Rain, after a long time being without it

Ouch. Owie.... (Also, mmh GOOD)

(/repost because what even is proofreading?)

—-

His family vanishes before his eyes but he doesn’t cry. It’s all too familiar. (The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away).

He holds his breath until he sees her again. When he does her hair is lighter than he's ever seen it but she still smells the same.

He doesn’t deserve this: for her to be here when the rest of them are gone.

And he knows it’s selfish, but he’s hugging her and she's murmuring to him, " - thought you were gone too I couldn't- ' and he finally allows himself to cry.

My feels!

cloak

"Did your cloak just... high five me?"

Stephen raises a single eyebrow at Clint, like that should be obvious.

"Right, okay," Clint says bemused, "cool."

plural of apocalypse

"Clint, there can be no plural for apocalypse because when the ultimate end is reached, there's no chance for a second round."

"Wanna bet?" he counters, with that infuriating grin she's never quite sure whether to kiss or slap off his face.

"Here, meet Katie-Kate - the second Hawkeye."

Wine

Footprints and/or fingerprints

Bad habits

It’s been instilled in her from too young an age: always be prepared for an attack. If someone lays a hand on you, fight back immediately or risk getting hurt.
So she’s barely had time to register the feel of his arm around her shoulders before he hits the floor with a ground-shaking thud.
He stares up at her. “What was that for?”
“I… Sorry. Force of habit.”
“You have a habit of throwing people over your shoulder when they try to hug you?”
She shrugs.
He gets to his feet, slowly.
“Okay with you if I try that again?”

camping

No one falls in love under fluorescent light

The light’s unforgiving, washing her out until even the vibrant red of her hair bleeds away. She doesn’t look like the Black Widow here, she doesn’t look like anyone much. Just another lost soul the world has used and casually tossed aside, hunched into herself like the weight on her shoulders has finally become too much to bare. But Clint can see the steel, lanced through her bones; steel and the possibility of redemption.

He feels like he’s looking in a mirror. He feels like he can’t look away.

“You sure about this?” Coulson asks.

He nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

He’s a goner the second Natasha walks through the cubicle farm, the red soles of her heels untouched by the dull fluorescent that washes everyone else out like so many pallid zombies. She’s brilliant in every sense of the word, sharp and shining and so bright that Clint thinks he’d have better luck wishing on her instead of any random star.

“I’m going to marry her,” he tells Kate.

Kate frowns in Natasha’s direction. “Her? Clint, she’s here to shut down the office. We’re getting fired.”

“So what you’re saying is: my schedule’s clear?” Clint asks.

Kate sighs. “Yes.”

“Perfect.”

(from Tumblr) “I got the groceries, but I couldn’t read the last thing on your list. Is this even close?”

“Do you ever follow directions?”

Bad company

karaoke

Natasha turns around, and suddenly Clint’s up on the bar with a loopy grin and a microphone clutched in his good hand. “What,” she says, “Is he doing.”

Thor laughs. “Karaoke,” he says, beaming. “Barton volunteered!”

“The hospital just released him,” she reminds Thor. “He’s high as a fucking kite!”

It’s too late. “Love Shack” comes over the speakers, and Clint points across the bar with an accuracy even Percocet can’t shake. “I love you, Nat!” he yells into the mic before starting to sing (and dance), and it turns out that even hardened Russian spies can blush after all.

YOUR LOVE IS MY DRUG (5+1 mind-altering-substance-induced confessions, 100 words each!)

--laughing gas--

Natasha has carried Clint out of warzones and safehouses and dates with evil cultists trying to steal his soul, but she’s never had to carry him out of a dentist office.

“Your hair is so pretty,” he drools into her shoulder as the dental hygienist hands over the lengthy care instructions.

“How long will he be like this?” Natasha asks in mild despair.

“Should wear off in a few hours,” chirps the hygienist, unfazed by Clint burying his nose in Natasha’s hair.
“I love you, Nat,” he announces. “Your hair smells good.”

“Shut up, Barton,” she says. “Let’s go home.”

--benadryl--

“Sitrep?”

“Hawkeye got stung by one of the alien wasps. It’s swelling.”

“Shit.”

“Banner gave him some Benadryl, hopefully--”

“Shit. I’ll be right there.”

Natasha arrives to chaos. Nobody touches Clint, who’s staggering around like a zombie, mumbling incoherently, various parts of his face swollen and red. “He’s allergic to Benadryl,” she informs Banner, more than a little accusatory. “Where’s his quiver? SHIELD made him a special antidote.” She digs for the emergency syringe, gets Clint, and stabs it into his thigh.

“See, this is why I love you,” he mumbles hazily, then finally collapses when the drugs kick in.

--percocet--

Natasha turns around, and suddenly Clint’s up on the bar with a loopy grin and a microphone clutched in his good hand. “What,” she says, “Is he doing.”

Thor laughs. “Karaoke,” he says, beaming. “Barton volunteered!”

“The hospital just released him,” she reminds Thor. “He’s high as a fucking kite!”

It’s too late. “Love Shack” comes over the speakers, and Clint points across the bar with an accuracy even Percocet can’t shake. “I love you, Nat!” he yells into the mic before starting to sing (and dance), and it turns out that even hardened Russian spies can blush after all.

--asgardian mead--

Someone (a Thor-shaped someone, she suspects) has spiked the punch: there’s a taste of perfection underneath the sweet tang of fruit and sugar, and it fills her veins with gold in the way that Midgardian alcohol never can.

Natasha drinks half a glass; Clint drinks three.

“This tastes like sunshine,” he hiccups on the last glass, then pauses, peers at her. “Am I… drunk?”

“Very,” Natasha confirms.

“Okay,” he says, placid, content to curl into her shoulder as they sit on Tony’s balcony. “Hey, Nat?”

“Hmm?”

“You know I love you, right? Like, for real.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

--truth spell--

Once he’s out of danger, she’s going to kill him.

“I thought we agreed not to take bullets for each other,” she almost yells, even though the team hovers behind her.

“Yeah, but I love you too much to let you die,” Clint says, matter-of-fact. Stunned silence. Then: “I-I didn’t mean to say that; I mean, I do love you, god, Nat, I’m so in love with you that I can’t even think straight half the time--” He claps a hand over his horrified mouth.

“Loki always loves a good truth spell,” Thor sighs, herding the team from the room.

--and 1--

She gets sent to Astana, and he’s in her apartment when she gets back, sorry written into every line of his face.

“I’m not under the truth spell anymore,” he says, as if she couldn’t tell from the way his mouth pulls tight with words he’s trying not to say.

Natasha drops her bag and sits next to him, hip to hip. “I know,” she tells him.

“Nat, I’m so sorry--”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s fine. Just-” she looks at her hands for resolve, then up again. “Just tell me again so I can say it back to you.”


Edited 2018-07-26 03:54 pm (UTC)

Space is just a word made up by someone who's afraid to get close.

“He asked to be left alone,” Natasha mumbles, “I’m respecting his wishes.”

Maria levels her with a look bordering on true anger.

“Do not,” Maria says sternly, “dress up your desire to avoid any and all emotional attachments in the flimsy guise of respecting Barton’s wishes. There are personal delusions I will tolerate but this is not one of them. If you wish to perpetrate this fiction you will have to find a more sympathetic ear because I will not sit by and watch the two of you hurt each other because you’re scared. You’re both adults. Act like it.”