#creedless assassins

[builder051]

Whumptober 2023 day 1: swooning

Creedless Assassins

———————————

They’ve been in the nest all day. It’s a literal nest, formed from camping blankets and a couple of folding chairs. Clint made it. Nat has to admit, the construction is kind of genius.

It’s hot, though. They’re planted on the outer deck of a disused lighthouse, and the sun glancing off the ocean surf is as if it’s redirected precisely on the hiding spot.

In her long sleeved top and leggings, Nat feels more roasted by the second. She decides she’s done watching the beach and makes to stand up.

“What’re you doing?” Clint grabs her ankle, and she nearly topples down on top of him. Nat stabilizes herself with the back of her chair, and one of the blankets slips, forming a hole in the nest’s would-be ceiling. “Don’t tear down my masterpiece!”

“Masterpiece?” Nat shakes her head. “It’s a fucking blanket fort. And it’s a little steamy in there.”

“Don’t like my sex appeal?” Clint cocks his head and grins. “Or, no, my body heat?”

“It’s October,” Nat whines. “I want real weather. Windchill and crunchy leaves and stuff.”

“Fall doesn’t exist in Florida,” Clint says. “Actually, I think they don’t have any seasons here. Except tourist season.” Clint laughs at his own joke.

“Whatever.” Nat tosses the blanket haphazardly over the gap in the nest. Then she distances herself a few feet and pulls her arms over her head in a much-needed stretch. She takes a deep breath, but the thick humidity just increases the feeling of suffocation deep in her throat. “God, I hate it here.”

Clint pops his head out to look at her. “We’re evacuating as soon I pop him.”

“You’re going to pop him?” Nat looks at him doubtfully. “That’s my job.” She pauses and breathes again. There’s a searing sensation on the top of her head, like the sun’s targeting her red hair and pale white scalp on purpose. It probably is, just fucking with her. “Unless there’s a deployment down here again. You can go by yourself.”

“Ok, fine.” Clint scowls. “I’ll keep watch. Promise to tell you when he starts dragged his surfboard out of the parking lot.”

“I still can’t believe it.” Nat brushes her fist over her forehead. She’s sweating. And dripping. It’s disgusting. “A surfing HYDRA boss? It’s like a bad movie.”

“Hey, don’t knock Point Break. He might be the Patrick Swayze type,” Clint points out.

A wave of vertigo plays around Nat’s head. “You know that’s Tony’s nickname for Thor, right? Don’t start slinging it around. I won’t be able to stand it if tall and blond shows up to help.” She groans in half pain and half humor. Nat tries to remember if they packed water bottles. Her brain is fuzzy. She quickly dismisses the thought. Water that’s been sitting in a backpack inside the nest would probably be boiling.

The backs of Nat’s knees are burning. She should do some squats or something, loosen up her hamstrings. The very idea of exercising is repulsive, though. Nat settles on slowly shifting her weight to one foot, then the other.

The first set of shifts feels good. Her left ankle wobbles after the second set. Nat ignores it and goes in for a third set. Her right ankle starts its own wobble. Then there’s an ungainly clatter and she’s lying on her side on the lighthouse’s paneled deck. “Shit.”

“Nat?” Clint pops out of the nest, sending a couple more blankets flying. “You ok?”

“Great.” Nat rolls onto her back and squints up at him.

“Hmm.” Clint examines her critically. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think your face is supposed to be grey and red at the same time.”

Nat brings her hands up and massages her cheeks. There’s clammy sweat in addition to what was already there. “It’s—I’m—fine…”

“No you’re not.” Clint squats beside her. “You totally just swooned. Want me to run down to the beach and get the lifeguard? I bet he’s got a first aid kit. And he’s probably wearing a Speedo, you know, if you’re interested in eye candy. I won’t be offended.”

Nat barely hears him. Her ears are rushing, and she’s stuck on a particular word. “Swoon?” She asks. “Really?” Nat swallows and tries to un-gum her throat. “I’m pretty sure Gone with the Wind takes place in Georgia.”

“No, it’s from Grease, right? Sandy and Danny, down in the sand?”

“No.” Nat sits up, only to tuck her head between her knees. “It’s ‘she nearly drowned.’ There aren’t any lines about falling over.”

“Ah.” Clint nods sagely. “‘He showed off, splashing around.’ That’s how it goes.”

“If you sing, I will fucking strangle you.” Nat peers at him over her shoulder.

“Yeah.” Clint pats her on the back, then gets to his feet. “You do that. Gotta stand up first, though.”

“Nah, changed my mind. I’ll tie your shoelaces together.”

“Well, you do what you want, I guess.” Clint shrugs. “I’ll be watching out for you.”

“Watch out for the target,” Nat corrects him. “Tell me when to shoot.”

“I can shoot him, if you want.” Clint offers. “If you still have the shakes, you should probably keep lying down.”

“Eh. Nat turns so she can crawl on hands and knees. “I’ll be burned to a crisp. At least your blanket fort has shade.”

“Hey.” Clint lifts his finger. “Masterpiece, remember? I just have to give it a little renovation.” He takes the stray blankets and tucks them back into place over the frame of the folding chairs. “One bed, one bath, great view of the ocean…” Clint teases with his best realtor impersonation.

“What’s that? A studio? Outdoor facilities and no air conditioning?” Nat gives a lopsided smile.”

“It’s all the same to me.”

“Yeah, well.” Nat stands up on her kneecaps, then sits heavily in her original spot in the nest. “As long as you do your job.”

“Take care of you?”

“Keep the goddamn watch.” Nat rolls her eyes and instantly regrets it. The headache she’s developing is something else. “So we can go home?”

“I can agree to that,” Clint says.

“Good.” Nat pokes him in the shoulder. “Where’s my gun?”

[quietlyimplode]

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist of Fic Recs - Version 2.0 - Page 3

Page 1 / Page 2 / Page 3 / Page 4 / Page 5

Updated June 2021

This is not an exhaustive list (and in no order whatsoever) of the brilliant fic that is out there. Please let me know of any i have missed or any recs to put in and I will endeavour to add it. I have not included warnings or ratings. Please make sure you look at the tags, judge for yourself and as always take care of yourself first. (16 authors under the cut)

Andibeth @isjustprogress

Dialogue of Self and Soul - 7-7 series - Clint/Nat - Natasha unexpectedly gets pregnant, but everyone knows that assassins can’t be mothers. // Set Post Avengers: the story a spy who wasn’t made for parenthood, and the journey it takes to go from one extreme to the other. 

I took a heavenly ride through your silence - POST ENDGAME - Natasha dies but wakes up in 2012. CLint/Nat/Laura 1/1

Though I play at the edges of knowing - Clint/nat. Post Infinity war - five times Natasha looked back on her past -   1/1

Winter in the Pub - Natasha/Nebula - drinks in the pub. If only they knew how alike they are.  1/1

Pour like Honey, through the darkness - Nat/Bucky/Clint - comicverse natasha fakes her own death. 1/1

Like a shadow or a friend - Nat/Clint - asexual Natasha navigating the brave new world of shield -  1/1

That would be enough - Natasha/Barton family - one shots/prompts assorted.   57/?

The war can’t touch us here - Nat/Clint/Laura/Maria/Steve - Natasha is born in war but saved by others. 1/1

Laura Barton’s House for Wayward Trauma Survivors - Nat/Laura/Wanda/Bucky/Clint - What do you mean, bringing a few guests?” Laura asks suspiciously.    1/1

We will light up the sky as we burn it down - Clint/Nat - meet me in Montauk. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. 1/1

We are not all that stares back. Clint/Nat - tell me something true. Natasha holds onto words he tells her. 

And this is how you keep her - Nat/Clint - Natasha helps Clint heal after the avengers 1/1

If we are not spies - Nat/Clint - she’s been running, but he finds her. 1/1

Synergy - Clint/Nat - five times they spent New Year’s Eve together .   6/6

And when we’re there we’ll belong. Series - Clint, Laura and Natasha: a family’s journey, and the long (and sometimes winding) road to love. [Reading order:]

⁃i. i love only that which they defend (main storyline)    1/1

⁃ii. til the clocks run down (expanded main storyline – can be read independently but does slot into the main fic in certain ways, specifically in regards to scene placement, timing, and assumed character knowledge)til the clocks run down 21/21 

⁃iii. for the half of ourselves we have lost (post age of ultron, pre/post civil war) for the half of ourselves we have lost 19/19 

⁃iv. how to feel a tranquil life (post infinity war)how to feel a tranquil life 11/11 

⁃v. moments [the world can’t stop us] (timestamps for clint, nat and laura for this universe, can be read independently of previous three stories) 7/7 

Dancing in the dark turmoil - Clint/Nat - if anyone can find this link?? (You’re my best friend. When was I not?)

Shellybelle @geniusorinsanity

Nor we need power or splendour- Clint/Nat/Laura - a powerful look at the Clint/Nat/Laura - and how they fit together given all pasts and trauma.  18/18

If the two were one - Clint/Nat/Team - five times the team found out Clint/Nat were married - 1/1

All the transparence (in shades of red) - Clint/Nat - Clint’s broken after Loki. Natasha meets him in buffalo. 1/1

If you let me through the door, we can let the world in - tony/team. Tony built the tower - for his friends. 1/1

Like a clock in a thunderstorm - Clint/Nat - thunderstorms and confessions - 1/1

Conversations by other means - Clint/Nat - fight and a good fuck - 1/1

A gift like joy - Clint/Nat - Clint comforts Natasha (non-sexually) after a mission requires her to sleep with someone for information. 1/1

Rarely short on caring - Claire Temple /various superhero’s - Caring for others is not always so hard. 

No matter what she tells you - Natasha - 5 lies Natasha tells. 1/1

Eiluned @eiluned

Read all the smut. Seriously.

Troika series - Clint/Nat/Darcy - the deliciousness of smut - 8/8

underneath and unexplored - Nat/Clint - progression of Natasha’s emotions in 5 parts. 1/1

We make a life by what we give - Clint/Nat - Christmas Celebrations - 1/1

Play it by ear - Clint/Nat - Natasha has a secret, she loves Clint. 1/1

Know Thyself - Clint/Nat - after shield collapses, Natasha searches for who she is. 

The Cat - Clint/Nat - Natasha is stealthy like a cat. 1/1

Two Solitudes - Clint/Nat - Natasha knows Clint. Trust with secrets leads to more. 1/1

Heart Hides a Secret - Clint/Nat - series of 3 one shots. 

Five Times Clint and Natasha Slept Together (and the First Time They Slept Together) - Clint/Nat - 5+1   1/1

Scribblemyname @scribblemyname

Merry Russian Christmas - Maria/Nat - Maria wants Natasha as a friend - 1/1

Shall we dance? Clint/Nat - clint took a chance in saving Nat. She wants to find him to say 1/1

Learning Natasha (again) - Natasha/team - Natasha learns how to be around people - 1/1

They died with me - Clint/Nat - Clint says I love you, Natasha responds. 1/1

Remind me how to breathe - Nat/Clint - Natasha has a miscarriage, Clint needs her to live for him. 1/1

Deep in the throes - Maria/Natasha - Maria helps to reprogram Natasha. They become friends.   1/1

For better or for worse - Clint/Nat - they’ve seen each other at their worst. 1/1

Mitigation - Clint/Bobbi/Nat - brainwashing makes strange bedfellows -  3/3

Good with strays - Clint/Nat/Laura - Clint brings Natasha to the farm. Laura is the link to bring her to shield. 1/1

Crazy4Orcas @crazy4orcas

Underneath it all - Clint/Nat - Clint learns about Natasha’s moods through the clothes she wears - 1/1

Just what the doctor ordered - Barton thinks Natasha is perfect. 1/1

Twelve days of Clintasha (with @cassiesinsanity​) - 12 days of Christmas Clint/Nat Style. 

Kiss and Run - Clint/Nat - Natasha runs after a kiss. 1/1

Arukou @arukou-arukou 

Loop - Clint/Nat - even free of the red room she’s not free of the handcuffs - 1/1

That One Blind Writer - @that-one-blind-writer

Tumblr for the one shots which range from Clint/Nat to Bucky/Nat 

Spectral archers @spectralarchers

cute morning texts - Nat/Clint- Natasha sends Clint texts in the morning. Clint doesn’t do mornings -  1/1

Swallow your soul - Clint/Laura Clint/Nat - Clint’s past comes to haunt him. 

