the Bellagio. Champagne. Decent pillows. Bathtubs with jets.
Nothing was working. There was a set to Clint’s jaw that said, “Tombstone or bust.” Natasha resigned herself to dust in her hair and buffalo-themed antiques. It was her own fault, really. She’d told him he could pick where they would go for their next excursion. She’d been feeling generous after they’d finished their last job in the town of Wickenburg unexpectedly early. They’d gotten an official commendation from Fury. That was worth something.
Certainly something more than Tombstone, Arizona.
“Consider all the unsuspecting assholes with money to burn, waiting for you at the poker tables,” she tried again. “And all the loose women at the craps tables just dying to blow your dice.”
“Ooh, you play dirty,” Clint rejoined, looking completely untantalized, to Natasha’s disappointment. “But my mind’s made up. It’ll be fun, Tash. Just give it a chance!”
“Give me the car keys.”
“What?” Clint’s hand drifted involuntarily to the keys in his pocket, clutching them a little more tightly.
“You want to go to Tombstone, I’m driving,” she said flatly.
“But...” He looked torn.
Natasha knew Clint loved driving the new Porsche Cayman in their possession; it had been part of their cover story and they still had it for another two days. But even more than that, he was the one with the gift of operating vehicles. He loved it almost as much as he loved archery.
Apparently he was dead set on Tombstone, however, because while he handed over the keys reluctantly, he did hand them over. Natasha took them from him and smiled at his scowl.
Clint gulped coffee and waved at Sue for a fresh refill. “Now this is coffee. Be right back.” He got up, heading for the restrooms.
When he’d disappeared behind one of the doors, Natasha reached over and took his cup, taking a sip. She put it down so Sue could refill it. That was how he enjoyed his coffee? Disgusting. Her partner had no taste, in coffee or relaxation spots.
Of course, she didn’t have to go to Tombstone with him. She could contact Coulson and get back to HQ early. Or she could go to Vegas on her own if she really wanted to. Or hell, anywhere else.
Natasha picked up her fork and sank it into the soft, drenched stack of pancakes, helping herself to a bite. She wanted to hate it, but the truth was that the buttery sweet mouthful tasted heavenly.
“I saw that, Romanoff,” Clint said, sliding back into his side of the booth.
“Glad that sniper sight isn’t going to waste,” she replied, unconcerned with being caught.
The next time Sue passed by, Natasha ordered two pancakes for herself. She’d need the energy for the drive to southern Arizona.
//\\
When Natasha arrives at the clean room on the morning of the last day of their incarceration with some breakfast, Clint’s moving the furniture around. She’s not sure why he’s expending the energy. He’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort.
“Redecorating?” she asks, opening the slot on the door so she can slide the tray through. She closes the slot immediately afterward.
“Something like that,” Clint says, going over to open the slot on his side.
Natasha notices he’s breathing harder than such little exercise would require for a man in his shape. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hard. “Maybe you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” she points out. “You should be resting. Quarantine will break any time now.” It can’t come fast enough. She’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom last night.
“Yeah, well, I’m going stir crazy in here. I had to do something.” Clint pulls out the tray and makes a face at what’s on it. “You made coffee? What, I’m not dying fast enough for you?”
Natasha doesn’t particularly feel like joking about death; his in particular. She knows it’s his way of dealing with what’s happening to him, but she just can’t bring herself to reciprocate. Using humor to mask deeper fears isn’t her thing, but over time she’s gotten used to Clint’s methods and been able to insert a rejoinder or two of her own, occasionally. This isn’t one of those times.
“Did you do a transfusion this morning?” she asks instead. She’d given him a few more units of blood, saying that she’d found them in an unused lab. She’d held her breath, waiting for him to see through the lie, waiting for him to bring up Jordan, but he hadn’t.
Clint inclines his head. “Yeah. Did it earlier when I couldn’t sleep. How’s Jordan?”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Natasha says. She has no intention of upsetting Clint at this stage.
“He’s in good company, then,” Clint says, grinning at her, but it lacks its usual wattage. His eyes are rimmed red and his lips are pale.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” She hates nagging, has never seen herself in any role in which she’d have the right or desire to nag, has always believed that everyone should make their own choices and it isn’t up to anyone else to determine whether those choices are right or wrong... but Clint has a knack for making her behave out of character.
