A Gift From: findthesea
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: wear your heart on your skin in this life
A Gift For: skyfallat221b
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Summary/Prompt Used: Tattoo Shop AU - Clint as a tattoo covered, Metallica loving person as a next door florist or singer in an indie band, and (other half of the pairing) is either a tattoo artist doing a cover up of one of Clint's tattoos he wants to hide because (insert reason)
Author's Note: Happy Secret Santa! I was so excited by your prompt, because I've wanted to do a tattoo AU for these two for some time, and this was the perfect opportunity. I hope you enjoy!


wear your heart on your skin in this life

These are the things Natasha Romanoff knows about Clint Barton before she actually meets him: he’s always late for work, he plays his music too loudly when he’s working, and he’s got a ton of tattoos. He’s got more tattoos than she does, which is intriguing enough considering she’s the one who works in the business and, as far as she can tell, he’s just a worker in a diner who moonlights as a singer in an indie band. He’s always a little bit sheepish when he’s asking someone to move their car out of the “no parking and delivery only” zone, he seems to live in flannels with rolled up sleeves, and he drinks coffee the way most people would smoke cigarettes -- she’s quite sure she’s never seen him walking around without a cup in his hand.

These are the things Natasha Romanoff knows about Clint Barton, but the first time she actually talks to him aside from “hi” and “hope you have a good day” is when he walks into her tattoo shop on her day off and stands at the counter, apologetically clearing his throat.

“We’re closed,” Natasha says without looking up from where she’s idly sketching some designs.

“No, you’re not.” Clint gestures to the door that’s still banging behind him. “You’re open.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I needed to come in for a commission approval, but other than that, we’re closed.” She places emphasis on the last word and looks up, her eyes narrowing when she sees that he’s not making an effort to move. “Unless…”

“Unless?” There’s a small crinkle at the edge of his eye and his lips lift faintly, as if he’s teasing her. She’s almost mad, but what the hell, he could be potentially good money if she could swing things her way and she could use a little extra this week anyway…

“Unless you were looking to make some impromptu changes.”

Clint smirks. “Wasn’t planning on it, actually. But I thought you were closed.”

Natasha puts down her pen and gives him a look, sticking her tongue between her teeth. “Your loss,” she says casually as she straightens up, waving the paper in his face. She’s halfway to the back of the shop when she hears Clint shuffle his feet, groan, and lean on the counter.

“Wait.”

Natasha turns on her heel. “Change of mind?”

Clint points to his arm, where a faded red outline is covering part of his bicep.

“More like a change of heart.”

--

Clint is Natasha’s first customer who, despite his many tattoos and obvious knowledge of the craft, doesn’t try to control her work. He’s not even picky about what he wants, even though Natasha usually respects those types of customers -- after all, she was the one putting something on them for all eternity, and they were paying her to not screw it up or hate it.

“No preference?” Natasha asks dubiously as Clint gets in the chair and stretches his arm out. “It’ll look pretty bad if I just color over it.”

“What do you think all this is?” Clint asks wryly, his eyes darting to his body. “I feel like a canvas sometimes, if I’m being honest.”

“Then stop getting tattooed,” Natasha responds with a short laugh.

Clint snorts. “If only it was that easy,” he says a little cryptically. He looks down at his arm. “I just don’t really like the whole heart thing. I wanna make it into something fun.”

“And I take it you don’t have anything in mind,” Natasha says as she washes her hands, rubbing soap over her skin.

Clint shakes his head. “Nope. Not really. But hey, I trust you.”

“I just met you,” Natasha points out with an eyebrow raise.

“Technically,” Clint offers. “We’ve seen each other, right? I mean, we work next door. It’s not like we’re strangers. We know each other’s names -- Natasha.”

Natasha shakes her head. “This is not how I do my job,” she grumbles as she dries her hands and reaches for her gloves. “I hope you know that.”

Clint smiles. “I do.”

Something about his voice, about the way he’s so easygoing and relaxed and open despite looking like some tough biker, makes the heat rise in her cheeks. “Normally, we’d do laser removal to help the design fade,” she says, sitting down and shifting back into professionalism. “But it seems like it’s pretty faded already, so I’m not going to bother. Ten years?”

“Twelve,” Clint responds, making himself comfortable. “Good guess, though. I’d wager you might almost be good at this.”