Wildechilde17 @transparentlyfallingasleep

In the marketplace or the Main Street you are mine - Clint/Nat - one shots of Clint/Nat - men and women loving each other without being totally derailed by it.     66/66

Flipflop_diva

If it takes three - Clint/Nat/Laura - so the thing is Clint and Nat accidentally got married. Laura’s ok with this. 1/1

If I be worthy (how can this be)- Natasha/Shuri - pre and post iw- Thor’s hammer -1/1

And in the end I’ll always be there - Nat/Tony - he’ll always find her - 1/1

The ties that bind - Clint/Nat/Laura - three decades of Natashas’ life. 3/3- can be read as 1 shots

The hardest thing, this decision I made - Steve/Natasha - Natasha has an abortion - 1/1

On this sleepless night - Tony/Nat - they both can’t sleep, he tries to figure out why she’s not asleep - 1/1

Nowhere to turn except in your arms- Nat/Steve/Tony - 1/1

Miss Jeeves

any way I do - team - tony discovers Clint/Nat got married.

Unbreakable92

warm me by your fire - Bruce/Nat - Natasha needs the warmth she has searched for so long more than ever when a kidnapping brings some violent flashbacks to the forefront.

Miss adoration @adorationamy

aftershock - Natasha/Clint- scenes after natashas brain scramble in ultron -  1/1

Builder @builder051

Nat on Fire Series - Natasha has crap coping mechanisms but she’s surviving the only way she knows how. 19/?

Creedless Assassins Series - Natasha and Clint as they make their way through. 10/?

Mohini @mohini-musing

Coming Home Series - Natasha is taken care of by Clint and Laura. 6/? Clint/Nat/Laura

Salamander

Fragments - Clint/Nat/Laura - “I know you.” “Do you?” Clint takes Natasha somewhere safe. 1/1

[ao3feed-clintxnat]

Shards of psycho

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2REX3sv

by Builder

Clint’s cheeks go pink. “Let’s not bring that up half an hour before my wedding, alright?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nat says sarcastically. “You going all stodgy family man already? I thought you’d at least make it through the honeymoon before you gave up the ghost.”

Nat makes to head into the bathroom for a wet comb, but Clint grabs her arm. His calloused hand wraps all the way around her wrist and then some. “Hey,” he says, his smile slowly dropping into something more serious. “Nothing’s gonna change, ok?” Clint blinks, and Nat sees her silhouette reflected back in his eyes. “I’m not giving up the ghost. Alright Casper?” The corners of his mouth spring back into a grin.

Nat doesn’t want to smile, but she can’t help herself. It started off as a learned response, but now it’s her natural reaction when she’s about to cry.

“Here.” Clint gives her arm a tug, and Nat trips into his knees. He pulls her onto his lap and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. A chaste, brotherly kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

Words: 1772, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Creedless Assassins

Fandoms: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Laura Barton

Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov

Additional Tags: Sickfic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Weddings, Smoking, Addiction, Self-Harm, Vomiting, Self-Induced Vomiting, NOT in an eating disorder context, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2REX3sv

[sickdaysofficial]

Thunder Road

A story by xxx-cat-xxx.

Submitted for 17th of August, public illness

Fandom: Marvel

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Peter gets carsick around the Avengers and receives help from an unexpected caretaker.

Warnings/Tags: Motion Sickness, Vomiting

This will make more sense if you know Laur’s Creedless Assassins storyline, but the gist of it is that Clint tends to get motion sick when sitting in the back of vehicles, and only Nat is supposed to know about it.

————-

“… and then there’s Pepper at the door, angrier than the Hulk, and she’s literally completely purple all under her fancy bikini-” Tony cuts himself off and glances over at Peter.

“Are you okay, Spiderling?”, he asks.

“Yes, Mr Stark…” Peter mumbles. But he’s definitely not. He feels much more tired than he should be, considering how long he slept last night, and his attention span seems to be reduced to a bare minimum. All he gathered from Tony’s elaborate narrative is that one should never try to use the Iron Man armour’s repulsor beams for sunbathing, whyever anyone would do this.

He can’t really think about it right now. His stomach is somersaulting, and he feels that if he breathes in too deep, it’ll directly come pouring out of his mouth. And they still have a two-hour drive in front of them before they will reach back to New York from their outdoor training weekend. Peter looks at all the Avenger seated in front of him. Everyone is either chatting or dozing, clearly enjoying themselves. He sighs and rubs his shirt sleeve over his clammy forehead.

“You look pretty pale there” Tony observes.

“Yeah, I’m just, not feeling so great…” Peter murmurs embarrassedly.

His timing is just spectacular. Does this really have to happen right now, in front of the world’s mightiest superheroes? The bus takes a sharp turn, and he clenches his jaw.

“Don´t tell me you are motion sick?” Tony asks half incredulously, half worried. Peter shoots him a look and regrets it immediately when it makes him dizzy.

“Okay, okay, well, that’s something new… Just hold tight. And don’t puke on me.”

Tony raises his voice and faces the general audience in front of them. “Anyone knows what to do? We got a carsick spider here.”

Everyone turns, and Peter would be ashamed if he wasn´t concentrating so hard on not throwing up all over the aisle.

“Well, Clint usually carries Dramamine.” Nat says after giving Peter a once-over, pointing at the archer seated next to her.

“Why the fuck do you think I´d do that?” Clint responds louder than necessary. His angry glare can´t conceal that he´s blushing a bit.

“Because you have kids, dumbass.” Nat replies coolly, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Clint says after a beat. He gets up to retrieve his bag from the storage above. “I’ll see whether I can find some.”

Natasha chuckles a bit into her fist, and Peter has the certain feeling that he just missed something important. But right now he has more urgent problems. He can feel saliva flooding his mouth, taste bile in the back of his throat, and breathing has turned into a risk. He tucks at Tony’s sleeve.

“Mr Stark, can we -”

He’s stopped by a wet belch escaping his mouth, but Tony gets the message and calls for the driver to stop. A few scary seconds pass while the bus maneuvers to the side and Peter swallows repeatedly, trying to keep it down a little longer. As soon as they stop, he scrambles off the vehicle, doubling over the moment his feet touch solid ground.

He retches and a slim stream of vomit comes up, the acidic smell making him cringe. The next heave is more productive. He closes his eyes against the sight of his half-digested breakfast hitting the cement.

“Okay, Pete, you’re okay.” Tony is there, awkwardly patting his back. “I know it’s gross, but this is an impressive colouring you’re giving that road. What on earth did you eat, kid? ” he comments somewhat torn in between disgust and amazement. Peter grins weakly in between gags.

“It’s okay, Stark, I´ll take over from here,” another voice comes from the back, and Peter is surprised that it’s Clint’s. “You can sit back inside, I know you got no idea how to handle this.”

Then, after a moment of silence: “Geez, Tony, quit giving me that look! I´ve got three kids, that´s why I’m good at this stuff!”

“Ya, ya, Pinocchio” Tony smirks, but he climbs back into the coach after patting Peter on the shoulder one more time.

“God,” Peter exhales when he is finally done retching. “I’m so sorry, this hasn’t happened to me, like, in ages.” he gasps.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint reassures, handing him a water bottle.“ At least you made it out of the bus. I really wouldn’t have fancied having to clean that up…”

Peter takes a sip of the water with shaky hands, gratefully rinsing out his mouth.

“Here, wipe your face, and then have some mint. ” Clint offers a tissue and a packet of chewing gums, and Peter is amazed that the assassin seems better equipped for situations like these than Aunt May’s hand-bag.

“Thank you, Mr Barton”, he says, pushing himself upright.

“No probs,” Clint shrugs casually, “Now, let’s take a walk to that forest over there, no use hitting the road before the nausea hasn’t let up…”

[lucasskane]

hey, I just saw lucas kane walking down the streets of clarendon hills. you can catch him around town being a senior in high school. I hear he’s known to be intelligent & loyal but jealous & cowardly. click the read more below to find out more.

BASIC

NAME: lucas emerson kane NICKNAMES: luke, baby face AGE: 17 BIRTHDAY: july 7 SPECIES: human GENDER: cis male PRONOUNS: he/him

FAMILY

MOTHER: geraldine kane ( 41 ) FATHER: john kane ( 49 ) PARENTS: married SIBLINGS: n/a COUSINS: asher kane ( 22 )

PHYSIAL ATTRIBUTES

FACE CLAIM: dylan sprayberry RACE/ETHNICITY: caucasian NATIONALITY: american HEIGHT: 5 ft 8 / 173 cm WEIGHT: 163 pounds / 74 kg BUILD: athletic HAIR: short FACIAL HAIR: n/a HAIR COLOR: brunette EYE COLOR: blue SKIN COLOR: white DOMINANT HAND: right ANOMALIES: scar on his left eyebrow, multiple scars from stubbing out cigarettes and belt whips & a bigger burn scar on his left underarm  ACCENT: american / chicago PHYSICAL DISABILITIES: n/a LEARNING DISABILITIES: n/a ALLERGIES: n/a DISORDERS: depression FACTS: skates to school when he isn’t taken by benji, snorts when laughing, paces back and forth when nervous, is a terrible liar, has a photographic memory, is often seen wearing his football clothes even after practise, illegally takes college entry exams for others in exchange for money, isn’t good with girls, can’t swim, gets awkward with kids, used to shoplift, hates speaking about his family situation, has a high pain tolerance, often misses classes because of family issues, feels happiest when he’s with benji, might be smart but often doesn’t get a hint & often wears the same things two days in a row

LIFESTYLE

HOME ADDRESS: trailer # 18, holmes ave, clarendon hills, illinois, usa BORN: clarendon hills, illinois, usa RAISED: clarendon hills, illinois, usa VEHICLE: trailer PHONE: iphone 4s LAPTOP/COMPUTER: none PETS: dog ( rufus )

HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATION: clarendon hills high school MIDDLE SCHOOL EDUCATION: clarendon hills middle school  EXPERIENCE: barista at bombobear

RELIGION: creedless MISDEMEANORS: shop-lifting DRUGS: weed ( regularly ), mushrooms ( experimented ), lsd ( tried ) SMOKES: occasionally  ALCOHOL: socially DIET: standard

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: heteroromantic homoromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual homosexual AVAILABILITY: single EXES: maeve finley ( 18 )

LANGUAGES: english

PHOBIAS: thalassophobia HOBBIES: skating, football, getting high, playing ps4, watching movies & going to the gym TRAITS: + intelligent, loyal & honest, - jealous, cowardly & awkward SOCIAL MEDIA: instagram & snapchat

FAVOURITE

LOCATION: lake SPORTS TEAM: chicago bears SPORTS: football, skating & gym GAME: call of duty, the witcher, god of war, marvel’s spider-man, final fantasy & assassin’s creed MUSIC: rap / rnb / electronic SINGER: machine gun kelly, lucas joyner, post malone, travis scott & logic SHOWS: prison break, suits, black mirror & breaking bad MOVIES: catch me if you can, limitless, the hunger games, the butterfly effect & american pie FOOD: burgers BEVERAGE: ice tea COLOR: blue

CHARACTER

WESTERN ZODIAC: cancer CHINESE ZODIAC: snake HOGWARTS HOUSE: ravenclaw GOALS/DESIRES: get out of clarenon hills & have a family on his own

[ao3feed-clintbarton]

by Builder

Clint’s cheeks go pink. “Let’s not bring that up half an hour before my wedding, alright?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nat says sarcastically. “You going all stodgy family man already? I thought you’d at least make it through the honeymoon before you gave up the ghost.”

Nat makes to head into the bathroom for a wet comb, but Clint grabs her arm. His calloused hand wraps all the way around her wrist and then some. “Hey,” he says, his smile slowly dropping into something more serious. “Nothing’s gonna change, ok?” Clint blinks, and Nat sees her silhouette reflected back in his eyes. “I’m not giving up the ghost. Alright Casper?” The corners of his mouth spring back into a grin.

Nat doesn’t want to smile, but she can’t help herself. It started off as a learned response, but now it’s her natural reaction when she’s about to cry.

“Here.” Clint gives her arm a tug, and Nat trips into his knees. He pulls her onto his lap and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. A chaste, brotherly kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

Words: 1772, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Creedless Assassins

Fandoms: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Clint Barton, Laura Barton

Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov

Additional Tags: Sickfic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Weddings, Smoking, Addiction, Self-Harm, Vomiting, Self-Induced Vomiting, NOT in an eating disorder context, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship

[builder051]

And Natasha wins the poll!

One more q…

I’m planning on writing tomorrow.

