FIC: snow / glass (for anillogicalmind) - PG-13
Title: snow / glass
Author: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
A Gift For: anillogicalmind
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, moderate sexual content
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: Snow makes her cold and makes her think of unattainable things, but are things really all that unattainable anymore?
Authors Notes: Many thanks to my two lovely betas who shall remain nameless until tomorrow.
Banner by frea_o
December 19, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
Outside the floor to ceiling windows of her apartment, Natasha could see the heavy snow swirling and gathering as the forecast blizzard descended, and she suppressed an instinctive shiver at the sight before turning her attention to the tree reflected against the glass. She'd never had something as mundane as a Christmas tree before. She'd been around them, had seen plenty in various times and places (they even occasionally had one at HQ if HR wasn't woefully overworked in a given year), but she'd never had one in the place that she lived.
Of course, she'd never had a place that she lived before. Not like this. Not that she could safely assume would still be hers at the end of any given day, or that she spent most of her nights in. There'd been quarters at HQ or various SHIELD bases. There had been the handfuls of safe houses or bolt holes all over the world both with the organizations she'd worked for, and in her freelance days. In all those cases, however, she'd never once walked out the door without assuming in some corner of her mind that it might be (would probably be) the last time. She didn't leave things of herself behind if it could be avoided, it was too risky.
Now she had rooms. Space. The ability (if she so chose) to collect things to keep. She wasn't even a spy anymore, not really. Having her face splashed all over the world stage had effectively curtailed that life plan. SHIELD called her an "asset" now and meant "jack-of-all-trades that doesn't involve undercover ops", and the press called her either a threat or a superhero. Her days of adopting other people's names, things, spaces and lives were over. She was just Agent Romanov, or more rarely Natasha. (Stark still called her Natalie just to irritate her - or maybe so he, or she, wouldn't forget even if they'd both forgiven.) And to Clint she was, as she had always been, Nat. Tash. Tasha... and a hundred little nicknames (endearments?) that he used with a stunning casualness but which she'd come to realize she never heard him direct at anyone else.
She'd gone from a world where nothing was stable except the moment she was in, where she'd manipulated and directed and had exercised an iron control, to one where everything around her was fixed, but she felt like she was adrift and things happened to her and around her instead of because of her. So the first time she'd seen the Christmas tree that decorated her apartment in the Tower, she'd been annoyed. Annoyed by the clutter and by the fact that someone had obviously invaded her space to set it up. No ornaments graced the branches, but there were lights. Cheerful blinking lights against the backdrop of snow still stunning and white from this high above the city, and Natasha was surprised to realize that the lights reflecting on the glass somehow... warmed it. As if those little lights managed to fend off the chill she always felt when she saw the snow.
Snow through glass reminded her of whispered conversations that balanced on the edge of something more.
*****
December 20th, 2004 ~ Safe House S213, Belarus
She shivered slightly as she watched the snow come down through the glass, so thick and heavy no one would be able to come for them for days. The thought of being stranded didn't unsettle her. She didn't mind them being left on their own for a time. They weren't in any lingering danger from the mission they'd just completed, and were both even unscathed (for once). This particular safe house was close enough to the city to be on the grid, with electricity and running water, and a well-stocked pantry. It was used fairly often because it was within easy distance of Minsk, but was still remote enough that there were no visible neighbors and therefore fewer inconvenient questions. Which also made it remote enough to be snowed under when the weather got as bad as it promised to. They would lose the central power eventually, but there was a backup generator and plenty of firewood.
But in their line of work it was equivalent to a fucking vacation and she knew she should be grateful for it.
They'd only been there a few hours, and the heat hadn't snaked its way through the entire house yet, and it gave her the false feeling that she'd never get warm. There had been nights - on missions, as a child, during training (they blurred together) when she hadn't ever gotten warm.
