![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Title: To an Outside Observer (1/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anillogicalmind
Rating: M - For mature themes, but nothing graphic.
Warnings: Allusions to sex and violence of the assassin variety.
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bobbi Morse, Phil Coulson (later)
Summary: This is the story of two people who don't have a clue, and aren't particularly keen on looking for answers.
A/N Absolutely mahoosive thanks and all the love toim_ridiculous who has been ridiculously (eheh) patient and generally wonderful throughout this process and helped me to turn this something people MIGHT just want to read. And also to lar_laughswho was such a great help at the start of this thing.
Eh, at least I'm having fun. I hope whoever reads this enjoys it too :)
To an outside observer, the young couple making their way across the crowded room was a perfect cliché.
He was handsome, she was beautiful. They appeared to exist within the perfect synchronization that comes from being utterly absorbed in one another, sparing glances around the room only to whisper another hushed comment into the other’s ear; earning a smile, possibly a laugh, a brush of the lips against a cheek.
To an outside observer, the young couple making their way across the crowded room was in love.
To those with a high enough security clearance, the young couple could be identified as SHIELD Agents Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, on their first partnered mission since Barton had brought Romanoff into the secure SHIELD facility six months prior.
And as for being in love?
It was quite the opposite. If they weren’t relying on their present, affectionate cover to make themselves utterly forgettable, and therefore survive, they fought ceaselessly. From landing heavier than necessary blows during sparring sessions, to exchanging disdainful sneers in the corridors, their fierce rivalry and open distaste for each other was quickly becoming legendary within the organization. Rumours about what had happened between them in Budapest abounded.
To those actually in the know, opinion differed wildly. As a result, facts could not be confirmed, because of course those in the know numbered a grand total of two.
Clint Barton found the entire situation terribly amusing and went out of this way to get a rise out of the usually unflappable Romanoff. He took great pleasure in goading her until she lashed out, gleefully irritating her (like a rash, as she’d so often dryly observe) and prodding her ‘til she either flipped him off or flipped him onto his back. Hard.
He had never seen her be anything but impassive around everyone else in the time she’d been at SHIELD, and he felt some twisted privilege that he was privy to a display of… emotion? Personality? Humanity?
Whatever it was, he enjoyed it -- looked forward to it even. He even felt that the bruises and fractures he had gained were worth it, a bizarre accolade, a testament to his skills in being an annoying little twerp. Not to mention the fact that his form had been consistently improving since Natasha had arrived, and he was no beginner to start with.
It had become a game to him; the carny seeing if he could hit the mark, tip the bucket, anything to draw a reaction from her. It didn’t matter if it was a glare, a curse, or a flash of teeth in a feral grin, all that mattered was that he was a sucker for a pretty face. Especially one who could kick his ass.
Natasha Romanoff, on the other hand, thought the whole ordeal was just frustrating. And confusing. She hated being confused. She didn’t do confused. She did cool, calm logic.
She most certainly didn’t leave a mess behind.
Clint Barton was messy. He was brash, he was loud and he was frustrating. And so she found herself kicking harder, flinging scowls at him instead of remaining behind a cool mask of indifference. He infuriated her and yet somehow, somehow, he started to infiltrate her defenses.
He offered to spar with her when nobody else would. Initially, it was with heavily exaggerated sighs and mutters about getting her up to standard. However, after a few bouts with him on the mats, that left her panting and him winded, they settled into a pattern of sparring together.
His snarky comments that had originally preceded their matches were replaced with a sharp tilt of the head when he found her, and an easy drawl of her name as he headed towards the gym. She’d find him waiting for her, often hanging off one of the pullup bars, upside down and perfectly at ease.
Then, though he was clearly trying to give the impression that he was doing anything but (as if he’d ever normally be anywhere near the admin levels if he didn’t have to be) she’d catch him checking up on her, hanging around outside doors when she was pulled into yet another drab office.
He even tried to find out more about her, asking questions over tepid cups of coffee in the mess hall after long hours spent in the gym that, before she’d realised it was happening, had somehow become part of her daily routine.
Natasha was disturbed to discover that she only resented his questions because she still didn’t have any answers.
How do you tell someone more about yourself when you don’t know who that is?
But most of all, she hated the fact that he made her want to find out. It was unsettling.