Natasha grins. “Don’t thank me until you’ve got your new ink,” she says, turning on her machine. “Designs are my strength, but freehand isn’t exactly what I’m known for.”

“I know,” Clint says and she looks up in surprise. “Well, actually, I don’t know,” he amends off of her look. “But you’re good, and besides, I’ve got so much ink already.”

Natasha rolls her eyes but gets to work, putting the needle to his skin. She works fast and she works easily, stretching the lines from the heart and changing the edges so that they flare out more and blend a little better. As she goes along his skin, inking different parts, she realizes he hasn’t moved the entire time he’s been seated.

“Pretty impressive,” she says when she takes a short break to keep her fingers from cramping. “I mean, I know you’re pretty inked, but your pain tolerance is great. I’ve seen army vets flinch more than you.”

“I’d say you’re pretty impressive yourself,” he responds. “You do a lot of cover-ups?”

Natasha shrugs. “Enough,” she replies, starting to ink again. “I can usually tell what people want by what they ask for. Some people just want to hide their past. Some people just want the pain rush and they’ll have me ink anything on any bare piece of skin that they can find. Everyone has a different story.”

Clint nods slowly. “So what’s my story?”

Natasha keeps her gaze concentrated on the needle’s movements. “I think you’re an enigma,” she says after a moment. “I think you’re more complicated than someone would believe if they looked at you. I think you have a story...Clint. But I don’t know what it is yet.” She takes the needle off of his skin, allowing him to inspect his arm more carefully.

“You turned it into an arrow?”

“Well, kind of.” She points to the wall, where a bunch of different designs are hanging. “I did a custom design for a girl who wanted a nautical sketch with a few arrows, and that’s what I came up with. It fit with the same design that you had, so I just modified it.”

Clint smiles. “It’s great,” he decides. “And you’re right. I am an enigma. So what’s your story?”

“You’d have to ink me to find out,” Natasha says with a wink. “And right now, I’m not in the market for anything more than what I have on me.” She wraps his arm tightly. “I assume you don’t need care tips,” she says as he gets up from the chair. “But if you do, you know where to find me.”

“I think I can manage.” Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of bills. “Here. I don’t know what your rates are, but I bet I tip better. And if not, I’ll just owe you a coffee. Deal?”

Natasha takes the wad of cash, trying to hide her surprise at the amount. It’s more than she’d usually charge for a cover-up job, and certainly more than she’d think someone who works in a diner and moonlights as a indie band singer would have on them.

“It’s okay,” she decides, handing most of the cash back. “On the house.”

“No way,” Clint argues. “Don’t be modest, Natasha. I know good work when I see it and you did some good work. You should get paid for it. I’m not that cruel.”

“I’m also not the type of person who’s just going to accept two hundred dollars off the bat without an explanation,” Natasha says. “Even when they interrupt my work.”

Clint sighs and unrolls two bills, putting them on the counter. “Fine. Forty, then. And next coffee’s still on me.”

“Next coffee, huh?” Natasha pushes hair back from her face as she takes his money. “You gonna make me do another tattoo while I’m at it?”

Clint laughs. “I’ve got a coffee cup already,” he says, pointing to his waist area. “But now that you mention it, I’m always in the market for some cover-ups.”

--

Natasha likes being a tattoo artist for the following reasons:

It gives her an opportunity to interact with people, everyone from thugs who are less tough than they look on the outside to kids who are getting their first rebellious piece of art.

It keeps her busy, and being that she’s pretty much the only one who works and owns the shop, that means her days are spent opening, closing, budgeting, ordering supplies, and actually taking care of appointments.

It allows her to use the skills that are still ingrained in her from her previous spy life, like precision and patience and intuition.

Natasha’s usual customers come in every so often depending on the work they need done but first-time customers rarely make a repeat appearance. So when Clint returns in three days when his first cover-up is barely healed enough to stop peeling, she’s taken by surprise.

“I told you, next coffee’s on me,” he says as he puts a styrofoam cup on the counter.

Natasha glances at the cup before picking it up. “Look, I know it’s only been three days, but I’m sorry. I haven’t been in the mood for social interaction.”

“That’s why I brought the coffee to you,” Clint says with a smile.

Natasha nods and puts the cup down. “I appreciate it. Why are you really here?”

Clint looks a little sheepish. “I, uh. I might want to look into getting another cover-up.”

“Another one?” Natasha can’t hide her skepticism; she’s used to people making outlandish inking requests but two cover-ups in three days seems a bit unusual, even for him.