[builder051]

Creedless assassins verse for the Sunday game - Clint

Well, besides being a not-quite-middle-aged man with a terrible work/life balance, caffeine addiction, possible hearing loss, YOLO attitude, and a tendency to be pussywhipped, he’s fine. Totally fine.

I mean, seriously, he puts on a good face. He just scrambles behind the scenes. Clint would use therapy sessions as story time. I’m sure he’d have some good yarns about “That time that I…”

What he’s actually suffering from is probably mounting stress with symptoms compounded by a lack of routine and self-care. Not that he’d want to do anything about it. I wouldn’t be able to cure him either, but I’d suggest he cash in on those vacation days? Pick up some authentic piñon roast or some Kona beans to grind so he’ll literally wake up and smell the coffee? Throw a folding hairbrush and some Old Spice in a dopp kit with a pair of ear plugs and maybe a little Viagra? Ask his super secret contacts to put his wife’s number under the protected network?

I think Clint would benefit from some minor self-indulgence. It’s all in the little things, right?

[builder051]

Whumpmas in July 2022: Day 18: "Make me" (AKA Farmhouse Nights, completed 07 August 2022)

Barton Fam (canon ships) leaning heavily into Creedless Assassins

WARNINGS: drug use/abuse (with little/no context), vomit, blood, swearing...

__________________

Nat shows up in the middle of the night, her black leather glove applying the perfect amount of friction against the humidity haze on the sliding glass door out to the porch. Her movements are silent, and she would've made it in, and possibly even out as well, if Clint hadn't been up for diaper duty and decided on a random detour through the kitchen.

What is the use of a programmable coffee maker when you don't pre-set it to welcome you downstairs with the irresistible sputter sound and scent of... way better than Holiday Inn...?

All Clint plans to do is tap a few buttons, lay out his and Laura's favorite mugs--World's Best Dad is his, of course. He still hasn't figured out why his wife is so enamoured with the grainy, blown-up map and its references to the most common tropical birds found in each region. He glares at the cockatoo with the neon mohawk, daring it to tell him why it and all its' bird friends are trying to entrap his wife.

Clint doesn't get an answer, though. What he gets is a slight change in the shade of darkness behind him. Clint can tell it's not in the house. Anxiety makes prickles up the back of his neck. He supposes he's armed, if two ceramic mugs and Nate's walkie-talkie style monitor count for anything. Maybe if he pulls the antenna off and grabs the sink sprayer, it'll make an electrical charge--

But, no. Clint would recognize her silhouette anywhere. New hairstyle, swollen with hits to the face, stooped and bony like a drowned rat who's been undercover far too long...

Clint punches the cancel button on the coffee pot, and directs it to boil water instead. He has a feeling they're going to need something. Nothing he's observed can possibly be good.

He meets Nat at the threshold to the back door. She doesn't lift her foot quickly enough to clear the sliding glass tracks that separate deck from carpet. She seems to hang in midair, gloved fingers stuck to the glass like some kind of rain forest animal at a zoo.

At least she's not a bird, squawking and flapping wings in face. Probably making him sneeze and disrupting all forms of communication.

No, he'll do that verbally. "Hey," Clint says softly, trying to be neutrally welcoming as he gets a good look at her. Nat has blown pupils and a shiny track of something whitish-clear running from her nose toward her upper lip. She seems to be tipping on her feet.

Clint isn't sure if she's collapsing because he's there to catch her, or if she's just collapsing. Either way, Nat's movement trips the motion sensor, and the UV-bright industrial fixture on the side of the house. Light, brighter than daylight hitting snow, blasts the deck and pours halfway across the living room.

"Ohmygod." Nat goes tense as her body attempts to wad itself up against Clint's shoulder. She cringes and doesn't let go of the tight contraction, tremors running up and down her spine and through the muscles in her arms.

"Whoa, hey," Clint soothes. He quickly closes the door, then wraps both arms around Nat.

He might be lying, though. All Clint's done is made sure the house doesn't get dank with the moist summer heat or ravaged by mosquitos --and even raccoons-- who would probably be happy to eat out his fridge. Or his children.

Clint's protective instincts swell, and the memories of missions gone sour, injuries for both of them, and random illnesses--or whatever they used to cover for events best left unexplained. The house is a beacon. He's probably blown Nat's cover, as well as whatever Home Depot bills as shatterproof glass for home installation. Clint's not eager to actually test the truth of the advertizing.

He hates smart outlets and AIs in the home, he really does, but Laura wanted the technology. For security. Clint can't blame her for that. Maybe, just this once, it'll prove itself useful.

"Alexa," Clint says, just loud enough to be heard clearly. "Blackout."

All the lights cut out immediately. Not only the flares on the deck, but the nightlights as well. The spotlight over the kitchen sink. Even the weird humming curly bulb hanging from the laundry room ceiling.

Nat lifts her head a fraction of an inch to look blearily up at Clint.

"What'd you do?" she asks. Her shadowed face shows confusion. Perhaps she was startled. Not firing on all cylinders. Unwell, certainly. It's the how and the why that aren't so obvious.

"Turned off the lights," Clint explains, trying to keep his voice devoid of sarcasm. Drugged, concussed, whatever--he wouldn't appreciate being spoken to in that way if the roles were reversed.

"Mm." Nat's brows angle down to form a more serious expression. She presses her lips tightly together and drops her forehead back to Clint's shoulder.

Clint assumes understanding, for the moment, at least. It'll come out eventually. Probably, well, after it comes up.

Nat will talk, eventually. At least a little. Clint's known her most of his life now. Longer than Laura. The kids. He has the patience it takes to let Nat unravel when she's in such sorry shape.

"You not feeling so good?" Clint asks.

He knows not to leave the question hanging without providing options. "Want some water? Coffee? I have breakroom quality instant."

Nat makes the cringe again, though she hasn't entirely straightened up from the first one. The top of her head barely comes to Clint's chin now. A damp spot is appearing on his shirt between his shoulder and collarbone. She's perspiring. Maybe clammy. Clint sweeps Nat's hair behind her ear and gently touches the back of her neck, just to check. Clammy it is. Her skin is hot and sticky, and Clint knows it's not just from being out in the summer air.

"Want some water?" Clint pushes.

Nat looks up, blinks. When her eyes meet Clint's again, they're full of guilt. A drip is collecting at the edge of her nostril, too. Dark. Viscous.

"I think--actually--" Nat gulps, then leans back a little, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. "I might--"

Clint has her balanced by the touch of two fingers, countering the weight of her smaller body with just a couple of pressure points on her spine. Nat's dirty sneakers seem to prefer positioning on top of Clint's feet instead of the floor.

Though Nat's words were tentative, Clint's been in this situation about a hundred times too many. If he wasn't already immune to gross as an assassin, he would've had to buck up bigtime as a dad.

The beginning of the pseudo retching makes Nat's throat strain both visually and audibly. That's what sparks their assisted stumble-sprint toward the hallway bathroom.

Laura meets them there, a flashlight already set up on the edge of the tub. She raises the toilet seat and ring and gives them a quick wipe down.

"The hell?" Clint asks, but Laura doesn't look up. She pulls the towels from the bar and layers them over the tile floor.

"I don't know. Intuition?"

Laura tries for a quick grin, but Nat dry heaves, and her body crumples into a position that's something between fetal and animalistic. Her knees and elbows bend, but she hasn't made it past the vanity. Clint has to practically pitch her to the toilet. Not too roughly, he hopes.

Laura immediately coddles her, wrangling Nat's hair out of the way and stroking her back while she vomits up mostly nothing.

Clint isn't sure what to do with himself. He stands with hip and shoulder against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his forehead creased with worry.

"This isn't--" Clint finally tries to say, but Nat gags again, and he pauses as if she's taking her speaking turn. "You gotta give her some water or something."

"N-nnn..." Nat shakes her head as she spits. Lines of mucous seem to refuse to detach from her lip. Strands of tinted yuck run from the toilet back into her, probably from a clog deep in her throat.

"I'm hesitant to give her anything she doesn't want..." Laura tears off a few sheets of toilet paper and hands them to Nat with a meaningful look.

Nat sighs and shakily holds the toilet paper beneath her nose as she squeezes it with the other hand. Blood bubbles out, mixed with something that looks yellowish and highly infected.

"That," Clint says, unable to contain himself, "Wants an antibiotic."

"Well." Laura stretches to stand on her kneecaps so she can slide the door of the medicine cabinet with her fingertips. She scans the bottles and boxes for a moment, then tips one down and catches it perfectly in her palm. "Tonight, it's getting this."

"Oh, and you're doing a full work up, too, right?" Clint knows immediately he shouldn't have shared his thoughts. It's just that he loves his wife. He loves Nat. Fuck it, there's no excuse.

Laura sticks her tongue out in an impressive display of exactly what face their children are not allowed to make at each other. "Make me."

"I--" Clint runs his hand over his head. "Fuck."

Nat strains to retch, and this time a smattering of bile comes up, seeming to shock her as much as anyone else.

"We're not OD'ing tonight," Laura says simply, her tone plain and calm. "A drop of baby ibuprofen for the fever. After your stomach is under control. But how about we lay off the meds for a while?"

The words seem directed at Nat, but Clint knows they're meant for him.

"Ugh." Nat sputters into the toilet. Every sound she makes echoes to decibels louder than it really is. "S hard."

"I know, sweetheart." Laura lays her cheek on top of Nats head, then unscrews the tiny cap of the bottle in her hand. It's a dropper and bulb style, meant for calculating exact doses for different sizes of small humans. "Just a little. Couple tiny drops. Under your tongue. You probably won't taste it."

Clint tries not to wrinkle his nose, even though no one is looking at him anymore. Why do kids' meds only come in fucking orange and grape? There's a reason behind his general avoidance of Creamsicles.

"I don't know--" Nat pauses and shakes overlong bangs out of her eyes. They all wait out a hiccup, then she continues. "If I'm-- you know. Done?"

"You probably--" Laura starts, but Nat micro heaves, and Laura guards her shoulders to keep her from collapsing and getting a faceful of contaminated water. "Whoops."

Clint's brain spins on, imagining the scene continuing to play out. Nat, exhausted. Bleary on lack of sleep and raging fever and the remnants of a wicked high. Swaying and losing her depth perception. Her face breaking the surface tension of liquid in some public toilet. Maybe at a gas station. Or some creeper's penthouse suite in a downtown hotel.

Nat coughs a little. "I wanna be done," she croaks. She hocks and spits weakly, then breaks her white knuckled grip on the toilet rim to catch more blood and mucous escaping her nose. "I wanna be done. I'm so done."

A couple more drips plonk loudly into the toilet, but Clint can clearly see Nat's eyes squeezed shut. Tears quiver at the ends of her eyelashes. They let go and stream down her cheeks.

"Ok," Laura eases Nat back onto her heels. Ok, good."

Clint feels Laura's blistering look before it comes, a silent 'do something' from his wife. He knows he'll be ripe for a talkdown later. It's not that he's objectint. At the moment, he's just... not participating.

He's not just standing there watching, even though it probably looks like that. Clint's mind has been to panic and back twice now, and he's still been able to blast through his memorized safety checklists, both military and civilian. He has police and fire codes in there too, but they don't seem necessary.

If Nat had someone on her tail, she probably would've said so. Clint wants to ask her how she got here, but it still isn't the right time. No longer in danger of dying by disgorgement of internal organs. That's good. He can mark that off, though he needs a new protocol for Nat's care. Next he'll work on not dying by dehydration. And comforting.

The hand towel is hanging over the rack with one corner. Clint's secretly glad to skip the tidiness lecture for whichever kid left it that way. That's mostly Laura's deal. Clint turns on the tap and lets it run to cool-not-cold, then dampens the towel and wrings it out.

"Hey, Nat?" Clint asks hesitantly, though he doesn't wait for permission before getting on his knees and invading the towel-carpeted corner between toilet and bathtub.

"Mm?" Nat makes an attempt at shifting herself so she's perpendicular to Laura instead of leaning back against her. She rubs her eyes with the fits that isn't smeared with the remnants of nosebleed. Then she looks to Clint.

Nat's pupils are huge, and the whites of her eyes look pink, overtaken with tiny, irritated veins. In the just the last few minutes her body has gone through so much. The painful release of unbearable pressure. And Clint knows they've just managed to tap the surface. The pain, the hurt, the bad. He knows it's still in her.

"Cool down and clean up?" Clint lifts the damp hand towel a little, and, with the slightest nod of Nat's head, he lifts a few stubborn curls and lays it over the back of her neck.

Nat shivers. "Mm." She hums again, though Clint can now hear her teeth chattering.