…
The whispered sweet nothings as they traversed the room were merely the easiest way to share information about the mark and the bodyguards he had scattered across the room... The first brushes of lips across the cheek were a surprise, the soft press of her mouth against his face crossing a carefully drawn line.
Their game had been upped a level.
Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint as he winked salaciously back at her, tightening his grip on her waist. She managed to dig her heel into his shoe, grinding down, covering it by pretending to stumble, smoothing it over with a hand on his chest (nails digging in like talons) another kiss against his cheek, a report on the second henchman over by the bar, and a sharp nip of teeth at his lobe, grazing along the skin.
He laughed, and pulled her over to a mercifully empty booth, cutting off the blood supply to her fingers as he tugged her along, shoving her onto the padded bench – hard enough to trip someone who hadn’t had years of training, but even she almost overbalanced. Clint grinned and batted his lashes. Ridiculous man. At least, of course, now they had a clear view of the entire room, the mark directly within their line of sight.
She slid her hand down his thigh, rubbing her thumb over the pressure point in his knee before pushing against it, hard, and Clint retaliated in kind. She twisted around, mouth near his neck, but any further actions were cut short by Clint muttering low in her ear.
“The mark‘s on the move; heading towards the terrace. Shall we?”
Natasha nodded briskly, double checking the weapons she had holstered on her thighs, the small vial of tranquilizer inside the cup of her bra, all under the guise of smoothing down her dress.
“How do you want to play this?” Clint asked, voice rough against her neck.
She suppressed a shudder at the close contact. She hated people near her neck -- and normally wouldn’t let anyone get that close. It made irritation coil low in her gut and her hackles rise, tiny goose bumps forming peaks along her arms.
Natasha paused for a moment, disconcerted to find herself needing to actively steady her breath. She hoped it would simply appear as if she were taking her time to collect her thoughts and formulate a motive before she replied.
“Lovers’ tiff? He’s been watching us all night. He’s interested. You be the one to walk away. It will give you time to get into position. I’ll fall into the nice man’s arms, get the memory stick, tranq and walk. You just make sure you’re watching. I don’t want any interruptions.”
“Sounds like a plan. Make sure you actually switch your comm link on though, I need to be able to hear you in case visual contact’s lost.”
“Whatever, Barton. You know I will. Just do your job. Get ready to be a jackass. It shouldn’t be hard. ”
“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be hard that are.” He muttered.
She pretended not to hear, linking their hands as she strode across the room, out towards the terrace that led into the hotel’s expansive grounds, where they would lay their trap.
…
Two years on and one hundred and eighty six partnered missions later (not that she’s counting, but he is, and he enjoys reminding her) something that resembles respect has sprung up between the pair.
It would be impossible for it not to really. There’s only so many times a person can save your life before something gives (and this time she’s the one keeping the tally. By her count, he’s delayed the inevitable a total of twenty eight times on her behalf, and she has only managed a comparatively paltry nineteen. The imbalance grates.)
And by all accounts, they are already SHIELD’s most successful partnership in the history of the organisation.
They slip in and out of their various covers with ease. Playing the part of jealous lovers is both effective and startlingly easy. Natasha puts it down to proximity, Clint assigns it to base attractiveness. Neither of them would ever admit to giving the matter any thought.
They fight together fluidly, instinctively covering each other’s weak spots and occasionally taking hits intended for the other. The only explanation ever offered -- and accepted -- is a brief ‘You’re my partner.’ And if either of them ever cared to give the statement any thought, they’d realise that it explains everything and nothing, so it’s best left alone.
Long hours and rapid switches between time-zones mean that they are running on a schedule unique to themselves. By way of default, they end up spending most of their time together.
When Clint finds himself seeking Natasha’s company on a rare off-day, he chalks it up to the comfort found through a host of shared experiences, and the advantage of having a partner in the field that’s fully assimilated with all areas of popular western culture. Which is why he finds himself teaching her to play ‘Go Fish’ and then finds himself consistently losing.
After a while, Natasha finds herself forgetting to glare at Barton every time he calls her ‘Nat’. She’s better at remembering to do so when she’s referred to as ‘Tasha’, but even so, sometimes she finds herself too busy to do so. She blames his persistence. He tells her it’s part of his charm.
She refuses to dignify that answer with a response. He refuses to stop.
They go on.
...
Three months later, Clint starts dating Bobbi Morse.
