#I'm trying to get better at drawing quickly and with less erasing so these shitty little pen portraits were very fun

[ratmonologue]

have some Very Fast Terror Cast Stickynote Portraits

[dizzydancingdreamer]

It's Good | Clintasha

Well-- it's 1:15 and this isn't what I expected to write and post today but it's what happened and I'm not mad at it. It's a deviation from my usual style and I think that's good. I love them and this made my heart happy so I might do more when I need a break. Please enjoy this change of schedule my lovelies!

Pairing: Clint Barton x Natasha Romanoff

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Fluff, slight angst

Clint’s fingers weave through her messy red curls, not tugging hard enough to hurt her, only enough to untangle the soft strands. Perhaps, if it were a year ago and the first time she’d stumbled back into the compound— face muddy with streaks of dirt and dried crimson, hair a wild mane and fingers too shaky to do it herself— he would have tugged too hard and earned a shocked yelp. It wouldn’t be his fault— being gentle isn’t really how he operates. At least it wasn’t until it had to be. Now he knows better—

“One or two, Natty?”

It’s taking the redhead a few beats longer than usual to answer, her head slumped towards her chest, and he sighs, quiet enough that he can be sure she doesn’t hear it. He’s not mad at her— or even annoyed— braiding Natasha Romanoff’s hair is one of the few moments of peace he gets to enjoy in his usually chaotic life. One of the few moments he wants. He just wishes it wasn’t here— he wishes it wasn’t so fleeting.

Can you braid hair for the rest of your life and not get tired of it?

He’d like to try.

Just— maybe in a nice house with a dog. Nothing too extravagant— he’ll leave that to Tony— but something cozy. Homey. That’s all he wants— a home. He glances down at the girl in front of him, eyes drawing over the slope of her neck, counting all the little scars— still only seven; that’s good. Maybe he doesn’t want a home— maybe he just wants a home for his home.

“Natty.” He tries again, fingers pushing against her warm scalp, coaxing her tiny body further against his.

She still doesn’t answer and he instantly understands why, her back rising and falling with even inhales and exhales, breaths so much steadier than normal. She’s asleep. Still, he sweeps the fluffy mane as lightly as possible from her cheek, head peeking around to glimpse at her closed eyes— yep, asleep; that’s good. She doesn’t sleep nearly as much as she should. He would never call her out on it. He would call her on other things— and he has, many times— for not eating enough, not relaxing enough, not thinking of her own well being enough— but he would never call her out for not sleeping. He knows better.

He understands.

He has them too— the very same nightmares that have her screaming so loud in her sleep that he’s out of his bed and at her door before his own eyes are even fully open.

It’s why he continues on his mission, his movements somehow even gentler than before.

Grabbing the comb from beside him— a wide tooth thing he picked up once this became a regular happening in order to keep his shitty brush from destroying her curls— Clint rather skillfully parts her hair down the middle, using a band to gather the left half into a loose knot. He learned quickly that if he leaves the halves down at the same time the strands will gravitate back towards each other and re-tangle. It’s like magic how easily her hair becomes untameable. He supposes that’s just her though— wild. Wild but not so free.

He sets the comb back down, running his fingers through her curls one last time before setting to work. Taking three tiny sections from close to her forehead he, almost mechanically, begins to plait the hair on the right half of her head. He always starts on the right. He’s not superstitious but he figures he does it for a reason so who is he to stop doing it now. Testing fate isn’t Clint’s main objective in life— not when he has something to lose.

The movements are locked in his muscles, hands moving from sheer memory. The right strand goes under the middle strand. The left strand goes under the middle strand. Repeat. It’s simple— so simple he wonders why it took him so long to pick it up in the first place. Right strand under, left strand under, repeat. Pick up more hair as you go. Simple. Maybe he just wanted to feel her hands on his for as long as possible— to hear her giggles as she taught him, much too tired for his liking but still mesmerizing. Pick up more hair. Right strand under. Pick up more hair. Left strand under. Natasha is always so damn mesmerizing— even when she’s stumbling through his door, hair still wet from her shower and so worn out that she doesn’t even knock.

He likes it better like that anyway; when she chooses him to help her.

She doesn’t ask for help enough.

He knew that before he started braiding her hair. It simply became more obvious after. He shouldn’t have been so surprised— this is the same girl he saved all those years ago. The same girl he was sent to kill and instead came back with, body tossed over his shoulder, out cold, gun still in his hand and pointed at Nick Fury, daring him to take the next step. The same girl he fought for because something inside him snapped when he had that very same gun aimed at her head and she had begged him to pull the trigger. That was the only time he’s ever seen Nat beg and god if it didn’t spark something almost as wild as her curls inside his chest. He should have known then how hard it would be to get her to ask for help.