"Ok?" Clint checks.

"Yeah." Nat's word is short, but Clint's inclined to believe her. Barely controlled nausea. Pain. Tripping. He's willing to take it.

"Ok, good." Clint smoothes the compress over Nat's shoulder.

Laura nods in the background and goes back to making sense of the indistinct measurements on the dropper for the baby ibuprofen.

Nat swallows with difficulty and distaste.

Clint moves the wet hand towel again, using the edge to wipe her chin and casually prepare to catch anything that needs emergency exit.

"M ok." Nat sniffs, then forces a smile Clint knows is fake.

"That was your lie," Clint says, starting in on the gummy mix of blood, mucous, and cocaine smeared under Nat's nose, nearly to her lip. He can't imagine how awful that would taste. Even compared to bitter, false-grape medication. "I get two truths now, right?"

Nat flinches at the rub of terry cloth against her skin. Her eyes show annoyance rather than pain, though.

"I know it doesn't feel great, but, wherever you're going next, I'm not gonna let you go looking like a horror movie."

Pot shots are bad, and Laura will start clubbing him if he gets close to causing damage. But hitting Nat in the dignity, now, when she has hardly a shred of it left, Clint thinks of it as the tactical equivalent to a spoonful of sugar.

"Ok." Nat swallows again, then softens her face. The skin Clint's washing goes rubbery, and he wonders if the shift means more pain or less.

Once he's far enough out of Nat's personal space to let her talk without feeling smothered, Clint returns to their game.

"Can I ask--?" He starts, even though the improper grammatical convention will probably get him labeled 'dunce.' If not by Nat, then certainly by Laura.

"Just did, dumbass." Nat's voice is a monotone, but the dimple in her cheek twitches as she tears more toilet paper to assist in cleaning herself up.

Dumbass--it's fairly equivalent to his expectation, and Clint's happy to eat it. Tonight.

"Did you, uh," Clint slows down, then decides to blurt out his question. No reason to lag, now that they've gotten over offending each other. Or Clint thinks they have. "Finish the mission?" Adding 'the' is a good touch; it makes things sound...respectable? He's trying.

Nat tosses her wadded toilet paper into the bin, then experimentally taps the pad of her thumb against that of her index finger. She's still gooey. Clint sees the thousand of so tiny spiderwebs of...whatever non-Newtonian fluid she's gotten into. He wants to take her to wash her hands, but Clint waits silently.

Finally, Nat murmurs, "No. I'm on leave."

"Oh. Ok." Clint breaks all attempts at eye contact. He puts his gaze firmly on a loose thread hanging from the hand towel. Clint can't actually remember if he was staring into Nat's nightcrawler pupils when he asked the question. He can feel Laura lasaring the spot on his head where he hopes he isn't growing a bald patch.

Last thing. Then Clint will stop. He swears it. He will. Dumbass he may be, but Nat knows he keeps his word. "Are--?"

"Clint. Babe." Laura cuts him off in a clipped warning.

"One more and I'm done." Clint sits back on his heels and reaches for the vanity, proving an intent to retreat. "Just one more question."

Nat gives a short exhale. "Yeah," she says. "It's-- Just go ahead and do it."

Clint pauses. Long enough, he hopes, that he isn't being overly intrusive. Galumphing. Stepping on toes, like Nat did back in the living room. She's a pinweight, though, so it's not as if it counts for anything.

"Are you safe?" Clint looks at Nat, even though she isn't looking at him. He wants to seem interested--attentive?-- Fuck, it's all the wrong term. He wants it to be ok if she chooses to meet his gaze.

"I..." Nat says very quietly. "Yeah. Now that I'm. Uh." A trickle of mucous-thinned blood starts to escape Nat's nose again. "Fuck."

She clamps in under her wrist before making use of the hand towel, just as Clint did earlier. "Now that I'm--" Nat's voice breaks, ant there's no leadup. She's just bawling.

Laura cradles her when she starts coughing. None of them--probably including Nat-- seem to know what's going to happen next. Bodily fluids, they're prepared for. Everything else? Clint does wonder.

Perhaps a minute passes, and Nat struggles a little to find Clint again in what has to be hazy vision. "I--" She blinks at him, then reaches out with her hand.

"Yeah?" Clint gets close again, taking Nat's fingers in his and caring about nothing than what she's about to say.

"S-safe." Nat stutters. "Now that I'm h-here."

"Aw, Nat." Clint smiles. His eyes might be welling up, but he can't exactly tell. He definitely isn't feeling the need to blink as often as Nat seems to.

Nat flings herself on him, both arms wrapped around Clint's neck. He squeezes her back. Tightly. But not too tightly.

"Where--?" Clint starts at a whisper, placing his palm between Nat's shoulder blades.

"Hey." Laura punches him in the side of the head, just forcefully enough to get Clint's attention. "You're out of questions." Her mouth makes a hard line, but there's still a twinkle in her eye. "Dumbass."

Clint sighs.

Laura cracks a grin. "My turn?"

Nat makes a tiny movement against Clint. He fears it to be another retch, but a glance downward shows raised eyebrows. Then he hears the echo of her throaty laugh.

"Be my guest," Clint says, winking at Laura.

"Where are you sleeping tonight, sweetheart?"

Clint tries not to feel had; Laura's pulled he words directly out of his mouth. He quickly switches to pass/fail thinking. Mission accomplished. Messy--in all the ways-- as it may have been.

"Um. In your room?" Nat asks quietly.

"Sheets are already on the trundle." Laura says. "If you think you can handle a few drops of ibuprofen, we can med you and tuck you in."

Nat's hesitation seems to have dried up with her tears. She nods into Clint's shoulder. "Yes," she says. "I'd like that."

[builder051]

I'm out to cut the junkie

With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

Beck, Loser

_________________________

Creedless Assassins (with a touch of Nat on fire).

Ehhhh, trigger warnings--canon typical violence, drug use, alcohol, addiction, mentions of sex, mentions of dangerous behavior, mentions of death (of a villain), mentions of depression (inc. feelings of not worth living anymore--NOT suicidal), mental illness/ED-esque stuff--Basically the usual for both of these 'verses, but maybe amped up a tiny bit.

_____________________

They've been assigned a mission. Again. To stand around the third level of the parking garage, not awkwardly at at all with their full leather battle dress and weapons held at the ready.

Eventually the target would raise the blinds on the window to his office, probably when the shadows of sunlight begin to fall in the other direction over the rest of the cityscape. Sometime around 12:07 pm Eastern Standard.

They're in New York, after all, and she's something of a specialist in watching sunlight fade to moonlight and back again. It's exceptionally glorious to watch while lying on one's back in a sleeping bag, under the distorted stretch of plexiglass that protected her temporary bed from the worst of the elements. The worst of everything. A few pills. The vodka minis from the bottom of her pocket. Nat's past, her training, became more of an insurance policy. She wouldn't get hurt. She didn't last time. And the seduction of observing, absorbing the things that went on, all over the world, overpowered the needs of mere humans. Nat slept with her eyes open, gazing at half-constellations lost mostly to city dust. She slept stock-still, laid out flat, allowing fate and liquor to warm her through the night.

Nat's been home for... at least a day, now. And back to the office. Back from leave, or finished dawdling through her last mission--she's already forgotten.

"Ok." Clint checks the time on the many-handed watch face embedded in his left arm guard. "It's 11:55."

"Mm." Nat hopes her acknowledgement is audible. Sleeping in her own bed, though warmer, is a lot more dull than... camping.

--

The bottle of cheap rosé she had before dinner hadn't agreed with bagel and Velveeta she'd attempted to fry for an evening meal. All that had produced, though, was a lump of greasy, rock-hard bread with molten cheese product dribbling out of the hole in the middle. And the unleashing of the shrill sound of the smoke detector, which was all the way across the apartment, stuck to the ceiling above the half-wall separating living room from the bedroom. Waving a fistfull of junk mail at the thing made it shut up, but then Nat was distracted.

She jammed as much bagle into her mouth as possible, then tried to breathe and hack at the same time as rough edges of bread scraped her upper palate and a string of neon, oversalted, and still boiling non-cheese ran down her throat.

Nat heard the frying pan fall off the stove and the junk mail flop on top of it. She hopes the shopping flyers won't start to sizzle and start an actual flame. Or maybe she doesn't care. Her renters' insurance covers fire, she thinks. She could get a pay out. The smell of old smoke, suspicious ceiling stains... she's lived in worse conditions.

She makes it to the bathroom, but vomits beside the toilet. The whole room is just three feet across and barely longer than it is wide, so it's not an awful miss. Not the kind she feels guilty about; it won't require a lot of cleanup.

Unable to focus on anything but the blisteringly painful predicament in her throat, Nat's hand lands directly in her first deposit of sickness, sending her skidding on her knees and coming down hard on the toilet seat with her chin.

"Fuck." Her uvula is in some kind of limbo imprisonment, unable to force a swallow or retract enough to let the bile- soaked bread escape with the rapidly solidifying Velveeta. The sweet bite of the rosé has migrated upward as well, giving Nat an internal punch in the gut to remind her she is already full of liquid if she needs to wash herself out.

Nat bows her head and folds her arms at the back of her neck, shoulders safely tucking around her ears. Then her slimy fingertips make contact with her skin, and she shudders, then pushes a retch with her abdominal muscles.

It takes fingers at first, then hacking and stretching her neck and lips, but Nat finishes. Yanks the towel off the back of the bathroom door. Cleans her hands. The floor. Then she folds the threadbare terry cloth into quarters and mashes it against her face.

She's red from exertion. Her eyes are puffy. Watering against their will. The last of the wine, far digested by now, adds fogginess to the floatiness that Nat's always pretended was fun, like fairy wings, instead of the mark that she was about to pass out.

It had been fun, like a game, to flutter back to her dormitory and into the nest of her covers, where she could fall back asleep before the nighttime minder would hear a rustle and think about raising a brow.

Now, though, Nat's to-do list pops up behind her eyelids, flashing red in urgency. Set an alarm. Turn on her ringer. Is she safe?

That one's been hard to answer. For a while now. But she has guns and knives and an empty wine bottle and a frying pan down there somewhere, filled, sadly with greasy, defeated-looking newsprint.

--

Last night's wine had soothed Nat into passable sleep. She woke to her alarm, dressed, drove in, and made the breakroom's first pot of morning's coffee. It was meant to be a friendly, 'I'm back,' gesture to Clint, the most vigorous consumer of the breakroom coffee, and therefore, usually the one doing the brewing--not to mention the carafe scrubbing, grounds sweeping, filter finding, and peforming the endless tasks that went along with it.

She stood and waited for him to show up so they could both pour steaming styrofoam cups and clink them together over the manila envelope that held the information for their next assignment.

Nat may have made the coffee, even the one who ceremonially downed a cup, black, no sugar, on a raw, tender stomach, but she was not going to hold the stupid track of formality for long. God, she's been at work for two hours and she wants a hit of heroin and a flop in that one alley behind the mom-and-pop coffee and doughnuts, where the air smells amazing and somehow her other senses eat it up and fill her with unbeguiled happiness...except, of course, for the tiny sliver of brain that remains aware that if she gives into the addiction too often, she will lose her job, her income, her security clearance, her friends... her best friend. And probably her life. Not that she cares so much about that part.

"11:56." Clint reads the time out slowly. He glances to Nat. Where Nat ought to be, that is.

She's four of five yards back, leaning against a pillar, a gun tucked carelessly into the thigh pocket of her leggings. She flips the bronze caps that hold the bite cartridges in her wristbands, open, then closed. Then open...

"Hey!" Clint taps the end of his bow on the concrete floor, where it makes a brief loud note that echoes well beyond its appropriate talking-turn. "Are you paying attention?"

Nat raises her head. Which is aching.

Tylenol? Excedrin? If she can get into medical, maybe... Xanax? Fiorocet? Oxy. Now we're talking. A little vodka and, hm. Nat thinks. What's gentle on the puking system? Protein shake? Vending machine, how convenient. But does she have cash? Who can she hit up who won't be suspicious...? Peter Parker, maybe, if he's around. But asking for a kid's pocket change so she can do drugs...? It's the damn headache, really...

"Yes." Nat rolls her eyes. Which hurts. "But nobody sets alarm clocks for lunch."

Clint, who, in the past few seconds, has taken up his ready position again, scowls back at her. "I thought you liked target practice." There's a tinge of a joke in his words, but Nat's highly done with being buddy-buddy. Her claws and ability to bully and belittle are an inch below the surface, and she doesn't see them getting through the day without raising a little bad blood.