“Maybe later,” he says, pacing over to the other side of his temporary cage and dropping down to sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, his back to the glass wall.
Natasha reflects that she should have gone with vanilla pudding and the chocolate chip cookie, rather than the apple and string cheese. The unhealthier selections might’ve done a better job of tempting his depleted appetite.
She follows him on her side of the glass, sinking down to the ground also. They’re back to back, and she tells herself that she can feel his body heat, but she knows it’s just residual memory from the times they’ve been in this position before. Still, it’s familiar and comforting in its own way.
“When was the last time you had an injection of the antidote?” she asks.
“Christ, Nat, would you give it a rest?” Clint sounds more tired than irritated, though there’s certainly a bit of that as well.
Natasha bites back the retort. She doesn’t want to fight with him. There will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s well again.
They sit in silence for a while. Clint breaks it with:
“What do you think they’ll do with my stuff?”
Natasha stiffens, now glad they aren’t actually back-to-back, or Clint would have noticed. She turns her head slightly to see if she can catch his expression, but he’s staring straight ahead, and she can’t see his face. “What do you mean?”
“When I’m gone,” Clint says, sounding matter-of-fact. “What happens to my stuff?”
“Not something anyone has to worry about for a long time,” Natasha replies firmly, voice steady. She’s proud of how even it sounds, considering her heart feels like a hummingbird’s.
Clint lets out a chuckle, but it’s the least mirthful sound she’s ever heard. “I kept putting off filling out my ‘In the event of,’ you know? I told myself I just didn’t have time, it’s always one assignment after another. And who was I going to leave my shit to, Barney?” He scoffs, then continues quietly, “But really - it’s that I thought I was invincible.”
Natasha’s throat feels dry. She knows what he’s talking about, that feeling of invincibility. She knows it’s not true, that despite their unusual skills, at the end of the day all they are is breakable bone and fragile flesh. It’s just that sometimes, when she and Clint are in the midst of a firefight, it feels like there’s nothing in the world that can stop them, not even mortality. But as for a will... She’s never considered one because she has no children or known relatives, so what would be the point?
“Ironic, right, given what we do? Coulson would hound me about it from time to time. What’s it to him, I’d like to know. He’s not getting his hands on my 1969 Willie Mays, no matter what he thinks. He’s always telling me how well he takes care of those Captain America trading cards of his, trying to win me over-”
“Stop it.”
“Hell, maybe I will give Coulson that card after all,” Clint muses, ignoring her. “At least it’ll be with someone who appreciates it.”
“Just shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit about a baseball card,” Natasha says, and she hears the harshness in her tone, in her words, but she can’t take it back. Her back feels stiffer than the glass she’s leaning against.
“Don’t be mad,” Clint murmurs. “I’ll leave you my baby. My pride and joy. I’ve seen you look at it longingly.”
Natasha laughs, but it comes out sounding strange, as if her throat’s been rubbed raw. “I don’t want your goddamned bow, Clint.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust to use it correctly.” His voice has gotten so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear him.
She knows it’s the best compliment Clint could ever give another person, but she still doesn’t want to hear it. “Clint, I’m telling you, shut up.” She waits for his next retort, but it doesn’t come. “Clint?” Natasha turns at his lack of response. Dread claws its way up her throat at what she sees: Her partner is still leaning against the glass, but is unnaturally inert. His body has slumped and is no longer supporting itself; his right hand is on the floor, palm up.
“Clint!” Natasha shouts, slamming her palm against the glass. He’s only passed out, she tells herself. He’s fine. Just wake him up.
But he makes no movement whatsoever. Her shouts and pounding seem to have zero effect.
Passing out so quickly is a likely sign he’s succumbing to the virus, her mind recites clinically. “No,” Natasha says numbly. She doesn’t understand how this can be happening. The antidote was supposed to help keep him stable. He’s been doing well. He never answered you about whether he took an injection recently, her brain reminds her. Maybe he forgot. But Natasha knows, with complete certainty, that Clint didn’t forget. If he hadn’t taken the injection, it’d been a conscious choice. He’d known the survival rate of people infected with AS-81 was low, and even amongst those who had been cured, many were not the same, mentally or physically, afterward. But those people hadn’t had SHIELD or its resources and biochem division. All they’d had were some low-rate butchers masquerading as men of science.
