#clintashaangst

[flyingblackhawk]

Candy


Clintasha fic


495 words - The first time, he brought her chocolates from Brussels. She didn’t understand what was happening when he handed her the little box. Clint just waited patiently until she took the hint and opened it. When she looked up at him, he told her he couldn’t go to Belgium and not buy chocolates. She didn’t point out that he had barely escaped with all his limbs intact. Where he had found the time to buy chocolate in the middle of an emergency extraction, she had no idea. But she ate the chocolates, and the tradition was born.

[iwillgodownwithclintasha]

Venezuela Chpt 1

Title:

Venezuela

Category: Movies » Avengers

Author: Assemble-the-Avengers

Language: English, Rating: Rated: K+

Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort

Published: 09-29-12, Updated: 11-28-12

Chapters: 10, Words: 16,172

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Natasha gently lifted Clint's injured leg onto her chair, moving forward so that she wouldn't put any harmful pressure on it. Although, as she scanned her eyes over him, taking in the glass imbedded in his skin, the multiple cuts and bruises, dilated pupils, suggesting a concussion, and the steady swelling of his right wrist, she doubted that a slight bump would make it all that much worse.

Clint watched her take inventory of his visible injuries, worry growing quickly in her eyes. He caught her attention, looking at her with a convincing expression that she translated to mean, 'I'm ok.' The slight twitch of her mouth indicated that in no way did she believe him. He sighed shakily, his body tensing in effort of hiding the wince that threatened to make an appearance. Natasha could feel his leg tense behind her back, giving him away despite his attempts.

"We'll have one of…" Stark looked at each of his teammates. "Everything." He said, bringing Hawkeye and the Black Widow out of their silent conversation. The dirty, yet miraculously unscathed, waitress nodded tiredly and made her way across the restaurant, carefully stepping over the piles of debris.

Steve's head was propped up on his hand, barely managing to keep his eyes open. Bruce's eye lids were dropping quickly. Tony slouched in his chair, exhaustion quickly catching up with him. Thor stared ahead blankly, too drained to focus. Natasha leaned against the table, maintaining eye contact with her hawk. He was acutely aware of every pain in his body, the adrenaline having worn off.

Another younger waitress made her way around the table refilling everyone's water glasses. Steve thanked her, downed the entire cup and went back to focusing on staying awake. Natasha leaned forward, grimacing as her entire body protested to the action, grabbed Clint's glass and handed it to him, doubting he could move painlessly, and not wanting to find out. He raised an eyebrow in thanks as he took it from her.

When their meal arrived, everyone ate their Shawarma quietly, slowly. Natasha placed the basket of unknown food on Clint's lap, watching slightly amused as he inhaled the entire sandwich-like wrap. Her faint smile faded instantly as she realized that Loki had probably never fed him. He definitely hadn't let him sleep, that much was clear by the dark circles under his blue eyes.

Tony threw a french fry at the Captain when his cheek finally slipped off his fist and into his sandwich.

"Right, I think we're done here." Bruce mumbled pushing to his feet. Tony slapped a crinkled one-hundred dollar bill down onto the table as he stood, walking over to the Captain. "Thor?" Bruce called, nodding toward Steve. The god nodded once and stood behind Tony as he tried unsuccessfully to wake their teammate.

"Plug your ears." Natasha instructed everybody. They did as instructed, watching in confusion as she pulled a gun of the holster on her thigh. She fired it into the nonexistent ceiling, sliding the gun back in its holster as the Captain flinched awake.

"It's just us, Captain. You ready to get out of here?" Bruce asked. The man nodded drowsily as he got up from his chair. His knees buckled and his hands came crashing down onto the table to steady himself. Tony stepped up under the Captain's right arm, and Thor came up on his left. Between the two of them, they managed to keep the super soldier upright until they reached the tower, where he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, blood and bruises.

Natasha glanced warily at Clint before getting off her chair and carefully lowering his left leg to the ground. She helped him to his feet and got under his left arm.

Once the assassins stepped off the elevator, Tony quickly waved them towards a pair of bedrooms down at the end of the hallway. Ignoring the second bedroom, they made their way to the closest one. She leaned him up against the wall while she dragged the desk chair into the oversized bathroom.

"Easy." She warned, helping him lower himself into the expensive looking chair. Clint let his head fall back and his eyes close as he fought to keep his breathing even through the pain. "List 'em." She ordered as she pulled the first aid kit out from under the sink.

"A couple of seriously bruised ribs, concussion, not sure with my right wrist, crashed through a window, and I think my knee's fractured." He listed immediately. Natasha sucked in a breath as she rose to her feet. "How bout you?" ignoring him, she dropped down, pulling the zipper down on his vest. He flinched as she eased it off his battered body. She undid the Velcro on his Kevlar vest next, eyes widening as she took in his black and blue torso. "I got rammed by a couple Chitauri. I'm fine, Natasha." He promised, tilting her head up so that she had to look at him.

"Take these. Now." She demanded, emptying a few painkillers into his hand.

"They aren't gonna make a dent in any of this Tasha." He argued even as he dry swallowed them. Deciding to deal with the imbedded glass first, she fished around in the first aid kit for a pair of tweezers.

There was only one particularly deep laceration on his shoulder that required a few butterfly stitches, but other than that, she was finished relatively quickly. Then she moved onto his wrist. Upon further speculation, she decided he had only severely sprained it. Gingerly lifting his large tan hand into her small pale one, she began wrapping it tight enough to keep the swelling down. Once she had finished, she lowered his hand back down to rest beside him. Then she steeled herself enough to deal with his chest. Crouching down in front of him, she reached to press on the darkest areas. He gasped in pain, his hand flying out instinctively to grab her wrist.

"Clint…" she chastised, pulling her hand out of his grip. She offered her non dominant hand and he took it without hesitating. Their entwined hands dropped to the side, pulling painfully at Natasha's injured shoulder. She probed his ribs for another minute. "Cracked one. The others are only bruised." She muttered. "I'll get you ice when I'm finished." She promised, dropping his hand. He nodded. She undid his black belt and helped slide his cargo pants over his swollen knee. She hissed out a curse. "How'd you walk on this?" she whispered.

"You know as well as I do that you can walk on a fracture, Tasha." He sighed. She shook her head and wrapped it tightly, forcing herself to ignore his flinching.

"My turn." Clint fixed her with an insistent look that she knew meant that she would lose the argument in the end. That didn't mean wasn't going to argue anyway.

"No, Clint, I'm fine. Get in bed before you do more damage to yourself." She scowled. He saw something flicker in his eyes that he rarely saw, but he had seen it enough, every time he pulled out of a coma, to recognize it; fear.

"I'm sorry I scared you, Natasha. But now you need to let me patch you up. That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up. So please sit down, and cooperate." He ranted softly. She grumbled something unintelligible and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. "List 'em." He repeated, looking her over.

"Dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, energy burn on my right side…." She trailed off. "Think that's it."

He motioned for her to get out of her cat suit. She slid out of it, wincing when the fabric ripped away from the bloody burn on her side. Clint's jaw clenched when he saw the painful looking abrasion. He dragged his eyes away from it to meet her eyes. "Shoulder first?" he checked.

"Shoulder first." She agreed. He gripped the forearm of her injured arm, positioning his injured hand firmly against her bare waist. He looked at her in asking if she was ready. She nodded once, holding his gaze as he pulled her arm back into place. She bit down on her bottom lip as relentless pain shot up and down her arm. He lowered her arm down to her lap before helping her lift her leg onto his lap so that he could wrap her ankle. Clint took a strip of gauze and folded it into a square, wiping at the energy burn in attempt to get as much blood and dirt away from the injury as he could. As he massaged burn cream into the wound, he tried to ignore her fingers digging into his good shoulder; she needed a pain outlet just as much as he had. He sprayed antiseptic over another piece of gauze, pressing it firmly against her side before taping it down. She glanced at him thankfully, before standing and helping him to his feet.

They climbed into the bed, facing each other. Clint watched her curiously as she stared blankly at his eyes. He had a feeling he knew why she was doing what she was doing, but he chose to ignore the part of his brain claiming that she was hoping his eyes would turn bright blue again. Suddenly, the memory of a deep purple bruise on her stomach that he had noticed but hadn't paid much attention to resurfaced. He pushed up on his good arm, ignoring the pain that came from his ribs with the action. Flipping her over on her back, he ran a hand over the bruise.