"I always win against you," Nat says plainly. She pats her gun a couple of times. "I don't have to stand there and wind up for ten years, like you do."

"Come on. You only win 'cause I let you." Clin offers what may be a sincere or deeply sarcastic grin.

"Why didn't you just bring a cadet?" Nat shrugs. She does not mean to snort. "If it's all just target practice."

"Above their pay grade," Clint answers simply. "Did you even read the brief?"

"Do you think I'm stupid or something?" She makes enough of a stony glare to cast the question seriously. Like part of an interrogation

Nat had glanced through the papers of the brief as they rode in the nondescript black SUV on the way to their start point. Nat looked at bolded words. Building diagrams. She sped-read diagonally top to bottom, then bottom to top on the adjacent page, collecting maximum information with minimum effort, and trying as hard as possible not to get carsick.

For all intents and purposes, she has read the brief. Nat's method of keeping time, though, is unadulterated by to-the-minute school bus arrivals and ice-cream shops that closed at precisely 5:30. Pointing this out to Clint... would be god's honest truth. It would also make him hate her. Probably miss all his shots. Be downgraded for poor performance. Maybe give Nat the cold shoulder for as long as they lived. She lived. Because he had reasons to carry on.

Clint turns slightly, so he's no longer looking at Nat over his shoulder. He's at a perfect 45 degrees, giving his attention to neither Nat nor the target. Which, in Nat's opinion, is exceptionally ill thought through--Not only are the 12 and 6 open to attack, but so are the 3 and 9. The target is at 1:30, and Nat's at 10:30, which, though her posture and the height of the wall of the parking garage currently form a blockade, gives her the most direct line of fire to the window of the target that, sometime in the next 13-odd minutes, will raise his window blinds and drop dead, never knowing what hit him. It'll be a bullet, though. Nat's fairly certain. But pointing that out to Clint... Well, she'll hold her tongue until he's had his chance to speak.

"I..." Clint sighs. "I think you... sometimes..." He pauses again. "You do some really stupid shit." Clint presses his lips together. "Not to say that, like, anyone else doesn't do...stuff."

Nat straightens up a little so she can see the target's window, still closed up, over Clint's shoulder.

"Hm." She doesn't think Clint sees her looking. She doesn't think Clint is aware of how much of her job she performs on autopilot. "Work's, you know, hard," Nat says. "When you've got...other stuff..."

Nat chooses to let her voice trail off. To leave Clint with the ghost of the threat, the knowledge that she has the ability to say more, to hold it over his head. She'd never do it. Clint knows she won't. But, then again, she does some stupid shit.

"I-- fuck..." Clint lets the end of his bow touch the floor again. He holds the top of it, and a few arrows, tightly between his fists, then lowers his forehead as if in shame.

Nat stays quiet. He's being a sucker, though. He's being wildly unsafe. Clint's putting himself first, putting his reputation first, putting Nat's perception of him first, flashing his honor... and leaving himself completely vulnerable. Both of them. It's he, now who has no interest in the mission.

Nat had meant to get under his skin, but she'd controlled herself. She hadn't unleashed her worst. She didn't mean to destroy him, her buddy, her mission partner.

But it's a catastrophe anyway. Nat fucks things up. She wonders vaguely how many shots of vodka she can take before a nice dose of oxy makes her fall asleep.

"The shadow doesn't cover the other half of the city this time of year until 12:07 or so." It's a declarative statement. She's not telling Clint he's wrong. That his ready position was unjustified. And certainly not that he doesn't know how to tell time.

There's gatorade in the vending machine, too. The big ones. One quart? Hopefully it's restocked. Nat hates the orange flavor. But a hangover buster's a hangover buster, all the same.

"Clint?" Nat taps her wristband against the butt of her gun, which remains in her pocket. The clank is sharp and harsh, and it doesn't produce an echo like Clint's bow against the ground.

"Ah. Yeah..." He shakes his head and blinks a few times.

Nat checks the shadow against the row of skyscrapers set a block in front of the target's window. It's past noon, she gauges. They have 5 minutes, maybe. At least that's how long they have to get back into ready positions.

"Hey! Mind the time!" Nat thinks about adding 'dipshit,' but it would only be a waste of glares and pokes and uncertainty of whether they've made it back to equal ground.

"Ah, kill me for this on," Nat mumbles under her breath. She pulls her gun from the side pocket of her leggins, letting the elastic snap satisfactorily back into shape, nary a wrinkle remaining. Nat glances quickly from the nearest parked car to the entry to the stairwell to the architectural pillars to the handicapped-accessible loading zones to the trash and recycling bins. Then she draws in a breath, gracefully lifts her shoulders, and turns in her heels. She still shoots best from a natural first position. Not forced into impossible turnout, but balanced, steady, and-- she pulls the trigger.

A perfectly round hole, just the size of a #2 pencil, appears in the ceiling above them. Nat had aimed about two feet in front of herself and five or so west of Clint, so neither one of them was actually in danger. The effect, though had them both scrambling.

"What the fuck? Why did you do that?" Clint yells toward Nat, leaping away from a shallow crack forming around the hole. A few bits of rubble, pea gravel, really, fell to the garage floor and scattered.

"Well, I got your attention." Nat squeezes past Clint and leans her elbows on the garage wall, not exactly in a ready stance, but closer and more attentive to the target than Clint, who is still trying to comb dust out of his hair and eyebrows.

"You could have fucking killed us!" Clint yells.

Nat finds his voice quite easy to ignore. The echo makes it like the cry of an animal, or the sound of a foghorn, let off once, then carrying on through the power of physics.

"SHIELD doesn't have a lot of money for damage settlements," Clint says crossly when he finally appears at Nat's side again. "If you make that thing collapse, I'm not gonna cover for you."

"It's not going to collapse." Nat rolls her eyes. "But, hey, look at that tower." She points. "Yes the migraine-inducing one that's made of polarized sunglass lenses."

"Uh..." Clint squints.

"See the cell tower on top of it?"

"Like, over there?" It's close enough. Not worth the time splitting hairs.

"For the love of the fucking birdbrain." Nat shakes her head. "Mr. wristwatch. Mr. timekeeper." Nat pauses, but Clint doesn't answer. "Sundial much?"

"Didn't those die out with the Romans or something?" Clint keeps watching the skyline, though.

"Yeah, along with bows and arrows," Nat replies flatly. "Big HYDRA officials who are also CEOs of obscure companies that manufacture dangerous chemicals with premature human trials? People who work for themselves don't take their lunch hour because the teacher told them to line up."

"Ok." Clint assumes a ready position. Then aims at the window beside the one they're supposed to be targeting. He huffs when Nat uses two fingers to nudge his arrow for a better shot. "What am I missing here?"

Adderall, Nat thinks. Or a 17th cup of coffee.

But the latter has just as much of a chance of becoming a problem instead of a pick-me-up, and Clint could be accused of public exposure, or something else random and outdated, and those are the kind of charges that flashing creds or posing for a selfie don't change a grumpy policeman's mind about the issuing of a ticket. And there's no way Nat would cover for that, either.

She wonders if Clint would cover for her if she pulled out a mini and had herself her own jolt of liquid courage. But Nat's pretty sure the bottle at the bottom of her bag has become a vestibule for used needles. She has no problem re-using a needle, as long as it's hers, only hers, and has only ever been hers. But taking a shot has only one relevant meaning at the moment, and Nat is sure she would not enjoy the introduction of a piece of slim, pointy metal to her gastrointestinal system, no matter how small and easy to swallow.

Sometimes people do stupid things.

Sometimes they do them on purpose.

The three linear points of the recycling bin, the architectural pillar, and the center of the handicapped-accessible loading area, when mapped on a diagonal, created the hypotenuse that perfectly fit the endpoints of the right angle created by the right angled corner consisting of the line stretching from bumper of the last parked car in the row to the top of Clint's head, and the line running from Clint's to the entrance of the stairwell. Each level of the parking garage is arranged in roughly the same way, or the same way in reverse as levels build upon levels. As the area of ceiling where Nat sent her bullet had nothing underneath it (well, except Clint and herself as possible casualties), it would follow that nothing meaningful would be taking up the same space on the level above them. The crosswalk toward the elevator. The mounded rock supporting a "one-way" sign. Another trash can. At worst, one of those corners marked off with diagonal lines where parking isn't allowed, but someone will try squeezing in their smart car...

But that one was worth the risk. And it was the risk, Nat supposes, that made it stupid. She has nothing to say about her geometry. It's been something of a mind-soother lately. Even though it falls away quickly to thoughts about booze. There's a kid that hangs around the office, usually in blue leggings and a letterman jacket, and Nat doesn't have a soft spot for him. Not at all. He is allowed the blue BIC pens and blank computer paper from her cubicle, though. But he may not have cardstock. And under no circumstances may he sit in her ergonomic swivel chair. But, for some reason, there are always folding chairs stacked neatly at the end of the hallway. And Nat's gained a pack of alcohol wipes, low-profile, perfectly sized to nestle beside her stapler, and claiming 99.99% germ-removal efficiency. Without the harsh smell of medical-grade disinfectant.

She hasn't told Clint. No need for more vulnerabilities, more worries, more secret confessions. No need for private codes, silent pleads for help, forgiveness when there's no promise it won't happen again.

Because that's what stupidity is, right? Making poor choices. Nat, putting needles in her arms, and Clint, refusing a medevac because he won't leave her alone in the field for five minutes without his protection, even if it's wild and delirious and completely off target. It's Budapest, it's the Chitauri, it's the time they slept together when neither of them was even drunk. Or high. The hotel room was just fucking cold. And...stupid happened. But Clint's clean, and Nat's barren, so, it's not like actual stupid happened.

"Ok." Nat calculates something like 2 minutes left. "Grown-ups with boring jobs have blinds in their offices," she says quickly, not giving Clint a chance to butt in. "Blinds go down when it's sunny. They go up when it's shady."

She sounds like a self-righteous bitch talking to an idiot, but it's important that this is communicated, even if it's simple. They live on jets and in cubicles and cheap hotels with blackout curtains.

"You can't calculate the target's movements by guessing when he stands up to go to lunch."

Nat hopes there isn't an implication that Clint's original strategy was useless. She likes to be right. She likes to be first. She does not like to see her partner, her friend, drinking the cold dregs of breakroom coffee and leaning against the back bumper of his car, which is idling while the stereo blasts something like Toto's "Africa."

In pure, stupid selfishness, it makes her wild once she gets a chance to hit up. The lame "text me," or hesitant shoulder squeeze Nat offers Clint when he's down, it never seems to solve anything. She doesn't know how to pick him up off the floor and breathe life back into him. Not really. Clint has a wife. He has a family.

And Nat has the liquor store on the corner, the Rite Aid that doesn't ID for smokes or poor man's LSD. The residual silent toe-running from her Bolshoi training from before HYDRA took her away. It still gets her in and out of unlocked rooms with pockets full of loot. The gym. The bathroom. The vending machine. That one may take algebra, though. Nat hasn't brushed up on solving for x.

Xanax. That would be great. She'd split it with Clint, and then maybe the tension would die down enough for them to finish the mission.

"People just eat when they're hungry...?" Clint probably doesn't even realize he's talking. He gives his wristwatch a glance, seeming to startle himself. "It's twelve-oh-fucking-- we probably missed it--what the--"

"Nope, just watch the sundial." Nat assumes her ready position, front knee bent and back knee straight. Elbows locked and forearms barely touching the garage wall. She sets her sight on the center of the window. Clint... she can't spare a breath, even a thought on Clint.

Nat breathes slowly, in, and out. Her body doesn't move. Her ribcage doesn't expand. Even the smallest dancers learned early that their talent meant nothing. Obedience. Perfection. The bodice of the costume may as well be a whale-boned corset. The ballet mistress will shout if the girl in the back row parts her lips, raises her collarbones. Discipline. For... Nat gives it 90 seconds, tops.

"You know what you're doing?" This time, Clint's ready position is true.

"Mm-hm."

"What's the visual confirmation?" Clint's only checking. Not annoying the crap out of her. Probably not on purpose, anyway.

"The color of his tie."

"What's the color?"

"If you don't stop it, we are going to miss the window. Window of time, I mean."

"I don't see anything," Clint protests. "And I don't feel like you're all there, with the shooting the ceiling and everything."

Nat blinks. The only movement she allows herself to make. "Shut up and watch the sun move."