She runs to the door, her brain pointing out with cold precision that going into the clean room will only endanger herself without any significant improvement in Clint’s chances for survival. She would be risking her own life, and the lives of everyone she could help as an agent of SHIELD, by exposing herself to the AS-81 virus. Natasha’s brain quickly conducts the cost/benefit analysis of exposing herself, taking into account everything from Clint’s own skills to the fact that they’re nearing the end of the required 72-hour quarantine, to the fact that there’s little she can actually do for him.
Natasha knows that when they look at her, what SHIELD sees, what her former handlers saw, is a world-class assassin, trained from adolescence to mete out death and destruction quickly and efficiently. But Natasha knows that what she is foremost is a survivor. She has done what she’s had to do, withstood odds that would have been insurmountable for most people, in order to be here today, living tissue and breath and blood. If she’s good at being an assassin, it’s because her will is stronger than any opponent she’s ever faced.
Rationally, she knows that there’s nothing she can do for Clint. She’s not a doctor; she’s not a scientist. She lives. That’s what she’s good at doing. And that skill will not help Clint. Running into the clean room will only put her life in jeopardy with no gain that logic can take into account.
She knows these facts. When weighing all the available variables, the conclusion is obvious - quickly and easily drawn, with no room for equivocation: She should not risk exposing herself.
“Clint!” Natasha throws her weight against the door, but it won’t budge. She notices for the first time that in moving the furniture, he’s positioned one of the chairs in such a way that it’s blocking the door, making it impossible to turn the knob. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? she thinks wildly. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? The answer is patently obvious. She’d been too concerned about his welfare to make the usual observations she would have normally made. Her affection for him had overridden common sense, had compromised her caution. “Goddammit, Clint, get up! Move this chair!”
He’d planned for this. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared in advance. He’d been more prepared than she had been. Natasha doesn’t know what’s more alarming, the fact that she’s been taken by surprise, or the fact that some part of her hadn’t prepared for the worst, hadn’t really prepared for this eventuality. But Clint had. He’d known from the start.
“Clint!“ Natasha knows it’s futile, that she’s not strong enough to break through the barrier he’s created, that she’s going to dislocate her shoulder if she continues. She knows this, but she crashes against the door again and again, ignoring logic, ignoring pain, ignoring everything but the fact that her partner is just beyond this door, dying. Without her. Natasha can taste salt in her mouth, knows it’s from sweat, and tears, and though Clint is hardly moving, she says his name over and over again, as if somehow this will enable him to find the strength to get up and move the chair so she can get in.
It’s moving. Only a tiny increment at a time, but it’s moving. Eventually the chair gives, scraping against the floor and falling over, and Natasha runs into the room. She immediately goes to Clint, feeling for a pulse in his throat. She finds it. It’s thready, but enough to help subside some of her panic. Her heart beating hard against her ribcage, Natasha quickly locates the antidote. She efficiently prepares the needle, suppressing the emotion that threatens to release, willing her mind to be clear and her hands to be steady. They are; she’s proud of that, and she has the injection ready in a matter of seconds. It’s too late,her brain says. There’s nothing that can be done. This is a bandage on a gushing wound. You’ve risked everything for nothing. Natasha crouches down next to Clint and stabs the needle into his arm.
This seems to rouse him; Clint opens his eyes and sees her hovering over him. A dawn of recognition. “Nat, no...” he whispers. “Get out of here...” He moves to get away from her, but he’s too weak and she holds him down easily.
“Zatknis,” Natasha snaps. “Shut up, you selfish bastard. How dare you do this.”
He mutters something in response, something about going out on his own terms, but he stops trying to push her away. She takes his hand and clasps it with her own. His is hot and dry, callused from years of handling his bow.
“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not going to do this. You’ll live to annoy me on countless missions to come. I’m not done with you yet.” To her horror, her voice cracks on the last two words. She tries to get herself under control, tries to rein it in and bury it deep as she always does. But then she feels him squeeze her hand - just the slightest pressure, but she feels it - and she gives in. Natasha lets the tears flow freely from her eyes, releasing the crushing emotion that’s been building in her chest. And oddly, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It just feels like relief.