Bobbi is two years his senior, slight, blonde and pretty with a light laugh and an outlook on the world to match (a direct contrast to Natasha’s rare smirks and decidedly grim world view, he thinks, before abruptly cutting that train of thought off). She’s only been a part of SHIELD for two months when he finds himself alone with her in the bar a few miles from base.
He’s not entirely sure how exactly it happened. He knew how he’d gotten there of course; Tasha was on a rare solo op, and he was actually operating within the same timezone as the other SHIELD agents. He’d agreed to come in the interests of sociability, and in order to avoid another night staring at the ceiling. But it was on the detail of how he’d come to be alone with Bobbi that he was a little hazy. He had a feeling he’d been set up.
...
He’d been hustling an unsuspecting civilian at darts, and returning to retrieve his abandoned jacket from the corner the other SHIELD agents had commandeered, he finds only Bobbi, smiling brightly at him.
“The others left.” She explains, unnecessarily. “I said I’d wait. Still hadn’t finished my drink.” She gestures towards the half full bottle sitting in front of her. Condensation had gathered, pooling around it and onto the perpetually sticky wooden table. He can’t help but notice that she hasn’t used the beer mat, even though it’s lying askew right next to the beer. For some reason, it irritates him and too late, he realises he’s supposed to respond, even though she didn’t ask a question.
“Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks.”
It registers somewhere in the back of his brain that he’s forgotten how to do this. Then again, he recalls, he doesn’t think he ever knew how to do this. He plasters a smile on his face, hoping it doesn’t look too strained.
It must work, because Bobbi smiles widely back at him, until her face shifts into something more demure. She looks up at him through slightly lowered lashes, blinking slowly, and he pushes away the thought that it makes her look a little vacuous, because he knows that SHIELD have a vigorous set of aptitude tests before basic training even begins.
Then he realises that, oh god, this is a bona-fide seduction technique she’s using - he watches Nat do it all the time on unsuspecting marks.
He’d bet money that she’s using it now in fact - in a lush suite in Abu Dhabi on a young, handsome heir to an oil dynasty with a little too much interest in ratcheting up international relations to a hostile level. He knows because he read the file while she packed, his feet propped up onto her tiny desk, chair tilted back precariously on two legs until she toppled it as punishment for putting his ‘disgusting’ feet on her stuff.
He tamps down the rush of images that spring unbidden to his mind, along with the swell of protectiveness that burns along his throat when he thinks about Natasha on the job.
He attributes it to too much alcohol (although when two watery beers over the course of several hours became too much, he isn’t sure).
Uncurling his fingers from where they’ve clenched so tightly around the back of the chair that his knuckles have gone white, Clint decides that he is, in fact, probably... no, definitely just sexually frustrated and the solution to his problems is sitting prettily in front of him, still blinking.
“Wanna get out of here?” He asks Bobbi, dragging his attention back to her before he can start thinking too hard and remember exactly how long it’s been since he did this.
“Sure” She says, smiling brightly, and he absolutely does not think she shows too many teeth. He chooses not to think at all until they lie collapsed in a heap on her bed, her head resting on his chest as he runs his fingers through her long blond hair.
“We should do that again.” She murmurs.
“Give me twenty minutes.” He replies, and she laughs, shaking around him, sending vibrations through his chest.
He lets himself laugh with her, and for the next month and a half, in between training and target practice, he brings her lunch and she brings him coffee. He helps her attempt to improve her aim, with some semblance of success. She wraps her arms around his waist as he shoots endless arrows on the range, breaking him out of his reverie and pulling him back to her room. He pretends he doesn’t mind until she makes him forget that he does.
He wonders if he’s happy, and decides that it doesn’t matter.
He wonders if Bobbi is, and realises that it should matter more.
Clint thinks that Bobbi deserves better, but refuses to be the first to bring it up. In fact, he actively avoids anything other than small, and bedroom, talk. She fills the silences with chatter of her own, and loves that he’s such a great listener.
To an outside observer, it looks like it’s working.
Somehow, he feels like the whole thing is a test, a warped experiment with no reliable control to compare to, results still pending and a pockmarked history of failures dating back through three generations of Barton’s to the current day: Clint Barton, Specimen 4B, observations still underway, testing the hypothesis that he can in fact create and sustain a viable relationship. Tentative extrapolation of current data with Bobbi Morse looks positive, but then, it always does at first and he’s fed up of failing.
He decides he should just stop thinking and take the wide view. Enjoy it.
Then Natasha comes home.