She sought him out in the kitchen because she was cold, inside and out, and she wanted to remember who she was supposed to be. It was still tenuous at best - the thing between them that they wouldn't name, but she'd found that it (and he) grounded her. The last two months undercover in Minsk had engulfed her and she needed to remember who she really was. He heard her approach, he must have, because he didn't flinch when she pressed up against him and slid her arms around his waist. He'd changed out of his gear into jeans and a sweatshirt, but she was able to lean up and press her mouth to the bare skin at the back of his neck.
He turned the soup down to low, turned into her arms, then let himself be pulled into the den by the fire. She pressed him down onto the couch and climbed onto his lap so that she could kiss him properly. When he pulled her sweater over her head, she felt the fire warm her bare back, felt the heat from his body warm her front, and closed her eyes so that she couldn't see the snow coming down outside. They fucked there on the couch and when their breathing finally returned to normal and the body heat they'd generated started to fade he pulled a blanket around her shoulders and tucked her in close.
"You're shivering," he said roughly, his voice still stiff from disuse. While she'd been wining and dining with politicians and diplomats, he'd been on snowy rooftops, or tucked into tiny rooms nearby, observing, listening, but rarely ever talking.
"It'll get warmer eventually," she murmured into his neck, then pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat and felt his breath catch in his chest at the touch.
Under the blanket his hand made long, slow sweeps up and down her back, and she flashed back on the evening gown she'd been wearing right before they'd made their exit. Most of her dresses on this particular mission had been backless - no particular reason except the woman she'd become had apparently preferred them. She knew from her own experience that Clint liked the image of her bare skin edged with satin or silk, and wondered now if he was making up for all the touching he hadn't been able to do.
"You really are a masochist, aren't you?" she grinned against his skin, conveyed amusement in her tone.
"What do you mean?"
"Two months of looking, but not touching." Her own hand traced his shoulder, followed the play of muscles down his arm and she enjoyed the feel of them shifting and bunching, up and down, over and over, slow strokes over her spine that soothed rather than incited.
If he was disturbed by how accurately she gauged his thoughts he didn't show it. Then again, he never did. Instead he took her mouth, hot and slow but with an intensity that belied the lack of urgency. This time he bore her down to the rug and took her again, pulling the blanket over them almost as an afterthought to keep the lingering chill at bay.
In the fire-lit silence they dozed, still touching, and she felt more content than she had in a very long time, maybe ever.
She knew it was too good to be true.
His hand stilled against her hip, and she could feel the question coming even before he spoke, hovering softly but ominously at the edge of her contentment like the snowstorm threatening outside. "Do you ever wonder if we could have a different life? Just... wake up one day and walk away from all of this secrecy and silence and being someone else?" His tone was casual - the same he would've used to ask if she wanted something from the kitchen, or if she wanted to join him for a run, but the words riding on it had weight.
"And what, exactly, would we be then?" Her tone was sharper than she'd meant, sharper than the was called for, she knew.
"Just... us," he finally offered. She rolled over under his hand, careful not to shrug his touch away or make it seem like a rejection. But she needed to see his face, his reactions, to make sure that he heard her and to make sure that she understood him.
"In another life, there wouldn't be any 'us'. We either wouldn't be who we are... or we would be trying to pretend all over again, just on a different stage." It would be a pretending that would never end, a mission without a final endgame and eventually, without that end in sight she would lose herself completely.
"I don't-"
"Would you be happy with a house and children, perhaps? A fenced in yard and a dog?"
"I wouldn't mind the dog," he quipped, trying to lighten the suddenly serious mood, but she continued, unperturbed.
"Would you be happy with a nine to five job, never anything more dangerous than traffic at rush hour?" she asked, knowing the answer, knowing that he craved the edge of danger just as much as she did. "We are who we are," she insisted, rising up on one elbow to look down at him. "This life is who we are, and we'd... lose too much of ourselves to leave it behind."
His frown stopped just short of a scowl, and he shook his head. "No. I don't even want those things. That's not what I meant."
"Then what?"