She doesn’t know how long she stays in that position, holding Clint’s hand. She can’t feel her knees or her feet anymore. Her eyes feel swollen and tight. She can see the slight rise and fall of Clint’s chest so she knows he’s still there. She almost wants to lie down next to him - she’s not going to be able to carry him back to the bed - but then her honed sense of hearing picks up the sound of footsteps. Natasha’s sidearm is in her hand in less than a second.
A figure in a hazmat suit stands in the doorway, taking in the shambles. Coulson’s eyes immediately settle on Clint.
“He’s alive,” Natasha says, almost rebelliously.
Coulson nods, and she hears him convey their location to the emergency medical team. They arrive quickly, checking Clint’s vitals before loading him onto a hyperbaric stretcher. Natasha starts after them, but Coulson stops her with a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Agent Romanoff,” he says, with the same lack of inflection she’s used to from him, but his eyes are kind behind the mask.
Natasha knows she’s going to be put through a battery of tests, may even be quarantined again. But at least it will be with SHIELD’s supervision. She’ll get regular reports on Clint’s condition, Coulson will see to it. Assuming her partner makes it.
“He’ll be okay,” Coulson says, unnervingly reading her mind. “Fury won’t let him off the hook that easily.”
//\\
It was the middle of the night for most everyone else, but it was morning for them. The hotel bar was full of businessmen, high-class prostitutes, and 20-somethings playing at being sophisticated.
They had staked out a small table in the middle of the bar. Clint had ordered a red eye, then gone back up to the room to double check on their equipment - or more specifically, to make sure his favorite scope hadn’t been damaged by the careless bellhop. They were in Utah on a reconnaissance mission - SHIELD had gotten rumblings of a group of extremists who were particularly obsessed with biological warfare. Apparently, they’d been able to recruit a number of scientists who were working on a virus known only as AS-81; its specific effects were still to be determined.
Natasha’s orange juice arrived first. She accepted it with a Black Widow smile, which came automatically because she was wearing a slinky violet dress slit up to the thigh - basically a uniform of her alter ego. Unfortunately both the smile and the dress had done their jobs too well; she had just taken a sip of her drink when a man in a well-tailored charcoal suit took the seat opposite her. His head of salt-and-pepper hair was full and styled tastefully, and his smile was friendly, not smarmy.
“You looked a bit lonely,” was his opening gambit. “I hope you don’t mind?”
Impatience flickered in her veins and her thigh rig (on the side that didn’t have the slit) itched, but Natasha kept her expression neutral. “Just waiting for my husband,” she said coolly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clint enter the room. He spotted her at the same time and his eyebrows rose when he caught sight of the fact that she had company.
Her companion chuckled. “Of course. I should have known. Lucky man.” She saw his eyes zero in on the fact that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he didn’t comment. “I’m Lee, by the way.”
Natasha shook his hand even as she sighed inwardly. The lack of a ring had likely convinced him that she wasn’t actually married, just trying to give him the brush off, so now he’d redouble his efforts in order to convince her that he was worth her while. “Allison,” she said. Clint’s expression indicated that he’d take off if she was occupied by choice. She shook her head and tried to send the message Get your ass over here telepathically.
Lee was doing his best to be engaging - and he was; if Natasha were a different woman she’d count herself lucky to be hit on by an attractive, obviously successful, and charming man, but she wasn’t a different woman, and she had a job to do. She made small talk with Lee for as long as it took Clint to reach the table. His red eye arrived at the same time.
“Here’s your coffee, sir,” the waiter said somewhat awkwardly, looking from Clint to the man who was sitting in the seat Clint had vacated not too long ago. He set down the drink and departed.
“Oh honey, there you are,” Natasha fairly gushed. “This is Lee, he was just telling me about all the great sights to catch while we’re in Chicago.”
Lee got up swiftly, a dull red flush creeping up his neck as he realized that Natasha had, in fact, been telling the truth - as far as he knew, anyway. “Hi,” he said, offering Clint his hand. “Your wife’s a lovely woman.”