"Natasha…" he breathed. She tensed, praying that he wouldn't ask, because she couldn't lie to him. "I… I did this, didn't I?" he traced over it with a feather light touch.

"No. Loki did." She answered fiercely.

"But it was my fist." He prompted.

"Yes." She answered quietly. He fell over on his back, running a frustrated hand through his hair and over his face. "Clint…" she called, getting on her knees. "Clint Barton, look at me." She demanded, waiting until she could see his blue-grey eyes. "Loki did this, to me, to you. He used magic to take over your brain." Clint flinched. "So tell me how this is your fault. What you could've done to prevent any of this."

"If I'd been stronger…" he started. Natasha's eyes flashed precariously.

"Stronger? Clint, if you were any stronger you'd might as well be a super soldier. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, and come back to me. I've come close enough to losing you enough for one week." She ordered angrily, desperately trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice. Clint nodded hesitantly. She knew he hadn't stopped blaming himself, but he had for now. She'd deal with the next breakdown when it came. She settled into the mattress beside him, the sound of her partner's beating heart lulling her to sleep.

Their wake-up call didn't come until 4:30 the next afternoon. Jarvis informed them that Director Fury demanded their audience, in the living room. Natasha could imagine Tony's anger at the realization that the man was in his tower without his explicit permission. Clint's still tired blue eyes met her green ones and they smiled ironically; they knew better than most that this job never ended. Both were even sorer than they had been the night before.

All of Clint's weight was suddenly distributed on Natasha when his knee buckled after helping him off the bed. They stumbled back into the window, causing the glass to quiver.

"Sorry." He apologized, shifting his weight back onto his own two feet. "You ok?" he asked quickly. She looked at him disbelievingly, to say 'Seriously?'

"Yes, I'm fine, Clint." She assured him, even as she rolled her hurt shoulder. "Really." She promised, noticing his guilty look. They dressed and headed out into the communal living room to see a shirtless Steve Rogers sitting at the bar, hands pressed to the heavy bandaging around his bare stomach.

"Chitauri got a few hits in with those energy rifles." He explained. Natasha smiled sympathetically.

"Know how it feels." Her hand came to touch her own bandaging subconsciously. Bruce stood completely unharmed against the wall. A slightly bruised Tony sat on the couch, glaring at Nick Fury who stood by the door. Pepper sat quietly by Stark, playing with his hand. "Ms. Potts," Natasha greeted.

"Call me Pepper, Natasha." The strawberry blonde insisted. Natasha nodded respectively.

"Where's…" Clint started.

"Thor is with Loki." Fury answered the oncoming question. "You are all required to attend Loki's send off at 1700." Clint tensed. "Excluding Ms. Potts, of course." He added.

"Director," Natasha was prepared to argue for Clint's sake.

"I understand that this will be difficult for some of you," he said, sending a fleeting suggestive glance at Hawkeye. "But it's not open for discussion. After this, you're all on one-week leave." He said informatively.

"Yes sir." Natasha responded. Fury turned on his heel and left.

Clint sat on the bed, staring distractedly at the floor. Natasha stood by her duffel bag, pulled out a pair of black skinny jeans, a red tank top, and a black tee shirt, and changed into her selected outfit. She hissed in frustration when she tweaked her shoulder painfully. Walking over to where Clint's bag had been deposited on the floor, she leaned over it and picked a pair of black jeans and a red tee shirt before throwing them at her lost in thought partner. Clint looked up as two articles of clothing flew at him.

"Thanks." He called after her as she made her way to the bathroom. Clint pulled his black jeans over his wrapped knee, and what may as well have a muscle shirt over his head. "Hey Tasha…" he called. Before he could finish the request, his belt she had removed yesterday landed on the bed. He smirked as he reached over to pick it up, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He pushed himself off the bed, walking toward his open duffle bag. He searched through it for his watch, fastening it on the wrist Natasha hadn't wrapped. Flexing his wrist, and judging the amount of pain he was willing to tolerate versus giving Loki the satisfaction of seeing him hurt, he quickly unwrapped it, tossing the dressings in the trashcan. Leaning against the wall, Clint pulled his well worn combat boots on, tucking the laces into the top of the shoe. Natasha frowned at his wrist, but she could guess why he'd done it so she kept quiet. "Oh, two inch heels and a sprained ankle. That's sure to end well." Clint said sarcastically. Natasha shrugged her left shoulder.

"Worn taller with worse." She argued, shutting him up. "Sun glasses," she tossed his dark aviator glasses to him.

"Jacket," he replied, tossing her tan leather coat in the air. "I say," he said stepping closer. "That we go to Paris for our week off." He suggested.

"Rome." She purred in his ear. By the way his heartbeat quickened beneath her palm, she knew she'd just won the argument.

"Ok." He agreed easily, smiling a smile she hadn't seen in while.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah." He lied, while his eyes screamed 'No.' She took his hand in response. 'I'm not going anywhere.' He seemed to relax more after that.

[flyingblackhawk]

Lists

Clintasha fic

1,359 words

-

The room isn’t exactly as he left it. Clint isn’t surprised, given that it’s been five years. Someone’s been through and picked everything up off the floor, neatened the shelves, even the long-forgotten clothes in the hamper have been laundered and put away. There’s only been one person at the facility for years now, so it’s not much of a stretch to guess that Natasha is the one who’s been in here. The thought twists his chest, and out of sheer instinct he shoves that emotion down, works it into a cold knot of anger. Then he stops. He doesn’t have to do that here. Not here, and not with her.

He showers, and gets into bed. After five years of sleeping rough most nights, it’s a pleasant feeling to be somewhere he knows he’s safe, and to be able to lie here without planning his next assassination. Without those processes, though, his mind drifts, and after an hour of tossing and turning Clint gives up on sleep and sits up in bed.

He flicks on the lamp, and reaches out to open the drawer in his nightstand. He has a vague recollection of a novel he was reading all those years ago. Maybe it’s still here. He grasps something book-shaped, and pulls it out of the drawer. It’s not a novel. It’s a notebook, and there’s a pen clipped to the cover. Clint blinks, trying to remember if this is his. He opens the cover.

The first page is a list of names, with his right at the top. Several are crossed out, some are circled. His own name is circled heavily and followed by three question marks. As he reads down the list, he realises that this is Natasha’s handwriting, and it’s a list of the dead. He turns the page, and the list goes on. It takes up the first eight pages of the notebook, front and back. She must have written this in the first days of the Snap, Clint realises. He imagines what it must have been like - writing out a list of all the important people in her life, and finding out one by one that they were gone. Each page of the list makes his heart sink further. He flips to the page after the list.

Canada??

Sighting at Montreal, report from Quebec border agent - matching description.

No fake passport reported.

Belarus Airport - CALL ALIAKSIEJ.

Kiev??

Where next?

He knows what this is too. She must have been charting his movements. There are no notes after Kiev, and he knows why. He dumped every fake document he had into a furnace, and walked across the Russian border at Nikanorovka. There would have been be no way to follow him after that, not even with the best technology the Avengers had access to. Clint turns another page.

Central comms room.

Move tables into storage & set up conferencing center against South wall.

Call Tony?

Reroute security feeds to CR.

That matches the changes Clint noted when he arrived earlier. He feels guilty reading this. It’s clearly Natasha’s notebook. So why was it in his nightstand?

Marigolds

Ox-eyes

Milkweed

Cardinal Flower (Laura’s favourite)

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Even if it’s just lists, it’s personal.

Ask Steve about moving everyone to the same building

Help Steve pack

Help Bruce pack

Call Rhodes?

Clint bites his lip.

I wish you were here.

Close off unoccupied block

Call Pepper

Baby shower present?

Conference call

Where the hell are you?

A couple of subsequent pages are filled with little shapes and doodles. Clint recognises them as the product of Natasha being on a phone call and not being able to say what she wants to say. Lots of the little drawings have been scribbled over so heavily that the pages underneath are indented.

5 7 mile run

SHIELD drills

Gym back room - pull up mats (could be a studio?)

He knows she only dances when she’s in turmoil. He knows that because he’s the only person on this planet she trusts to know everything about her. Reading these pages, and knowing she was doing all this on her own - it’s a lot to take in. He reads on.

Birthday present for Morgan

Plant out cardinals for Laura

Call Steve (Brooklyn cell)

Clint

2 years, Clint. Not one message.