"I meant... us Tasha. This, whatever it is we have going on between us. We don't talk about it. It happens between missions, in the dead of night when we're alone and then we just... ignore it. Like it doesn't happen. We're not the type of people to talk about this kind of thing, I get that, but don't you sometimes wish-"
"Don't," she whispered, and it was surprisingly harsh. "We don't talk about it for a reason." These were the kinds of conversations that never came to any good end, she thought to herself. It was like some kind of wound that wouldn't heal if you kept opening up the stitches.
"And why is that, exactly?" He sounded unhappy and discontent, and she'd been afraid of this since the night they'd both fallen apart in Morocco and subsequently fallen into her bed. She'd needed a touchstone to pull herself back from all the things she had to shape herself into being, and she'd found that in him. She'd found so much more than she'd ever dreamed she could have in him - a partner she could truly trust, someone she could give her secrets and self to for safe keeping, but she knew from hard experience if she wanted things, tried to cling to things or people, they would be taken away.
"You can't hold on to something like this. It's like..." The swirling white outside the window caught her attention again: powerful, dangerous, beautiful but amorphous. "It's like snow. If you try to close your fingers around it, it will just melt away."
"You think what we have between us is just going to dissolve? Just vanish, like it was never there? You talk like this doesn't mean anything." His hand strayed upwards and he ran his fingers over a lock of her hair that fell next to her face but he didn't say anything else and she could feel him already starting to shut down, to pull away. She reached up and trapped his palm against her jaw.
"I'm not trying to say it's over. I'm not saying we should stop. Just... don't give it a name. Don't look at it so closely. We have whatever we have for as long as we have it and that's all." Desperation she couldn't quite contain flavored her words, even as she tried to keep it out of her expression
"Until it melts away?" he asked bitterly.
She nodded, ignoring the burning behind her eyes. "There's no such thing as snow that doesn't melt from your touch. There's no such thing as forever. Not for people like us."
He reached into her hair and tightened his grip, pulling her mouth to his as he rolled her underneath him. "Then I'll take whatever I can get," he said roughly. The kiss was rough and hard - she could tell he was upset and maybe he was taking that out on her. For that matter, so was she, and she sank her teeth into his lip in response. He groaned but didn't break away. He'd wanted to pretend, to dream about people they weren't, people who could talk about futures and relationships, even marriage and family. What she needed was to be herself. Nothing and no one else. And that had to be enough.
*****
December 20, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
When the snow storm that was determined to blanket the city subsided, she pulled on a coat and boots and went out shopping. Christmas shopping, even, and it was another one of those things she knew a great deal about but had very little direct experience with. She'd never exchanged any holiday presents before (had barely ever exchanged any kind of presents at all) but she knew from her conversations with Pepper and Steve that several of her new teammates (friends?) were planning on doing so. She felt it was required that she reciprocate, even though Pepper had tried to insist it wasn't. Most everyone had been easy to shop for (she paid attention to things about people as a matter of course and that made choosing gifts much easier) - but she'd had no idea what to get for Clint.
If anything at all. He wouldn't expect a present - it was just one of a long line of things that they "didn't do" in the scope of the relationship she refused to allow him to name. Over the years they'd gone from the occasional encounter to essentially sharing a living space, but it was all under the guise of something casual and impermanent. Their conversation in Belarus had never really left her mind and it had colored everything she'd said and done since that night. She'd come up with a thousand different rationalizations in that time as to why she was right even though she knew it hurt him. She'd seen him struggle with it, again and again when he'd wanted to say something or ask something he knew she wouldn't want to hear. And yet he'd done it, suffered through it for her, because she'd asked him to.
When she saw the snowflakes in the window, she remembered the night before, remembered the tree and the lights in the glass and she realized in a rush that there was a place for permanence in her life now. And that she wanted it.
*****
December 25, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
None of them had any place else to go for Christmas, and when Tony had realized they were all still in residence at the Tower, he'd cajoled and nagged and shoved until they'd all ended up in his living room with cookies and egg nog that was more rum than nog and a pile of presents to be divided up among them. It was the first time she'd experienced that kind of gift-giving and Natasha realized somewhere along the way that she enjoyed it, seeing the look of surprise and pleasure on everyone else's face as ribbons were untied and paper was torn and items were exchanged. It wasn't even the items themselves, it was the thought behind them.