“I know,” Clint replied in a friendly way, not losing a beat. They weren’t posing as a married couple in their official cover story, but he didn’t blink. He shook the other man’s hand gamely. “Let me tell you, the day she said yes was the brightest day an ordinary guy like me could ever hope to have. When I asked her father-” He suppressed a slight yelp as Natasha’s stiletto caressed his wing-tip loafers. Laying it on a bit thick was the message. “Anyway, thanks for the tips about the city. I’m sure we’ll put them to good use.”
“Great, I hope you do. Excuse me. It was nice to meet you,” Lee directed toward Natasha.
“Likewise,” said Natasha, not sorry to see the back of him.
Clint sat down and reached for the cream, a slight smirk on his face. “Can’t leave you alone for a second.”
Natasha ignored this. “Everything in order?”
“Yep, scope was fine. He seemed all right,” Clint said, clearly not ready to give up on the other topic. “Not your type?”
“We’re working,” Natasha reminded him, pushing the sugar cubes in his direction.
“We have an hour. I would have made myself scarce if you’d wanted to get to know him better.” He seemed to be fishing for something, but she didn’t know what.
“Nope.” Natasha studied her partner. Lee might have looked good in his charcoal suit, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Clint in his tailored gray suit and midnight blue dress shirt. Clint had chosen to go tieless, and Natasha found herself staring at the smooth, tanned skin of his clavicle.
“I suppose he is a bit distinguished,” Clint said, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What?” She raised her eyes to meet his, which were crinkled in amusement.
“He’s too old for you,” Clint elucidated bluntly.
Lee could have been only a year or two older than Clint himself. “No, he’s not,” Natasha said swiftly, a little surprised by the vehemence of her own denial. “Physical age is only a small, insignificant element when determining compatibility.”
“Awww, I didn’t figure you for a sentimentalist. Are you saying it’s about how old two people are at heart?” Clint smiled, teeth flashing white. “In that case, we could be a perfect match, Tash.”
Natasha ignored the weird twinge in her chest. “Are you kidding me?” she retorted. “If that were true, you’d be way too young for me.”
Clint scooted his chair closer to hers and draped his arm across the back of her seat possessively. The heat of him along her bare shoulders and back felt good, and he smelled like soap and Clint. She would never admit it, but she liked the feeling of being physically close to him like this. She even let herself lean into him closer than she normally would, rationalizing that it was for other people’s benefit. They were supposed to be married, at least as far as one of the patrons knew, so they might as well act the part.
“Every man in this room wants to be me right now,” he said, and something in his voice made her eyes search his. But they were dark and unreadable in the dim lighting of the lounge. Natasha had heard such flattery thousands of times before, but never in Clint’s voice, with his mouth so close to hers. She swallowed. It would be easy, so easy, to close that short distance...
“Can I refill your drinks?” The appearance of the waiter broke whatever strange moment had fallen between them, and though Clint moved away only slightly, it was enough to introduce a cold draft where she had previously been warm.
At least, that was how Natasha accounted for the sudden trembling that went through her body.
//\\
From here the gray light of dawn falls gently over the bed where he lies, doing little to put color into his pale face. It’s the first time she’s seen him since their rescue; she’s spent a couple of days in additional quarantine and debriefing. He’s so still that for a moment Natasha wonders if they’ve lied to her, told her things she wants to hear in order to keep the Black Widow controlled. Then she sees the movement of the sheets as he breathes, his lips slightly parted, and she lets go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Reason returns at the same time. Of course they didn’t lie to her. Not because SHIELD wouldn’t lie to one of their agents, but because they have no idea what Clint means to her. How could they, when until a week ago, she’s not sure she realized it?
He’s her partner, the man who has saved her life more than once, who made it possible to reconstruct herself after she’d been torn down and reassembled again and again by people who saw her only as a weapon to be used. SHIELD knows they have a close connection; it happens naturally when two people put their lives into each other’s hands as often as they have. But he means more to her than that. Clint is more than her partner, more than a comrade, more than a lover. Clint is herself. Somehow, in her last rebuilding, she had remade herself around him without even realizing it, the way living tissue grows around a foreign obstruction until it becomes one entity. To excise him from her now would be to risk the same life.
