moodmusic:
She says, “baby, It’s 3 am I must be lonely”You know how Natasha’s hair is really long in Iron Man 2 and then for the Avengers it’s completely chopped off? I like to think thats because she got hurt in a mission in between and loses her hair because of a really serious head injury and Clint’s just going to be a mess because she’s hurt and she won’t say much because she never does.
and he tells her she’s beautiful anyway.no seriously I have a lot of Clint Natasha feelings
WHERE DID ALL THESE TEARS COME FROM?
The line between sleep and consciousness is somewhat blurry when the face you see in your dreams is the one hovering over you when you wake.
“Hey, Tasha.” Clint’s face breaks into a smile so big that its resulting ripples dislodge the two? three? days of sleep crust caked in the corners of his eyes.
Natasha blinks heavily, and the effort is enough to make her groan. “You look… like shit.”
That’s his cue, that’s always their cue: “You look like shit.” “You look like the ass that shat me out.” Because what’s the point of being an assassin’s assassin and a linguist’s linguist if you can’t bait a killer in ten different tongues? But Clint, his mouth flattens and his nostrils flatten and he misses his cue.
The only time he misses a target is if it’s moving too fast or he didn’t really want to hit it. And Natasha isn’t moving.
She risks lifting her head to squint at him more closely, and ah—there it is. She knows what every feature on her body feels like, or is supposed to feel like, and she knows she’s missing one. “I hope you didn’t do something noble, like donate it to kids with cancer or something.”
Clint’s mouth is working, trying to keep the smile going. “I had it made into a mohawk. You can wear it out in public when you’re strong enough to walk without tripping over your own feet.”
“Wear a wig made of my own hair? That’s revolting,” she says, trying to lever herself up to a sitting position.
“You want revolting? You should see the scar on the back of your head. Looks like a map of the Mississippi.”
“I modelled it after… your face.” But that’s too much movement too soon. The room spins around her sickeningly, and her too-light head lolls.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Clint has his bow hand on the back of her neck, holding her still with that gentle, immovable grip only farm workers and assassins possess. He waits until her breathing slows before he releases her to the pillow. “Budge over.” He slides his arms under her slowly, eases her a few inches to the right, then slips into the hospital bed next to her. He has the faintly sour smell of a man who hasn’t washed in days, overlaid with the sharp, cold scent of prolonged fear.
And he’s crying.
She’s only seen Clint cry twice. The first time was when Director Fury’s fourth cousin rubbed the inside of their boss’s eye patch with onions before the swearing in of the 2008 recruits. Fury spent the entirety of his truncated graduation speech trying to ignore the rivers of tears running down his scarred cheeks. He gave up when the sneezing started. Natasha and Clint held in their laughter until after the ceremony, then fled to the bathroom and howled until they cried.
The second time was during the first seven minutes of Up. They don’t talk about Up.
She rubs his head slowly. She’s always loved the feeling of a buzz cut on her palm. “Don’t cry, solnyshko moyo. You’re always saying you’re the sexiest one on the team. Now I look more like you.”
He tries to laugh through a sob and ends up choking. “You don’t look anything like me.”
She mock punches him in the corner of his crooked smile. “That’s because you look like shit.”
He isn’t smiling anymore. He cups her face and rubs slow, gentle lines over her cheekbone with his thumb. “And you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.”
(via baarton)