Thor had obviously had help from Darcy in picking out gifts - everyone had cartoon ornaments of various types - a reindeer for Tony and a mouse for Bruce, and even a woodland creche for Steve. A silly-looking yellow bird for Clint that Natasha didn't recognize, but caused him to have a fit of laughter when he noticed the dog ornament she herself had received. Steve had relied on candy and nuts, things she knew from talking to him he'd always seen as special holiday treats, and he'd made sure to get the good stuff, and had paid attention to everyone's preferences - she now had a box of richly filled chocolates and divinity candies she planned to hoard away and savor over the coming weeks.
Tony, who'd insisted on being the one to hand out gifts, had given her a beautiful, intricate set of jewelry made mostly of emeralds and rubies, not just a necklace and earrings but also hair clips and bracelets and rings - with varying degrees of elegance so there was something to fit almost any situation. At her stunned expression, he'd gleefully explained that each piece had a small, microscopic tracking chip and beacon so that no matter what kind of mission she went on, she could call for them if she needed to. The others had gotten similar items - watches for Bruce and Steve, a medal of some sort for Thor to wear around his neck, and a small pin for Clint so his wrists would be unencumbered.
She'd just relaxed into one of the plush couches with her cup of tea and a new book from Bruce when Tony produced a final, small, blue and silver box from behind the tree. Her heart caught in her throat as she recognized it. She'd meant to leave it in her apartment, and give it to Clint later, when no one else was watching, but it had apparently ended up in the bag of gifts she'd brought downstairs. He might not remember at all, she knew, and the contents would lead to confusion and awkward questions with stumbling answers. Or he might understand exactly what she was trying to say and then... there was no way to know how that conversation would go. In either case, she hadn't meant for the others to see, but it was too late to stop it without causing more questions.
"Barton, this one's to you," Tony announced and passed the box over. Clint frowned and gave her a quizzical look when he recognized the handwriting on the tag. She sat up slowly, putting both feet on the ground as she nodded.
"Go ahead."
He opened the box, and for a long moment he just stared at the contents, confusion crossing his face. Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper, dozens of small glass snowflakes shimmered. He reached inside and picked one up with a delicate touch, as if he was afraid that it might shatter. She saw the moment that he put two and two together and remembered. Then he looked up at her with a raw hope in his eyes that hurt to look at.
"Natasha..."
The weight of years was in his tone, though she wasn't sure if anyone else would be able to hear it. All the times when he'd reached out with a question she wasn't willing to answer and she'd pulled away, all the moments when words of affection or promises of "tomorrow" or "forever" had died on the tip of his tongue because he knew she wouldn't allow them.
"Yes." It was an answer to questions he hadn't even asked yet. The others were staring, drawn away from their own gifts by the sudden and uncharacteristic display of emotions on both their faces. She was aware of it, distantly, but too caught up in what was between them to care.
"Be sure. This is enough. The way things are, it's more than enough, more than I ever seriously hoped for. But if... Be absolutely sure." His voice broke on the words. He swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat and his eyes burned. "If you change your mind, I can't... just be sure."
"I'm sure."
Before anyone else could react to the words or the movement he set the box on the table and stood, the ribbon falling to the floor. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides and as she stood up he tangled his hands in her hair to pull her in for a fierce kiss.
There were voices in the background "Did I miss a memo?" from Tony, and a shushing sound that was probably Bruce, but her attention was narrowed down to just this. Just the feeling of Clint's mouth on hers and his hands against her skin.
She'd expected to feel something new - something as fragile and delicate as the spun glass - for some reason she'd assumed that it would be the beginning of something that would need to be nourished and cared for before it could thrive. Instead, she found that it was already rock-solid, firm on the foundation of all those years even under the weight of her denial. It shocked her, how firmly it settled within her now that she allowed it. No, this wouldn't melt away from just her touch. This, like the glass snowflakes, was something they could hold in their hands and keep.