She can’t help but wonder what other truths she’s been keeping from herself - how many other truths are still in her, waiting to be realized.
“Hey.”
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when Clint opened his eyes and trained them on her. “Hey,” she replies, and wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She moves over to the bed and looks down at him, keeping her face impassive. She’s careful not to touch him, though she wants to, wants to feel the tangible proof that he’s still there with her.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, reaching out to take her hand in his, as easy as that. Clint’s never had her issues with intimacy; he’s always been almost belligerent about it. His hand is rough, and dry, and warm, and it’s shocking that something so simple can fill her up so satisfyingly. Nothing has ever felt like this.
Natasha’s eyes suddenly sting, but she doesn’t pull away. She curls her fingers to return the gesture, lightly at first, then with increased pressure until he’s almost wincing. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she counters.
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” he teases.
Her eyes trace the various crinkles in his face, the curve of his lips, the slash of his eyebrows, the line of his jaw. Each feature strangely and unexpectedly precious to her. How had he done it? Wormed his way into her defenses and filled her heart with unnamable things?
“You’re looking at me weird again,” Clint says. “I feel like I’m dying from another horrible disease or something. You’re going to give me a complex.”
If anyone’s been infected with something it’s me, Natasha thinks, but she says, “Durlak.”
“I’m not!” Clint objects. “That’s mean. I was trying to-”
“Get yourself killed,” she says, and squeezes his hand to reassure herself again that he hadn’t been successful. Coulson had explained that in later stages of infection, chemical imbalances in the brain caused by the AS-81 virus could cause someone to act out of character. That doesn’t mean she’s going to let Clint off the hook. She has to emphasize to him that what he’d done, what he’d tried to do, is out of the question, that such a thing is completely unacceptable.
“I wasn’t. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. It wasn’t my fault,” he whines. “If I actually wanted to kill myself I could just drink your coffee.”
Natasha lands a fist into his arm, just below the shoulder.
“Ow, Jesus,” Clint says, using his other hand to rub the spot. “Go easy, would ya, Nat? You really need to work on your bedside manner,” he grumbles.
“I’m not your nurse.”
“Obviously. You’re not even wearing a nurse’s uniform,” he scoffs, his eyes traveling down to her chest.
Natasha’s about to punch him again when there’s a knock on the door. She drops her arm and tugs her other hand out of Clint’s - or tries to, anyway, but he’s holding on tight. She just manages to snatch her hand back and assume a more professional decorum when Coulson walks into the room. Clint’s lower lip is jutting out just slightly as he looks at her, before turning his attention to their handler.
She ignores the way her hand feels bereft without his in it. What is the matter with her? She is thinking and acting like the schoolgirl she’s never been. The Black Widow’s notoriety as a femme fatale is nearly as legendary as that of her skill as an assassin, yet now the idea of someone witnessing the intimacy of her holding her partner’s hand is something that sends uncomfortable prickles into her neck and cheeks?
“Agent Barton, glad to see you’re awake and well,” Coulson says mildly, a slight upturn to the corners of his mouth that could indicate a smile. Or it might not. “Agent Romanoff, a word?”
“She just got here,” Clint says, an edge to his voice.
“It’ll only take a second,” Coulson replies without changing expression.
Natasha follows Coulson out of the room while Clint hollers after them, “Don’t talk about me behind my back!”
“About Agent Barton,” Coulson says immediately as soon as the door’s closed behind them.
“What about him?” Natasha asks, senses going on full alert. “Is he all right?”
“He’s going to be fine, don’t worry.”
Her first reaction is to deny that she’s worried, that she’s just expressing concern for a colleague, but it’d be a lie and they both know it. So she bites the inside of her lip and waits.
“However, he’s going to be out of commission for a couple of weeks as he recovers his strength and stamina. The Director is likely going to send him out on a detail to New Mexico. It’ll probably entail light duties, nothing physically strenuous.”
“And me? I don’t want another partner in the interim,” Natasha says. The feelings she’s been having about Clint are confusing, but it doesn’t mean she wants to work with someone else. If the dangerous fact that she finds her partner attractive - she’s willing to admit that now - is removed from the equation, there’s no denying the plain truth that they are the most effective assassin team SHIELD has ever produced. And even if those feelings are taken into account, there’s no reason she and Clint can’t continue to be highly valuable assets; they are both professionals, the best at what they do.