“Just this one,” he says, lifting up his pants leg. Natasha leans over the counter, and her eyes meet a collection of stars surrounded by one large planet. There’s a large red gash running across the design, what Natasha can tell is a large scar that’s been recently scabbed over. “Nicked it again by accident while getting off the stage the other night, and I hate the way it looks.” He winces. “You don’t mind, right? I mean, I can pay you again.”

Natasha hesitates, trying to figure out what to say. She technically had time -- her next customer wasn’t due in for another two hours -- but her spy mind is raising some red flags and she can’t help but feel like all of this is too coincidental: Clint’s first visit, his return visit, his completely charming and loose demeanor, which is a little too charming for not really knowing her that well.

But Natasha likes being a tattoo artist for the following reason: when she needs to pretend her emotions and thoughts don’t matter, she can do a pretty good job.

“You’re in luck,” she decides, putting on a smile. “My next appointment isn’t for another few hours and this seems like a pretty easy job. Take a seat.”

Clint’s grin broadens, and he walks to the back of the shop, making himself comfortable in the reclining chair.

“I assume you don’t have a preference again,” she says as she starts washing her hands.

“You’d assume correctly.” Clint points to his bandaged arm. “But I trust you, remember? I just want it covered a little.”

Natasha nods. She snaps on her gloves, turns on her machine, and gets to work. She muses over a few different pigments, and then bends over his leg, her finger lightly tracing the scar and the faded design.

“Why did you really come in here?” she asks as she starts to casually ink. Clint startles, enough that she has to stop her needle for a moment, and Natasha thinks it’s the first time he’s actually flinched while she’s working.

“I told you,” Clint says, relaxing again. “I wanted a cover-up. And I owed you coffee.”

“Pretty bad scar,” she continues conversationally, drawing a red line through the planet to cover up the blurred skin.

“Yeah.” Clint’s voice doesn’t change its tone. “Comes with the territory of my life. Thank god for ink, right?” There’s something more swimming in his words, but Natasha doesn’t think she has the energy to push right now -- not when she’s still feeling confused as to why he seems to think coming in here and suddenly talking to her is a new routine of sorts.

“Thank god for ink,” she repeats, filling in the line of red. As she colors, her eyes wander, and she notices more scars -- she can see them peeking through the various designs, hiding behind colorful shapes and faces. She narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Far be it from her to comment on someone’s personal secrets; god knows she had enough of her own scars to hide from the world, both physical and not.

“Easy money,” she says as she finishes inking. “Want to take a look?”

Clint sits up from where he’s been reclining, and Natasha holds up a mirror so he can see her work more clearly. Clint smiles, and Natasha smiles back as she watches him take in what is now a galaxy of stars and a planet that looks like Saturn and Jupiter combined.

“You make it very easy to trust you,” Clint says as she bandages him tightly.

Natasha laughs under her breath. “Yeah, well. You better not come back,” she teases, only half-kidding. “Your entire body will be covered in bandages if you keep these visits up.”

Clint smirks. “I heal pretty quickly,” he replies. “And I’m used to walking around with a lot of bandages.” His eyes drop as she gets up, walking away from the chair and back to the counter. “But if you really don’t want me to come back, why don’t you come see me play with my band? You can’t tattoo me there.”

Natasha turns around, eyebrows shooting up. “You want me to come see your band?”

“Sure,” Clint says. “Why not?”

Natasha has a million reasons for why not. Because she doesn’t just accept thinly veiled requests for dates from people she barely knows, because she doesn’t really want to keep opening herself up to this stupidly charming guy who won’t stop trying to talk to her, because being social for fun without thinking about ten other things that could go wrong is just not how she works.

“Because it seems strange,” she says finally, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Don’t you know how it looks when you suddenly stop in to talk to me not once but twice in one week, act like you’ve known me for years, and then ask me to come see you somewhere outside of your work?”

Clint leans on the table as well, his bandaged arm brushing her skin. “What’s that?”

Natasha’s caught off guard by the fact he’s ignored her questions, and realizes he’s pointing to the tattoo inked on the inside her elbow. She quickly moves her arm.

“It’s mine,” she says, straightening up. She can almost see Clint forming the next question, and suddenly, she wants nothing more than to get away from the conversation. “Look, if you want me to come see you and your band, I’ll come.”

