Clint

[aa_natasha]

http://aa.mudmagic.com/w/index.php/2012-08-31_To_Run_Or_Not_To_Run
Rail tracks rumble near the shaky construction that is this old apartment building, bricks weakening and wood rotting in places where the superintendent has focused repears on pipes and water boilers as needed instead. The noise outside is only a decibel quieter than during the day, car horns and loud shouting still echoing off narrow alleys. It makes little difference to the occupants of B12, who are unlikely to sleep tonight in any case. Clint sits on the bed, a soft thing that is out of place in this rundown place, with his shirt off, wincing over the bullet path across his shoulder and attempting to dab cream on it.

Natasha's eyes are dark and hard when she returns from a quick sweep of the building. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat and grime, and her soft, loose pants and fitted tank are splattered with blood. She still wears her Bites around her wrist and pistols strapped to either thigh. The bed shifts as she settles her weight on it and takes the cream from his hand with a low-voiced, "Let me."

"You say that like I have a choice," Clint replies, the cream relinquished with a twist of his wrist as he shifts on the bed to give Natasha easier access to that shoulder. His bow is propped into a corner, the quiver of arrows that he managed to get before SHIELD changed hands settled next to it. His own gaze settles on his partner like a question, tension making a muscle in his jaw twitch. "I put four arrows into him, and it didn't even slow him. Assassination is off the table."

Natasha settles on her knees beside Clint. Her touch is light but firm as she smooths antibiotic cream over the wound, and her gaze on it is professionally evaluating. She apparently decides that it doesn't require stitches, because her next move is a stretch for a bandage as she avoids Clint's gaze. Her hair falls forward in a tangled curtain that helps with the effort as she bends over his shoulder. "We can't touch him," she says quietly.

A breath is hissed in at the touch of cream, muscle flexing under her touch as Clint says a simple, "No." The word sits like a dead weight between them before he is twisting again to brush back hair behind Natasha's ear so that he can properly look at her. "That's not going to stop us, Tasha."

Natasha's eyes flick toward Clint, she pauses for a moment, tipping her head just slightly into the brush of his hand. And then she turns her head away and shifts to kneel behind him. The tear of paper is loud in the dark room as she pulls sterile gauze free. "Maybe it should."

"Should it?" Clint questions, his words kept quiet as he studies his partner and remains still to allow her to tend the light wound.

"We weren't made for this, Clint," Natasha says, with her voice hushed against the threat of emotion as she works. "Monsters and magic. The world has changed."

Clint nods slowly, his fingers picking up the leftover gauze to twine it through them with a thoughtful slowness. "Where do we go, then?" he asks, a certain willingness to his tone.

Natasha's fingers press the gauze into place, working carefully along the edges with strips of tape that she tears to size with her teeth. "I don't know," she answers eventually. "Paris. Salvador. Mumbai."

"Mumbai is large enough to get lost in," Clint decides, dismissing the glamor of Paris and Salvador for the bad memories of their last visit. His own gauze is twisted and tied, a miniature snare made in his fingers. "We get work as private security?"

"Freelancing is easy enough," Natasha answers, pressing firm against his shoulder. Finishing, she rocks back on her heels and stares blankly at the muscled lines of Clint's back. Her voice drops quieter still. "Especially together. We have a reputation."

Clint flexes his arm carefully, rolling it in a tight circle as his gaze flicks over the handiwork to make sure that it stays in place. A breath slips past his lips before his attention focuses on Natasha, only to say simply, "We could book at the airport tonight."

"Be at the safehouse by this time tomorrow," Natasha answers with a small hitch of her breath.

"Better to do it now, than wait for the new Director to put any holds on our passports," Clint confirms quietly, his gaze remaining steadily on Natasha.

Natasha lifts her chin slightly and gives Clint a Look. Passports? Please. Then her gaze falls away and she scrambles backward, tucking herself against the head of the bed and pulling her knees into her chest in silence.

Clint scrubs blunt nails over his scalp, his gaze casting across the bed to follow Natasha for a moment. He finally asks, "Are we, then? Running away?"

Natasha rubs her hand across her face and then lowers her head, burying it there. "God, Clint," she says, her voice half-broken.

"I know, Tash." It only takes that to have Clint drawing close across that bed, an arm going around the woman and pulling her into his side whether she chooses to unbury herself or not. He says, quietly, "But, you're the Black Widow. You stopped one alien invasion already. You really going to let this push you into running?"

Natasha does not argue. The loop of Clint's arm is warm and familiar and Natasha burrows into it greedily. "You want to stand and fight?" she says with a voice twisted into darkness. "We'll end up like the rest of them. Standing still with glowing green eyes while he destroys it all."

"They took what's ours. What other option do we really have, Tasha, no matter what we pretend?" Clint questions quietly, his chin tucking protectively into red curls as he envelopes Natasha with his embrace.

Natasha draws her hand up to curl around Clint's wrist. It rests there, not quite a returned embrace, but not quite-- not. Either. "Your loyalty is really fucking inconvenient," she mutters.

A slow smile curls invisibly at Clint's lips, and he only murmurs an apology in return.

Natasha scowls and digs her elbow into Clint's ribs, not gently.

"Hey," Clint protests, pulling away as Natasha's elbow finds vulnerable, bare skin. The look he levels on Natasha is more somber, a serious thing as his brows lift subtly upwards. "You want to leave tonight, tomorrow, I am all game. You just say the word, and we'll go, but I don't think you can either."

Natasha remains silent, her expression dark with anger, though Clint has seen it enough to know when it's not directed toward him. She pulls away as he does, and she lifts her eyes to his for a long moment in the dim light. Eventually she says softly, "Thank you."

Clint nods simply, picking back up the bit of gauze he has formed into a snare only to pull at it and undo it. He answers, "Anytime, Nat."

Natasha exhales a long sigh and then settles back into the drape of his arm. It's not quite the burrow of before, but there are times when she needs the warm comfort of him solid beside her, and so she takes it, greedily. She lapses into a span of silence before she says, "Tomorrow, then."

"Mumbai?" Clint asks, subtle surprise whispering over his words that would be hard to catch, if the person he were talking to wasn't Natasha. He doesn't protest against the contact, though, instead leaning into it casually.

"SHIELD," Natasha corrects.

"Good," is replied quietly, and Clint smiles softly as he tucks a pillow to get comfortable in the bed with clear intent to sleep without pulling away from his partner.

Natasha remains, adjusting just enough for Clint to be comfortable before she tucks her head against his shoulder and seeks sleep that refuses to come.

PS: Natasha has not been seen at the mansion since Friday night.