Title: Lover of Leaving
A Gift For: beanarie
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Pairings: Clint/Natasha
Summary/Prompt Used: Clint vanishes shortly after the battle of New York. Natasha knows she's the only one who can bring him back.
Authors Notes: Happy Holidays! I hope you like the fic!
Author: quiet_rebel


Banner by purely_distel



Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
A thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.
---Jalal ad-Din Mohammed Balkhi (Rumi)


Clint disappears after New York.

“He’s gone rogue,” Fury says. Then adds: “Let him be.”

Natasha doesn’t listen. She visits each of Clint’s hideouts (because they’re hers too). Paris. Shanghai. Sydney. Miami. Budapest.

It’s a cold day in L.A. when she finds him.

His (their) two-story house in Laurel Canyon. It's a simple structure hidden in the hills that overlooks the city of angels. Sometimes, they take long hikes in the canyon, silently walking side by side from morning sun to evening moon.

The back door is unlocked when Natasha enters. An open invitation to whatever, whomever...

The house smells like sweat, heavy with nightmares and silent screams. She remembers her first solo mission with SHIELD. How she had saved a life instead of taking it. She had never done that before. The fear uprooted her, so she disappeared. Clint found her twenty-hours later in Berlin, and he waited by her side until she was ready to return to SHIELD.

That first night alone in Berlin, she told herself that she could never wipe away all that red. No matter how many lives she saved, she could never have a clean slate.

She pictures Clint sitting in the dark, telling himself the same thing. How many agents...how many innocent lives...I did this...I let Loki do this...

The image becomes a reality when she finds Clint in an armchair in the living room. The curtains are drawn, but she makes out his silhouette. He doesn't look up at her.

“Why are you here, Natasha?” he asks in a weary voice.

She had told Loki she owed Clint a debt, and maybe she is still repaying it.

“Fury's worried about you,” she says.

He lifts his brows. “Fury?” He always could see through her lies.

“What are you doing, Clint?” She moves to stand in front him, arms crossed. “I've been looking for you for seven days.”

“Took you that long, huh?”

She digs her nails into her palms.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn't want to be found?” He slurs his words and when he finally does look up at her, his blue eyes are bloodshot.

“I don't believe that,” she says. “Why else would you come to a place where you knew I would check?”

He slumps in his seat, silent.

“I'm going to make you some coffee,” she says. “You need to sober up.”

He doesn't protest when she leaves the room.

**

Clint falls asleep in the armchair. Natasha watches his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes. His jaw clenches and his face twists with each nightmare that passes. She doesn't wake him; she lets him fight.

She decides to explore the house. It's been at least two years she was here. Clint always liked this place more than her because she can't stand the California sun. But today, it rains, the first sign of a Southern California winter. The rain pelts down against the glass windows in a hypnotic rhythm.

In the kitchen, she finds her green coffee mug with the chipped handle. Her purple silk robe still hangs in the bathroom. The closets are filled with a few articles of her clothing. She slips on a heavy sweater and realizes it's actually Clint's when she breathes in the scent of lavender, musk, and sandalwood.

She aches for the things that linger here.

Natasha wanders into the bedroom. The clean, pressed sheets show that Clint hasn't slept in the bed at all. She sits at the edge of the mattress and places her hand on the cool fabric. It holds memories, stories, and when she closes her eyes, she sees them.

She tumbles back against the pillows. Her naked body arches for him. He meets her halfway. Mouth to mouth. She sighs his name and he answers.

“Natasha.”

She opens her eyes. Clint stands at the bedroom door. His back is straight. His voice strong. His blue eyes alert.

He has won.

**

The next morning, Natasha wakes up on the living room couch while Clint stays in the armchair. The bed remains unoccupied.

She uses the bathroom and returns to the living room. Clint stands at the window, watching the rain fall.

“Let's go for a walk,” he says.

They don't take an umbrella or a jacket as they go outside. There's a chill in the air, but Natasha knows they have both endured much harsher conditions.

They walk side by side on their route. Although it has been a few years for Natasha, she still recalls each step on the trail as they climb through the canyon.

Their walk is silent, that hasn't changed, but when they reach the top of the hill two hours later, she has the urge to speak. It's not to fill the air with nonsense or to fill Clint with meaningless words of comfort; it's the fact her (his) sweater clings to her like his scent, like his touch, like the memories that persist.

“Come back with me,” she says.

He blinks and rain falls from his eyelashes.

“Come back with me,” she says again. “You don't have to do this alone.”

He turns his gaze away because she knows he understands. She uses the same words he spoke to her in Berlin.

She slips her hand into his and he recoils. She had done the same thing too.

“Clint.” A knot forms in the middle of her chest. Had he felt the same knot in Berlin as well? How did he make it unravel?

He lifts his gaze to the gray sky and shuts his eyes. Everything hurts, she knows.

The rain continues to fall in between their silence.

**

When they return home, Natasha strips out of her (his) sweater. She turns to Clint and helps him remove his thermal top. They guide each other to the bedroom, and they fall back on the cool sheets, warming them with their rain-soaked bodies.

The knot inside her begins to unravel and she realizes it's not because of her doing.

It's Clint's hot mouth against her neck. It's Clint's heavy body on top of hers. It's Clint's tight grip on her waist.

It's Clint...

It's Clint...

It's Clint...

**

Once again, Natasha moves from room to room. Her (his) sweater dries in the closet. Her robe hangs in the bathroom. She washes out her chipped coffee mug. In the bedroom, she makes the bed, tucking the sheets back in place. Her hand lingers on the spots where memory lives on.

“Ready?” Clint stands in the doorway.

She follows him out.

It has stopped raining, and even she doesn't mind the sun peeking over the clouds. It's the sign of a new day.

It's true. No matter how many lives she saves, she can never have a clean slate. But maybe, it's not how many lives are saved, but it's about the person you save—even if you owe that person a debt that can never be repaid.

Natasha waits outside by the car as Clint makes his way toward her. Before they get inside, he gathers her in his arms and tells her, “Thank you.”

She kisses him and they share one more quiet moment before they leave together.

THE END