#clintashafluff

[flyingblackhawk]

Touch Starved

Clintasha fic

2,126 words

-

The medical checkups are extensive. Clint has taken to bringing a book, or a newspaper. It’s guaranteed to be at least forty minutes, but he only goes as far as the vending machine that sputters out bitter coffee that’s far to hot to drink. He’s the reason Natasha is here at all. The least he can do is be here for her in case she needs him.

When he finally sees a doctor emerge from the clinic, he rises. His thigh still aches where her bullet passed clean through it. It’ll heal. It’s not important.

“Any progress?” he asks.

“Better than last time,” the man says, gruffly. “No one needs stitches.”

Clint sighs, relieved. It’s not much, but it’s an improvement. The doctor shoulders past him to get to the offices down the hall. Clint is used to the hostility, now that it’s been a few weeks. He’s put everyone in a difficult situation, and he’s owning it as best he can. There doesn’t seem to be one person in the entire agency who isn’t furious with him.

Natasha emerges, looking about as happy as anyone might after being poked and prodded for the better part of an hour. She glares at him. He gives an awkward thumbs up accompanied by a questioning smile. She doesn’t laugh. He’s not sure what her laugh sounds like, but he’s determined to hear it one day.

“I can run on the treadmill,” she tells him. “The doctor will email you.”

“Great,” he says. It is. She’ll have an outlet for her anger aside from beating him to a pulp on a sparring mat.

They walk in silence through a maze of halls until they reach the high-security holding suites. For what is essentially a prison cell, the suites are surprisingly pleasant. Large windows face onto the lawns of the facility, and in the early evening light Clint can see the grey figures of cadets jogging around the thin perimeter track. The sound of the lock tumblers clunking into place behind them cuts through the quiet, and he yawns.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces. Natasha ignores him, and goes to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. The boundaries have never been in question, and Clint is tired, so he doesn’t bother asking her what she wants to eat. There’s leftover pasta, she can have some if she gets hungry during the night. He’s heard her sneaking around in the early hours of the morning. It doesn’t come as a surprise that she doesn’t sleep much.

His phone dings, and he pulls it out to find an email from the doctor waiting for him. Natasha has been cleared for light exercise, nothing strenuous that might rip stitches or cause undue injury. The tone is clipped. Clint can’t remember the last time someone ended a message to him with ‘best wishes’, or even ‘regards’. He’s out of favour with the entire agency, not to mention there are probably a few people in Russia who wouldn’t mind putting a bullet through his head. Clint Barton, though, is nothing if not a stubborn idiot, and he’ll wear this decision until he’s dead and buried. Of that, he is certain.

He showers quickly, and changes into comfortable sweats. It’s not late, so he goes through the ridiculous amount of security checks on the laptop that’s been left for him and starts on some of the grunt work Fury’s dumped on him as a small part of a punishment that looks set to last a few years at least. Clint doesn’t know why he has to enter five passcodes and provide his thumb print to get on the computer when Natasha could easily just take his phone, but he’s doing what he’s told these days.

Natasha emerges about an hour later, and goes into the bathroom. None of these doors have locks, and he wishes for her sake that they did. It can’t be fun knowing that someone could barge in on you at any moment. He’s tried to make it clear he’s not the barging type, but it hasn’t made a dent in her attitude towards him.

He listens to the sound of running water for a while, then shuts the laptop and goes to the kitchen. He heats up some pasta, and makes a cup of tea. He eats slowly, but when he’s done the water’s still running, so he gives up on any attempt at conversation and goes to bed. He misses his real apartment. The holding suite is plush, and there’s more than enough space for both of them, but there’s no place like home.

But if he went home, he reminds himself as he plugs in his phone, there would be no one standing between Natasha and the hundreds of people who don’t want her here. Who’s to say who would come knocking if they knew she was by herself? It would be risky, sure, but it could be done. Clint closes his eyes, and tries to stave off the paranoia. No one’s coming for her. He can make this work. People will forgive him eventually.

He wakes in the dark to the sound of quiet knocking. It takes him a few moments of rousing to realise that someone’s knocking on his door, and that the only person who could be knocking on his door right now is Natasha. He rolls out of bed, and opens the door.

Natasha is wearing the standard issue SHIELD pyjamas, and the image of her in sleepwear is so incongruous that he doesn’t hear what she says the first time she says it.

“What?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“I need help,” she says. Her voice has a tightness to it, but she sounds more tired than annoyed, which Clint takes as a win.

“What time is it?” he yawns, shambling after her into the kitchen.

“Three fifteen.” Natasha hands him a dressing and some clean gauze. “Dressing came off in the bath, and I can’t reach that far.”

He hides his surprise at the fact that she was in the bath. It gives him some satisfaction to know that she feels comfortable enough to relax. Asking him for help - well, that’s another milestone. He knows it’s technically his fault. It was his arrow that struck her in the shoulder, and it’s that injury that means she can’t reach far enough to fix the dressing on another wound that was also probably his fault.

Clint takes the supplies and motions for her to sit in front of him. She shifts a chair and sits down, pulling her top off in one motion. Clint tries to ignore that. She enjoys getting reactions from him.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, frowning. He presses the gauze gently to the wound, and holds her shoulder to apply a little pressure. Natasha says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away from him. In fact, she leans back a little into his hands. Clint brushes it off, and when he’s satisfied that the bleeding has pretty much stopped, he refolds the gauze and tapes it down properly. As he brushes her hair out of the way of the tape, she leans back again.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Mmm.”

She pulls her shirt back on, and turns around to face him. It’s the first time he’s seen her look at him like this. There’s no anger, no distrust. Nervousness, yes. Like she’s trying to summon the courage to say something. Clint waits, not wanting to spook her.

“I haven’t…” she mumbles. Clint hesitantly touches her hand. She bites her lip, and she looks like she’s about to cry. Clint withdraws his fingers, but she catches them. He looks at her, lost.

“I haven’t been close to anyone,” she murmurs. “Not… not in a long time.”

“That sounds lonely,” he says. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to ask him, and he feels stupid for it.

“I…” She hesitates again, and he makes the bold move of squeezing her hand. Her eyes flick down to their hands, almost intertwined.

“No one’s touched me who hasn’t wanted to hurt me,” she says, after a long silence. She seems to be experiencing some sort of emotional catharsis, and Clint isn’t equipped to deal with that, but he knows when someone needs a hug.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” she says, and he feels her squeeze his hand lightly. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“Do… do you want…” Clint cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what he’s offering, only that he’ll give her anything she wants.

“I don’t know,” she says. She sounds so lost, and he can’t help himself. He reaches out, and she flinches, but he opens his arms and before he knows it she’s reaching out for him too, and they’re holding each other in a hug, and it’s awkward, but it’s warm, and he can feel her heart beating against his chest. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, and he keeps holding her. She tightens her grip, and now he’s fairly sure she’s crying. He just strokes her back, and lets her shift herself onto him so she’s straddling his lap. There’s no part of him thinking about anything but comforting this woman he’s dragged into his world. She holds onto him like no one’s ever hugged her, and Clint’s throat starts to ache because he realises that’s probably true.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. Clint blinks. They’ve been sitting here so long that he can feel the stiffness in his neck. She pulls back abruptly, and the spot where she was resting against his shoulder feels suddenly cold.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “None of this is your fault.”

She nods, and pulls away, clambering off him. She says nothing, and he watches her stumble to her room and close the door behind her. He goes back to bed, and sleeps.