Besides, Natasha’s not even sure these feelings will last, or if they’re just a form of momentary madness. She could wake up tomorrow and they might be gone, and Clint will just be her partner again, nothing more.
Coulson doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the latter part of her statement. “You’ll be babysitting,” he says.
“Who’s the baby?” Natasha takes the folder Coulson hands over, studying the photo and notes inside. “This baby has a goatee,” she remarks.
//\\
Natasha opens one eye and stretches comfortably. She allows herself a few moments to soak in the soft sheets and warm sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She smiles as she remembers that they were staying in a decent hotel for once. She turns her head. The sheets are slightly rumpled and there is a slight indent where his head had been, but that is the only evidence he’s been there. She listens for telltale signs that he’s in the bathroom showering, shaving, or brushing his teeth, but all is quiet. She’s alone in the room.
He’d once again been able to leave without waking her. Natasha feels a bit disconcerted. It’s happening more and more lately. Is she losing her edge? How does she sleep so soundly around him?
Her toes sink into deep plush carpeting when she pads to the bathroom. She takes a long, hot shower, half hoping Clint will return and join her, but he doesn’t. She gets ready at a leisurely pace. For once they aren’t on anyone’s timetable but their own, and she is going to take full advantage. After Loki was sent off to Asgard with Thor, Fury had given his unofficial official blessing that she and Clint could go off the grid for a while, and they didn’t need to be invited twice. Their first stop had been one of their favorite B&Bs in Virginia, where they’d decompressed for a day or two. After that they’d headed south, without a specific destination in mind, and eventually found themselves in North Carolina. Last night Clint had brought out a map, and they’d sketched out a plan in broad strokes.
Today they’re going to drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway and take in the scenes to Boone. They might stop to hike for a bit, admiring the tulip trees and red maples, but they also might just drive right on through. Natasha can see through the windows that it’s a perfect day; the Appalachians are going to look amazing against the deep blue sky.
She frowns when she sees that Clint has packed both of their overnight bags, not because she didn’t want him to, but because she’s slightly discomfited by the fact that she’d apparently slept through that as well.
Natasha has just started the in-room coffee maker and is putting the finishing touches on her lip gloss when the phone rings.
“You still in bed?”
She suppresses a ridiculous shiver at the sound of his voice. What is the matter with her? “Nope, I’m about ready.”
“Great,” Clint says. “I’m having them bring the car around. Ready to hit the road? I’ve got warm croissants.”
“Be right down.”
Natasha fixes the two coffees and grabs their bags, making her way to the elevator. Clint is waiting for her in the hotel lobby, in jeans like her. He looks relaxed and comfortable, and smiles when he sees her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He takes his bag and a coffee.
“Where are the croissants?” Natasha demands, donning her sunglasses. “I hope you didn’t get me down here under false pretenses.”
“Would I dare?” he retorts with a grin. “They’re in the car. I’ve already checked out.”
Their white convertible, a Lexus IS C borrowed from Tony, is waiting for them out front, next to an opulent fountain that gurgles and splashes pleasantly. Natasha gets into the car while Clint tips the valet. She opens the pastry bag, inhaling deep. “Mmm.” She pulls one of the croissants apart. It’s just right, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and buttery all around.
Clint slides into the driver’s seat and takes a deep gulp of coffee. He turns to meet her expectant look. “Perfect,” he says with a smile that makes her want to purr like the engine of their car and blink unexpected moisture from her eyes at the same time. So many times. He has been lost to her so many times, but he has always returned to her. She will always find a way to get him back.
Natasha can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses she’s wearing, but she knows they’re the same color as the sea. She arches an eyebrow, then reaches over and puts the car into gear.
“Drive,” she says.
Every hope and dream that’s dying
Every time that I see you crying
Every step that you keep on climbing
Pray for you now, baby that you figure it out
As you keep chasing the light
= end =
Author's end notes: Author’s notes: Here’s where I apologize for any inaccuracies in the medical details found in the story. It was oddly difficult to research, but I did my best to make it believable! The title of the story and lyrics are from Mat Kearney’s song “Chasing the Light.”