Author: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
A Gift For: anillogicalmind
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, moderate sexual content
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: Snow makes her cold and makes her think of unattainable things, but are things really all that unattainable anymore?
Authors Notes: Many thanks to my two lovely betas who shall remain nameless until tomorrow.
Banner by frea_o
December 19, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
Outside the floor to ceiling windows of her apartment, Natasha could see the heavy snow swirling and gathering as the forecast blizzard descended, and she suppressed an instinctive shiver at the sight before turning her attention to the tree reflected against the glass. She'd never had something as mundane as a Christmas tree before. She'd been around them, had seen plenty in various times and places (they even occasionally had one at HQ if HR wasn't woefully overworked in a given year), but she'd never had one in the place that she lived.
Of course, she'd never had a place that she lived before. Not like this. Not that she could safely assume would still be hers at the end of any given day, or that she spent most of her nights in. There'd been quarters at HQ or various SHIELD bases. There had been the handfuls of safe houses or bolt holes all over the world both with the organizations she'd worked for, and in her freelance days. In all those cases, however, she'd never once walked out the door without assuming in some corner of her mind that it might be (would probably be) the last time. She didn't leave things of herself behind if it could be avoided, it was too risky.
Now she had rooms. Space. The ability (if she so chose) to collect things to keep. She wasn't even a spy anymore, not really. Having her face splashed all over the world stage had effectively curtailed that life plan. SHIELD called her an "asset" now and meant "jack-of-all-trades that doesn't involve undercover ops", and the press called her either a threat or a superhero. Her days of adopting other people's names, things, spaces and lives were over. She was just Agent Romanov, or more rarely Natasha. (Stark still called her Natalie just to irritate her - or maybe so he, or she, wouldn't forget even if they'd both forgiven.) And to Clint she was, as she had always been, Nat. Tash. Tasha... and a hundred little nicknames (endearments?) that he used with a stunning casualness but which she'd come to realize she never heard him direct at anyone else.
She'd gone from a world where nothing was stable except the moment she was in, where she'd manipulated and directed and had exercised an iron control, to one where everything around her was fixed, but she felt like she was adrift and things happened to her and around her instead of because of her. So the first time she'd seen the Christmas tree that decorated her apartment in the Tower, she'd been annoyed. Annoyed by the clutter and by the fact that someone had obviously invaded her space to set it up. No ornaments graced the branches, but there were lights. Cheerful blinking lights against the backdrop of snow still stunning and white from this high above the city, and Natasha was surprised to realize that the lights reflecting on the glass somehow... warmed it. As if those little lights managed to fend off the chill she always felt when she saw the snow.
Snow through glass reminded her of whispered conversations that balanced on the edge of something more.
*****
December 20th, 2004 ~ Safe House S213, Belarus
She shivered slightly as she watched the snow come down through the glass, so thick and heavy no one would be able to come for them for days. The thought of being stranded didn't unsettle her. She didn't mind them being left on their own for a time. They weren't in any lingering danger from the mission they'd just completed, and were both even unscathed (for once). This particular safe house was close enough to the city to be on the grid, with electricity and running water, and a well-stocked pantry. It was used fairly often because it was within easy distance of Minsk, but was still remote enough that there were no visible neighbors and therefore fewer inconvenient questions. Which also made it remote enough to be snowed under when the weather got as bad as it promised to. They would lose the central power eventually, but there was a backup generator and plenty of firewood.
But in their line of work it was equivalent to a fucking vacation and she knew she should be grateful for it.
They'd only been there a few hours, and the heat hadn't snaked its way through the entire house yet, and it gave her the false feeling that she'd never get warm. There had been nights - on missions, as a child, during training (they blurred together) when she hadn't ever gotten warm.
She sought him out in the kitchen because she was cold, inside and out, and she wanted to remember who she was supposed to be. It was still tenuous at best - the thing between them that they wouldn't name, but she'd found that it (and he) grounded her. The last two months undercover in Minsk had engulfed her and she needed to remember who she really was. He heard her approach, he must have, because he didn't flinch when she pressed up against him and slid her arms around his waist. He'd changed out of his gear into jeans and a sweatshirt, but she was able to lean up and press her mouth to the bare skin at the back of his neck.