In the morning, she’s made coffee for both of them. That’s new, he thinks, and he drinks it while trying to hide a smile. They go to the holding facility’s small gym, and he runs on the treadmill next to hers. He goes with her to her daily round of medical checks, and this time she’s gone for over an hour. They pass the day in silence, and when it comes to the evening, they eat together. Clint thinks the silence is almost amicable.

“If you need any help,” Clint says, while they’re washing the dishes, “you know, with… with bandages, or… anything…”

“I’ll come to you,” she says. He nods, satisfied, and they go their separate ways. Clint reads for a while, and then turns in.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for when he hears his door opening. He barely has time to sit up before Natasha is standing at his bedside, shifting from foot to foot.

“N’tsha?” he mumbles groggily. She doesn’t say anything, and he sits up properly, blinking in the darkness.

“Can I sleep here?” she asks. It’s almost inaudible. He blinks again.

“With me?” he asks. She nods. He knows instinctively what is going on this time, and pulls back the comforter in invitation. She visibly relaxes, and climbs in, pressing herself up against him. Clint shifts so her head is resting on his chest, and she’s half on top of him. He makes sure she’s covered, and starts to stroke her back lightly.

“Thank you,” she whispers. She presses her nose into the hollow of his neck, and Clint wants to cry for her. She’s so starved of kind touches that she’ll climb into bed with the man who upended her life just to feel him hold her. How long has it been since she’s felt the touch of someone who hasn���t wanted to hurt her?

He falls asleep with Natasha in his arms, and when he wakes she’s still there, curled against him, still holding onto him as she wakes up. She says nothing, just shifts closer. Clint props himself up a little on his pillows, and cradles her gently. He starts to stroke her hair, and she pushes into his touch like a cat. Clint can see the tears gathering in her eyes when she looks up, and it breaks his heart.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. Everything is quiet as dawn slowly breaks, the sun creeping down the wall towards them. Natasha makes a muffled sound and presses her face into his neck. Clint just holds her, watching the light move, and wondering what their future holds.

[flyingblackhawk]

Rings and stuff

Clintasha fic

562 words

-

“What are you thinking about?”

Clint smiles, and huffs sleepily. “Nothin’.”

“Liar,” Natasha yawns, lifting her head a little and settling back down on his shoulder. The earliest light of the morning makes everything a soft grey. The traffic outside is quiet.

“What if we were normal?” he asks. She laughs, and slides her hand to his sternum, thinking for a moment.

“If we were normal, we never would have met. I’d probably be in Russia, doing God knows what. You… I don’t know. Maybe a traveling circus? Or a farmer. One or the other.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She raises her head, looking down at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if we were here, right now, but… normal. Normal people.”

Natasha smiles. “We probably wouldn’t be awake yet.”

Clint lets a hand trail through her loose curls. “Maybe we’d be one of those couples who go running together every morning.”

“Gross.”

“Or we could be brunch people,” he chuckles. “You know, the ones drinking mimosas at eleven by the park.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

Clint yawns, and wraps his arms around her, rolling slightly so she can curl into him. Dawn is still a while away, maybe they can still get back to sleep. He’s just as happy to hold her close, warm under their blankets.

“Imagine being a normal couple,” she says, after a while. “Maybe we’d come home after work and cook dinner together.”

“We do that,” he protests.

“Work that doesn’t involve espionage or assassination,” she says. Even those words sound lovely in this sleepy voice of hers, and Clint can’t help but marvel at that. Everything she does enchants him. He’d never say that out loud, for fear of a swift punch to the throat, but it’s true.

“I’d like that,” he says. He finds her hand, and laces their fingers together. “I like this, but that would be nice.”

She makes a little noise, and snuggles closer. “Maybe we’d be married.”

That’s a surprise. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe we wouldn’t be the type.”

“Maybe normal versions of us would be the type,” she murmurs. “You know, doing all the normal things. Rings and stuff. Kids, even.”

He smiles. It’s fantasy, they know that. Normalcy is not something that’s ever been on the table, and even if it were, they’d be bored in a week.

“We could get married,” he says. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. A piece of paper and a ring doesn’t seem enough to signify what he feels for Natasha. She knows it, and she slithers up to press a warm kiss to his lips.

“We’d drive each other crazy,” she huffs.

“We already do,” he points out.

“Do you want to get married?” she asks.

“Are you proposing?” he counters.

She parries by kissing him, and he luxuriates in it, drinking her in. His hands find the small of her back under the blankets. He loves her so vastly he can’t fathom it in his own mind. How could wedding vows capture it?

“We don’t need to get married,” she says. It’s like she can read his mind.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she says, and settles back onto his shoulder. Clint just breathes her in as the sun comes up. Who the hell needs normal anyway?

[flyingblackhawk]

Pelmeni

Clintasha fic

599 words

-

When Natasha returns, her apartment is warm, and it smells delicious. She knows Clint is here - she saw the lights on from the pavement. She closes the door behind her, and Clint’s head pops out of the kitchen doorway.

“Welcome home,” he grins. “Go take a shower. I’ve made dinner.”

“If it tastes as good as it smells, I might forgive you for breaking in,” she tells him. Clint laughs.

“It’s not technically breaking in if you give me a key, you know.”

“Technicality.”

He disappears back into the kitchen, and Natasha drops her bag in her bedroom and heads straight for the shower. Under the spray of hot water, she feels herself relax at last. She slept on the flight home, sure. But here, with him, she can finally come to a halt.

She stays there until her skin is flushed from the heat. When she’s towelled off, she dresses in the first comfortable clothes she’s been in for a week, and she goes to meet him in her kitchen.

“It’s my first try,” Clint says, turning from the stove. “So… you know, go easy.”

Natasha smiles a tired smile. “I’ll eat anything. I’ve been on rations for a week.”

She looks around the space of her apartment. From the little table by the window, she can see almost all of it. Small compared to a lot of places in the city. Palatial by the standards of a nameless girl from Stalingrad. These four walls are more than she ever could have allowed herself to imagine all those years ago. There’s food in the cupboards, running water, heat- and Clint, in the heart of it all, making sure she never comes home to a cold, dark, empty place. Her home is full of him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, as he sets two bowls down on the table.

“Nothing, I…”

She stops. The bowl he’s just set in front of her is filled with little dumplings. The scent of pork and herbs reaches her, and the tang of vinegar, and fragrant garlic. The steam drifts up, and as she takes a breath she can hear the thump of her heart.

“-made the dough from scratch, if you can believe it,” Clint is saying. He is opposite her now, already picking up his fork. Natasha feels her throat close, and her eyes start to sting. Clint finally looks up, and his fork freezes midway to his mouth.

“Tasha?” he asks, hesitantly.

“You made me pelmeni?” she asks.

“I thought you’d like it,” Clint says. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

He trails off, bewildered, as Natasha puts a hand to her mouth. She feels tears on her cheeks, and as she tries to breathe, she feels Clint beside her, kneeling next to her.

“Natasha?” he says, again. He pulls her around in her chair. She looks at him through a haze of tears.

“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,” she says, breathless. Clint still looks confused, so she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you.”

It’s all she can manage. She knows him more intimately than anyone on the planet, and yet he still has the same capacity for surprising her as the day they met.

“I love you too,” he says, finally. He returns her kiss with one on her cheek, and takes his seat again. Natasha spears a dumpling with her fork and raises it to her lips. She eats it, her senses in Russia and her heart in Clint’s hands.

“Good?” he asks. She wipes her eyes and smiles.

“Perfect.”

[flyingblackhawk]

By Design

Clintasha fic

747 words

-

“I lo- no. Shit. Fuck.”

Natasha grips the edge of the basin, and looks at herself in the mirror. She can’t even say it out loud. Coward.