Bring extra monitors up from Bruce’s lab

Order coffee beans

2020, then, he thinks. Three years ago. Even then, he was barely thinking of her. He hates himself for it.

This is the longest stretch I’ve had no visitors.

Steve called the city ‘home’ last time he called.

Rhodes has info on you- Korea, this time.

I miss you.

Clint blinks. For the first time in a long while, he has to swallow a lump in his throat.

The last time I could do this many push-ups, I was in the Red Room.

The cardinals are blooming. I checked up on the farm a few days ago. Everything’s fine.

You left clothes on the floor. I washed them for you. Your hoodie is mine now.

The next few pages are blank. Then-

18.6.21

Happy Birthday. You’d better come back before next year. I don’t think I could make fun of a man in his forties in good conscience.

I saw what you did in Riyadh. I probably would have done the same.

If you’re worried about what I’m going to think, don’t. I just want you to come back.

I’ve been the only one here for two years.

I miss you.

Clint blinks away tears. He knew he’d feel guilty if she caught up with him. He didn’t expect to feel so ashamed.

8.2.22

Security footage from a bank in Seoul. It’s only the back of your head, but it’s nice to know you’re alive. At least, you were alive four days ago.

He remembers Seoul. He wishes he didn’t, but he does.

29.7.22

I slept in your bed last night. Some nights I sleep in the lounge. It doesn’t matter. There’s no one here to worry about me. Steve still comes once every few months. He’s busy now. I call Pepper on her birthday, and on Morgan’s. Tony made me her godmother. How weird is that?

I realised today that I haven’t said anything out loud for three days. I only talk when the conferences are up and running, and we don’t have much to report these days. Rocket mostly emails. Carol tries, but she’s busy most of the time. I can’t ask anyone to come and live here. They’d be crazy to.

He wants to stop. This isn’t right.

17.10.22

Clint, I

Clint

If you knew how it felt to be alone in this giant empty compound, you’d be back here in a heartbeat.

He can’t change what he’s done. He wants to cry.

“Clint?”

He looks up. Natasha is standing in his doorway, frozen at the sight of the notebook in his hands. He sets it down on the nightstand, and gets out of bed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, but her voice wavers for a moment. Clint crosses the distance between them like it was never there at all, and wraps her in his arms. She doesn’t hesitate, and hugs him back as tightly as she’s wanted to for five years. It’s not over yet, and they have so much left to do, but just for a moment, everything is alright again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she tells him, finally pulling away enough to breathe. “We can talk about this after we’ve done what we have to do. Just… get some sleep, okay? We’ve got work to do in the morning.”

She goes to his nightstand and takes the notebook, then she leaves him alone in his room. She’s right. Tomorrow they will attempt what no human has ever done before, and if they succeed, well- Clint doesn’t want to think about that just yet. Hope is not a feeling he’s felt in a long time. He settles down to sleep. Nothing can go wrong tomorrow, not as long as Natasha is by his side.

[flyingblackhawk]

Night Shift

Avengers fic

1,288 words

Read Part 2

Read Part 3

-

“Coffee?”

Tony wordlessly holds out his empty mug, and Steve pours him one from the pot.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Tony says, after a lengthy silence. “Just… watching.”

“We have to,” Steve says, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t stop until it’s over.”

“Right,” Tony sighs. “How long do you think-”

On the monitor, Natasha sits up on her bunk. Even through the screen, she looks gaunt, and slightly wild. Steve sighs, and looks down at his coffee as she launches herself off the bunk with a shout, straight at the wall. Clint appears, blocking her path, and wraps his arms around her. She struggles for a moment, and they sink to the floor. Tony watches the screen in horrified fascination.

“You ever see this in conflict?” Tony asks. Steve looks at him, surprised. It’s not often he gets a genuine question from Tony, with no hint of mockery.

“I skipped the recovery part,” he says. “Went straight from the middle of the war to the twenty first century. So I read about what happened to the veterans, but no. Never saw it. By the time I was awake, most of them were dead.”

Tony looks like he wishes he had kept silent, but Steve waves off his apologetic look.

“She’s still trying,” Tony murmurs. “After sixteen hours.”

Steve just picks up the coffee pot. Simple actions are the extent of his abilities right now. “Sam’s coming to relieve you,” he says. “Get some sleep. Hopefully this will be over in the morning.”

Tony nods, and Steve leaves. The coffee is bitter, but he needs this right now to keep him sharp. He needs to be ready in case Clint needs his help. That’s their system. He’s only had to intervene once, when Natasha bit Clint’s hand so hard she drew blood. Tony sedated her and sat by her while Clint stitched himself up. There haven’t been many words spoken since they got her into the quarantine room in Medical. All they can do is wait.

Sam appears in the doorway after a few minutes. Tony waves him over, and surrenders his chair by the monitor.

“How you doing?” Sam asks him.

“I’m tired,” Tony answers, shrugging. “I’m worried. I don’t understand why she’s doing this.”

“Don’t have to understand,” Sam shrugs. “Just need to stop it from happening and help her when she comes out the other side.”

“I don’t get it,” Tony says again. “This is home, right? This is safe.”

“It’s not this place,” Sam tells him. “It’s not you, it’s not anything that’s going on here. Natasha has a long and violent past. She’s had things done to her that she won’t talk to anyone about, not even Barton.”

“Yeah,” Tony sighs. “I get it. Tragic backstory. We’ve all got one. I’ve never tried to slice my arms open with a paring knife.”

“I know you’re being an asshole because you’re scared,” Sam says, his voice sharper now, “but if you talk like that in front of Barton he will knock you right out.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, and Sam looks surprised. “I know. Well, I know I don’t know. It’s just hard to see her like this.”

“Get some rest, Tony.”

Tony nods, and leaves Sam to take up the vigil. A steaming mug of tea is his sole companion as he watches Clint try to settle Natasha down on the bunk. There is murmuring through the audio link that Sam can’t make out, and he doesn’t try to. Clint is in the eye of the storm right now, and he’s doing his best to cling on to Natasha. Sam has never seen her this bad. She’s tried once before that he knows of, but God knows what happened in the years before they met. Natasha is the strongest person he’s ever met, but she goes to darker places than he’s ever known, and she has more demons than any one person should be able to survive.

Clint has climbed onto the bunk now. Sam hopes it’s a good sign that Natasha is no longer trying to punch her partner. Clint isn’t holding her, just lying next to her. He isn’t relaxed. Sam can see the tension through the screen. Clint is ready to cover her, to leap over the bed and put himself in harm’s way just to save her life. It’s a partnership so strong that it can survive anything, and Sam knows it will outlast this episode of Natasha’s. Tony’s right, though. It’s hard to watch.

“How is she?”

Sam jumps. Wanda has a remarkable ability to sneak up on him. Vision is behind her, mercifully walking like a person instead of floating around and phasing through walls. That really freaks Sam out sometimes.

“Same as before,” he says. “I think it’s slowing down though. We’re getting more rest between incidents.”

Wanda looks at the screen with a pained expression. “If I could just-”

“Wanda,” Vision warns her. Sam shakes his head.

“This isn’t a quick fix,” he says. “Mind control isn’t going to help. She wouldn’t thank you for it.”

Wanda bites her lip. “I just want her to stop,” she whispers. “She can’t do this.”

“Sam won’t let her,” Vision says, moving in from behind her to pull her into a hug. “None of them will.”

“We won’t,” Sam says, and Wanda nods into Vision’s shoulder. The android guides her out of the room, and Sam finds himself wishing they would stay. Having someone to comfort always makes him feel like he can control something. This, just watching Natasha periodically try to hurt herself, this is something beyond his experience.

Inside the quarantine bay, Clint feels Natasha twitch beside him, and he rolls off the bed in time to tackle his partner around the waist as she throws herself off the bed again. She doesn’t even seem to have an end goal in mind. Just hit the wall and see how it goes. Clint wrestles her onto the bed and she’s silent, just crying without sound, her cracked lips forming words he can’t hear. He knows there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to die. He just doesn’t know how to reach it, and coax it back to the front of her brain. The responsibility is a weight in his chest.

“No,” he says, as she struggles. “Tasha- I swear to God, if you bite me again-”

“Let go,” she rasps. “Let me- let me-”

“Die?” he asks, wearily. “Yeah. No. Not gonna happen.” His tone is firm, but his heart is breaking.