He turned the soup down to low, turned into her arms, then let himself be pulled into the den by the fire. She pressed him down onto the couch and climbed onto his lap so that she could kiss him properly. When he pulled her sweater over her head, she felt the fire warm her bare back, felt the heat from his body warm her front, and closed her eyes so that she couldn't see the snow coming down outside. They fucked there on the couch and when their breathing finally returned to normal and the body heat they'd generated started to fade he pulled a blanket around her shoulders and tucked her in close.
"You're shivering," he said roughly, his voice still stiff from disuse. While she'd been wining and dining with politicians and diplomats, he'd been on snowy rooftops, or tucked into tiny rooms nearby, observing, listening, but rarely ever talking.
"It'll get warmer eventually," she murmured into his neck, then pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat and felt his breath catch in his chest at the touch.
Under the blanket his hand made long, slow sweeps up and down her back, and she flashed back on the evening gown she'd been wearing right before they'd made their exit. Most of her dresses on this particular mission had been backless - no particular reason except the woman she'd become had apparently preferred them. She knew from her own experience that Clint liked the image of her bare skin edged with satin or silk, and wondered now if he was making up for all the touching he hadn't been able to do.
"You really are a masochist, aren't you?" she grinned against his skin, conveyed amusement in her tone.
"What do you mean?"
"Two months of looking, but not touching." Her own hand traced his shoulder, followed the play of muscles down his arm and she enjoyed the feel of them shifting and bunching, up and down, over and over, slow strokes over her spine that soothed rather than incited.
If he was disturbed by how accurately she gauged his thoughts he didn't show it. Then again, he never did. Instead he took her mouth, hot and slow but with an intensity that belied the lack of urgency. This time he bore her down to the rug and took her again, pulling the blanket over them almost as an afterthought to keep the lingering chill at bay.
In the fire-lit silence they dozed, still touching, and she felt more content than she had in a very long time, maybe ever.
She knew it was too good to be true.
His hand stilled against her hip, and she could feel the question coming even before he spoke, hovering softly but ominously at the edge of her contentment like the snowstorm threatening outside. "Do you ever wonder if we could have a different life? Just... wake up one day and walk away from all of this secrecy and silence and being someone else?" His tone was casual - the same he would've used to ask if she wanted something from the kitchen, or if she wanted to join him for a run, but the words riding on it had weight.
"And what, exactly, would we be then?" Her tone was sharper than she'd meant, sharper than the was called for, she knew.
"Just... us," he finally offered. She rolled over under his hand, careful not to shrug his touch away or make it seem like a rejection. But she needed to see his face, his reactions, to make sure that he heard her and to make sure that she understood him.
"In another life, there wouldn't be any 'us'. We either wouldn't be who we are... or we would be trying to pretend all over again, just on a different stage." It would be a pretending that would never end, a mission without a final endgame and eventually, without that end in sight she would lose herself completely.
"I don't-"
"Would you be happy with a house and children, perhaps? A fenced in yard and a dog?"
"I wouldn't mind the dog," he quipped, trying to lighten the suddenly serious mood, but she continued, unperturbed.
"Would you be happy with a nine to five job, never anything more dangerous than traffic at rush hour?" she asked, knowing the answer, knowing that he craved the edge of danger just as much as she did. "We are who we are," she insisted, rising up on one elbow to look down at him. "This life is who we are, and we'd... lose too much of ourselves to leave it behind."
His frown stopped just short of a scowl, and he shook his head. "No. I don't even want those things. That's not what I meant."
"Then what?"
"I meant... us Tasha. This, whatever it is we have going on between us. We don't talk about it. It happens between missions, in the dead of night when we're alone and then we just... ignore it. Like it doesn't happen. We're not the type of people to talk about this kind of thing, I get that, but don't you sometimes wish-"
"Don't," she whispered, and it was surprisingly harsh. "We don't talk about it for a reason." These were the kinds of conversations that never came to any good end, she thought to herself. It was like some kind of wound that wouldn't heal if you kept opening up the stitches.