“I…” she starts, feeling colour pool in her cheeks. “I… Clint, I…”

Some ancient reflex shoves the words back down her throat and she almost gags. This is ridiculous.

“Fuck it,” she sighs, and leaves the bathroom.

It’s been several weeks now, and she’s still no closer to having this conversation with herself, let alone with Clint. How is she supposed to tell him? She can’t even say it out loud. The Red Room didn’t design her with love in mind, and all her life she has been told she’s not fit for it, that relationships serve only as an exchange of things of value - information, loyalty, practically anything except love. She can’t deny that’s what it is, but even thinking it activates a deep resistance encoded by her formative years. She can’t be in love, by design. It’s not possible. And yet…

“What’s up with you?” Clint asks her, over coffee later in the day. They are at a cafe, as far as Clint is willing to move from his apartment to get coffee, and it’s only slightly less bitter than what he brews in his pot at home. Natasha needs neutral ground, though, so she insisted.

“Nothing’s up,” she lies.

“Liar.” God damn him. Clint is the only one who knows her well enough to know when she’s covering something up, and even he gets it wrong around sixty percent of the time.

“Fine,” he says, after a lengthy silence. “Can I at least know if it’s something I’ve done?”

“It’s not something you’ve done,” she says. “I don’t really know what it is myself.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out.”

They fall into easier talk, tactical plans, predictions of future missions, debating what colour rug Clint should buy to cover up the burn mark on the floor from a recent pancake mishap. This easy conversation is one of the reasons she’s in this bind, and after a while she drifts off again and in her mind she’s back in front of the mirror.

“Nat. Nat?”

“Mm?”

Clint is staring at her across the table. “Did you even hear me?” he asks.

“Sorry,” she sighs.

They part ways amicably, and if Clint is annoyed or confused, he doesn’t let it show. He trusts her to come out with information when it’s important, and he’s never begrudged the secrets she’s had to keep from him, whether it was under instruction from Fury or of her own accord. It’s one of the reasons she loves- no, not- shit.

Later, when she’s lying in bed, she closes and opens her fingers on the comforter, scrunching the fabric over and over again as her brain goes through the same cycle it’s been going through for weeks now. She has analysed her emotional and physical responses to Clint from every angle, and everything points the same way. She lies there, awake, until the clock ticks past one in the morning and she suddenly can’t take it for another second. The only person she would want to talk to about this kind of thing is Clint, so that’s who she calls. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he mumbles, and to his credit he doesn’t complain about her waking him up. Then again, maybe he’s too groggy to be mad.

“Hi,” she says. She stops, alarmed by the hammering of her heart. The silence stretches taut over the phone line.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, and she almost laughs. There’s another silence, and she claws at the comforter just to have something to hold on to.

“I love you,” she says.

Clint is silent for a moment. Then-

“I know.”

“Was that a fucking Star Wars reference?” Natasha demands through an already broad smile.

“I love you too.”

She knew that already, she realises. Everything sort of falls into place, and she takes a steadying breath.

“Is that all?” he yawns. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“This is a big moment. Don’t be an asshole.”

He laughs, and then she laughs, and she presses the phone harder to her ear just to hear the sound of him breathing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Night, Tasha.”

“Night,” she murmurs, and ends the call. She settles back onto her pillows, and dreams of flying.

[flyingblackhawk]

Family

Clintasha fic

869 words

-

Secret keeping is easy under pressure. Natasha has always thought so. If there’s something at stake, if telling that secret would put her or someone else in danger, it’s easy to keep it locked up and hidden. Safety, however, is a danger in itself. Before Clint, she could count on one hand the number of people she had ever trusted – and ‘trusted’ is a stretch. They were people she could almost certainly count on not to murder her in her sleep. But then Clint came along, and suddenly there was a pillar of constancy in her life, and she could rely on him for more than just having her back in a fight. The reward for his infinite patience is her complete trust. It still scares her sometimes.

Then came the team. Again, Natasha kept her secrets tight to her chest. She even pulled away from Clint for a time, terrified that he would somehow betray her. It has taken years for her to accept that this team is the only family she has ever known. Slowly, and without even realising it at first, she has come to trust them as fully and intimately as she trusts Clint.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t think to contain herself. The team has been waiting for her return for six weeks, and she is surprised to realise, in the elevator up to the common floor of the complex, that she is excited to see them.

As the doors open, she can hear the chatter of voices. She steps out into the warmth of the plush lounge area where they have spent so many nights drinking and laughing, watching movies, or just talking until the small hours. She spies Steve first, sitting on the couch beside Bucky. Her vision is quickly blocked by Clint, who all but tackles her with a hug. Natasha folds into him, exhaling for what feels like the first time in a month and a half.

“Welcome home,” Clint says. Natasha feels the warmth of his chest, and there’s warmth in her own chest at the idea of home. Yes, this is home. Not the only home she’s ever known, but the safest and happiest place in her universe. She raises her head, and the glow of the place knocks any thought of discretion from her mind as she kisses him, right on the lips. She only stops when she feels his hands tense. Then, she remembers.

She pulls back sheepishly, hoping against hope that it was fast enough that no one saw. No such luck. Steve is frozen with a beer halfway to his lips. Bucky is staring. Tony, who Natasha has only just spotted, is leaning against the bench in the open kitchen, with Bruce standing opposite. Everyone is silent.

“Oops,” she mutters, and in her periphery she sees Clint trying to suppress a smile. Natasha untangles herself from Clint’s arms, and brushes herself off.

“Get me a beer?” she asks Clint. He nods, and does as he’s told. Without a word, Natasha drops her duffel bag by the door and heads for the couch opposite Steve and Bucky.

“How… uhm… how was the mission?” Steve asks. He’s blushing on her behalf, Natasha thinks. Her own cheeks remain their usual colour. She knows how to combat embarrassment.

“Good,” she says. “Textbook.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but is stopped by a quick elbow to the ribs from Steve. Clint returns from the kitchen with two beers, and hands her one. Natasha smiles politely.

“We were going to watch a movie,” Bruce says, hovering awkwardly in the kitchen.

“Sounds great,” she answers. She can tell Clint is barely suppressing laughter, and she resists the urge to kick him in the shins.

Bruce sets up the screens, and soon they are watching a light-hearted buddy cop film. Natasha can sense the eyes on her, and dutifully ignores them. About half an hour in, she rearranges herself so she’s leaning on Clint. He knows this routine, but they’ve never done it in front of anyone else. Nevertheless, he shifts so he can drape an arm around her. Aside from the accidental kiss earlier, this is the most intimate display they’ve ever made in front of the others, and it occurs to Natasha that maybe they didn’t know about the two of them. They’ve made jokes, sure, but she assumed from those jokes that they knew, or at least had their suspicions. It seems like they have surprised their team.

Natasha settles into Clint, and she is surprised to feel no embarrassment, no nerves. She feels content. She feels safe. Everyone knows now, and… it’s okay. She’s okay, and nothing much has changed.

Later, when they’re heading to bed, Natasha takes Clint’s hand. She knows Steve can see from behind her, and no doubt he’ll tell the others, but she doesn’t care anymore. These people are her family. She can be totally and unashamedly herself.

As she follows Clint into his room, she catches Steve’s eye as he passes. He smiles a reassuring smile, and she loves him for it, just like she loves the rest of the team. She closes the door with a smile of her own on her lips.  

[flyingblackhawk]

Picnic

Clint/Nat/Laura fic

412 words

-

The sun is high, and the heat lazy. Clint shakes out the blanket and carefully lays it on the grass. Laura sets down the basket, and looks back towards the house. The kids are trailing behind, Natasha with them. Nate is in her arms - he always is when she’s here.