"Can you just, like, confirm--"

Nat angrily spits out her answer, her words delivered at high speed and low volume. "The tie is robin's egg blue, which is his daughter's favorite color, and the color of her backpack, which is hanging in the hallway of the private school, housed in a white marble building five blocks south and four blocks east of here. Her dad is going to die within the next minute, and she will be raised in Thailand, where her mother is from, and HYDRA and chemical company and all that shit will never touch her little life again." Another faint breath. "And people stand up when they raise their blinds, fuck you very much. If you can't figure out the rest, then--"

The number on the clock no longer matters. Nor does the slant of the sunlight, though, if it would pause, visuals would be better, thus improving the success of a shot.

It's Clint that fires first, exhaling sharply and loosing his arrow the moment the target's window shade begins to rise. He's accounting for travel time, drag, the momentum lost in a collision with glass... Perhaps, as a party, they aren't as deficient in mathematics as Nat had originally thought.

Nat holds her position, counting one half-second. Two-half seconds.

Black leather belt, shiny silver buckle, white oxford over beer belly, and just the merest flash of bright pastel blue-- Nat pulls the trigger.

Once. Twice.

Then stops. Listens.

Her instinct is to empty the barrel. Overkill. Just to be sure. But that's a whole different kind of stupid, one she has to control, lest she end up on the wrong side of the system. Out of control. Mixing her alliances. Unable to stop. Committing the kind of stupid acts that create damage far, far beyond her ability to fix. Paying a dealer in the wrong currency. Swapping a piece of clothing tagged with SHIELD's contracted manufacturer's logo.

But today, Nat's able ro reign herself in. Clint usually puts a hand on her shoulder if she's on track to do too much damage. He doesn't offer the contact, though. And Nat's not sure if she'd accept it well.

It's hard to hear anything, what with the cavernous garage behind them and the bustling city out in front, but there had evidently been a smashing of glass and a direct hit to make the kill.

Nat gazes at the remains of the window for a moment, then collects her phone to record the visual evidence of the mission accomplished. The target slumps at his thick waist, torso, head, and arms hanging out the open window, his tie dangling straight down and showing impressive blood spatter.

Clint probably broke the window, at least, if not also scoring some damage to the opponent. Nat had finished him off, as evidenced by the tie and lifeless slump.

"You're actually going to send that?" Clint asks, looking at the snapshot Nat's just taken.

Nat makes a face of disgust. "It's not for my personal photo album." She creates a new message addressed to Fury, and puts Clint's name on the CC line, just for kicks. Then she adds the photo for verification of take-down. The usual 'mission accomplished' verbiage. Then a note about the hole in the concrete of the parking garage. "Misfire," Nat types.

"And I guess I'm not supposed to mention any details?" Clint raises his brow as he reads the text Nat has just copied him on.

"Oh, go to Home Depot and buy a tube of caulk." Nat rolls her eyes. and turns away. "Weekend project, right?"

"What're you going to do this weekend? You know, assuming we don't get a back-to-back." Clint asks, with just enough pointedness to his question to make it...personal. But it's difficult to tell whether he's expecting a joke or a confession for an answer.

Nat shrugs. "Sleep in. Maybe clean my bathroom." There's no reply, so she carries on. "I got one of those, like, motivational water bottles, the ones that have the lines to help you remember to hydrate all day. I don't like tap water, though, so..."

"Our fridge has a filter." It's not an invitation, exactly. Just... words. "And I might buy the kind of glue with the fumes..." They aren't looking at each other, but the flow of the words makes things fit, if not neatly, at least back together. Stupid is as stupid does, mistakes made, rescues attempted, and x most certainly = zero.

No one's better, or faster, or stronger. No one's more vulnerable, or more protective, or better than the other. They move in unison. They cancel each other out. Partners. Buddy-buddy.

Nat might walk around the block tonight collecting trophies and charms, then relaxing and slowly delighting, then riding the fairy wings that always carry her safely to sleep.

Clint will drink coffee. Maybe pop one of the stale squares of Nicorette chewing gum out of the glove box and find an album that reminds him of community college and meeting his wife and not...trauma. He'll ask Laura to join him for intense yet brief shower sex, that will only be a little rushed, due to the need to listen for the baby monitor.

Clint will volunteer for kid duty. He'll watch Laura sleep for a few minutes, then pull out his phone before bedding down himself. 9:30, he'll decide. The kids and the dog and the cereal and the legos will all be running at full force in his world. And people like them, Earth's mightiest heroes, aren't necessarily programmed to run by the hours of the clock. But 9:30 seems reasonable, Clint thinks, for a friendly check-in.

Nat probably won't have set herself an alarm the previous night. Her ringer might not be on, either. But Clint has options. Text. Call. Video Chat.

Maybe he will offer to take her to Home Depot. Not to fix that stupid hole in the ceiling of the parking garage, though.

That's technically the job of City Works, but Clint thinks perhaps Tony Stark would enjoy the opportunity to hover in midair whilst applying nuclear-force caulk in an unfortunately phallic shaped airtight container to a concrete hole roughly the size of one's pinky finger.

No. After examining the hardware on her faucet, Clint will take Nat into town and buy her a water filter attachment. A gag gift, if anything, but he wants her to have one. Clint doubts the project will require glue; socket wrenches are more likely, and maybe a screwdriver, or some washers... But they'll hit up the adhesives aisle and pick something out. Even if it turns out to be extraneous.

Stupid? Who cares. Life goes on anyway.

[builder051]

Marvel Disabilities Celebration Week: Day 2

Creedless Assassins; takes place post-Infinity War, pre-Endgame (Diverges from Endgame quite a bit, but pulls from the canon of the comics, so maybe that's ok?)

______________________________

It starts off as a cold. At least that's what Clint says when he talks to various medical professionals about the genesis of what came next.

Steve had called it a headcold. Apparently he'd spent most of his childhood with the stuffy ears and sinuses gone to shit, exacerbated by a perpetual low grade fever and sore throat.

Nat had called it a hell cold. Maybe because it made Clint feel like hell. But probably because it made him give her a lot of hell.

Steve had tried to get them all together in a sort of bucket brigade, stopping by with soup and Kleenex whenever they happened to be at the tower. It didn't take long for Thor to start making himself scarce. Then Tony, even though the tower is technically his permanent address. Bruce turned up every other day for almost two weeks before he snapped and sent Clint an 'anonymous' email in all caps and green text, accusing him, in more efficient language, of being a poser. After that, everything fell on Nat.

"It's been almost a month," Nat says, annoyed. She lays upside down on the foot of Clint's bed, head hanging off the edge and a comic book held up an inch from her nose.

Clint coughs wetly. "Not my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

"Huh?" Clint looks up and wrinkles his nose, then puts his hand behind his ear.

"You still all congested?" Nat asks. "Because you really should be over that by now."

Clint shrugs. "It's not my face, really." He gestures to the prominent bones beneath his eyes. He's thinned out lately, so everything on him is prominent now. "It's more like my..." He claps his hands against the sides of his head.

"Ears?" Nat guesses.

Clint nods.

"You probably have an infection." There's a hint of 'duh' in Nat's voice. "With that hell cold, I wouldn't be surprised if you had some... stuff. Bronchitis. Ear infection."

"Doesn't hurt, though," Clint protests, determined to be fine, despite evidence to the contrary.

"You need to go get it checked out," Nat says. She gives Clint a hard look.

"But--"

"Humor me." Nat's expression turns to a gentle smile, even though she's on the losing end of the argument. She's giving Clint a gift, not fighting back. She must realize how awful he feels, and Clint immediately feels guilty for hiding it.

"Yeah," Clint sighs. Nat could probably tell him anything and he'd agree right now, in the vulnerable position he currently holds.

Her words make sense, though. His ears don't seem to work. Haven't all week. Maybe longer. Clint isn't sure.He doesn't need his sense of hearing much whilst he's lying in bed, all his energy absorbed in raising his body temperature enough to host the antibodies and force them to work against the intruders. Or maybe it's the other way around. Yada Yada. Clint doesn't care.

"If I make you an appointment, will you go?" Nat asks, a little desperation in her tone.

"Maybe?" Clint imbues the word with as much honesty as he can

To be completely candid, his mission days are over. SHIELD can't trust him to stick to the script in the field anymore, so he's basically defunct. They use him as a paperwork pusher, signing and stamping, because he can read and write and he's a level six.

Mission reports from [Name redacted] SHIELD Agent/Enhanced Person, passed, damages, casualty count don't phase him. Shit happened. Yeah, it sucks. The families of the dead are due recompense, lest their asses be sued (again). The success to casualty ration will be added to a long list of MS Excel data with automatic unfolding equations that define the company metrics.

Then Clint will snap up his briefcase, for god knows he has one now, a gift from Nat last Christmas. After that, he'll go home and... heat up canned soup. Maybe send a text or two. Go to bed. And wake up the next morning to do it all again.

Clint doesn't have Laura to fix his breakfast and dinner anymore. Nor does he have his children to run around in the yard with during his evenings and weekends.

His ears have been stuffy for so long now that he barely recalls Laura's voice. He thinks he holds onto her laugh, but then when he gets Nat started on a giggle fest, Clint thinks they sound eerily similar.

He's lost Lila completely. Nothing young and girlish remains in Clint's dwindling sound library, and he keeps mistaking the boys for each other, pushing Cooper back into babyhood as he tries to remember something Nathaniel said the other day before school.

Except it wasn't the other day. They vanished better than 90 days ago., and lint's been sick for at least the last month. Sometimes Clint wonders if Laura had been sick when she'd died, or been dusted or vaporized or whatever had happened. Had she been putting on a brave face to fight a fever? Had she passed on mono to her only bewedded husband? Did Laura have a secret boyfriend that no one knew about?

But no. No. Clint doesn't want to know. He thinks one more time about asking Nat, but changes his mind again, sticking to the high road.

"I need a better answer," Nat says. "If I make you an appointment, " she flips her phone between her fingers. "Will you go?"

Clint draws in his breath. "Will you take me?" he finally asks.

Nat grits her teeth. "Yeah. I guess."

"Do you think something's really wrong?" Clint furrows his brow.

Nat's molars continue to grind together, and her incisors push forward into the flesh of her lip. Clint expects to hear the awful sound, but instead there's nothing until she clears her throat and finally says, " Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Clint lets a beat of silence pass. "Ok.... Make it, and I guess I just..."

"Just tell them how it started, then what you're feeling right now," Nat says, as if it's that easy.

"You mean, the cold?"

"Yeah." Nat nods. "I don't mean to jump to conclusions on you, but that's a possible side effect of mono. If that's what you wind up having."

"Huh?"

"Don't know or didn't hear?" Nat looks concerned.

"Neither." Clint shakes his head.

"Going deaf."

"...Ok." Clint sighs. "I guess I knew that, but..."

"Hard to let it sink in when it's happening to you?"

"Yeah. Like jumping without a chute, or something."

"Nothing like that feeling, electrifying your veins." Nat shudders. "But similar, probably. I don't know."

"I don't know either. A fucking cold." Clint shake his head. "'S what I deserve, I guess."

"Hey, I never said that." Nat stares harshly into his eyes. "We'll come out the other side."

Clint reluctantly nods. "You know I haven't forgotten you yet? Like, the sound of you?" His eyes begin to fill with tears.

Nat presses her lips together again. "That's--" She shakes her head. "That's not fair. You deserve to keep her. To keep them. I don't matter." Nat waves her hand in front of er boy, as if to accentuate her worthlessness.

"It is what it is," Clint says, "And right now, I'll take what I can get."

"That makes me--" Now it's Nat's turn to wipe away tears. "I'll come see you tomorrow, ok?" She lifts herself up from Clint's bed in a push up position. She scrubs her face into the forearm of her hoodie, then shoots Clint a wan smile.

He returns the gaze, then pulls his blankets up to his chest. "I'll miss you."

"No, you won't," Nat scoffs. She squeezes lint's foot through the quilt before she turns to go.

"Hey, thanks!" The words are out of his mouth before Clint realizes he's shouting. He's hyperaware of his problem, now. His cheeks go pink, and he offers Nat an awkward wave.

Nat turns, then waves back, over her shoulder as she exits the room, leaving Clint alone in the silence.

[builder051]

FebWhump 2022 Day 3: Blood Loss

Creedless Assassins

Many sorries for graphic injury/blood/gore, violence/weapons/canon-typical violence, and very shoddy medical science (I looked up nothing for this fic; I’m operating on college level knowledge of bodily/anatomical/human biological science, logic, a lot of true crime media consumption, and the assumptions that superheroes are 1. Fictional and 2. Have wills of steel that can carry them through any crisis.)

