A Gift From: bluflamingo
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Touch, Trust, Truth, Tulips
A Gift For: shenshen77
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Summary/Prompt Used: Trapped by a storm, possibly about to be killed by evil assassins, and Clint out of action with a concussion – must be Friday, then.
Author's Note: shenshen asked for classic hurt/comfort, with one of them looking after the other, and deaf Clint – hopefully, this is something close to what she wanted



"Tasha?" Clint's voice is on the edge of too-loud, slurred with confusion, and his hand, when he reaches for her, is clumsy.

Natasha catches it easily, enclosing it in both of hers as she twists to face him. Clint is still curled up in the corner of the small office where they're hiding out, eyes barely open and clearly not focussing, every line of his body tense with pain. The office is warm – it's part of a block that's in use, which means they'll have to move if they haven't been picked up by the end of the weekend –but doesn't have a lot to keep them comfortable beyond that. There's no point to words – his right hearing aid is still there and intermittently working, but the left is gone.

She squeezes his hand instead, letting him feel the familiar pattern of her gun calluses against his skin. It takes a moment, but his eyes slide closed again. Natasha allows herself one small smile; touch was the first way they ever made sense of each other, his hand on her shoulder, hers on his elbow, burning each other into memories that wouldn't change.

Clint's still awake, or at least not quite dropping all the way back into sleep, so Natasha holds onto him, lets him know that she's there, and they're safe.

*

Clint was the one who found Natasha and brought her into SHIELD, but Natasha, for all she'd never really done it before, was the protector in their relationship, almost from the start.

At first, she didn't notice it happening; or rather, she didn't allow herself to notice it. When she did, she told herself that it was about Clint, who was quiet and distant and too serious, who had friends and colleagues and co-workers but kept seeking out SHIELD's Number One Most Wanted Turned Uncertain Asset and trying to be her friend, who reminded her a little, in ways she couldn't explain, of James, right at the last moments before they put him under again and he forgot who he was.

The truth was, it was about her. She didn't want to be a survivor or someone who'd been rescued, and she didn't want to be the girl in the pretty dress hiding poison under her jewellery. She was already strong, had needed to be for as long as she could remember, but being strong for someone else than just her was different, and she liked it.

*

"Can we go?" Clint asks. He's tracking better, though Natasha suspects he may be seeing double. His volume control is a little better, his words clearer, but when Natasha tells him no, he asks if it's because their taxi is late.

"No." Natasha concentrates on smoothing the clean bandage down, drawing comfort from the clean look of the burns covering Clint's left leg from ankle to thigh. "Do you remember where we are?"

Clint frowns in a way that, under other, less life-threatening circumstances, Natasha would find adorable. "The Christmas party? We're going to be late."

Natasha strokes a hand through his hair, letting the soft spikes settle her own anxiety as much as Clint's. "We went already," she tells him, even though he's closed his eyes and probably won't make sense of the words. "The others are coming, we just have to wait out the storm so they can fly in safely."

Assuming Tony and Bruce have managed to track their implants through the driving rain and 100mph winds, anyway. If not, they'll have to move, and risk being shot by enemies neither one of them can see coming between the terrible weather and Clint's injuries.

"We'll be fine," she says, because they always are, and there's no reason for this time to be any different.

*

Natasha didn't think about Clint as a man, in the beginning – he was Clint, her friend and her partner, and those were all the categories that she needed to fit him into her world. She overheard other agents, sometimes, saying that she and Clint must be sleeping together, or that Clint must be gay, because why else wouldn't he try to hit that?

No-one ever suggested that Natasha must be gay, since she quite clearly wasn't trying to... well, 'get into his pants' seemed to be the preferred euphemism for women. She thought that most of SHIELD, if they thought about it at all, assumed she was probably asexual, or at least too traumatised by her assassin past to think about sex.

Truth was, although she trusted Clint more than most of the others, there had been men on her side before, and most had been professional to the point that Clint's lack of anything beyond friendship didn't seem as strange to her as it did to SHIELD.

Though, after a while – when she settled enough to notice that her strong, quiet, trustworthy friend was also a man with exceptionally well-defined biceps, an oddly attractive face, and thighs that suggested stamina enough to keep up with her... At that point, she could admit, it did become a little frustrating.