She frees a hand and manages a weak punch. She hasn’t eaten for two days, so it lacks conviction, but the punch still adds to Clint’s catalogue of cuts and bruises. She goes for the bandages wrapped around her wrist, and Clint has to pin her arms again.

“Stop it,” he says, for the thousandth time. “Tasha, stop. Leave the bandages alone.”

Her struggles wind down a little, and he keeps her arms pinned until she’s just staring into space. Cautiously, he lets her arms go. She doesn’t move them, and he rolls so he’s sitting beside her.

“This is a long one,” he huffs. “Even for you, Romanoff.”

“Asshole.”

He turns, one eyebrow raised. It’s the first thing she’s said that wasn’t swearing at him or the team, or begging for him to let her die.

“Always,” he sighs. The fight has gone out of her, for now at least, and when he lies down beside her, she lets her head rest on his shoulder. Clint knows better than to hope that his partner won’t try again before the night is over, but this is at least progress. It’s all he can ask for.

[flyingblackhawk]

Smoke

Clintasha fic

650 words

-

Some things are best left hidden. Natasha knows that, and yet she still pushes herself when it comes to memory. Sometimes she can sense things at the base of her skull - just a buzz, or a quiet twitch of something that is present, but not remembered. Not yet, at least.

Sometimes they’re nice. One is the memory of trying coffee for the first time. Many are not like this, because in her life there haven’t been many opportunities to stop and enjoy things. Mostly death. Mostly killing and pain and cold. Those are the more common memories that surface.

She knows that there are things hidden in fire. She can feel memories tugging at her when she looks at flames. She knows she could push them away, ignore them like Clint taught her to in the beginning, but who is she without an identity, and what is an identity without memories? She decided a while ago that it is better to have the good and bad memories together than nothing at all. Even fire is better than nothing.

This doesn’t prepare her for the smoke.

It’s not a mission. She’s not in danger. It’s just breakfast in the kitchen, her and Clint moving around each other, weary and in synchrony. Everything is calm, and bright. Neither of them realise that Clint has nudged the dial on the toaster, and the bread in it is burning. Natasha sees the smoke before she smells it, and swears. Clint looks over as she presses the eject button, and two slices of blackened bread pop up, black smoke streaming.

She falters as the smell hits her - only burning bread, but there’s the buzzing again, something from the depths of her psyche clawing its way up into the forefront of her mind. The blackened centre of the bread spreads, across the toaster, over her hands, fills her entire vision, and suddenly a burning beam crashes down beside her head and she flinches away from it. She’s so close to the ground, is she kneeling? No, she’s a child, smaller than she has any memory of being before, and she’s screaming, her throat hoarse and burned from the fire all around her, the building is ashes, her family - are those the screams she can hear? Hands are pulling her away, dragging her from the fire, shouting in Russian and her skin is black with soot and searing from the burns and all around her is just smoke and confusion. Her hands are burning-

“Nat!”

She drops the toast. The pads of her fingers are red from gripping the burned slices. She lets oxygen shudder into her lungs and then curls over the sink and vomits, grateful for the acrid taste of it replacing the smell of smoke. She straightens up, wipes her mouth, closes her eyes. It’s okay. She’s safe. It’s just breakfast.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, turning back to Clint. He looks worried but not confused. He knows her well enough to tell when something new has come back to her, and it’s not hard to figure out that this one isn’t a pleasant memory.

“Do you know what it was?”

She bites her lip in thought. “I’m not sure. I was a kid. There was a fire, a big fire. I thought that maybe… maybe my family was in there.”

This is big. He moves over and puts a hand on her shoulder. She is grateful for the restrained touch. He likes to hug, but she’s not always ready for it.

“Woah,” he says, softly. It’s characteristically inadequate, and yet she agrees.

“I’m gonna go sit on the roof,” she murmurs. He waits for an invitation, but when one is not forthcoming he just nods and lets her go. He waits until she leaves to put a new round of toast on. He’ll offer her some later. Sometimes, he feels that’s all he can do.

[flyingblackhawk]

Convoluted (or, the 5+1 of Natasha and sex) Clintasha fic 1,357 words tw: rape/nc

-

Don’t worry, girl. It only hurts the first time.

Liars. Fucking liars, all of them. She knew it would hurt, not just because she’d never done it before, but because the brute lying on top of her had never thought to treat a woman as anything other than a hole for hire. After a dozen painful thrusts and a gust of bad breath, he was done, and he slumped onto his back. Natalia lay there, wondering if she was supposed to feel violated. All she felt was a mild sense of irritation that with all the surgeries, everything they’d done to ensure that she could take this route of seduction without there being issues, they couldn’t have figured out some way to make it hurt less. Not that they ever cared about the girls being in pain, but it wasn’t exactly adding to her efficiency as she slid out of bed and hobbled over to the purse she’d dropped at the door. The butterfly knife twirled in her fingers, and in thirty seconds the sleeping man’s heart was pumping his lifeblood out through the gash across his neck. Natalia wiped the blade on the sheets, and tucked it into her purse. She pulled her dress back on, zipped it up, and slipped out the door. It was going to be her sixteenth birthday tomorrow, and if she was lucky, they might allow her to watch the older widows sparring.

-

So many missions ended this way. Natalia was at least of age now, and had done this enough times to expect the rough treatment. She knew there were ways she could train herself so it would be less painful, but she didn’t mind it hurting so much anymore. It reminded her why she was doing it. For all this man had gushed over her beautiful face, he sure didn’t want to see any of it. He had his hand on the back of her head, forcing her face into the pillows as he thrust away behind her. He was clumsy, and muttering under his breath, presumably to keep his focus so his drunken body wouldn’t betray him and deny him the bragging rights. She wished she was here to kill him, but when he finished and fell asleep on top of her, she rolled out from under him, quietly robbed him and left without a backwards glance.

-

No matter how many times you do this, they told her, there will always be firsts.

That was true, of course, and it was that advice that was bouncing around her head as she gazed at her first female target. She was beautiful, and not much older than Natalia herself. They fell into bed, and though she knew that it wasn’t real, it was the first time she hadn’t had to fake orgasm to hurry along the foreplay. Acting was easy with the woman between her legs, and when it was her turn, she found her training had prepared her well. Pleased at being a passable lover, she was smiling slightly as she screwed the silencer onto her pistol and shot the woman through the back of the head as she lay sleeping. One more first under her belt. She hummed as she left the room.

-

There was always one who thought he could get away with touching the girls. He got the drop on Natalia before she had a chance to defend herself, and she found herself pressed against a wall in a dark closet, as a trainer thrust shakily into her from behind, crooning about what a good girl she was. A part of her felt sick. Of all the times she’d had sex, she’d never once been forced. She’d acted like she wasn’t in control, sure, but this… this was different. When he was done, he kissed her hard. She went to the silent ghost with the metal arm, the man they weren’t supposed to speak to, and she told him what the trainer had done. He said nothing, and she was sentenced to confinement for breaking the rules, but a week later the trainer turned up dead. His neck had been violently broken, and he had been thrown off the roof of the compound into the snow.

-

Freedom. It wasn’t a word she’d ever thought she would be able to apply to herself. Natalia- no, Natasha, now- was free. Free to do whatever work she saw fit to take. And yet somehow, she found herself back in the same hotel room, with the same faceless man grunting over her, on her first assignment of her self-given freedom. Fucking the information out of a target. Again. This time, she was glad he wanted her face in the pillows. That way, he couldn’t see the anguish on her face at the thought that this was all she was good for, and all she would ever be good at. Had she amounted to nothing but a degrading sex act in an anonymous hotel room with a dead man walking? This time, when she shot him, she felt no sense of accomplishment. Just a heavy weight settling in her stomach. This was the life she had chosen. She wondered for a moment, as she walked out of the room, if she shouldn’t just go back and throw herself on the mercy of the Red Room. At least there, when she wound up in bed with someone, it was under orders and not of her own free will.

-

“Tasha?”

She snapped out of her reverie. Clint’s face was hovering above her. She blinked.

“Is everything okay?” he asked softly. “Are you not feeling like-”

“Sorry,” she murmured, trailing her fingers over his cheek. “I was just thinking.”

“Do I want to know?”

She chuckled, and Clint slid off her, landing on his side. He pulled her in so she was resting against him.