___________________________

The adversary may as well have shot the mission when they let loose the bullet that penetrated Clint’s raised forearm and shoulder.

“Fuck,” is all Nat gets before her partner is all but out of sight. The snow’s ankle deep, and it’s suddenly clear that running in at a V from some 10 yards apart was not the best choice for a tactical approach. A few pieces of scrub and barbed wire stick out from the stretch of icy white ground, but the terrain’s mostly the same from their drop point up to the enemy base’s wall.

They’d expected to be seen. Expected to be attacked. But blindsided right out of the gate?

Nat skids onto her ankles and powers a curve into her sprint. “Clint?” She whips her head to the side, then forward, unwilling to catch fire herself.

A flash of dull green twitches in the corner of Nat’s vision, and she pulls her gun from her belt. A single bullet prematurely explodes the grenade while it’s still far enough away to be a distraction rather than a hazard. Nat looks automatically for her attacker, set on taking them out while she’s at it, but there’s no movement to glean onto. After a quick breath, she sets off toward Clint again.

The pit in the snow runs crimson eight inches out. Nat’s on her knees immediately. Then the air splits as another weapon goes off.

“Shh, get down!” A rough hand grabs the back of her neck and jams her face-first into the ice. Several loud bangs and a smattering of smaller ones give away the rain of shrapnel. Something like a handful of pebbles lands abruptly across the back of Nat’s jacket.

“You don’t want to move on that,” Clint whispers harshly. “There’s a trench.”

“A what?” Nat turns her head so she can see her partner’s face. And maybe his injury. “What happened? Are you ok?”

“A trench,” Clint repeats. “At the bottom of the wall. And then of course they’ve got guys popping up on top, so…”. Clint shakes his head. The movement doesn’t seem to treat him so well, though, for his face goes white.

“Where are you hurt?” Nat stretches slightly from the embryonic position Clint’d tucked her into, freeing her arms and reaching for his neck. Blood spatter covers half of his exposed throat and most of that side of his armored jacket.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Clint tries to say. “Don’t touch.” But the hand he lifts to try and halt her is sticky red as well, the areas under his fingernails and around his cuticles stained almost black.

It’s the bits of white feather down poking here and there around the ragged tear in the weatherproof gortex above his wrist that gives it away first. Then splintered bits of white bone. The wound itself was probably clear through like a window, maybe for a few minutes. But severed bits of tendon and muscle, collapsed arteries, and clots of blood have collected in it, and Nat isn’t sure which visualization is more disturbing.

Nat gasps softly. “Where’d it hit?” But she already sees the spot, now that she knows what to look for. The little explosion of fluff might be comical if it wasn’t the nexus of the flow of blood. The flow that’s still expanding into an amorphous shape done up in various shades of scarlet.

Nat lifts her head to try to see the edges of the stain. With that much leaving Clint’s body that fast, the bullet’s cleared the second wound as well. He must be lying on it. Nat has a mad desire to recover the thing, even though it probably doesn’t matter. She should be worried about the tourniquet. She turns her head in the other direction and pulls the Velcro that holds her tiny field kit to the back of her jacket.

Nat shifts her hip and wiggles the bag between their bodies. “I need to stabilize—“

“Shut up,” Clint snipes.

A single gunshot cracks the air. Nat’s chin bumps hard against Clint’s collarbone as he pulls her down hard by the end of her ponytail. They both make sounds of pain, but any additional noise is lost in the whiz and thump of a grenade hitting ground.

Bone-chilling silence follows, and Nat’s heart beats at double speed whilst bouncing down into her stomach. She curls her toes tightly into her boots, embeds her hands in Clint’s jacket. But it’s all only for a second.

Clint abruptly bucks beneath her, flipping them so that Nat’s on her back. Sharp twigs and viscous wire cuttings dig into her muscles, the padding of the snow gone and melted in the mix of warm blood, which splashes a good two inches in the deepest part of the pit. Clint’s knee wedges between her legs, and his head nestles over her shoulder, aligning the closely cut hairs on the nape of his neck just a bit higher than the tip of her nose.

Nat doesn’t dare to take a breath. She wishes she had, though, when Clint’s body goes limp across her chest. His injured shoulder and arm surround her face, and the metallic scent of him and what’s continuing to flow out of him is impossible to ignore. Clint smells like a trauma bay. An operating room. One of those harrowing helicopter rides where she’s gone in as backup and gone out as an extra PJ.

“‘S ok,” he creaks in Nat’s ear.

“Oh!” Nat’s so shocked to hear Clint’s voice that she nearly jumps. Her body goes into full on shiver.

“Relax.” Clint’s good arm tightens around Nat’s. He somehow finds her hand, though there are layers of Kevlar and gortex in the way. Stay still.”

Nat nods, then doesn’t. “Ok—“

The telltale beep alerts them both. Nat screws her eyes shut. Tries to echo locate. Which side? She grinds her teeth together. How long?

The explosion is enough to blow Nat’s eardrums. She’s glad she isn’t wearing a comm, for it very well might’ve melted and burned half her face.

The fact that there is a moment of relief brings on a second moment. Realization. There is heat. And a seemingly mucky air quality that shakes time from the long shadows of afternoon to gloomy, cloudy night.

There isn’t flame, though. Or pain. For Nat, at least. And nothing new from Clint.

“Clint?” Nat whispers frantically. She finds his good shoulder and a handful of his belt and gives him a shake. She hopes he’s conscious. She hopes he’s alive.

“M.” Clint opens and shuts his jaw with great effort. His teeth seem to be chattering. “Don’ move.”

“No, I have to.” Nat slides backward a few inches, leaning and clutching Clint to her chest. She squints in each direction, trying to get her bearings without lifting her head enough to become a target.

One side, the one from whence Nat came, is clear, save a few chunks of metal that probably landed in the dusting of shrapnel. The grenade hit far on the other side. From the other side, too, for the heat and smoke are still wafting heavily in their direction.

It’d been a horrible shot. Obviously up from below, and based on inexact verbal communication. Someone with a view trying to coordinate attacks from others running blind.

Nat can’t even see cinders. Not that snow and soaked grass and chaff would even catch. The dusty haze hanging in the air moves slowly, wafting downward as it also trends with the air current. Nat has to blink to keep dust from collecting on her eyelashes. Inadvertent tears begin to roll down the side of her nose.

Nat lies back, gently, she thinks, but she splashes the blood pool again.

Clint grunts. “W’s it?” He forces out, tryin to cover.

“It’s fine,” Nat reports, sitting back up as sudden dread makes her stomach jolt. “I have to—“

“No—“

“Yeah, hold still,” Nat says, trying to explain while she locates the field kit. “There’s low viz. Get ready to lose circulation in your arm…”

“Stay down. Stay quiet.” Clint pulls his jacket open to shield Nat’s body and tries flopping back on top to pin her arms. “You’re gonna get shot next—“

“Yes, sir, I will perform field medicine in the missionary position,” Nat grumbles, wedging with her knees to make enough space to open the bag and find the tourniquet.

“Nat—“ A low, gurgly cough seems to swallow Clint’s next words.

“Yeah, I don’t think you realize how much blood you’ve lost.” Nat has to reach around Clint’s head to wrap the band into his armpit and yank it toward his neck.

Clint protests with a wordless groan.

“Yeah, sorry. Gonna have to make it tight.” Nat uses all her strength to pull back. Her muscles tremble, and she struggles to hold everything in place as she ties the knot.

The bulbous tie in the tourniquet does as it’s meant to, and it immediately cuts a line into the bare, bloody stretch of Clint’s neck where muscle flows smoothly toward his shoulder. He exhales sharply.

“Sorry.” Nat leans in close. She watches veins throb against the pressure, proving at least his heart’s still beating. She places the flat of her palm against his chest to feel it as well, then raises her eyes above the curve of his back to check chest rise.

Clint’s chest is rising. But that’s not what Nat sees first. It’s scorched. Small. But still holding its coppery gleam, and made redder still with its beaded coating.

Nat picks it up. She makes a scoffing sigh. Of course she’d find it. Of course. She’ll pass it on to ballistics later, maybe they’ll be able to use it for traceability or something. Additional knowledge for when they re-run the mission. Because if one thing’s sure as fuck, they’re done.

Nat drops the bullet into the field kit and grabs gauze and stretchy bandages. She turns on the portable radio and lets it start scanning channels from inside the bag as she goes to work packing Clint’s wounds.

“It’s loud…” Clint complains.

“I’m getting you a ride. Stat.”

“Gonna give away our position—“ Clint gags, and bloody spittle drips down his chin.

The radio connects with a screech, then the crunch of an airline headset switching from speaker to microphone. “Coordinates?”

“Nah, can you ping the signal?” Nat asks quickly. “Over.”

“Roger.” Another speaker switch. “I got you.”

“See?” Nat says to Clint. “We’re getting out.” She roughly tears a bandage and ties it off.

“ETA?” Nat asks the radio. “Over?”

There’s more crunching verbiage, but the actual word is lost.

“Shit,” Nat mumbles.

She’s about to reach for the radio to adjust the tuning, maybe ask the pilot to repeat, but Clint stays her hand. He clamps it between his good shoulder and the side of his face, shaking his head a fraction of an inch to each side.

“Will you stop it?” Nat saps.

“I see it…”

“Huh?” Nat swivels her head to look. Then she sees it too. A light, small but bright, shooting forward from the horizon. The ash in the air makes it appear flickering, as does the motion of a faint white propeller.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “It’s gonna be fine. Like I said.”

“Fine…” Clint makes another choking gaggy sound. “I said. From the start.”

Under normal circumstances, Nat would’ve hit him. Stepped on his foot. At least rolled her eyes. But she’s too tired. Spooked. Just, done. “Yeah, you did,” she says. “Just fine.”

[builder051]

(Un)happy trails

When Nat unpacks her bags into the dresser in the Bartons' guest room, there's a certain sense of finality. She knows her stay is temporary, they all do, but there's something about that the action that seems to indicate the opposite.

Nat's clothes barely populate the empty space in the drawers. She brings her real clothes and not the stuff she's garnered from the SHIELD closet-- a small collection of threadbare leggings, baggy t shirts, and a couple of sets of jeans in such sad shape that Laura immediately takes them up as her next project with the sewing machine.

"They're fine," Nat says as she reaches randomly into a drawer and tries to pull a pair on, grateful that she's chosen blue boy short underwear so the tear near the v of her legs isn't that risque looking.

"Nat..." Laura slowly shakes her head, her eyes now fixed on Nat's pale face instead of her obviously more interesting crotch.

But Nat knows what she's detecting, and she isn't sure she likes it. She shot up again this morning, even though she swore she was out of stock last night. She crossed her heart when she said she didn't have a stash anymore, that she didn't have any needles, and that no, no one needed to search her bags to check. Nat's in that weird space where she isn't sure if her tiny dose has her still coming up or going down, or maybe balancing somewhere in the middle with a high that isn't really that good anyway.

"I'm fine," Nat says, in a voice that probably couldn't fool anybody. She swallows hard, and her throat is raw. She vaguely recalls puking last night, and she wonders if she's going to do it again. Getting clean is rough, which is why she's not doing it this time, at least not cold turkey.

"You're not," Laura says definitively. She reaches for Nat's arm, palm turned upward and fingers spread wide. "Come on. Let's get some food in you."

"I still feel..." Nat shakes her head.

"We've god kids' size dishes." Laura grins. "Monster trucks or princesses. Your choice."

"I don't know..."

"We've got a bathroom, too. And a mop. A swiffer wet jet, even."

"Nat can't help but smile a little, even though the chatter hurts her head. She feels a little groggy, and she knows it's from the drugs. She knows it's her fault.

"Coffee?" she asks hopefully.

"Maybe once we can get water and chicken broth in you. But if you're feeling up to rosemary and scallions, I'd be glad to go in that direction."

The thought of the spices puts wet bubbles on Nat's tongue, and as she swallows, her stomach turns. "No, thanks," she whispers.

"Plain it is, then," Laura agrees. She leads the way to the kitchen and points Nat to the table, then rummages a moment in the pantry. A moment later, she emerges with a box of prepared organic chicken stock. "Just don't tell anyone it's not homemade." Laura grins.

So does Nat, but her teeth hurt. So do her shoulder blades as she leans back against the hard wooden chair, and her sit bones on the unpadded seat. She tries to keep a squirm out of her spine so Laura won't notice her discomfort.