She tries to ignore the way Clint’s mouth stretches into a smile that seems to light up his whole face. “Really?”

“Really,” Natasha says as he hands over a wad of bills. “Just tell me where to go.”

--

Where to go turns out to be a small music hall in Williamsburg that seems defined by cheap beers and sticky floors. Natasha walks in and immediately wants to walk back out; it’s not her scene by a long shot and it feels like somewhere that she would go if she were working undercover again. She strides past the bouncer and the throngs of scantily-clad girls blocking the path, and immediately beelines to the bar to order a gin and tonic.

She doesn’t know why she had agreed to talk to Clint in the first place. She doesn’t know why she’s trying to become intimate with him in any way, least of all by hanging out with him outside of their respective work environments. The whole thing is so unlike anything she’d ever consider doing, so much so that she feels like in the past week, someone has taken over her body and made decisions without her consent.

“This seat taken?”

She looks up and meets Clint’s eyes above her glass. “That depends,” she answers, lowering her glass after taking a sip. “Are you going to play terrible music and make me regret my decision about being here?”

Clint laughs. “Well, it depends what you mean by terrible music,” he boasts. “We may be an indie band but we do a fair amount of covers.”

Natasha smiles and returns to her drink.

“So you sing here and moonlight at the diner. Ever think about just doing one or the other full time?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure, but it doesn’t really work like that. Got rent to pay for, and band fees. A couple of singing gigs a week doesn’t really equal financial stability.”

“So what about becoming a tattoo artist?”

It’s a simple question, but when his eyes go dark, she wonders if she’s overstepped her bounds. She’s about to apologize when he speaks again.

“Not really my thing.” He gets up abruptly and leaves his drink on the counter, disappearing into the thickening crowds. Natasha sits alone, trying to process what’s just happened, and is interrupted in her thoughts by the bartender asking if she wants another round. She declines the offer, sliding off the chair, and walks quickly across the room. She can’t find him at the second bar at the opposite end of the venue, or in the bathroom when she enters amid drunken men’s annoyed cries, or on the stage when she peeks along the curtain that leads to the shoddy backstage area. Natasha feels herself growing more annoyed by the unexpected ending of the conversation, and is about to march back to the bar for another drink when she catches a glimpse of a tattooed arm grabbing a guitar in the far corner of the room. She walks quickly through the crowds, shoving herself through a group of laughing teenagers, and plants herself behind him.

“Sneaking off?”

Clint turns, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Getting ready,” he replies, shouldering his guitar. “I’ll see you after the show, okay?”

It’s not okay, and that’s enough for Natasha to not care how she’ll sound when she speaks again. “No,” she decides, grabbing his arm as he tries to move. “I don’t know what the hell you’re looking for or what game you’re playing, but you don’t get to invite me over here, flirt with me, and then just abandon me when I ask you a question that upsets you. That’s not what I signed up for when I agreed to come here.”

“And I didn’t sign up to tell you my life story,” he returns sharply. “What’s so hard about accepting that?”

“Because one question is not your whole life story,” Natasha argues. “And if you don’t want to talk now, then I’ll leave, and you can talk to me next time you want me to do another damn cover-up.” She turns without waiting for his reaction, walking back through the crowds until she gets back to the bar. One more drink, she thinks in frustration as she slams a credit card down on the bar; she knows she shouldn’t drink so much in such a short amount of time, but she’ll deal with that consequence later.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” intones a low voice from behind her, but she doesn’t turn around. She focuses on the bar, her eyes carefully trained on the many bottles and glasses in front of her.

“Why won’t you tell me about your tattoo?”

Natasha reaches for her drink, swallowing the bitter liquid in one long gulp. “It’s personal.”

Clint pulls up his loosely-fitted shirt, and on his hip bone, Natasha notices that there are a string of Japanese letters, stark black against his skin. “It’s Japanese,” he starts, moving to give her a better look given venue’s dim lighting. “Ronin.”

Natasha squints. “Ronin,” she repeats, her tongue fumbling over the unfamiliar word. “Who’s Ronin?”

“Someone I left a long time ago.” Clint’s voice has a tired edge to it, and Natasha suddenly wishes she hadn’t downed her drink so fast. She finds herself trying to suck every last bit of alcohol from between the ice cubes that litter the bottom of her glass.

“I know the feeling.”

Clint smiles wryly. “A wandering samurai who has no lord or master,” he continues, dropping his shirt. “It’s, uh...it’s what I used to call myself.”