The rest of the party arrive as Clint and Laura lay out the picnic. Natasha settles gracefully onto the blanket, Nate tucked easily into the crook of her arm. Clint always marvels at how she looks so at ease carrying the baby. Natasha, who for so long said she didn’t want kids, didn’t need them - Natasha has ended up with three anyway, and the smile on her face as she looks down at the baby waving his pudgy little fists in the air makes Clint’s heart ache with happiness.

“Eat,” Laura says, nudging him with a bread roll. She is smiling the way she always smiles when she sees Clint gazing at his partner.

“Quit staring,” Natasha says, not taking her eyes off Nate. He is blowing spit bubbles and grasping at Natasha’s hair.

“Sorry,” Clint chuckles. He starts to assemble his sandwich, trying his hardest not to look at the beautiful tableau of Natasha cradling his baby boy. He can’t help but think of a time, years ago, when a thin, bruised Natasha had met his firstborn son. Cooper had been every bit as happy and beautiful as Nate is now, and Clint remembers the sight of Natasha, wrapped in a borrowed bathrobe, afraid even to touch the baby. Now, she touches her lips to Nate’s head, bouncing him gently as he gurgles.

Clint makes up the rolls. Cooper and Lila cram down their food, then head straight for the treehouse. Clint leans back on the soft blanket, watching Laura feed pieces of roll to Natasha, who doesn’t seem able to let go of the baby. It’s clumsy, and they laugh, and the sound is warm and it vibrates in Clint’s bones. He closes his eyes, and sighs happily.

He doesn’t realise he’s dozed until he opens his eyes and sees that the sky has changed colour. The light is golden now. He props himself up on his elbows, and is met by the sight of Natasha lying with her head in Laura’s lap, Nate nestled happily on her chest.

“I love you,” Clint says, to all of them.

“We love you too,” Laura says, nudging his leg with her toes.

[flyingblackhawk]

Setup

Clintasha fic

770 words

-

“Seriously? A restaurant? You can’t think of anything better?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong with a restaurant?”

Natasha shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with it, I’m just saying, surely you could think of something more interesting to do on a first date.”

“Restaurants are a classic first date.”

“But boring.”

“What’s boring about eating at a restaurant?”

Natasha rolls off the couch and fetches them both a beer. “Doesn’t matter anyway, you never get off your ass to get yourself a date.”

“When the perfect girl wants to date me, I’ll be right on it.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “There are dozens of women at SHIELD alone who’d be good for you. You need to be less picky.”

Clint doesn’t say what he wants to say, which is that there’s really only one woman for him, and she’s sitting across from him and mocking his opinions about dating. He almost says it, just for the fun of seeing what her reaction would be.

“What about Jen?” she asks, interrupting his thoughts. “From Ops. You know, the one who wears the flower earrings?”

They chat aimlessly for a long while, and once they part ways Clint mostly forgets about their conversation. He’s only reminded the next week, when Natasha texts him to tell him he’s got a date on Thursday with Jen from Ops. He wants to get out of it, but he knows if he cancels Natasha will find out and then she’ll ask him why he didn’t go out with her, and it will all come to light. He’s not ready to deal with that yet, so he goes on the date.

It’s a nice night. They eat, they chat, they drink. He kisses her on the cheek and they go their separate ways.

“So nothing happened?” Natasha demands, as they’re on their way back from their latest mission a week later. “Nothing at all?”

“I told you,” he sighs. “I just wasn’t feeling it.”

“You’re useless,” she groans. “Alright, alright. Ingrid. From Comms.”

He protests, but she sets it up anyway, and within the week he finds himself on another date. Ingrid is perfectly charming, but Clint’s mind is elsewhere, and she’s not entertained by the fact that he’s clearly not paying attention to her. Clint barely has time to recover from the date before Natasha sets him up with Romi. Then, the next week, Nadia.

“What about Ava?” Natasha asks, in the gym. Clint groans, and throws a towel at her.

“Just stop,” he pleads. “Enough. Stop it.”

“Stop what?” she asks. “Stop trying to help you find love?”

“I’m exhausted,” he tells her. “I can’t go on another date. I just can’t.”

“Is this your way of saying you’ve got a secret girlfriend?”

He throws his hands up in abject frustration. “Why are you doing this, Nat?” Why do I have to have a girlfriend? Why is this so important to you?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and he realises he’s accidentally touched some nerve. He almost apologises, but he’s still annoyed at her, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I just need you to be paired off, okay?” she asks.

“I’m not an odd sock,” he protests. “I’m fine without a partner.”

“Not for your sake,” she says. “For mine.”

“What?” he demands. “Why do you need me to be in a relationship?”

“Because when you’re single you’re a distraction for me, and I can’t have that.”

Clint tries to process what he’s just heard. “Hang on…”

“Clint, don’t misunderstand-”

“Wait a second,” he interrupts. “Is all of this because you… like me?”

She’s silent, but a faint flush rises to her cheeks.

“It is, isn’t it?” he pushes. She ducks her head, and it’s the first time he’s ever seen her look so embarrassed.

“I just need the temptation out of reach,” she says, her voice quiet.

“Nat,” he exhales, frustrated and relieved all at once. “I like you too.”

She looks at him as if she’s trying to work out the joke. “What?”

“I like you too,” he repeats. “Of course I do. Why do you think I’m not interested in dating other women?”

“You… like me?” she asks.

“Yes, you huge idiot,” he groans. Natasha’s small smile grows a little broader.

“Got any energy left for one more date?” she asks, almost shyly.

“With you?” he asks. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She grins, and Clint pulls her in for a firm kiss. Their lips meet, and he feels something slot into place in his chest. This is how the world is meant to be. Clint and Natasha together at last.

[flyingblackhawk]

Slips

Clintasha fic

651 words

Natasha Romanoff does everything flawlessly. It’s at once the most entrancing and the most irritating thing about being her partner - Clint gets to witness this first hand. There are days when he forgets she’s not native to the country where he grew up, that her aliases aren’t as real as they seem.

The first time he ever hears a slip is after a night out. They are celebrating the end of a mission, and after way too much to drink he is staggering back towards his quarters, propping Natasha up while they both try not to keel over. He deposits her at her door, and she pats his shoulder in thanks.

“Sleep well, Romanoff,” he says.

“Night, Barton,” she replies, lingering too long on the ‘r’ in his name. Just in that word, he hears a trace of who she once was. Natasha doesn’t notice, or doesn’t want to address it, and closes her door behind her.

-

It’s another year or so before he hears it again. She storms into his room and throws herself on the bed.

“Fucking psychiatrists,” she growls. Clint pokes his head around the bathroom door.

“Evaluation?” he asks.

“Debrief. Fucking- fucks.”

He hears a tinge of that accent again. So it’s not just alcohol that brings it out. He goes to her, and sits beside where she’s sprawled over his covers.

“You wanna talk about it?”

She swears in what he assumes is Russian, and he smiles.

“Drink about it. Got it.”

-

The next time is a few months later. He tells a stupid joke over dinner, and she starts to laugh. They are both tired, and soon neither of them can stop the hysterics from taking over. She slaps the table, and tells him to shut up, even though he can barely breathe from laughing at her laughter, and he hears it again in those words. Again, she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy shaking her head at his dumb sense of humour.

-

He can go a long while without hearing a slip from her. Natasha doesn’t need to be careful - she’s too good at what she does to slip up in any meaningful way. Anyone else, everyone who doesn’t spend almost every off-duty moment around her, might not even notice when she does let her accent colour a word here or there.