"And why is that, exactly?" He sounded unhappy and discontent, and she'd been afraid of this since the night they'd both fallen apart in Morocco and subsequently fallen into her bed. She'd needed a touchstone to pull herself back from all the things she had to shape herself into being, and she'd found that in him. She'd found so much more than she'd ever dreamed she could have in him - a partner she could truly trust, someone she could give her secrets and self to for safe keeping, but she knew from hard experience if she wanted things, tried to cling to things or people, they would be taken away.
"You can't hold on to something like this. It's like..." The swirling white outside the window caught her attention again: powerful, dangerous, beautiful but amorphous. "It's like snow. If you try to close your fingers around it, it will just melt away."
"You think what we have between us is just going to dissolve? Just vanish, like it was never there? You talk like this doesn't mean anything." His hand strayed upwards and he ran his fingers over a lock of her hair that fell next to her face but he didn't say anything else and she could feel him already starting to shut down, to pull away. She reached up and trapped his palm against her jaw.
"I'm not trying to say it's over. I'm not saying we should stop. Just... don't give it a name. Don't look at it so closely. We have whatever we have for as long as we have it and that's all." Desperation she couldn't quite contain flavored her words, even as she tried to keep it out of her expression
"Until it melts away?" he asked bitterly.
She nodded, ignoring the burning behind her eyes. "There's no such thing as snow that doesn't melt from your touch. There's no such thing as forever. Not for people like us."
He reached into her hair and tightened his grip, pulling her mouth to his as he rolled her underneath him. "Then I'll take whatever I can get," he said roughly. The kiss was rough and hard - she could tell he was upset and maybe he was taking that out on her. For that matter, so was she, and she sank her teeth into his lip in response. He groaned but didn't break away. He'd wanted to pretend, to dream about people they weren't, people who could talk about futures and relationships, even marriage and family. What she needed was to be herself. Nothing and no one else. And that had to be enough.
*****
December 20, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
When the snow storm that was determined to blanket the city subsided, she pulled on a coat and boots and went out shopping. Christmas shopping, even, and it was another one of those things she knew a great deal about but had very little direct experience with. She'd never exchanged any holiday presents before (had barely ever exchanged any kind of presents at all) but she knew from her conversations with Pepper and Steve that several of her new teammates (friends?) were planning on doing so. She felt it was required that she reciprocate, even though Pepper had tried to insist it wasn't. Most everyone had been easy to shop for (she paid attention to things about people as a matter of course and that made choosing gifts much easier) - but she'd had no idea what to get for Clint.
If anything at all. He wouldn't expect a present - it was just one of a long line of things that they "didn't do" in the scope of the relationship she refused to allow him to name. Over the years they'd gone from the occasional encounter to essentially sharing a living space, but it was all under the guise of something casual and impermanent. Their conversation in Belarus had never really left her mind and it had colored everything she'd said and done since that night. She'd come up with a thousand different rationalizations in that time as to why she was right even though she knew it hurt him. She'd seen him struggle with it, again and again when he'd wanted to say something or ask something he knew she wouldn't want to hear. And yet he'd done it, suffered through it for her, because she'd asked him to.
When she saw the snowflakes in the window, she remembered the night before, remembered the tree and the lights in the glass and she realized in a rush that there was a place for permanence in her life now. And that she wanted it.
*****
December 25, 2011 ~ New York City, New York, USA
None of them had any place else to go for Christmas, and when Tony had realized they were all still in residence at the Tower, he'd cajoled and nagged and shoved until they'd all ended up in his living room with cookies and egg nog that was more rum than nog and a pile of presents to be divided up among them. It was the first time she'd experienced that kind of gift-giving and Natasha realized somewhere along the way that she enjoyed it, seeing the look of surprise and pleasure on everyone else's face as ribbons were untied and paper was torn and items were exchanged. It wasn't even the items themselves, it was the thought behind them.
