Clint's sitting at the counter with the newspaper in front of him trying to solve the daily Sudoku, reading glasses perched half-way down his nose. His expression is still, deadly; every so often he makes a decisive note.
After a few minutes, Natasha starts to giggle into her tea.
Clint's head pops up. "What?" He's wearing a slightly suspicious smile. "Something funny, baby girl?"
"Nothing," she says, demure. "Nothing at all."
Winter would've done the same thing, except with crosswords; focus all of his attention onto some poor sheet of newspaper as if it personally offended him. Ridiculous men.
Later that day, she realizes that remembering Winter in these everyday contexts doesn't hurt. They make her happy, instead of mournful (though she'll always miss him), and that's... a relief.
--
Clint gets them out of the party at Tony's in record time, all open-friendly-casual charm. He noticed the problem even before she had time to signal to him.
(He checked in with her, first, before starting to maneuver them out. Winter wouldn't have. Winter was her superior officer and, more importantly, he knew why a set of tango music was a problem she couldn't deal with.
Natasha isn't sure which method she prefers, when she's swimming along the edge of a panic attack.)
They drive home in silence; half-way there, Natasha accepts the hand that's been extended across the center console since he got into gear.
She hugs him, when they get home, and he holds her tight for a moment before letting her go.
"Talk, or RED?" he asks, and Natasha smiles. It's such a Clint way to put it.
"RED." Clint throws off a casual salute, and Natasha ducks into the bedroom to change.
--
Clint's newly back from the hospital (training injury), using her as a pillow while Top Gear drones on at half-volume in the background. (He says it's comforting. She thinks he's ridiculous.)
He was regaling her with other, worse falls during his time at the circus, but he's fallen quiet.
"You remind me of him sometimes, you know," she says. He blinks up at her, the 'who?' as clear as a spoken question.
"Winter," she says.
If anything, his brow knits more. "Why?"
She hesitates, and skips the full story in lieu of a smile. "You get funny when you're trying to make me feel better."
Clint makes a low, deep noise at the back of his throat, sounding like any old man. Her smile turns into a grin. "I'm always funny, Romanoff."
"Right," she says, tilting her head over his, running her fingers through his hair. "My bad."
FIC: Nobody's A Contestant (1/3), PG, no warnings
After a few minutes, Natasha starts to giggle into her tea.
Clint's head pops up. "What?" He's wearing a slightly suspicious smile. "Something funny, baby girl?"
"Nothing," she says, demure. "Nothing at all."
Winter would've done the same thing, except with crosswords; focus all of his attention onto some poor sheet of newspaper as if it personally offended him. Ridiculous men.
Later that day, she realizes that remembering Winter in these everyday contexts doesn't hurt. They make her happy, instead of mournful (though she'll always miss him), and that's... a relief.
--
Clint gets them out of the party at Tony's in record time, all open-friendly-casual charm. He noticed the problem even before she had time to signal to him.
(He checked in with her, first, before starting to maneuver them out. Winter wouldn't have. Winter was her superior officer and, more importantly, he knew why a set of tango music was a problem she couldn't deal with.
Natasha isn't sure which method she prefers, when she's swimming along the edge of a panic attack.)
They drive home in silence; half-way there, Natasha accepts the hand that's been extended across the center console since he got into gear.
She hugs him, when they get home, and he holds her tight for a moment before letting her go.
"Talk, or RED?" he asks, and Natasha smiles. It's such a Clint way to put it.
"RED." Clint throws off a casual salute, and Natasha ducks into the bedroom to change.
--
Clint's newly back from the hospital (training injury), using her as a pillow while Top Gear drones on at half-volume in the background. (He says it's comforting. She thinks he's ridiculous.)
He was regaling her with other, worse falls during his time at the circus, but he's fallen quiet.
"You remind me of him sometimes, you know," she says.
He blinks up at her, the 'who?' as clear as a spoken question.
"Winter," she says.
If anything, his brow knits more. "Why?"
She hesitates, and skips the full story in lieu of a smile. "You get funny when you're trying to make me feel better."
Clint makes a low, deep noise at the back of his throat, sounding like any old man. Her smile turns into a grin. "I'm always funny, Romanoff."
"Right," she says, tilting her head over his, running her fingers through his hair. "My bad."