“Wondering if you’re ever going to get sick of me,” she admitted. It was Clint’s turn to laugh.

“People get sick of each other,” he shrugged. “I won’t promise I’ll be around forever, because we’re in a line of work that doesn’t really come with a retirement plan, and last I checked, I’m about the most likely to die in a stupid accident. Cap gets hit by a bus, he’s probably going to be fine. Me… not so much.”

“But-”

“But nothing. I love you.”

There it was. It wasn’t that he hadn’t said it before. She’d even said it to him a couple of times, and meant it, which was huge for her. But it was so annoying when he used it to win arguments, especially because she had no response to it.

“I love you too,” she conceded.

Clint kissed her jaw, and moved his lips down her neck. Natasha closed her eyes. She loved it when he was soft like this. He actually liked kissing her, which was weird, in her experience.

When she was ready, he moved between her legs. He never liked for her to be facing away from him; he always insisted that she lie back, so he could kiss her while they fucked. It had taken some getting used to, but she had never disliked it. Feeling loved during sex was still sometimes foreign. Love and sex had always been opposite ends of a convoluted spectrum, and yet for Clint they were inextricably linked. It was so simple for him. He loved her, so he wanted her to feel good. The first time he’d stopped midway through a session because she’d changed her mind had been staggering to her. That someone could care enough to put their own needs aside for her… it was unthinkable.

When a soft climax washed over her, and Clint finished, she felt that now familiar warmth settle over her. It was something she’d only ever felt with Clint, and he described it as ‘afterglow’, something that normal people apparently felt all the time.

“Love… you,” Clint mumbled into her hair, wrapping himself around her and pulling the covers up so they would be warm.

“Mmm,” she replied, nuzzling against his cheek. She was asleep in minutes.

[flyingblackhawk]

That’s a First

Clintasha fic

989 words

-

“And marzipan.”

“Marzipan,” Clint repeats, noting it down on the page in front of him. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on her chair opposite him, watching him write.

“Any other sweets?” he asks. She purses her lips, thinking.

“I haven’t tried those peanut things.”

“Which ones?”

“With the chocolate.”

He thinks. “Reese’s?”

She nods. He writes it down. “You’ll like those too, I reckon. Okay. How about fruit?”

She considers it. “Berries. Sometimes pears, but only if they’re really juicy.”

“Breakfast food? Bacon and eggs?”

“Both.”

“Perfect.”

He sets the pen down and scans the list, nodding. “This is perfect.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” she says quietly, folding her hands on the table. “I can go myself.”

“I want to,” he assures her, pushing his chair back. He folds the list into his pocket. “Just relax here, I won’t be more than half an hour. Then we can do breakfast.“ He consults his watch. “Well, brunch. Late brunch.” He spins his keys around his fingers with a smile, and then he’s out the door.

The shopping trip is surprisingly enjoyable. Just the thought of being able to buy things for Natasha and do stuff for her gives him a warm feeling. He knows in the back of his mind that it’s because he’s acutely aware that no one has ever really taken care of her this way, but he opts for the warm feeling, because it’s not tinged with that special brand of angry sadness that comes whenever he thinks about what Natasha has been through. It’s taken him long enough to convince her it’s okay to crash at his place now and then. The food thing has been a longer time coming. He’s been working on it for a few weeks now, but she’s finally starting to admit what she likes and doesn’t like, and with every new addition to the list, Clint is getting a better picture of the real Natasha, the one that even she was convinced didn’t exist anymore.

He checks out, his basket heavy and his head full of plans, and soon he’s on his way home. He’s already planning the meal when he walks into the apartment, one arm laden with the shopping.

“Natasha?” he calls. There is no movement in the lounge, where she normally nests. He drops the bags in the kitchen and moves into the hall, thinking that perhaps she’s finally decided to spend time in the guest bedroom. She’s not there either, and finally he opens the door to his own bedroom.

“Hey,” she murmurs. Clint freezes, fixing his eyes instantly and determinedly on her face.

“You’re not wearing any clothes,” he manages.

“I wanted to thank you,” she purrs, and fuck, her voice is like honey, he can feel the primal parts of his brain already pulling him towards her. She’s spread out on his bed, ready for him to come and claim her, and he realises that he feels slightly sick.

“What are you doing?” he croaks.

“Come here.” God, he almost wants to.

“Put your clothes back on.”

“That’s a first,” she chuckles. “Come on, I want to repay you for all your kindness.”

“I’m not going to do that,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He doesn’t do a great job, and she may be screwed in the head but she doesn’t miss the quiver of anger there.

“Are you uncomfortable?” she murmurs, pushing herself off the bed. She’s grace given human form. She’s fucking dangerous. He steps back.

“Of course I’m fucking uncomfortable.”

“Barton, I just want to say thank you-”

“Then say thank you,” he strains, his eyes sliding up to the ceiling, not in exasperation but simply so they won’t lock onto anything else.

“You can look, if you want.”

He doesn’t. She sighs. “Look, it’s simple. You’ve given me food, shelter, and now you insist on buying all these things for me, so now I’m giving you what I have to offer.”

“Put your clothes back on.”

His eyes finally find her face, and she looks bewildered.

“But… isn’t this what you wanted?” she asks, sounding uncertain for the first time.

“Of course not!” he shouts. She doesn’t exactly flinch, but her fingers twitch, and he can see the alarm in her face. He turns, and slams his palm into the wall.

“This is… fuck, this is so fucked, Natasha.” He swings around. She’s still standing there, stark naked. “I didn’t do all this so you’d… so I could…”

“You can’t even say it.” She cocks her head at him. “You… you actually don’t want this.”

“I want to make you breakfast.”

She stares at him, and for the first time he senses that she feels vulnerable with no clothes on, instead of powerful. Knowing that he’s made her feel like that isn’t a great sensation, but she’s finally grabbing a corner of the sheet to cover herself. He relaxes slightly.

“I don’t understand.”

It’s almost plaintive. He wants to reach out and hug her, but he definitely can’t do that while she’s still naked in his bedroom.

“I’m going to go put the bacon on, okay?” he mumbles, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just… get your clothes back on. Come and join me when you’re ready. I’ll have coffee ready.”

She looks like she’s ready to cry, so he turns and leaves the room. She doesn’t need an audience for that. When she finally emerges, Clint has a pile of crispy bacon and some eggs on toast waiting for her, as well as a large mug of black coffee. She sits at the table, and it’s the first time he’s ever seen her look anything close to meek.

“Thank you,” she says, awkwardly. He decides she’s thanking him for the bacon and coffee, and opts not to think about it any further for the time being.

“Anytime,” he says.

He only hopes she knows he means it.

[flyingblackhawk]

A Lifetime Ago

Clintasha fic

655 words

-

When Natasha enters the training centre, her partner is nowhere to be found. Odd. She’s only been working with him for a few months, but in all that time he’s never been late. She checks the range, but he’s not there either. Maybe he’s sick, or something’s wrong. She sighs, and leaves the centre, heading up to Clint’s room.

She knocks sharply on the door when she arrives.

“Barton,” she calls. “You’re late.”

She hears a muffled noise from inside, and opens the door. Clint is sitting on the edge of his bed, countless sheets of paper spread out around him. He looks up at her when she enters, and for a moment she doesn’t recognise him. There is a deep, burning anger roiling just under the surface of his expression, she can see it from across the room.

“Barton,” she says quietly. “Is everything alright?”

He makes a weird, strangled noise, and her frown deepens.

“What are those?” she asks, looking at the papers on the bed. He doesn’t answer, so she moves across the room and picks one up. After a few moments, she drops it, as if scalded.

“This is my file,” she says quietly, looking at the papers scattered around him. “Where did you get this?”

“Fury gave it to me,” Clint says. There is so much tension in his voice that she worries he will snap. She looks away, because now that he knows, surely he will be disgusted. Surely this is the end of their partnership.

“You shouldn’t have read those,” she whispers. Everything will change now that he knows.

He grips her wrist, and she jumps, looking down at her partner. To her shock, his eyes are filled with tears.

“How could they?” he murmurs, his voice trembling.

“Who?” she asks, bewildered.

“THEM!” he shouts. Natasha flinches, and Clint throws himself off the bed, scattering the papers all over the floor. Natasha sees photographs of herself here and there. Clint slams his fist into the wall and she realises he’s still shouting, still raving about something.