Thor had obviously had help from Darcy in picking out gifts - everyone had cartoon ornaments of various types - a reindeer for Tony and a mouse for Bruce, and even a woodland creche for Steve. A silly-looking yellow bird for Clint that Natasha didn't recognize, but caused him to have a fit of laughter when he noticed the dog ornament she herself had received. Steve had relied on candy and nuts, things she knew from talking to him he'd always seen as special holiday treats, and he'd made sure to get the good stuff, and had paid attention to everyone's preferences - she now had a box of richly filled chocolates and divinity candies she planned to hoard away and savor over the coming weeks.
Tony, who'd insisted on being the one to hand out gifts, had given her a beautiful, intricate set of jewelry made mostly of emeralds and rubies, not just a necklace and earrings but also hair clips and bracelets and rings - with varying degrees of elegance so there was something to fit almost any situation. At her stunned expression, he'd gleefully explained that each piece had a small, microscopic tracking chip and beacon so that no matter what kind of mission she went on, she could call for them if she needed to. The others had gotten similar items - watches for Bruce and Steve, a medal of some sort for Thor to wear around his neck, and a small pin for Clint so his wrists would be unencumbered.
She'd just relaxed into one of the plush couches with her cup of tea and a new book from Bruce when Tony produced a final, small, blue and silver box from behind the tree. Her heart caught in her throat as she recognized it. She'd meant to leave it in her apartment, and give it to Clint later, when no one else was watching, but it had apparently ended up in the bag of gifts she'd brought downstairs. He might not remember at all, she knew, and the contents would lead to confusion and awkward questions with stumbling answers. Or he might understand exactly what she was trying to say and then... there was no way to know how that conversation would go. In either case, she hadn't meant for the others to see, but it was too late to stop it without causing more questions.
"Barton, this one's to you," Tony announced and passed the box over. Clint frowned and gave her a quizzical look when he recognized the handwriting on the tag. She sat up slowly, putting both feet on the ground as she nodded.
"Go ahead."
He opened the box, and for a long moment he just stared at the contents, confusion crossing his face. Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper, dozens of small glass snowflakes shimmered. He reached inside and picked one up with a delicate touch, as if he was afraid that it might shatter. She saw the moment that he put two and two together and remembered. Then he looked up at her with a raw hope in his eyes that hurt to look at.
"Natasha..."
The weight of years was in his tone, though she wasn't sure if anyone else would be able to hear it. All the times when he'd reached out with a question she wasn't willing to answer and she'd pulled away, all the moments when words of affection or promises of "tomorrow" or "forever" had died on the tip of his tongue because he knew she wouldn't allow them.
"Yes." It was an answer to questions he hadn't even asked yet. The others were staring, drawn away from their own gifts by the sudden and uncharacteristic display of emotions on both their faces. She was aware of it, distantly, but too caught up in what was between them to care.
"Be sure. This is enough. The way things are, it's more than enough, more than I ever seriously hoped for. But if... Be absolutely sure." His voice broke on the words. He swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat and his eyes burned. "If you change your mind, I can't... just be sure."
"I'm sure."
Before anyone else could react to the words or the movement he set the box on the table and stood, the ribbon falling to the floor. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides and as she stood up he tangled his hands in her hair to pull her in for a fierce kiss.
There were voices in the background "Did I miss a memo?" from Tony, and a shushing sound that was probably Bruce, but her attention was narrowed down to just this. Just the feeling of Clint's mouth on hers and his hands against her skin.
She'd expected to feel something new - something as fragile and delicate as the spun glass - for some reason she'd assumed that it would be the beginning of something that would need to be nourished and cared for before it could thrive. Instead, she found that it was already rock-solid, firm on the foundation of all those years even under the weight of her denial. It shocked her, how firmly it settled within her now that she allowed it. No, this wouldn't melt away from just her touch. This, like the glass snowflakes, was something they could hold in their hands and keep.