Natasha turns to him with a puzzled look. “You were a spy?”

Clint snorts. “Sure, I guess you could call it that. I took a few jobs to make money and it became kind of a thing. Not a thing I’m proud of, but...well, I try not to think about my past now.”

Natasha swallows and slowly turns her elbow inward, exposing her arm to him. “Black Widow,” she says softly, using her other hand to point to the red hourglass outlined against her skin. “It’s what I used to call myself.”

“Spy?” Clint asks automatically.

Natasha gives him a sideways glance. “Sure, I guess you could call it that.”

They lapse into silence, and Clint runs a hand through his hair. “I started getting tattoos when I was a teenager,” he begins. “Small ones. Mostly to cover up the scars from my dad...he hit me a lot as a kid. I have a pretty good pain tolerance, so I kind of just kept coming back and coming back...eventually, it became like therapy. Expensive therapy, but better than constantly getting drunk somewhere.”

“You do have a good pain tolerance,” Natasha agrees, before considering his words. Part of her feels like she should at least give back a little of what he’s given her -- after all, she’d made enough of a big deal about him not opening up. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“The people I worked for, they were all based in Russia,” she explains. “I was working there before I came over here for a job. But I was already on my way out, so I just took the gig to get away. Free pass to the United States of America,” she adds with a short laugh. “Didn’t go so well at first, but I learned to play their game enough that they stopped looking for me when they realized I had gone straight and thought I died. I changed my name, moved to New York, and opened this shop.”

Clint blinks rapidly, clearly not expecting such heavy or open content. “That’s a lot.”

Natasha smiles tightly. “I know. I usually don’t tell all on the first date.”

“And I usually don’t invite my tattoo artists to see me play, only to shut myself down when I’m actually enjoying their company,” Clint returns, holding up his glass.

Natasha raises her empty one. “I guess we’re both out of our depth here.”

“Maybe,” Clint concedes. “You asked me why I didn’t want to become a tattoo artist. I’m assuming you didn’t just ask because I’m a walking canvas.”

“You have a good eye,” Natasha says, nodding to his tattoos. “I can tell by the way you’ve been inked. Some people choose to cover themselves erratically and don’t think of their body as a piece of art -- they just want to cover whatever they can. But you fit every piece like a puzzle. Everything fits where it’s supposed to, and every color blends. It’s almost like you were born to make a mark this way.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me,” Clint says, and Natasha laughs softly.

“Even as Ronin?”

“Especially as Ronin,” he responds, looking down at his glass. “My brother was a tattoo artist in the circus. He wasn’t that great at it -- I would never have wanted him to put anything on my body. I did, though.” He twists around and tugs down his shirt, allowing Natasha to clearly see the back of his neck. “My first arrow,” he says when he turns back. “Well, my first tattoo, really. I was a marksman before anything else. I worked for the circus. They called me The Amazing Hawkeye. Kind of stupid, when you think about it.”

Natasha shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s stupid. A little cliche, though.”

“Ha.” Clint’s smile drops off his face. “Everything changed when my brother died. The circus disbanded, I lost my job...even lost my home, kind of. We were fortunate enough to have been docked in New York, so I bummed around for a bit before the Ronin stuff. I still haven’t forgiven him.”

“For dying?” Natasha asks.

Clint snorts. “No. For choosing to abandon me in this hell hole of a world when he knew we only had each other.” He finishes the rest of his drink, shoving his empty glass across the bar. “Listen, I gotta go play. But if you want to hang around after, I know a pretty good place to get coffee. I heard the guy who works there is pretty nice, too.”

Natasha tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. What she wants to say is I know what it feels like to be abandoned. I know what it feels like to be alone in this hellscape of a world with only yourself to trust. I get it. But she already feels like she’s given him too much already, so she decides to play it safe.

“I’ll think about it.”

--

Clint plays for two hours, and truthfully, Natasha enjoys every moment. She enjoys watching the way he moves under the stage lights, each colorful tattoo lighting up like a painting. She enjoys the way his fingers dance over the strings like they were born to be there, a natural talent combined with natural comfort. She enjoys the way he passionately leans into the music, and the way he stops every so often to look in her direction and smile with his eyes when he’s tuning his guitar for another song.