Author:
anillogicalmindRating: M - For mature themes, but nothing graphic.
Warnings: Allusions to sex and violence of the assassin variety.
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bobbi Morse, Phil Coulson (later)
Summary: This is the story of two people who don't have a clue, and aren't particularly keen on looking for answers.
A/N Absolutely mahoosive thanks and all the love to
im_ridiculous who has been ridiculously (eheh) patient and generally wonderful throughout this process and helped me to turn this something people MIGHT just want to read. And also to lar_laughswho was such a great help at the start of this thing.Eh, at least I'm having fun. I hope whoever reads this enjoys it too :)
To an outside observer, the young couple making their way across the crowded room was a perfect cliché.
He was handsome, she was beautiful. They appeared to exist within the perfect synchronization that comes from being utterly absorbed in one another, sparing glances around the room only to whisper another hushed comment into the other’s ear; earning a smile, possibly a laugh, a brush of the lips against a cheek.
To an outside observer, the young couple making their way across the crowded room was in love.
To those with a high enough security clearance, the young couple could be identified as SHIELD Agents Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, on their first partnered mission since Barton had brought Romanoff into the secure SHIELD facility six months prior.
And as for being in love?
It was quite the opposite. If they weren’t relying on their present, affectionate cover to make themselves utterly forgettable, and therefore survive, they fought ceaselessly. From landing heavier than necessary blows during sparring sessions, to exchanging disdainful sneers in the corridors, their fierce rivalry and open distaste for each other was quickly becoming legendary within the organization. Rumours about what had happened between them in Budapest abounded.
To those actually in the know, opinion differed wildly. As a result, facts could not be confirmed, because of course those in the know numbered a grand total of two.
Clint Barton found the entire situation terribly amusing and went out of this way to get a rise out of the usually unflappable Romanoff. He took great pleasure in goading her until she lashed out, gleefully irritating her (like a rash, as she’d so often dryly observe) and prodding her ‘til she either flipped him off or flipped him onto his back. Hard.
He had never seen her be anything but impassive around everyone else in the time she’d been at SHIELD, and he felt some twisted privilege that he was privy to a display of… emotion? Personality? Humanity?
Whatever it was, he enjoyed it -- looked forward to it even. He even felt that the bruises and fractures he had gained were worth it, a bizarre accolade, a testament to his skills in being an annoying little twerp. Not to mention the fact that his form had been consistently improving since Natasha had arrived, and he was no beginner to start with.
It had become a game to him; the carny seeing if he could hit the mark, tip the bucket, anything to draw a reaction from her. It didn’t matter if it was a glare, a curse, or a flash of teeth in a feral grin, all that mattered was that he was a sucker for a pretty face. Especially one who could kick his ass.
Natasha Romanoff, on the other hand, thought the whole ordeal was just frustrating. And confusing. She hated being confused. She didn’t do confused. She did cool, calm logic.
She most certainly didn’t leave a mess behind.
Clint Barton was messy. He was brash, he was loud and he was frustrating. And so she found herself kicking harder, flinging scowls at him instead of remaining behind a cool mask of indifference. He infuriated her and yet somehow, somehow, he started to infiltrate her defenses.
He offered to spar with her when nobody else would. Initially, it was with heavily exaggerated sighs and mutters about getting her up to standard. However, after a few bouts with him on the mats, that left her panting and him winded, they settled into a pattern of sparring together.
His snarky comments that had originally preceded their matches were replaced with a sharp tilt of the head when he found her, and an easy drawl of her name as he headed towards the gym. She’d find him waiting for her, often hanging off one of the pullup bars, upside down and perfectly at ease.
Then, though he was clearly trying to give the impression that he was doing anything but (as if he’d ever normally be anywhere near the admin levels if he didn’t have to be) she’d catch him checking up on her, hanging around outside doors when she was pulled into yet another drab office.
He even tried to find out more about her, asking questions over tepid cups of coffee in the mess hall after long hours spent in the gym that, before she’d realised it was happening, had somehow become part of her daily routine.
Natasha was disturbed to discover that she only resented his questions because she still didn’t have any answers.
How do you tell someone more about yourself when you don’t know who that is?
But most of all, she hated the fact that he made her want to find out. It was unsettling.
…
The whispered sweet nothings as they traversed the room were merely the easiest way to share information about the mark and the bodyguards he had scattered across the room... The first brushes of lips across the cheek were a surprise, the soft press of her mouth against his face crossing a carefully drawn line.