“You were just a little kid, how could they do that to you, those bastards-”

He lashes out at the wall again, and Natasha jumps over to pull him away from it before he can injure himself.

“Clint,” she murmurs. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

He turns his wild gaze on her. “Okay? None of this is okay, Natasha, this is wrong, it’s sick- they tortured you- you were a kid-”

She takes his shoulders, unsure of how to deal with this kind of emotion coming from the usually stoic archer.

“I didn’t know any better,” she says, helplessly. “I didn’t know there was anything else.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he spits. “They brainwashed you, they did experiments on you until you believed that what they were doing was kind. No one deserves that. It’s not human.”

He’s choked up, she realises. The thought is foreign to her – someone cares about her. Her partner is furious over something that happened to her a lifetime ago.

“Clint,” she murmurs, stroking her hand up and down his arm. “It’s alright. It’s-”

Clint shouts, an incoherent, wrathful noise, and lashes out at the wall again. He moves through the scattered papers, kicking them up, roaring wordlessly, until Natasha captures him, holding his face in her hands and forcing her partner to look at her.

“Clint,” she says, her voice firm. “Look at me. I’m alive. I’m alright. I promise.”

“I’ll kill them,” he whispers, two trembling hands rising to cover Natasha’s. She strokes her thumb over his cheeks, waiting for him to start breathing normally again. He whispers it over and over, until she hushes him with a finger to his lips.

“I’ll help you,” she promises. He wraps her in a tight hug. Natasha tenses for a moment, then melts into his arms.

He holds her close for a long time before they part.

[flyingblackhawk]

Night Terror Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic 644 words

-

He is walking, but he doesn’t know where to, or from. Everything is spinning; nothing is clear to him except the sound of his footsteps - is that metal under his feet? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s nothing, and he’s really falling, with only the illusion of footsteps ringing around him.

He can hear breathing. Soft, gentle breathing, like that of someone sleeping. His footsteps slow, and then a picture forms in front of him. His lips curve, because it’s her, and she is beautiful. One arm is folded under her head and she sleeps on her side, ever so slightly curled into herself as she dozes comfortably.

Clint reaches out, and strokes soft fingers through her hair. She wakes, and rolls onto her back to look up at him. Clint stops.

Instead of a gentle smile, there is a look of unadulterated terror on her face. Natasha stares up at him, her eyes wide, and deeply scared.

He looks at his hands and they are covered in blood. He strips back the covers and the blood is coming from her wrists, which he has pinned to the bed. There is a knife- oh God, he has a knife in his hand, he has done this to her. He can hear her sobbing, pleading with him. His name assaults him, batters him with accusations and guilt, and yet he cannot stop.

He dips his head down and kisses her lips, tasting the salt of her tears on her skin, and he throws away the covers. He slices off her nightdress, tearing it away as she begs him to stop. She is naked, with his bloodied handprints all over her skin. He carefully carves a line from her sternum to her navel and she screams, the sound pouring over him. He shudders, but it is pleasure he feels under the torrent of pain and fear and guilt. He is enjoying hurting Natasha. He inks another red line, this time along one collarbone, and Natasha whimpers. He groans, and trails his finger through her blood as it drips onto the mattress. She begs him to stop, but it’s not Clint listening to her anymore.

He knows how he will hurt her even more. He knows what will destroy her even more than physical pain, and he leans in and brushes his lips against her ear.

“I never loved you,” he whispers, and she cries out in agony. His mind screams that it is a lie, but his lips curve into a smile and he pulls back to watch as her heart breaks. Her tears mingle with blood, and he slowly slides the knife into her chest, watching her struggle, listening to her screaming, and slowly, slowly seeing her become still.

-

Clint wakes with a gasp to find himself looking up at her. He is drenched in sweat, and Natasha is cradling his head in her lap.

“Clint?” she whispers, worry written across her face. He can still see it, he can still feel the sick pleasure of cutting her skin-

He rolls off the bed and staggers to the bathroom, where he is sick into the toilet. He slides down onto the cold tiles and begins to cry. She is there, rubbing his back, hauling him to his feet, and she guides him back to the bed.

“It was just a dream, sweetheart,” she whispers.

“I killed you again,” he mumbles, shivering. She pulls him into the bed and draws the covers over both of them.

“I’m fine,” she reassures him. “I’m right here.”

His tears wet her shirt as he buries his face in her shoulder. She strokes her slender fingers through his hair, cooing and soothing until his shaking shoulders become still.

“It’s going to be alright,” she whispers. “We’re going to be okay, Clint.”

Somehow, through the haze of lingering fear, he believes her.

[flyingblackhawk]

Shamed Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic 1,120 words

Part 2

-

It was the final straw of cruelty, chaining them up like this. Both Clint and Natasha had been detained in such cells before, but never together. This was the worst thing of all - they were chained to opposite walls, able to see one another but never touch. They were just feet from one another, and they could not touch.

“I think I can hear them,” Natasha said softly, looking up. Clint nodded, and breathed deeply through his nose. They had both been tortured before. It was something they had been anticipating since their sting had gone so horrifically wrong.

“Phil had better show up soon,” Clint grunted. That earned a soft laugh from Natasha. It was cut short by the sound of footsteps outside.

A man entered the cell. He looked oddly refined against the grimy little room; elegant suit, neatly combed hair. This was Victor Laçane, the man they had been sent to capture. He had not proved so easy to take in.

“Good morning, my friends,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It is so good to see you. I trust you are comfortable?”

He sounded more like an air steward than a crazed billionaire, but Clint and Natasha knew all too well what he was capable of, and remained silent.

“I would like to introduce you to my boys,” Victor said. “Not my sons, obviously, they are busy in Kuwait at the moment. These are my boys, Soloman and Esh.”

Two huge men lumbered into the room. They had scarred faces and hands, and their little beady eyes betrayed a lack of intelligence. The very definition of grunts.

“My boys are very loyal to me,” Victor said, patting one of them affectionately on the shoulder. “They are very good boys. They will be keeping you company until you tell me who sent you.”

With that last comment, said in the tones of a friendly grandfather, Victor left the room. Natasha bowed her head, and Clint looked up at the ceiling, wishing that Coulson would hurry up and get them out of there.

-

It was hours before the first scream ripped through the tiny room. Clint’s torso was lined with deep cuts, deliberately and slowly inflicted until the sound came pouring out of him like the blood from his chest.

Both of them had been stripped of their clothes, and Natasha had barely been able to stop herself from crying. This was not how she had imagined baring herself in front of Clint. Not chained to a wall with her hands above her head. Not smeared in blood while their captors brutalised her in front of him.

She turned her head away as one of the grunts came in for another go at her, and curled her hands into angry fists. Clint was in more pain than her, but when the grunts tired of what little pleasure they could derive from her, her turn would come. She had not looked at Clint since they had torn off her clothes, but she could hear him now. Now there was no way to pretend he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t watching her, what they were doing to her. She closed her eyes, shame pouring through her.

-

They did not turn out the lights when they left. Clint figured that part of their punishment was to observe each other, and to see what was happening on the opposite side of the room. Natasha had been slumped down with her head bowed since the men had left, but he could tell she was still awake. Now and then she moved ever so slightly.

“Natasha,” he said. His voice was hoarse from the hideous noises that had been dragged out of him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Clint shook his head.

“This isn’t your fault,” he murmured. “Natasha, it’s not- it’s not your fault, I swear.”

She responded with a muffled sob, which scared Clint to the core. Suddenly, he understood why their captor had put them in this cell together. Victor was using their shame against them.

“Natasha,” he murmured, gentle, tentative. “I love you.”

Her head rose, and she looked at him, completely lost.

“Why?” she asked. It destroyed him that she could ask that question with such a genuinely confused look on her face. Why did he love her?

He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered, managing a weak smile. “I just do. You’re beautiful, and strong, and I wanted to tell you in case we don’t get out of here.”

It was a lie. He was telling her that she didn’t have to be ashamed, that those acts were the acts of her captors and not hers.

“It’s not the first time,” she whispered. Clint nodded, not breaking her gaze for a moment. Natasha hung her head again, but seemed to recover enough strength to look up at him. “When they capture me, that’s how they dominate me. They need to prove they’re above me in any way. It’s almost ironic. They turn themselves into animals.”

Her lips quirked faintly, and Clint gave an exhausted smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. “I know, Tasha.”