She doesn’t leave until past half three, after he’s packed up and paid his band and gotten his collection of money from the bar owner, and she carries his guitar on the walk back. “I take it back,” she decides when they reach the diner and he opens the door for her. “You’re actually really good.”

“If you’re being sincere, I’ll take the compliment,” he says, walking inside and flipping on the lights.

“I’m being sincere.” She walks ahead of him and ducks behind the counter, grabbing a few mugs and hitting some buttons.

“What are you doing?”

Natasha turns around. “Making coffee. I do know how coffee machines work.”

“No, I know. I mean...what are you doing? This was my treat. I work here.”

“Clint.” She’s feeling more lazy than usual, a combination of tired and tipsy, and she points towards a stool at the counter. “Sit the hell down.”

Clint looks like he wants to laugh but he obliges, sitting on the chair and tapping his foot in perfect rhythm against the floor as he waits for Natasha to finish making the coffee.

“Good?” she asks as she puts a cup in front of him. Clint tentatively takes a sip, and makes a face.

“Well, it’s not the strongest stuff. But it’s coffee.”

“It’s three in the morning, we shouldn’t be drinking the strong stuff,” Natasha says, putting her own cup on the counter and leaning over. She suddenly realizes how close she is to him and how close her lips are to his; she can smell the sweat and alcohol radiating off his body and she thinks she can even claim a hint of his scent. Clint doesn’t move, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallows, and Natasha suddenly doesn’t know what to do in this moment, if she should say fuck it and blame her resulting actions on alcohol or pull away and pretend she’s totally not trying to pursue something.

“Ever consider getting a face tattoo?”

The jab works, and the moment is broken -- Clint laughs, lowering his head, allowing Natasha to pull back with a mischievous grin. She lets herself laugh too, but then Clint leans forward again and catches her mouth with his, one hand circling the back of her head and cupping her neck to pull her close.

Despite her actions seconds earlier and the thoughts that had been running through her head, all her instincts scream out that this is a completely bad idea. Clint was a client. Clint was a stranger, more or less; a few sessions and knowing his name and a bit of his personal history didn’t equal knowing enough to jump into bed with him.

And yet.

Natasha kisses back, ignoring what the rational part of her brain is telling her, and breaks the kiss to hoist herself up onto the table so that she has more leverage to move. Clint moves his hands to her waist, pulling her down off the table and onto the floor as he slides off the chair, fingers gripping her shirt and pulling it up over her head.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly as he starts with her bra. “You guys aren’t some twenty-four hour place, right?”

Clint laughs and places a kiss on her collarbone. “We are one hundred percent closed for business,” he whispers, a husky rumble that sends butterflies shooting through her stomach and through every nerve ending.

He’s built like a football player, but in all the wrong ways -- his body is thick and muscled, his arms are full and toned despite the ink covering them. He does, in some ways, look like a messy canvas, but it’s a canvas that Natasha realizes she finds beautiful. She’s touched bodies of all shapes and genders; it was part of her job as someone who heeded any client’s request, even if it was a request that was more intimate than she felt comfortable with. But Clint’s body is a breathtaking story that she realizes she wants to know more about -- not just how it feels and how it fits with hers, but also the stories behind it. She wants to know why the star had to be on his chest, why the Japanese words had to be on his waistline, why the drawing of a hawk had to be covering most of his right thigh.

“See something you like?” Clint asks, running his hand through her hair as they stare at each other, naked and whole and open. Natasha shivers, both from the words and the chill of the air conditioned room.

“Everything,” she decides, pulling him in for another kiss. She’s down again after that, his body on top of hers, ink rubbing against ink as his tattoos brush against her own, and for a little while, the world completely stops.

When it starts again, she realizes she doesn’t want it to.

--

It’s sometime after dawn when Natasha wakes up, sunlight streaming through the outside windows. She blinks a few times, attempting to get her bearings, trying to ward off sleep and a tinge of hangover. When she sits up, she notices she’s wrapped in a musty smelling blanket.

“What time is it?” she asks as she reaches for her clothes. When she doesn’t get an answer, she starts to look at her surroundings with more clarity and scrutiny. The diner is still closed, a large sign affixed to the door, but the lights are on and the coffee machine is humming, along with the dishwasher. When Natasha stands, stretching her arms, she notices a plate of eggs on the table and a hurriedly scrawled note on a napkin.

Back in a bit. Breakfast’s on me.