Their game had been upped a level.
Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint as he winked salaciously back at her, tightening his grip on her waist. She managed to dig her heel into his shoe, grinding down, covering it by pretending to stumble, smoothing it over with a hand on his chest (nails digging in like talons) another kiss against his cheek, a report on the second henchman over by the bar, and a sharp nip of teeth at his lobe, grazing along the skin.
He laughed, and pulled her over to a mercifully empty booth, cutting off the blood supply to her fingers as he tugged her along, shoving her onto the padded bench – hard enough to trip someone who hadn’t had years of training, but even she almost overbalanced. Clint grinned and batted his lashes. Ridiculous man. At least, of course, now they had a clear view of the entire room, the mark directly within their line of sight.
She slid her hand down his thigh, rubbing her thumb over the pressure point in his knee before pushing against it, hard, and Clint retaliated in kind. She twisted around, mouth near his neck, but any further actions were cut short by Clint muttering low in her ear.
“The mark‘s on the move; heading towards the terrace. Shall we?”
Natasha nodded briskly, double checking the weapons she had holstered on her thighs, the small vial of tranquilizer inside the cup of her bra, all under the guise of smoothing down her dress.
“How do you want to play this?” Clint asked, voice rough against her neck.
She suppressed a shudder at the close contact. She hated people near her neck -- and normally wouldn’t let anyone get that close. It made irritation coil low in her gut and her hackles rise, tiny goose bumps forming peaks along her arms.
Natasha paused for a moment, disconcerted to find herself needing to actively steady her breath. She hoped it would simply appear as if she were taking her time to collect her thoughts and formulate a motive before she replied.
“Lovers’ tiff? He’s been watching us all night. He’s interested. You be the one to walk away. It will give you time to get into position. I’ll fall into the nice man’s arms, get the memory stick, tranq and walk. You just make sure you’re watching. I don’t want any interruptions.”
“Sounds like a plan. Make sure you actually switch your comm link on though, I need to be able to hear you in case visual contact’s lost.”
“Whatever, Barton. You know I will. Just do your job. Get ready to be a jackass. It shouldn’t be hard. ”
“There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be hard that are.” He muttered.
She pretended not to hear, linking their hands as she strode across the room, out towards the terrace that led into the hotel’s expansive grounds, where they would lay their trap.
…
Two years on and one hundred and eighty six partnered missions later (not that she’s counting, but he is, and he enjoys reminding her) something that resembles respect has sprung up between the pair.
It would be impossible for it not to really. There’s only so many times a person can save your life before something gives (and this time she’s the one keeping the tally. By her count, he’s delayed the inevitable a total of twenty eight times on her behalf, and she has only managed a comparatively paltry nineteen. The imbalance grates.)
And by all accounts, they are already SHIELD’s most successful partnership in the history of the organisation.
They slip in and out of their various covers with ease. Playing the part of jealous lovers is both effective and startlingly easy. Natasha puts it down to proximity, Clint assigns it to base attractiveness. Neither of them would ever admit to giving the matter any thought.
They fight together fluidly, instinctively covering each other’s weak spots and occasionally taking hits intended for the other. The only explanation ever offered -- and accepted -- is a brief ‘You’re my partner.’ And if either of them ever cared to give the statement any thought, they’d realise that it explains everything and nothing, so it’s best left alone.
Long hours and rapid switches between time-zones mean that they are running on a schedule unique to themselves. By way of default, they end up spending most of their time together.
When Clint finds himself seeking Natasha’s company on a rare off-day, he chalks it up to the comfort found through a host of shared experiences, and the advantage of having a partner in the field that’s fully assimilated with all areas of popular western culture. Which is why he finds himself teaching her to play ‘Go Fish’ and then finds himself consistently losing.
After a while, Natasha finds herself forgetting to glare at Barton every time he calls her ‘Nat’. She’s better at remembering to do so when she’s referred to as ‘Tasha’, but even so, sometimes she finds herself too busy to do so. She blames his persistence. He tells her it’s part of his charm.
She refuses to dignify that answer with a response. He refuses to stop.
They go on.
...
Three months later, Clint starts dating Bobbi Morse.