Clint notices, though, and each time he hears it he feels a surge of happiness. He’s mentioned it both to Fury and Phil, and neither of them know what he’s talking about. He’s the only one she lets go around.

This fact does nothing to dispel the feelings he has for her - feelings he’s starting to suspect she might reciprocate.

-

It takes another couple of years of struggling with and ignoring feelings, but eventually, and seemingly inevitably, he finds himself lying in bed as the sun goes down, watching the light play through the red curls of Natasha’s hair, wondering how he got so lucky. Life isn’t simple, nowhere near as easy as he sometimes wants it to be, but there are wonderful things in it anyway, and he’s always been good at enjoying the good stuff.

“Aren’t you tired?” she murmurs, and it’s the most Russian she’s ever sounded. He doesn’t speak, just kisses her nose and slides further down into the pillows with her. He doesn’t need to ask her if she notices how she slips sometimes. He knows that it’s because Natasha knows, even if she knows it unconsciously, that when she’s with him, she’s safe. Clint is home, and she never has to guard herself around him. Everything she is and has ever been is safe with him. He doesn’t have to tell her this, and knowing that she already knows fills him with a warmth he can’t quite describe. Instead of trying to, he just kisses her again, and holds her close to him, basking in it.

[flyingblackhawk]

Shower

Clintasha fic

1,290 words

They are outside when the first drops start to fall. Natasha is splitting logs, and Clint is trying hard not to notice how good his partner looks wearing one of his flannel shirts. He looks up when he feels the rain, and finally notices the dark clouds that have gathered overhead. Natasha stops chopping just as the drizzle starts.

Shit,” Clint groans. “C’mon, let’s grab the wood.”

Natasha sighs, and gathers up as much as she can carry in one load. Clint follows suit, and they jog over to the porch of the farmhouse, hurriedly dumping their piles of dry wood down. They run back to the chopping blocks, bundle up more, do another round before the sky darkens. The rain begins to drum down in earnest, and within a few moments they are both soaked.

“Enough,” Clint says, on their fourth lap. The wood at the pile is too wet to bother with, and they have enough to last a while at any rate. He flops down onto the porch steps, wiping the rain off his face. Natasha joins him after a few moments, wringing out her hair as best she can.

“Where the hell did this come from?” she says, reaching a hand out beyond the protection of the eaves.

“I didn’t read the forecast before we landed,” he admits. “I thought the weather looked nice enough.”

She stands up with a sigh. “Come on. Let’s get all this inside and light the fire before it gets too cold.”

He hauls himself off the steps, and armful by armful they carry the logs inside the house. Clint is pretty happy with it so far, although a couple of the rooms are still empty and he’s really not sure what he’s supposed to do with a whole dining room. But there are beds, there’s a couch, and there’s a large fireplace. He can work with it.

Natasha closes the door behind him as he brings in the last logs. He builds up a stack of papers and kindling, then lights it on fire. The flames curl up the edges of the paper and the sticks begin to burn. When it gets hotter, he adds larger sticks, and finally a log. When he’s satisfied, he pulls back from the fire.

Natasha is standing in the kitchen. She has peeled off the wet flannel and her pants, and is now just wearing underwear and a black tank top. Clint tries not to swallow his own tongue.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she says. “Warm up a bit.”

“I did just build a fire,” he points out.

“And that was very manly of you,” she smiles. “Still taking a shower, though. You should too.”

He manages half a smile, and she vanishes up the stairs. He pulls a screen across the fire, and heads upstairs after her. The shower is already running in her room when he passes the door.

“She’s your partner, jackass,” he chides himself, as he strips off his own shirt on the way in through his door.

“Gotta stop,” he mutters, as he steps into the shower. He’s not sure he knows how to stop. He’s never had to deal with feelings like this before, not for someone he works with. But it’s not normal, this partnership of theirs. They know each other so… intimately. Everything they do, they do together. Of course it’s normal to get attached, and he comforts himself by hoping that maybe Natasha has struggled with feelings like this too. She’s good at hiding it if that’s the case, but you could never know with her.

He washes himself, then gets out of the shower. He dries, dresses, and heads downstairs, where he finds Natasha back in the kitchen. Her curls are still wet from the shower, and she presses a mug of hot tea into his hands.

“Let’s just sit by the fire for a bit,” she says, tugging his sleeve. “We never get to just relax like this.”

It’s true, he realises. They hardly ever get to stop these days. The more they achieve in the field, the more in demand they become, and it’s only in the grey spaces between the end of a mission and being called in for debriefing where they can pause and take a moment with each other. Natasha flops onto the couch, and he follows her. The fire is crackling, and he’s not sure if the room feels cosy because of the warmth or because of the person next to him.

“I like this place,” she says.

“It needs work.”

She nods. “But it’ll be worth it once it’s finished. Did you see the dining room?”

He shrugs. “What good is a dining room? I always eat in the kitchen. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be having guests that often.”

Natasha nudges him with her foot. “You never know. Maybe you’ll meet someone. Start a family.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I’ll have kids, and a dog, and we’ll all live together here in our house…”

She watches him for a moment. “Sounds good.”

“It kinda does,” he admits. “God, I… I’d never really thought about it, but… yeah. I could see myself living like that. One day.”

She seems to draw back, and Clint frowns. “Tasha?”

“I’d like to see that,” she murmurs. “You… happy.”

Clint can’t bear to watch her fold in on herself like this. All at once he knows what she’s feeling, because he’s felt it himself.

“Maybe you’ll be here too,” he murmurs. She looks up at him like she doesn’t understand. “I never picture that future without you, you know.”

“You don’t?”

It breaks his heart that she could think there would ever be a time he wouldn’t want her right here by his side. “Natasha… I know it wouldn’t be marriage and kids, but there’s no future here that I can see that doesn’t have you in it.”

“Clint-”

“No, I know, and it doesn’t have to be… anything like that,” he says. “Just… I don’t want to be without you. It can be whatever it is, as long as you’re with me.”

The silence is punctuated by the drumming of the rain on the roof. Natasha sets down her mug, and slowly shifts out of her spot on the couch. Clint is sure she’s about to walk away, possibly out of the house and his life, but no- she moves over to him, takes his tea and puts it down, then slides in behind him, pulling him down so he’s lying with her, tangled up with her. His head is resting on her shoulder, and her fingers wind into his hair. It’s all such a surprise, but it feels so wonderful that Clint doesn’t question it, doesn’t say anything. He feels like the luckiest person in the universe.

“I’ll never leave you,” she whispers, and he’s half asleep but he hears it. Next thing he knows, there is a blanket over him, and Natasha is holding him, and they’re falling asleep together by the fire in his quaint little farmhouse.

Clint wakes alone, but Natasha is in the kitchen, bathed in light from the window. The rain has vanished, replaced by a cold but sunlit morning, and his partner hands him a coffee.

“We’ve been called back for debriefing,” she tells him. He nods, and sips the drink.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. She knows what he means, and just smiles. That alone is enough to warm him more than the fire did. They drink coffee in silence, until his phone starts buzzing. Natasha sighs, and their peaceful break is over.

“Come on,” she says. “We should get going.”

Clint follows her out of his house, a smile on his face.

[flyingblackhawk]

Everything

Clintasha fic

1,222 words

-

“What’s this about?”

Maria stirs sugar into her coffee. She’s never understood the majority of the agency who insist that black coffee is the only way to drink it. Seems unnecessarily macho, but whatever floats their personal boats.