Natasha smiles, warmth spreading through her insides, and she starts to eat the food he’s left her, shoveling the eggs and sausages into her mouth as if the world is ending. When she’s finished, she’s still alone, so she starts pacing the room trying to decide what to do. She did have to open the shop, but her first appointment wasn’t until noon. And anyway, it didn’t feel right to leave him without any notice, even if she was just going across the street.

She pours herself another cup of coffee, re-dresses, and is finally about to say fuck it and leave a note of her own when the door flies open.

“There you are.” She crosses the room and inclines her head in a look she knows is more motherly than she means it to be. “I didn’t realize your morning routine was so long.”

Clint smiles at her, but it’s a half-hearted smile, and even though Natasha hasn’t spent a huge amount of time with him, she can tell.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Just had to take care of something before work.” He pushes past her, and Natasha stares at the door in confusion before turning around.

“Seriously, Clint. What’s wrong?”

Clint looks guilty, his mouth turning downward in a show of wistfulness as he reaches for a rag to mop up the small amounts of coffee that have trickled onto the counter. “I might have to go away for a bit.”

“Oh.” Natasha almost laughs, reaching for her coffee. “Well, you are allowed to live some semblance of a life. Is it your band?”

“No,” Clint says, throwing the dishtowel on the floor. “I mean, I have to go away, and I don’t know for how long. It might be awhile before I come back.”

It’s no more information than he’s given her before, but there’s more frustration in his words, and she can tell he’s not changing his mind about his decision. Natasha’s stomach flips, the food she’s just eaten threatening to come back up.

“So what was this, then? Some last ditch one-night stand? Are you going to ask me to give you a last cover-up too, and then try to flirt with me?” She can’t help the hurt that she knows is present in her voice, the biting anger that’s bleeding out.

“No,” Clint says, sounding sorrowful. “It wasn’t. I swear, I didn’t know...things just happened. I just...Natasha, I’m sorry.”

“Things just happened,” she repeats angrily. “Things just happened last night, too. Or did things just happen when you came into my shop and asked me to tattoo you? How often do things in your life just happen, Clint?” He doesn’t answer, and she shakes her head. “I need to open up my shop.”

“Natasha --”

“I need to open up my shop, and you need to apparently go away for awhile,” she says as she turns around and heads for the door, grabbing her purse as she walks out. She’s aware she’s being petulant, and maybe she should try to figure out the whole story before brushing him off like a high school boyfriend, but her eyes threaten to spill the tears she’s holding in, and she thinks the resulting pain is worse than anything she’s ever felt when someone has dug a needle full of ink into the most sensitive parts of her skin.

Natasha knows pain, physical pain and emotional pain and everything in between. She thinks she could have ten tattoo artists working on her body right now, each one digging pointed objects into her skin, and none of them would be able to match the level of hurt she’s feeling as she walks across the street and into her own shop, closing the door behind her and locking everything and everyone out.

--

Four months later, she’s still alone. She works most days from sunrise to sunset, she finds new designs and new customers and new visions. She dabbles in dating occasionally, not looking for a boyfriend but looking for someone to provide her with that same rush and happiness she had felt after one night and change with Clint.

She tries to forget Clint even exists, despite the fact she sees him everywhere -- in the diner across the street, in the man busking in the subway, in the faces of people who look absolutely nothing like him but have the same kind of unique designs on their skin. She doesn’t talk about things, because she’s never been the type who has actually cared about men or wanted to be with someone. She doesn’t even want to admit that she likes him.

“I don’t even want to admit that I like him,” she says over midday drinks behind the closed door of the break room with the new apprentice she recently hired. Kate looks concerned and smooths down dark bangs while twisting her mouth into a frown.

“No offense, but he kinda sounds like an asshole.”

“He was charming, I’ll give him that,” Natasha mutters, funneling more whiskey down her throat. Kate sighs and takes the bottle from her.

“Men,” she adds with a snort, her sleeves riding up as she raises the bottle, revealing her own set of colorful tattoos, all inked in various purple hues. “Don’t worry, Nat. You’ll find someone better.”

I don’t want someone better, she thinks as she traces arrows and diamonds onto paper. She sighs, crumpling up the design and throwing it into the trash can.

“Want me to handle that?” Kate asks with an eyebrow raise as Natasha drinks more, wiping her mouth with back of her hand. Natasha makes a face; she hadn’t even heard the small chime of the doorbell that signaled someone had entered the shop.