She sighed, and blinked a few times. “Do you really love me, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

Clint had no answer, and to his horror he felt his cheeks reddening.

“Clint,” she said softly. He shrugged, making the chains above him clink. Natasha took a deep breath.

“I-”

The cell door swung open and the two goons walked back inside. Clint settled back against the wall and he saw Natasha set her jaw, determined not to break for them. He took solace in the fact that she didn’t seem to be feeling that shame anymore.

He was the first to scream this time, and for Natasha’s sake, he didn’t look until it was all over. His heart twisted as he heard soft sobbing after the door had clanked shut, and he strained against his chains, bloody, naked, in agony, but desperate to help his partner.

“Tasha,” he murmured, soothingly. “Shhh, Tasha, it’s okay, it’s fine, it’s alright....”

She kept crying, and the sound was tearing him apart. Helpless, Clint began to sing softly, just some old ballad he might hum along to on the guitar in his spare time. He kept singing, not loud enough to alert anyone outside, but loud enough that Natasha could hear him. He sang until her sobbing stopped, and when she finally looked up at him he sang the last few words and let them hang in the air between them.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome, Natasha,” he murmured. He lowered his head, and prayed that someone would find them soon.

[flyingblackhawk]

No Exceptions

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

547 words

Based on this post

-

They had been drinking. Neither of them were that drunk, but when Natasha beckoned to him he followed without question. The others were busy - they wouldn’t even notice. 

She turned and sat on her bed, facing him. When her lips touched the glass in her hand, Clint knew exactly what he wanted, and he allowed himself a half smile as she leaned back.

“Natasha,” he murmured. She just smiled, and set the glass down. She stood, and slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his breath catching as her fingertips brushed across the bare skin of his chest. 

“This is what I want,” she murmured, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and settling her fingers on his hips.

Clint’s lips formed another question, but it was lost when she kissed him. He didn’t even try to get it back.

-

He woke pressed up against her still, and took a moment to enjoy the memories of her warm skin, her delicate hands on him, and the sound of her gasps and her sighs. He gently slid a hand across her stomach and kissed her neck. Half-hard already, he pressed himself up against her.

She moved so quickly that he never had a chance. The sheet was whipped out from under him and he went tumbling onto the floor. He grunted, and looked up to find her staring down at him. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing a pillow to cover his prominent erection.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Clint frowned. “I... what? Why not?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know why.”

Then he saw it. That look. She was back to herself - no longer the gloriously uninhibited woman who had led him back here the night before. No, now she was Agent Romanoff, who didn’t believe in love. The woman he had always been afraid of loving, but had gone ahead and fallen for anyway. He had thought that last night... well, he had been wrong.

“Right,” he said, his voice flat. “I... I guess I’d better go.”

“You look upset,” she said, running her hand through her hair again. That simple gesture made his heart clench, and he hated himself for it.

“I just thought...” he mumbled, twisting the pillow where he held it. “I thought it was different.” He cringed at how girly that sounded.

Natasha’s expression was a mix of pity and cool disdain. “It was just sex, Clint.”

“For you,” he snapped, throwing the pillow down. Let her see what she had done to him. Let her see it all, he didn’t care. Not anymore. Why bother caring when she never would?

“Love is for children, Clint,” she murmured, her voice a little less harsh.

Clint pulled on his pants and shirt before he turned back to her. 

“Then I’m a child,” he said, angrily. He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Later, as he downed shot after shot trying to forget how it had felt when she kissed him, he wondered if he would ever move on from this woman. She didn’t want him like he wanted her, and it was breaking Clint’s heart.

Natasha was going to be the death of him.

[flyingblackhawk]

Seeing Red

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

570 words

- The first time he suspects something wrong is hours after she returns. Natasha shuts herself in her room, and it is only when Clint goes up to take her some food that he hears her sobbing quietly on the bed. He goes inside, and sits by her, his hand on her shoulder. The second he touches her, she scrambles away, her eyes wide, snarling silently. He is so shocked that he can only sit there, his hand hovering where her shoulder was not a second ago. He backs out of the room, confused as hell and worried for her. He goes to Bruce. “I need to see the results of Nat’s physical post-mission,” he says firmly. “I’m not allowed to show you those,” Bruce sighs, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Bruce, I need to see them,” he says. “Natasha... there’s something wrong with her. Please let me look at them.” Bruce looks as though he might say no, but then hands the file over with a sigh that sounds almost pitying. Clint takes it to the balcony to read it in peace, but by the time he is finished it takes all the strength he has not to tear the file in two. Evidence of invasive assault. That’s SHIELD’s soft term for rape. Someone has put their hands on his Natasha. Someone has abused her. Scared her. Used her. He is so blindingly angry he wants to scream, and shout, and destroy something. But he doesn’t. He goes calmly to the lab and returns the file to Bruce, thanking him politely. He makes his way up to his room, shoves a few things into a pack and slings it over his shoulder. Then, quietly, calmly, smoothly, he leaves. No one sees Clint for three days. SHIELD can’t trace him. None of the Avengers have any idea where he might be. He is listed as missing, and parties are sent out to search for him. Foreign SHIELD connections are put on alert, told to watch out for the missing agent. Then, on the fourth day, he returns to the tower. He looks no different, as if he merely stepped out for an hour. He ignores every question thrown at him, and instead goes straight to Natasha. She is sitting with blank eyes in the corner of her room, her knees hugged to her chest. He steps just inside the door, closing it quietly behind him. “I know, Natasha,” he says softly. She looks up at him, fearful, disgusted with herself. He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault,” he says, crouching down and opening his pack. He draws out a clear plastic evidence bag, containing a wallet, a phone, and a few cards. He slides it across the floor and she picks it up. It’s the evidence of his kill, contained in a bag. It’s the last traces of the man he hunted down, safely in her possession. He has disappeared off the face of the earth, save for these last few remnants. This is his proof to her that she is safe. There is no blood, nothing to suggest that he was anything but robbed, but Natasha knows Clint well. She knows what he does when someone has to disappear. “Thank you,” she whispers, as he gets up to leave. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and goes. Don’t mention it. Not ever. That’s the deal when someone disappears.

[flyingblackhawk]

SOS

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

499 words

- Maybe this time is different. Maybe this time, Clint won’t come to find her. Maybe she’s on her own, properly alone. She’s had days to think, trapped here in this dank, hemmed-in cell. As the hours have slowly ticked by, she has come to the decision that SHEILD don’t know where she is. She is lost to them. To Clint. She hasn’t lost hope entirely, not yet. Even being held in this hellhole, routinely interrogated for information she won’t give up, she hasn’t lost the hope that maybe, just maybe, someone will find her. Her captors dug the tracker out of her upper arm the first day she was brought here, so SHIELD, if they are trying to find her, will have to use more traditional means of location. She hasn’t spoken a word since she was taken in, much to her captors’ irritation. They beat her bloody, threaten her with everything under the sun, but still she won’t talk. Her eyes hold the same defiant glare in her waking hours, the glare that says you’ll have to kill me first. And she’s beginning to think that they are considering that option. By her estimation, it has been roughly eight days when she hears gunshots. The painfully loud sounds echo down to her cell, and she wonders vaguely who is shooting whom. The door bursts open, but she doesn’t even bother opening her eyes for them. They can beat her as much as they want. She is tired, and in pain, and they can go f- “Tasha!” The voice makes her force her eyes open. There is a light, someone carrying a torch. They usually come in the dark. She knows that voice. She knows it well. “Clint?” she croaks, squinting against the harsh light of the torch. She can’t see him, but the hands on her, untying her, they are definitely his. She would know the touch of his rough fingers anywhere. He pulls her up, and she promptly collapses, her legs simply refusing to support her after over a week of being strapped to a chair and beaten near senseless. He scoops her up into his arms and she barely protests, mainly because her voice refuses to work anymore. He carries her, and a light hits her that is so bright it burns her eyes. She buries her face in his chest, trying to escape the light before realizing that it is the sun hanging overhead in the sky. Clint is talking, shouting instructions to someone, but she can’t hear him properly. The only thing she is aware of is his arms cradling her close to his chest, and the thudding of his heart against her cheek. “I love you,” she tries to say to him, but it comes out as a strangled moan. “I love you too,” he chuckles, pressing his lips to her head. Then they are safe, bundled into a helicopter, and the ground falls away underneath them, and Natasha sleeps.