Natasha grips her tea so hard Hill is worried she’s going to shatter the mug. This must be something big. Maybe she’s thinking about defecting. Maybe she already has, and she’s about to launch across the table and attack her.

“Have you ever had feelings for someone you worked with?”

The question is so out of the blue that she almost chokes on her coffee. “What?”

Natasha is silent for a moment, but rephrases. “In the field, did you ever work with someone and develop feelings for them?”

“Once or twice,” Hill says.

“Did you ever act on those feelings?”

“Once or twice.”

Natasha looks surprised, and Maria grins fleetingly before her composed facade returns. “You’re only in trouble if you get caught,” she advises the agent. Natasha still looks troubled, and she softens. “Is this about Clint?” Natasha gauges her tone, and then nods.

“I’m worried that it’ll get in the way of our work.”

“He’s completely in love with you, you know.”

“I know.”

Natasha sips her tea, and Hill considers the problem. “He just thinks you don’t like him. And he doesn’t know that you know.”

“He thinks he’s subtle.”

“About as subtle as a slap in the face.”

Natasha smiles faintly. “So… it would be okay if these feelings… developed?”

Hill nods. “It’s not unusual, or dangerous for this to happen. You just let it flow, and see how things go.”

Natasha nods, and turns her attention back to her tea.

-

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Natasha sits entirely still. It’s odd for Phil, when his charges don’t fidget under his accusatory stare.

“Natasha.”

She raises her eyes to his. It’s like she’s a stubborn child.

“I just wanted to see where he was.”

“Barton’s on a covert mission. Where he is is none of our business.”

“I wanted to know.”

He sighs. “You can’t hack Fury’s computer. You just… you can’t. Okay?”

She shrugs. Phil does not feel like he’s made any impact on her future behaviour. Again, he feels like a bad parent.

“What’s brought this on?” he asks. “Do you not trust Clint? It’s not a dangerous mission, he’ll be back before you know it.”

She looks away, and he gets an idea of exactly what has brought this on. “Okay. Just… try not to get yourself in trouble, Romanoff. I might not be there to cover for you next time.”

-

Natasha can barely hear anything over the thudding of the helicopter blades. She has one hand on the gash in Clint’s side, and her other hand is holding on to something - the edge of a seat maybe - as they veer out of reach of the gunfire. Once they’ve levelled, someone hands her a headset and she scrambles with one hand to put it on.

“-give the rundown,” a voice says through the earpiece. “What happened to him?”

“He got shot,” she shouts, and it’s difficult to roll her eyes given the circumstances, but she still manages. “Clipped his arm. Hit his head on the way down. Stab wound to the thigh that I’m holding closed right now, so would you fucking grab the kit already?”

The copilot tosses a field kit to her and she gets to work. The leg wound is first and deepest, and gushing a lot of blood. She cauterises it, thankful that he’s unconscious.

“Is he going to be okay?” the pilot asks through the headset.

“He doesn’t get to die until I say so,” she answers.

-

Unconscious in a hospital bed, at another time, with another injury, Clint doesn’t hear her pacing. She has no one to talk to, so she talks to him.

“And another thing. Who doesn’t check their magazine before they dive out to shoot? Idiot.”

He doesn’t answer. She’s not expecting him to, but ranting at him helps.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to have your back. If you had, the worst you would have gotten would be a few cuts and scrapes. Now look at you.”

She sighs, and goes back to the chair by his bedside. “When you wake up, we’re going to have a serious talk about forward planning in the field. I’ll write a list of all the ways you were an idiot, and you can read them back to me so I know you understand.”

“Natasha?”

Phil has coffee. He’s the only one who hasn’t tried to convince her to sleep. Mostly because he knows that’s an argument he’ll lose in record time.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the paper cup. “The doc says he’ll be up and about in a couple of days.”

“Good,” Phil says. “I’m sure he’d be glad you’re here.”

“He’d be annoyed,” she grins. “Natasha, you should sleep. Natasha, you don’t have to be here. Natasha, quit watching me sleep, it’s creepy.”

Phil gives a little smile. “Still. He wouldn’t send you away.”

“No,” she says, looking at her partner. “He wouldn’t.”

-

“Tell him.”

“He already knows.”

“He doesn’t. Tell him.”

Natasha glares at Hill from across the training mats. “He’s not an idiot.”

“Yes he is. Tell him.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can. I don’t know how to have that conversation.”

“Clint, I’m in love with you. Let’s do it.”

“God damn it, Hill-”

“Fine. Let’s spar. Winner tells Barton you’re in love with him.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Maria looks at her, and Natasha can see she’s absolutely serious.

“Do you really want him to hear this from me?” the woman asks.

“Fine,” Natasha groans. “I’ll tell him.”

“If you don’t-”

“I know, I know.”

-

Years after she tells him, after their first kiss, and other firsts, she sits by a window in a facility in upstate New York. The world is a different place now.

“I remember how things used to be,” she tells Wanda. “Right back at the start. I guess it’s more complicated now.”

“Some things aren’t complicated,” Wanda says. Natasha has to smile.

“You’re right,” she says. “Some things aren’t. But sometimes it feels like the world has changed faster than I can change to keep up with it.”

“How do you stay grounded?” Wanda asks. “When everything comes apart, what keeps you together?”

“Clint,” she says, and there’s no hesitation. “He’s my constant. Anything could happen, and I know he’d be right there with me, always. Same as the first day I met him.”

“He means a lot to you,” Wanda murmurs.

“He’s everything,” Natasha says. The phrase isn’t heavy. It doesn’t heap any responsibility on that link. It��s just light, and easy. Clint is her whole world, and she knows she’s his.

Clint is standing just out of sight in the doorway. He knows he shouldn’t listen, but he hears what she’s saying and it warms him. He’ll text her, he thinks. He’ll spare her having to apologise for being mushy, even though he would never think less of her for it. It makes him happier than anything else could, knowing he means as much to her as she does to him. Back in his apartment, he sends the message and waits for Natasha.

[flyingblackhawk]

Worlds Away

Clintasha fic

581 words

-

The atmosphere is easy. The music is quiet. The team is scattered here and there, paired off or in groups, talking, laughing, reminiscing, drinking together. Mostly drinking. It’s been a few hours, and almost everyone has had too much.

Even Steve is feeling the effects of something Thor has a bottle of. He’s not sure what it is or where it came from, but he’s pretty sure it would have killed anyone else at the party. He leans against the bar, surveying the gentle carnage all around him. His gaze skids over the corner at first, because they’re almost still. But a movement brings his eyes back over to the wall by the window, and he realises that Clint and Natasha are sitting together.

At first, Steve thinks they’ve fallen asleep. Their eyes are open though, they’re just… still. They’re gazing intently at each other, smiling, mouthing words Steve can’t hear. Clint’s hand is on her back, and the other hand is in her hair, playing gently, thumb brushing her cheek now and then. Steve looks away, suddenly feeling that he’s intruding on a private moment.

Over by the window, Natasha shifts so she’s sitting a bit higher on Clint’s legs. She fits so easily against his body, like she’s meant to be there. Her lips brush his jaw as he murmurs something about her eyes, and she doesn’t care that she didn’t hear what he said, because she heard the tone, and the warmth and love in his voice is like nothing alcohol could ever do to her. Her head is spinning with him, her skin is tingling with him. He holds her and it’s like the world has fallen away around them and it’s them, only the two of them sitting there in the dim light with the soft music, holding each other. She lives for moments like this.

Usually, she would be careful. Cautious. She knows better than to wear her heart on her sleeve, even around people she trusts. But she can’t remember her own rules when he’s smiling at her like this. Her lips move up his jaw, and she savours the feeling of stubble on her cheek where their faces touch.