*

Natasha doesn't sleep – can't, with comms down, visibility reduced to nothing, and Clint injured –but they've been holed up with minimal supplies for two days, and she can't stop herself from fading out, just a little.

She startles awake though, when Clint, who was sleeping, makes a terrible, sharp noise of anguish. She knows that sound, better than she wants to, for all that experience hasn't brought her any more knowledge than his experience of her night terrors helps Clint to help her.

Natasha wraps her hands around Clint's wrists and squeezes, tight as she can, holding him in place. There's not much point to saying his name, but she does it anyway, firm and in control, then low and gentle. Clint curls himself in tighter like the word hurts, and that's what wakes him, she thinks, the tug of burns and the way his head jerks and must jolt his concussion.

"I'm here." Natasha slides one hand up to cup his cheek and help him meet her eyes. She consciously slows her breathing, and sees Clint fall into the same rhythm as his anxious twitching slows down. "Everything's all right."

Clint nods, jerky and stiff, his free hand coming up to curl around Natasha's. She eases herself down next to him, her hip tucked into the warm curve of his stomach and uninjured leg, and doesn't let go of his hand. This part is easier – when she wakes up from dreams, she wants to be as far away from anyone else as possible, but Clint wants to be close. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Clint shakes his head no. His eyes flicker round the room, which is mostly dark despite the early hour. They've got one more day in it, before people start coming back to work and they have to move. "Talk to me."

Natasha doesn't bother asking what to talk about. "We're hiding out after a car accident. You have burns down your leg and a concussion. We're both bruised. We've been here two days. We're waiting on the storm to blow out before the others can come to get us, unless the guys we were running away from when we got into the accident track us down first." Clint's eyes are closed again, and maybe Natasha shouldn't let him keep sleeping, but they've used all the painkillers, and if he hasn't lapsed into a coma yet, then he probably won't. "We flew in four days ago to..."

*

Dating hadn't been part of Natasha's life before SHIELD, and she hadn't expected that it would be afterwards either. Not until she looked at Clint and found herself wondering what he'd look like, sprawled out naked in her bed after sex. Whether he'd be quiet in bed like he was in the rest of the world, or let go and make noise; whether his hands would really feel as good on her skin as she thought, and whether he'd shave before he went down on her.

Maybe it was strange to wonder about sex when she was thinking about dating. Maybe it made sense, when she already knew how he'd be with the other parts, after months of friendship and companionship. He wasn't going to turn into another person if they started sleeping together.

Friday afternoon, she slipped out of the office and returned with a bunch of purple tulips, glaring at anyone who looked like they might ask questions.

Friday evening, she shut down her computer and followed the corridor to Clint's tiny office, tulips in hand.

"Really?" Clint asked when he saw her.

"Apparently, it's a traditional part of American dating etiquette," Natasha told him solemnly.

"You going to ask me to dinner and a movie, too?"

Natasha shook her head. Dating was for people who didn't know each other, and hadn't decided yet if they wanted to. She and Clint had saved each other, gotten drunk together, been praised by Fury and sighed at by Hill and made Coulson laugh, twice, during a briefing.

Clint took the flowers, when she held them out to him.

*

"Should sleep," Clint says, eyes bright in the poor light of early morning, five floors up. He reaches out, fingers clumsy in her hair. "Look tired."

"Storm's dying down. One of us has to stay awake in case of rogue assassins or unexpected Tony Stark."

Clint huffs out a noise that could charitably be called a laugh, and Natasha can't help her smile. She's been out on missions much longer, and in worse conditions, than this, but she's tired, and the thought of her bed – their bed – at the Tower is becoming increasingly enticing. "Rescue should be on their way soon," she says.

Clint opens his mouth, then closes it again. It doesn't take five years together for Natasha to know he was about to offer to stay behind and let her get away, before he realised they didn't actually need that this time. She ducks down and kisses the side of his head, rubbing her cheek against his for a moment.

"Glad you're here," Clint says, and though they don't know it yet, in a SHIELD facility not too far away, Tony finally locks onto their signals through the storm's interference, and a rescue team scrambles to come get them.

*

Natasha brings tulips to Clint's hospital room, and draws her chair close enough to rest her hand against his on top of the covers. She listens to him breathing, steady and safe, and closes her eyes, letting him take on the watch for a while.