The microwave beeps, and Laura sets a small bowl of the soup in front of Nat. The broth is too cloudy for her to see the picture at the bottom, but the edges of the dish are pink, so she assumes Laura's chosen princesses. Nat picks up the bowl by the edges and lifts it to her mouth, ready to drink her fill.

"Spoon," Laura corrects, bringing the utensil to the table. "Eat slowly and that'll have half a prayer of staying down."

Nat shrugs. She doesn't care that much. Actually, she might prefer it come back, if only to get the churning acid out of her stomach. She ignores the spoon, but Laura gives her a blistering look, and Nat feels forced to pick it up.

"I had you in the bathroom half the night," Laura informs her, taking the seat opposite Nat. "Don't know if you know it, but you bite."

Nat swallows her mouthful of broth, then asks, "Why'd you have your fingers in my mouth?"

Laura presses her lips into a thin line. "I think you know. And it's not the first time."

Yeah... Reflections of past post-mission visits play over in her mind, fuzzy like old, out-of-focus photographs. Nat returns to shoveling down the broth. "I'll do it this time," she mutters.

"You'll keep that good food down."

The guilt is already making Nat's stomach churn, though. She doubts she'll need a finger down her throat to make it come up. The sight of the toilet and a few movements of her tongue should do the trick.

"I'm sorry." Nat pushes her bowl away from her and scoots her chair back from the table. She wraps her arms around her midsection and walks quickly toward the hall bathroom. Once there, she shuts the door. She toys with the lock for a moment, but decides against turning it all the way. A good jiggle of the knob should force it back open.

"Nat?" Laura's already on her tail before Nat's even on her knees.

Nat drops her head deep into the porcelain bowl, her hair falling on either side of her face and nearly touching the water below. A gag is quick to roll off her tongue, and half the broth she's consumed comes splashing up, tiny flecks hitting back in her face.

Nat sputters, and she hears the door creak open. "Oh--"

Whether Laura curses or not is lost in the sound of another massive heave shaking Nat's entire body. She's lost control of it now; her stomach and shoulders contracting of their own accord and shoving her practically into the toilet as her body struggles to empty itself.

"Here." There's a damp washcloth on the back of Nat's neck, and goosebumps erupt all down the backs of her arms.

"Fuck, that's cold..." she chokes, the words echoing off the porcelain.

"Well, you're warm." Laura reaches in for Nat's forehead, bracing her upward a few inches and pushing sweaty hair off her skin. There's a sigh in Laura's voice, one of resignation. Not disappointment exactly, but of sad recognition of the facts. All of them.

Nat has a sudden urge to tell the truth. "I'm...not clean," she admits, sour saliva pooling on the back of her tongue.

"I know."

"D'you want me to be?"

"That's... up to you."

"Really?" Nat had been expecting a hard-core 'yes.'

"I mean, I'd rather you not shoot up around the kids..." Laura lifts Nat's head up another few inches.

"Yeah, I definitely get it." Nat feels guilty again, even though the last time she used it had been alone and in the dark.

A tick of silence passes, then Laura asks, "Are you done?"

Nat's confused for a second. Hadn't Laura already said it was her choice? Should she not have some time to make up her mind? Then she remembers the bitter bile in her mouth, and she spits, then slowly nods. "Oh. Yeah."

Laura delicately pulls Nat back from the toilet and pulls a length of toilet paper to wipe at her mouth. Then she opens her arms, inviting Nat to fall into her embrace.

Nat does, without hesitation. She knows she's loved. She knows what the right choices are. She has no idea how she's supposed to get there, but at least she has this.

[builder051]

Nat, D8, and D20 for the game.

You rolled:

The battlefield and I'm ok, I promise

________________

Creedless Assassins

________________

The assignment is to branch off from the group mission, climb the side parking garage side of the office building, then infiltrate to pick off the executives that didn't come outside when the Hulk started busting up the sidewalk. It tends to happen that way; the flunkies come and take a look, or get orders to fight back, whilst the big wigs think they're safe to stay put.

Nat loops her rope around her waist, ties it, and takes the first step upward onto the low wall corralling the litany of expensive cars. She bends her knees and jumps to catch the convenient handhold in the chunk of concrete above her, then uses her arms to pull herself up like a rock climber.

"Show off," Clint grumbles, just loud enough for her to hear it. He finishes tying off his rope and is climbing past her within a second.

"Hey!" Nat gets to the next ledge, and she's reaching for the one above that when there's a sharp crack and her rope breaks.

Whether it's faulty equipment or sabotage, Nat doesn't have time to think. A feeling of free fall thrills through her stomach, and she's on her way back to the ground. She hits spine first, then her limbs seem to splat out on either side.

All the air rushes out of Nat's lungs, along with sharp pain all down her back and at the base of her skull. She's fallen onto gravel, and she can feel pieces digging into her skin and making one with her suit.

"I'm ok," Nat manages to croak before Clint's boots come softly to the ground beside her. "I promise." She makes to sit up, but his gloved hand catches her in the chest and forces her to stay down.

"You fell at least 12 feet."

"'S one story." Nat coughs painfully.

"More than twice your height." Clint seems to put his foot down. "And your head hit the ground. That means concussion protocol."

"I'm fine," Nat says, exasperated, as she tries to roll to her side. "Go finish the mission."

"How do you feel?"

Clint moves his hand, and Nat takes the opportunity to press herself quickly onto her knees. She regrets it, though, as breathlessness, pain, and nausea coalesce at the back of her throat.

"Sort of like puking," Nat mutters honestly. "But then like shooting someone." Which is true. She's angry. She has energy. She just isn't sure she can aim.

Clint puts his hand back on Nat's shoulder, and the tremor she didn't realize was there suddenly ceases. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He shakes his head. "I'm gonna call for backup. Maybe you can join everyone else. On the jet. Home."

"Oh, screw you."

"Sure," Clint laughs, pressing the comm in his ear. "Anytime."

[builder051]

Whumptober 2021 Day 1: “You have to let go”

Creedless Assassins

Warnings for blood, violence, and civilian death. Not outside canon-typical boundaries.

_______________________

HYDRA’s infiltrated one of the big businesses, its shiny tower located in the center of town. Everyone else is inside, taking out the known enemy targets,, while Nat and Clint are stationed in the parking garage across the street, picking off the suits that manage to escape out the rent door. The task is mostly boring, but sporadic and requiring constant vigilance.

Nat sets her gun down on the ledge in front of her and blinks hard, rubbing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Clint warns, poking her in the shoulder as Fury gives the same admonishment through the communication device wedged in her ear.

“Ok, fine…”. Nat picks up her weapon again and aims down at the sidewalk in front of the building. “It’s not like I missed anything.”

“That’s not the point,” Clint sighs. “You can’t be taking a time out when—Oh, shit.”

A few men in business attire dash out the door and look around, seeming unsure of the safest way to run.

“I got eyes on the blue tie,” Clint says, drawing back on his bow.

Nat squints as he’s still speaking and discharges her weapon once, twice, three times. The man in the ridiculous houndstooth visible from across the street stumbles, falls to his knees, then collapses face down on the curb.

“Alright, he’s dead,” Clint comments as his arrow sails and takes down the one in the blue tie and matching pocket square.

Nat takes a short breath, then fires at the same guy. Clint already took him down, but now blood sprays the sidewalk and a few passers by scream.

“Hey, I got him.” Clint furrows his brow and gives Nat a sideways look.

She locks her elbows, though, and and makes a minuscule movement to put the third suit in her sights. The first shot she looses catches him in the head, but she continues to rain down bullets, so many that Clint can barely keep track.

Fury, who is still on the group channel, whether accidentally or on purpose, begins to should. “Hey, stop! You’re done.”

“Nat!” Clint tries to get her attention. “They’re all dead. You can stop now.”

Nat slowly moves her weapon left and right, her finger pressed halfway down on the trigger.

“Romanov…” Fury warns.

“Hey!” Clint drops his bow and grabs Nat’s arm, unwilling to let his partner get into more trouble than she already is.

Nat acts like she does not notice, so Clint goes for her wrist. He pulls straight up to break the lock at her elbows.

The gun discharges agin, straight into the air as Clint reaches for it.

“You have to let go,” Clint says in a stern yet gentle voice. He’s talking about the gun, but the phrase applies to Nat’s mental state as well.

Clint manages to pry one of Nat’s hands off the weapon, then uses both of his to completely break her grip. He throws the gun across the floor, where it hits the opposite wall of the parking garage and slides across the floor, far out of reach for wither of them.

Nat turns to stare at Clint, her eyes wild and her chest heaving. she takes a small unsteady step forward, and Clint wraps his arms around her waist so she can bury her face in his chest.

“Nat,” Clint murmurs. “You have to let go.”

Nat’s entire body expands, then deflates in a shaking heave, micro tremors feeding through Clint’s vest and into his skin and bones.. Rapid breaths pull in and out as Nat’s shoulders begin to shudder.

“It’s ok,” Clint says in a whisper, pulling back an inch and tipping Nat’s chin up so he can see her tear-streaked face.

Nat presses her lips together. She knows it isn’t. Clint knows it isn’t either, but he says it again anyway. “It’s ok.”

A grey, blank expression passes over Nat’s face, and Cling lets her lean forward into him again. She looks like she’s going to pass out. The limp heaviness of Nat’s body tells him that maybe she already has, though she’s still completely on her legs and flat footed against the floor.

“It’s ok,” Clint says again, whether she can hear him or not. “It’s all going to be ok.”

[builder051]

The purity of stupid (better known as pure stupidity)

Creedless assassins

___________________

The first time Clint drives the wrong way around the traffic circle, Nat's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. It's probably just a one-off mistake, a little moment of stupid. They're freshly back from a mission in Japan, so Nat's fully prepared to tell him to drive the other way, then seal her lips and pretend the incident never happened.

When he begins to make a second clockwise rotation, though Nat's less convinced of the randomness of the error.

"Um..." she starts.

"Yeah, I know," Clint mutters. "We're running behind." He glances from the clock to the speedometer.

"Clint." Nat looks out the window. Headlights aren't far off. "Are you going the wrong way on purpose?"

"What? No!" Clint squints and turns his head toward Nat. "This is how we get there."

"Nope." Nat reaches across to point out the driver's side window, and it takes all her self control to keep from grabbing the steering wheel. "The circle, you-- you--" Nat can't think of a proper curse quickly enough.

The approaching car honks loudly at them, zig zagging across it's leg of the road to avoid plowing into them.

"Pull over!" Nat shouts.

"But it's that one, right?" Clint points to one of the off-streets and starts a violent turn.

"No, it's the opposite." Nat sighs and grits her teeth. They're going to miss the window of opportunity and fail the mission, she just knows it. "Clint, just stop, ok?"

"Why?"

"Because you're fucking up! Just-- Let me drive for a while."

Nat unbuckles her seatbelt and reaches for the switch to unlock the car door.

"Whoa, hey--" Clint's forced to slam on the brakes and drag the tires toward the curb. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Saving you from certain death."

The other car wizzes around them, demonstrating the proper way around the circle.

Nat lets herself out and runs around the front of the car. She yanks Clint's door open and grabs him by the shoulder. "Out," she orders. "Now."

Clint lifts his hands from the wheel like a criminal and stares at her with wide eyes. "Ok," he finally says. "Ok, fine."

Clint reluctantly gives up the driver's seat and goes around as Nat slides in and adjusts the mirrors.

"Obey the speed limits," Clint grumbles as he buckles himself in.

"We're late now," Nat counters, throwing the vehicle into reverse. "We're going to miss our connection." She executes a perfect three-point turn while Clint throws his hands over his face in what can only be described as abject panic.

"If you're going to puke, there are bags in the glove compartment," Nat says cooly, glancing his way as she exits the traffic circle onto the main road.

"...this is a rental." Clint shakes his head.

"Yeah. From the SHIELD garage. I requested it be well stocked."

Clint glares at the floor mat for a moment, then opens the compartment in question. The bottle of water falls out, but the carefully folded plastic bags and paper napkins stay in their designated spots.

"See?" Nat can barely hide her grin.

Cling slams the small door with a muttered "Sheesh."

They sit in tense silence for a few miles, then Clint suddenly pales and lunges forward. He reaches for the handle to the glove compartment again, but before he opens it, he points upward to the dashboard clock.

"Hurry up," he chokes. "You're gonna miss our window."

"And what're you doing?" Nat asks sarcastically over the sound of a crinkling bag.

"Definitely hurrying up. I'm not gonna be the one to make us late.

Nat's "Fuck you" is completely lost in the sound of liquid hitting the thin layer of plastic.