“I love you,” he mumbles. She laughs, soft, breathy, and the sound captures the reciprocated feelings. She doesn’t have to say it. He knows. She just kisses him, right there, right where anyone could see them at any moment. She doesn’t know Steve is watching from across the room. She doesn’t see him smile and look away. She doesn’t see Bruce punch Tony in the arm before he can make a remark. Clint doesn’t notice any of this either, because Natasha’s lips on his have the curious ability to make him forget his own name. He doesn’t have any attention to give anything else in the whole universe right now.

Clint waits for her to break the kiss but it just deepens, and her hands are in his hair, and his are on her back, clasping her close to him, afraid to let go because this damn feeling is all he’s ever wanted, all he could ever need. He loves her so much it fills him to bursting, and he wouldn’t have it any way but this. They finally break, breathe, and smile, murmur little words to each other. They rise from their corner and make their way, laughing and touching and smiling to their apartment, blissfuly ignorant of the team watching them leave.

[flyingblackhawk]

Morphine

Clintasha fic

1,210 words

-

Natasha is well known for refusing medical treatment. It’s a huge pain in Clint’s ass, mostly because he’s the one who has to look after her when she’s trying to avoid the hospital, and she doesn’t go out of her way to be kind to him when she’s in pain. Mostly just tells him to fuck off.

This time is different though. Her leg is shattered. Her arm has only just been put back into its socket. She is in agony when they bring her in, and Clint is sick down to his stomach because he doesn’t want to go through this again. It’ll be months before she’s not in pain anymore. He can’t do it.

“Clint.”

Her voice is just over a whisper. He leans in close.

“Meds,” she murmurs. “S’okay… do it.”

He could kiss her. The relief brims over into a weary smile, and he squeezes her hand, seemingly the only part of her that’s not scraped or bruised or broken. He can see she’s scared. It’s weird to see her so vulnerable. He signals for a nurse, and after confirming that Natasha has given permission and won’t punch anyone, she administers morphine. Clint waits and watches for a few minutes until he sees Natasha’s face slacken. She doesn’t look happy, by any means, but at least she’s not grimacing in pain anymore.

He sits beside her. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I know that isn’t easy for you.” She reaches out with her non-dislocated arm and squeezes his hand.

“You worry too much,” she mumbles. “M’fine.”

“You’re not,” he huffs. She gives him a look, which even when she’s in pain and heavily medicated is withering. He rolls his eyes, but then he sees that she almost looks scared, so he grips her hand again.

“I’m not gonna go anywhere, okay?” he says. “I know how much you hate being sedated, so I’ll be right here to make sure they don’t put you on too much.”

“Thank you,” comes the weak reply. She closes her eyes, and after a few moments Clint realises that she is asleep. He leans back in his chair and pulls out a tablet, going over paperwork and forms for their debriefing, updating Phil and Fury on their situation and Natasha’s vitals, and when he’s done with everything that urgently needs doing, he settles back into the chair and falls asleep.

When he wakes, Natasha is stirring. He readjusts her blankets, and glances down at her. Guiltily, he presses the button for the morphine drip, giving her a hit before she wakes. She wouldn’t want him to, but he doesn’t want to have the argument with her, and she needs it. He promised to stay, and he will.

“Hey.” She’s awake. He smiles.

“Hey,” he replies. Natasha looks around, and for once she doesn’t try to struggle into a sitting position.

“You okay?” he asks. It sounds like a dumb question, what with her leg in plaster, her arm in a sling and the rest of her body cut and bruised. She knows what he means, though.

“Mmm,” she nods. “Yeah. I feel… nice.”

“That’s good,” he chuckles. “You remember letting them give you morphine, right?”

“I think so. It’s good.”

“You should let them give it to you more often,” he says, and takes a moment to will that particular fantasy into existence. She sighs softly, and he looks at her, concerned. She’s smiling at him from her pillows.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re always here when I need you,” she murmurs. Clint is so used to seeing her face mysteriously absent of emotion that her smile knocks him off kilter.

“Of course I am,” he says. “You know I’ll always be right here whenever you do something dumb.”

“I love you,” she says. “I love you so much.”

Clint blinks. What? What? Natasha has said that like she’s just continuing the conversation. Like it’s not the most stunning thing he’s ever heard her utter.

“Uh,” he says. “I… really?”

“Mmm. You’re the most important person in my life.”

She’s delirious, he decides. There’s no way she would be saying this if she wasn’t high on morphine.

“Get some rest, Tasha,” he says. She smiles dopily, and holds out her hand. He cautiously acquiesces, and she brings his hand to her lips, gently kisses his knuckles, and holds his fingers to her cheek. Clint just stares. His heart is bursting with the feeling of it, and he wants so desperately to talk about this, but he knows she won’t make any sense. Her fingers uncurl from his, and she settles back onto her pillows and closes her eyes.

Clint sits across from her for hours without sleeping. He just gazes at her face. Without this little morphine-induced conversation, he never would have guessed she felt this way. Natasha displays little bits and pieces of affection here and there, and sure, they flirt now and then, but he’s never considered that she actually loves him. Clint’s been sure of his own feelings for a while. He’s a simple man at heart. There’s no argument to have with himself except whether or not he should be  honest, though thinking Natasha only liked him platonically has kept him on the negative side of that debate for a long time. Now… now he doesn’t know what to do.

He comes back from fetching a coffee to find Natasha sitting up in bed, irritatedly unsnapping the heart monitor from her finger.

“Hey,” he says, moving over to her. “C’mon, lie back.” She looks up at him, and her eyes are sharp, and angry.

“Did you let them give me morphine?” she demands.

“You did,” he tells her. She arches an eyebrow, and he raises his hands. “You said they could, I promise.”

She huffs softly. “Sorry.”

He sighs, and sets the coffee down. “No, I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best.” As he watches, she moves, and winces. “The button for the drip is there, if you need it.”

She rolls her eyes, but then she tries to shift her leg and yelps softly. It’s Clint’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and she groans, leaning back on the pillows and reaching for the button. She jabs it quickly, and relaxes slightly when the drug makes its way into her system.

“So you don’t remember any of last night?” he asks. His heart is in his mouth all of a sudden.

“No,” she says, shrugging. “I don’t remember anything after my leg broke and I passed out.”

He bites back a reminder. She doesn’t need that. She probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“Why?” she asks. “Did something happen?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing important.”

It’s the biggest lie he’s told her in a long time. But he can’t heap it on her, not while she’s in enough pain to be taking morphine voluntarily. Not while she’s trussed up in bed and can’t run away from the emotions that will probably ensue. He wants to have that conversation on her terms, otherwise the end result might not be good for either of them.

Clint just sips his coffee, and chats with her about nothing. Eventually she sleeps again, and he is left alone with his thoughts.

[flyingblackhawk]

Maria

Clintasha fic

816 words

-

He notices it sometimes, but he’s figured she’ll talk to him about it when she’s ready. It’s not for him to pry. Clint is the person Natasha is closest to in the whole world, but she’s still private when it comes to her emotions, and he knows better than to push for information she doesn’t freely give. But months go by, then a year, and Clint has started to wonder if maybe it’s not a case of his partner being evasive. He starts to look for chances to talk to her, and when the team gets together to eat, he gets a chance.

Natasha is sitting with Hill. The two have been friends for years, but Clint has often noticed looks or soft touches that might suggest something more. Just feelings, maybe. Maybe more. This is one of the things she’s never talked to him about.