[flyingblackhawk]

Panic Stations

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

575 words

- Fear. That’s what this feeling is. Pure, unadulterated, raw terror. Clint is running, harder than he has ever run from an explosion, more scared than he has ever been looking down the barrel of a gun. Critical, the voice said over the phone. He knows what that means. An agent isn’t critical until they’re almost gone, and Natasha is a fighter. What the hell has it taken for her to go critical? The hospital doors might as well be made of paper for their power to stop him. The nurse looks terrified at the sight of him, crazy-eyed and demanding to be taken to see her, never specifying who ‘she’ is exactly. An orderly takes him aside, recognizing him, and pulls him along the white corridors full of beeping machines and the ghastly, muffled moans of people in pain. There is no moaning from Natasha’s bed. He opens the door relatively quietly, and the orderly leaves him. He advances on the bed, gazing desperately down at the pale face smudged with dirt and the tangled red hair splayed across the sterile, white pillow. “Hi, Tasha,” he murmurs, tears welling in his eyes as he sits beside her in an uncomfortable plastic chair. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m here. I came to see you, like I promised to when you got home.” His voice breaks, but he can’t hang his head, can’t look away from her. “Look at you,” he whispers, as if afraid he will wake her. “They haven’t even cleaned the mud off your face.” There is a box of tissues on the little rolling table - for what he doesn’t know. Grieving relatives? He goes to the hand-washing station at the side of the dim room and douses a wad of tissues in warm water, bringing them back to her. He dabs her cheeks carefully, avoiding the tubes taped into her nose, feeding her oxygen, keeping her breathing properly. It breaks his heart slowly, cleaning her face like this. She would never let him do this if she were aware of her surroundings. It is just proof that she is gone for the moment, that she doesn’t know he’s here to look after her. “Christ, Nat,” he mutters, his voice cracked and raw. “Don’t die. Please, just stay alive, okay?” There is no answer from the pale woman lying in the bed, and he chokes on the sob that crawls up his throat. This is the part where she is supposed to wake up, her eyes fluttering open weakly to gaze at him lovingly, where she is supposed to reassure him that she is okay, even though she’s not. That’s what is supposed to happen, à la romantic drama. But it doesn’t happen. Natasha lies there, unconscious, machines beeping around her, tubes feeding her oxygen, drips feeding her God-knows-what, and he breaks down in the hard plastic chair. He cries for a long time, his forehead resting next to her lifeless hand, knowing that he doesn’t have to be strong just yet, not until she wakes up. Clint falls asleep trying to keep the what ifs out of his head. What if she doesn’t wake up? What if she’s injured for good this time? What if, what if, what if. He drifts off with his fingers curled protectively around hers. There is silence in the hospital room, but for the steady beeping of the machines.

[flyingblackhawk]

Arsonphobia

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

688 words

- Smoke. Flickering red and orange light. Shattering glass. Groaning timber. The air is so thick that Natasha can barely breathe unless she hunkers down against the wall. The window has shattered, feeding the flames with new oxygen, and the dull roar of the fire is all around her. “Clint, goddammit,” she swears, crushing her commlink against her ear, straining to hear his voice. “Where the hell are you?” “I’m outside,” his voice replies, crackly and distorted. “There’s a code on the door, I’m almost through. Sit tight.” She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her fists. Her whole body is quaking with the raw terror of being trapped amidst the flames. She’s been afraid of fire her whole life. It was so deeply rooted in her mind the night her family died that even the brainwashing of the Soviet scientists couldn’t remove it from her. Now she’s stuck in a burning building, locked inside, while Clint tries to force his way inside. “Can you get to the door?” he asks. She shakes her head, forgetting that he can’t see her. “No,” she whispers. “It’s blocked off. There’s too much smoke. Clint-” “Keep calm, Tasha,” he says firmly. I’m almost-” There is a burst of static and a loud crack, and she winces at the loudness of the sound in her earpiece. Then, a harsh curse and the sound of Clint’s boot colliding with the metal door. “Fucking thing fused,” he growls. “Clint,” she pleads, stricken with terror. “Please, please get me out. Please.” “Natasha,” he says, his voice taking on a strangely calm tone. “Breathe. If you get hysterical, you’re going to asphyxiate yourself on smoke. Now breathe, okay? I’m coming for you.” Through the commlink, she hears a scraping sound, and then a clanging. He grunts, and she can only guess that he is hammering at the lock with something heavy. “I don’t want to die,” she whispers, as if confessing in a quiet church rather than in a collapsing building, surrounded by roaring flames. “You’re not going to die,” he replies firmly, but she hears the tremor of uncertainty in his voice, and it brings back her incapacitating fear, the horror of being burned. She is suffocating in the heat, and she can see the flames all around her. A section of the roof collapses and she screams, shoving herself desperately out of the way of a falling beam. It crashes onto the floor, just another obstacle between her and safety. “Tasha! Tasha?” Clint is yelling. “I’m okay,” she gasps, scrambling out of the way of scattered embers. “Clint, hurry up.” She hears a booming crash and for a moment she thinks the building is coming down. “I’m in!” Clint shouts, his voice loud in her ear. “Third on the right,” she whimpers. She closes her eyes. He won’t get to her in time. The flames are coming closer, threatening to consume her. A bead of sweat slides down her spine. The door crashes open and Clint bursts in, leaping clear over the flaming beam and reaching her in a heartbeat. He wastes no time, just bundles her into his arms and runs. Flames lick at her, burning her skin. Smoke forces its way into her lungs, and she hears him coughing too, and she is convinced that they are both going to die here- Then they are clear, stumbling into the cool night air. Clint takes no more than ten steps before he drops her. She rolls onto the ground, coughing and gasping as he falls to his knees beside her. “Are you okay?” he rasps, gazing at her with watering eyes. She nods, with her eyes still closed. He pulls her into him, awkwardly hugging her as best he can. Sirens are nearby, and she sees red and blue flashing lights through her eyelids. “I love you,” she coughs, unable even to hold him. He clutches her tight enough for both of them as they sit, waiting for someone else to come and save them for once. Behind them, the burning building finally gives in to the flames and collapses with a deep rumble.

[flyingblackhawk]

Remnants

Clintasha (Blackhawk) fic

437 words

- The nest is cold tonight, but that’s never stopped Clint before. Him and Natasha sit side by side, him cross-legged, her with her knees drawn into her chest, both gazing out at the busy city. “Do you think we’re wrong?” Natasha asks quietly, cinching her hands tighter around her shins. “Would normal lives be so bad?” Clint doesn’t really have an answer, but he feels obliged to reply anyway. “I think we’re past the point of no return,” he shrugs. “Even if we could have normal lives... I know I wouldn’t be able to settle down easily.” “I think about it sometimes,” she murmurs, resting her chin on her knees. “Settling down. I picture myself in a house, maybe married, kids, all of it.” “The American dream,” he mutters, his voice a little sardonic. She turns to him and sighs. “It’s not my dream. But I suppose I’m not really an American, am I?” “I don’t think that matters.” She closes her eyes and turns back to the view. “Maybe I just don’t belong anywhere.” Were it anyone else, he would have reached out and hugged her. Instead, he just squeezed her shoulder in a vaguely comforting fashion. “You belong here,” he says firmly. “With the Avengers. With me.” She smiles, opening her eyes. The smile is thin, and faint, but it is genuine. “You’re pretty much stuck with me, aren’t you?” she says, her wavering smile solidifying slightly. “And you’re stuck with me,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth quirking. She sighs again, and suddenly the almost teasing atmosphere is gone. “We’re all remnants,” she murmurs, staring down at the brightly lit streets. “Little pieces of bigger things that make no sense on their own. We patch ourselves together - into this team, this rugged shape that we can pretend is like a perfect whole, but it’s not.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s perfect, but it’s as close as we’re going to get.” “You don’t think we’re outcasts?” “Outcasts?” he frowns. “No, I don’t think that. We’re heroes - according to Tony, at least.” She shrugs. “Are the two even that different? Heroes are marked out for being different. Yes, we do good with our abilities, but there’s still oceans of space between us and normal people. The people we save, they know it. They know we’re lonely.” “We don’t have to be lonely.” “I think we do.” He shifts over to her and drapes an arm around her shoulder. “I disagree.” She leans into him, sighing quietly. “You and me, against the world.” “Promise?” he murmurs, resting his head against hers. “Promise.”