Clint sighs again, tying the plait off with another band. He runs his fingers over his work— not half bad. Nat can do it better— of course she can. It's her hair. She can but she chooses not to. So he doesn’t care— not about the little bump halfway down the braid or the way a few strands poke out near the bottom where his movements started to get choppy. None of that matters, only the fact that she’s here, in his arms, finally safe. Even if only for a few hours. His chest squeezes and he forces himself to move his fingers from the completed braid.

God what he wouldn’t do for a secluded house and a golden retriever and a farm.

He starts on the second braid. Under, under, more hair, repeat. He doesn’t know how to farm but it really can’t be that difficult. It would be more for fun than anything. To pass the time. To sit in the sun with this breathtaking woman and not have to think for five minutes. He can’t say that he can picture it— he’s not a liar. Not intentionally, at least. He can’t picture it but he wants to. A dog and a porch and some lemonade. And her. Simple.

It’s so simple and for once something so simple hadn’t taken him ages to learn. He knew right away. It wasn’t like braiding— he didn’t knot his wants the way he knotted her hair for months, fingers stiff and harsh. No, it was simple. How he feels is simple. Love should be simple and with her it is. Loving her isn’t like braiding hair— he didn’t have to learn how to love Natasha he just knew and he did it. He still does it. Like the braiding, it’s now muscle memory. It’s a part of him. It won’t go away.

That’s good.

Sometimes he has to remind himself what in his life is good because, honestly, there aren’t that many things. Most of them— all of them— include the redhead sleeping in his arms. Drinking coffee with her before the sun rises is good. The smell of her cocoa butter lotion on his sheets is good. The softness of her hair, the little black dress she wore to Tony’s party three months ago, the way she stands so close to him at briefings that her shoulder brushes his. Good, good, good. The way his chest feels when she rolls her eyes at his jokes but then the corners of her lips pull up, almost like she’s trying to stop herself from smiling but can’t.

Amazing.

Wonderful.

Life— her smile is life.

She is the embodiment of life— she’s his life.

His entire damn life.

That’s good.

As Clint finishes tying the second braid Natasha stirs against his chest, legs stretching out in front of her and knocking into his which are sprawled on either side of her. Her arms are next, reaching high above her head before falling, landing a little awkwardly against his face. Chuckling, he captures her fingers, smoothing them properly against his cheeks. They’re cold and he’s expecting it, used to the chill of her skin by now and more than happy to share his warmth. She scratches through the stubble on his jaw for a moment, yawning into the dim space of his room.

“What time is it?” She murmurs, rolling her head onto his shoulder.

Her voice is a tad squeaky, laced with the same sleep he can now see clouding her blue eyes and he laughs again, massaging her hands. He has to force himself to not get lost in her stare— a job easier said than done.

“I think eleven— not really sure though.”

She raises a brow, nose scrunching, and he can hear her words before they’re even out of her mouth. They drive a knife through his chest before they’re even out of her mouth.

“Shit ‘m sorry— didn’t mean to pass out.”

If braiding her hair is muscle memory for him then apologizing when she shouldn’t is muscle memory for her. Maybe it would hurt less if she didn’t mean it. But she does— she always means it— and he wishes he could erase the lines around her mouth as it tugs into a frown. He doesn’t have an eraser though.

He only has his arms.

So he does his best to curl them around her shoulders, pressing his face deeper into her wandering fingers. They creep over his jaw and under his eyes, tracing the ridge of his nose and the slight bump that she gave him. He grins at that— she’s a fighter. That’s good. That’s why they’re such good partners— not that she would admit it. She’s too damn hard on herself. Like him tugging on her hair; she’s always too rough.

“How many times do I gotta’ tell you that it’s okay, Natty?” He mumbles, guiding his nose along her fingertips. “You don’t gotta’ apologize.”

She only smiles— I know.

That’s good.

She yawns again, dropping her hands from his face and instead curling them around his arms, her blue eyes fluttering tellingly. It’s what she does when she’s tired but doesn’t want to say anything. Like she’s afraid to tell him that she wants to sleep. Like she’s afraid to sleep at all or she’s afraid he’s going to tell her no. As if he could ever tell her no. There are a lot of things he wants to tell her— ask her. No isn’t one of those things. There are too many other things to let something so silly come between saying them.

Can we paint the walls of our house blue? Can we name our dog Lucky? Will you mar—

Time for bed— he’s losing his mind.

Still, he asks— she always has the deciding choice with him. “You ready to sleep?”

It’s not the first question he would have chosen if he could ask her anything but for now it works— for now it’s good.

Just like her answer— her answer is good too.

It’s a nod and a hum and a “Can you carry me, Clin?”

Yeah, it’s good.

And he knows better than to say no to good.