The two women are sitting together on one of the long couches. There is plenty of space, but Natasha’s head is on Maria’s lap, and they’re both drinking and laughing, completely at ease. Maria is playing idly with a strand of Natasha’s hair. Clint feels a pang of irrational jealousy at their closeness. He understands that there is intimacy he can’t provide. He knows she needs something from Maria that he can’t offer, but he still moves his gaze elsewhere, letting them share their space without observation.

Later, when he’s in bed and she crawls in to meet him, he doesn’t do a good enough job of hiding his surprise.

“What?” she murmurs.

“I thought you’d be with Maria tonight,” he says. She looks puzzled.

“I was,” she says. “Now I’m here.”

Clint huffs. “You know what I mean.”

She blinks at him. “No. I don’t.”

Clint thinks for a long moment that she’s lying to him. Then it dawns on him that no, Natasha actually doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

“I… well, I thought that you two…”

He falters. How does he address it? Has he been wrong this whole time? Natasha seems to catch what he’s implying, at last, and her cheeks colour faintly.

“Me and her?” she asks. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” he says. “You two were getting cosy, and I just assumed-”

“Clint,” she says. “I’m with you. I love you. I wouldn’t-”

“I know, I know you wouldn’t, I’m just saying… I wouldn’t mind. If there were things you wanted to… try.”

“Clint.”

It’s a sudden halt to the conversation, and she rests a hand on his chest so he’ll know she’s not angry. He nods, and lies back so she can nestle into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. She makes a soft noise, and kisses his shoulder. Clint turns out the lights and is asleep minutes later.

Natasha, though, can’t sleep for thinking. She thought all this was just in her head. It’s never occurred to her that it could be real. Not for her. The thoughts she entertains about Maria are just daydreams. Their occasional closeness is just nice, isn’t it? Nothing more?

With Clint’s warm chest under her head, she feels guilty thinking about it. That isn’t her. She loves Clint, she wants Clint, she shouldn’t be thinking about Maria, or what it might be like if Maria were here in his place. She squeezes her eyes shut, and tries her best to sleep.

“Did you mean what you said?” she asks, over coffee the next morning. Clint is sitting across the table from her in their apartment. “About… not minding?”

Clint nods. “I don’t own you, Tasha. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t be a little jealous, but if that’s what you want-”

“I don’t know what I want.”

He wraps a hand around his coffee mug. “That’s okay. It’s normal not to know.”

“Not for me.”

He motions to her, and she gets up from her chair. He rises too, and she comes around the table so he can wrap her in a hug.

“I never thought about it like it was real,” she says. “I never thought about it at all. I was trained not to feel affection for anyone. With women, it was… I just never…”

“I know.”

“But…”

He kisses her forehead. “It’s okay. You don’t have to rush this.”

Later in the month, when the team is back together, Clint finds himself back on the other side of the room as Natasha haltingly talks to Maria. He doesn’t want to intrude on the moment. He just wants to be there if it goes sideways, if Natasha decides she’s out of her depth. As he watches, Maria tilts his partner’s chin and presses a soft kiss to her lips. Natasha practically melts into her, and Clint smiles. He looks away. This is not for him to see now.

As he moves away into another room, Maria takes Natasha’s hand, and leads her away.

[aw-marvel-no]

Just the reaction to this ask is cracking.

“Dude what do you think I’ve been doing on this blog since 2011”

Do you have any Natasha / clintasha fics that’s DON’T include Clint’s family? They can have Clint I adore him but, without the family if you have any please? Thanks so much.

dude what do you think I’ve been doing on this blog since 2011

go to my Story List or check out my Clintasha fics page, only a couple out of the hundreds of fics have Clint’s family in them, and I’m pretty sure I’ve tagged them accordingly

[flyingblackhawk]

~ GRAND REOPENING ~

In the wake of AC19 (thank you for all the prompts and the love, I had an excellent month) I have finally finished six weeks’ worth of re-tagging and theme tweaking. Highlights of the new and improved page include:

Access to the full fic library either from newest to oldest or oldest to newest

Tags for short (around ~500w) or long (1400+w) fics

A new subsection of the Story list for the following curated collections:

Century Club, for fics with 100+ notes

I Hate Myself and Want to Be in Pain, for my saddest stories 

Fluffier than a Blowdried Pomeranian, for disgustingly fluffy fluff

Flyingblackhawk’s Personal Favourites, where I stroke my own ego

A better layout for the rest of the fic list

A link to my AO3 fics (which are few and far between but are much longer and better thought out)

A beautiful new theme (‘Labrador’ by @febrilcuevas)

A new header image (from Avengers Assemble Vol 2 #5)

Things to note:

Several tags have been eliminated, including clintasharomance (mostly redistributed to clintashafluff) and all domestic tags (clintashadomestic, clintashababies etc. now fall under clintashafamily).

There was an issue with fics which had multiple prompt images where the permalink didn’t display any of the text. That should now be fixed, but if you come across a fic you can’t access, please message me about it!

I will be posting a couple of times a week! Currently I have no timetable planned but if that changes I will update you accordingly. 

There are still a few things I’m working out in the new theme so if you notice any weird glitches or issues, again please message me!

Thank you all so much for sticking around. There are almost 3000 of you and I am so grateful to all of you. Getting prompts and messages always makes me so happy, as does writing for all of you. If you have any questions, comments, or just want to get in touch, send me a message through Requests, or chat! 

[flyingblackhawk]

Lovely haze Clintasha fic 511 words

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“Home is where the top shelf vodka is.”

Clint hands her a glass, and a travel-sized first aid kit. She hops up onto the kitchen bench and starts mopping herself up. The vodka makes the antiseptic less painful, and once she's done she looks up and finds that Clint is already standing there in front of her, holding a pair of pyjamas. She takes them, and he vanishes. He’s waiting for her when she’s changed and she shuffles into the bedroom.

“Do you need-”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. He pulls back the covers, and she climbs under them with him. Careful of her sore thigh and several scrapes, she slides over the sheets until she’s close to him, and then she rolls away, facing the wall. Clint pulls the covers up over her, and then shifts in so he’s lying behind her, curled around her body with his arm draped protectively over her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, after a little while. Heat is radiating from his chest and spreading through her in a lovely haze, and she finally feels like maybe she’ll be able to get to sleep. The rhythm of Clint’s breath, of his heartbeat, is all she needs to calm her down. It’s odd, this relationship, but neither of them have ever questioned it, because it’s always somehow exactly what they need at any given time.

She realises after a while that he’s rubbing circles with his thumb on the back of her hand, and she turns her palm up, catching his fingers so she can hold his hand. It gives her a dumb little thrill to do something so childishly simple, and she loves him for how he rolls with it without raising an eyebrow or saying a word. It took her a long time to understand that he needs this as much as she does, and now that they’re on the same page, it’s the easiest thing in the world to just fall into bed together and stay intertwined like this until the sun comes up. And it’s so much scarier than sex, so much more intimate, when they wake up so close to each other, snuggled up tight. She’s never relied on someone so much to feel safe, and warm, and loved.

“Sleep well, Tasha,” he murmurs, nudging the nape of her neck with his nose.

“I will,” she whispers, and she knows that it’s true.

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other. During the night they shift, moving in the bed, but always touching. Even in sleep, they comfort each other in a way only they can. When Natasha wakes up it is to the feeling of Clint’s chest rising and falling beneath her head. She closes her eyes, listens to his heartbeat, absurdly grateful that she has Clint to wake up to each morning, and to hold her whenever the fancy takes her. He wakes, blinking owlishly, and nuzzles close, groaning.

She pulls the blankets over both of them, and they hide away from the sun to sleep just a little longer.