Bobbi is two years his senior, slight, blonde and pretty with a light laugh and an outlook on the world to match (a direct contrast to Natasha’s rare smirks and decidedly grim world view, he thinks, before abruptly cutting that train of thought off). She’s only been a part of SHIELD for two months when he finds himself alone with her in the bar a few miles from base.
He’s not entirely sure how exactly it happened. He knew how he’d gotten there of course; Tasha was on a rare solo op, and he was actually operating within the same timezone as the other SHIELD agents. He’d agreed to come in the interests of sociability, and in order to avoid another night staring at the ceiling. But it was on the detail of how he’d come to be alone with Bobbi that he was a little hazy. He had a feeling he’d been set up.
...
He’d been hustling an unsuspecting civilian at darts, and returning to retrieve his abandoned jacket from the corner the other SHIELD agents had commandeered, he finds only Bobbi, smiling brightly at him.
“The others left.” She explains, unnecessarily. “I said I’d wait. Still hadn’t finished my drink.” She gestures towards the half full bottle sitting in front of her. Condensation had gathered, pooling around it and onto the perpetually sticky wooden table. He can’t help but notice that she hasn’t used the beer mat, even though it’s lying askew right next to the beer. For some reason, it irritates him and too late, he realises he’s supposed to respond, even though she didn’t ask a question.
“Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks.”
It registers somewhere in the back of his brain that he’s forgotten how to do this. Then again, he recalls, he doesn’t think he ever knew how to do this. He plasters a smile on his face, hoping it doesn’t look too strained.
It must work, because Bobbi smiles widely back at him, until her face shifts into something more demure. She looks up at him through slightly lowered lashes, blinking slowly, and he pushes away the thought that it makes her look a little vacuous, because he knows that SHIELD have a vigorous set of aptitude tests before basic training even begins.
Then he realises that, oh god, this is a bona-fide seduction technique she’s using - he watches Nat do it all the time on unsuspecting marks.
He’d bet money that she’s using it now in fact - in a lush suite in Abu Dhabi on a young, handsome heir to an oil dynasty with a little too much interest in ratcheting up international relations to a hostile level. He knows because he read the file while she packed, his feet propped up onto her tiny desk, chair tilted back precariously on two legs until she toppled it as punishment for putting his ‘disgusting’ feet on her stuff.
He tamps down the rush of images that spring unbidden to his mind, along with the swell of protectiveness that burns along his throat when he thinks about Natasha on the job.
He attributes it to too much alcohol (although when two watery beers over the course of several hours became too much, he isn’t sure).
Uncurling his fingers from where they’ve clenched so tightly around the back of the chair that his knuckles have gone white, Clint decides that he is, in fact, probably... no, definitely just sexually frustrated and the solution to his problems is sitting prettily in front of him, still blinking.
“Wanna get out of here?” He asks Bobbi, dragging his attention back to her before he can start thinking too hard and remember exactly how long it’s been since he did this.
“Sure” She says, smiling brightly, and he absolutely does not think she shows too many teeth. He chooses not to think at all until they lie collapsed in a heap on her bed, her head resting on his chest as he runs his fingers through her long blond hair.
“We should do that again.” She murmurs.
“Give me twenty minutes.” He replies, and she laughs, shaking around him, sending vibrations through his chest.
He lets himself laugh with her, and for the next month and a half, in between training and target practice, he brings her lunch and she brings him coffee. He helps her attempt to improve her aim, with some semblance of success. She wraps her arms around his waist as he shoots endless arrows on the range, breaking him out of his reverie and pulling him back to her room. He pretends he doesn’t mind until she makes him forget that he does.
He wonders if he’s happy, and decides that it doesn’t matter.
He wonders if Bobbi is, and realises that it should matter more.
Clint thinks that Bobbi deserves better, but refuses to be the first to bring it up. In fact, he actively avoids anything other than small, and bedroom, talk. She fills the silences with chatter of her own, and loves that he’s such a great listener.
To an outside observer, it looks like it’s working.
Somehow, he feels like the whole thing is a test, a warped experiment with no reliable control to compare to, results still pending and a pockmarked history of failures dating back through three generations of Barton’s to the current day: Clint Barton, Specimen 4B, observations still underway, testing the hypothesis that he can in fact create and sustain a viable relationship. Tentative extrapolation of current data with Bobbi Morse looks positive, but then, it always does at first and he’s fed up of failing.
He decides he should just stop thinking and take the wide view. Enjoy it.
Then Natasha comes home.
15 comments | Leave a comment
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}