“Please,” she says, slumping back into the chair. With the door closed, she can faintly hear Kate talking, though it’s too muffled to figure out if it’s a guy or a girl she’s talking to.

“The guy out there wants you,” Kate says as she comes back in, looking annoyed. Natasha tries to rack her brain; she had no scheduled commissions or clients until late afternoon, unless they had arrived way too early -- which was entirely possible, and not completely outside of the realm of possibility. She sighs, putting down the bottle and pulling her hair up into a short ponytail before she walks out the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Thought you forgot about me.”

Natasha stops dead in her tracks and the only reason she doesn’t completely fall over is because she’s sandwiched by the counter, which hits against her leg. She swallows down all her emotions as she meets his eyes.

“Hardly. How can I forget about someone who used me and then ghosted me?”

“I dunno, I thought the sex was pretty good.”

Clint looks the same, at least to her face -- his hair is a little longer and his clothes seem a little messier, and there’s more of a beard where before there was more of a stubble. There are no new tattoos she can see, and for some reason, as mad as she is, that makes her feel a little better, because the thought of him getting inked by someone else unsettles her. His apologetic smile falls off his face when she doesn’t respond.

“I owe you can apology. Can I explain myself?”

Natasha allows herself to breathe through her anger. “Maybe,” she allows, holding up a hand. She ducks back into the small office, finding Kate sitting with her feet up. From the look on her face, she can tell that the girl has absolutely been eavesdropping, even though she looks completely innocent in her relaxed stance.

“Hold my calls. Don’t let anyone come talk to me until I tell you it’s okay,” she informs, before closing the door. Natasha walks around the counter, until she’s standing right in front of him, no barriers except their own bodies. It’s the closest she’s been to him since they were last together in the diner.

“Okay. Talk.”

“I didn’t want to just take off like that,” Clint starts. “I really didn’t. I got a message that someone had seen my brother. I mean, really saw him. They sent me a picture and everything and it looked recent. I know it wasn’t him from years ago. I didn’t know where he was, just that maybe someone had him, or he was somewhere he wouldn’t tell me...the thought that he could actually be alive, I acted before I could think. All I knew is I needed to find him.”

Natasha stares at him, trying to keep the skepticism out of her gaze. On one hand, it sounds like the most ridiculous cover-up story she’s ever heard. On the other hand…

“You didn’t know if he was alive somewhere, or where he was hiding,” Natasha says. “And you couldn’t tell me, a former spy, who could’ve probably helped you.”

Clint looks down at his shoes. “No,” he admits. “And even if I did tell you, I couldn’t have dragged you into my family shit. You don’t deserve that.”

Natasha nods slowly. “Did you find him?”

“Yeah,” Clint says quietly, holding out his arm. Natasha looks closely at what she’d missed before -- a tattoo along the inside of his wrist, a crudely designed cowl that looks more like a gaudy costume piece than anything else. It has no place on his body, and it doesn’t fit with any other of his designs, but for some reason, it works.

“He could stand to take some lessons,” she says when she finds her voice again. She cracks a small smile, and Clint laughs under his breath, the tension broken but the ice of it still floating between them in jagged, frozen spires. “Need me to cover it up?”

The moment she says the words, she regrets them -- if his brother really had done the tattoo, it was insensitive of her to assume he wanted to get rid of it, no matter how made she still was at him.

Clint shakes his head. “Actually, I did some thinking while I was away. I might stop with cover-ups for awhile...I think I want something new.”

“Something new, huh?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the door to her office opening, Kate’s nose peeking out in interest.

“Yeah. I was hoping, uh...maybe you had some time now? I have a design.” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it over, and Natasha looks at it curiously: a small phoenix wrapped up in a moon, surrounded by a green tinge that looks almost earthly.

“That’s an interesting picture,” Natasha says, examining the paper. “Does it mean anything?”

“Yeah,” Clint says quietly. “They’re all metaphors for starting over.”

Natasha looks up and meets his eyes, trying to find what she hopes she’ll see in them -- a genuine truth that she’d seen when he opened up to her about this past. “Really.”

“Really,” Clint repeats in the same soft tone. He walks to the chair in the corner and sits down, holding his arm out. “So, Natasha. I’d like you to give me a tattoo. Do you think we can start over?”

Natasha looks down at the design, and then walks over to where he’s sitting. She puts two fingers on his skin, and smiles.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I think I can try to make this one work.”