42Hi Everyone! I knew I couldn't stay away from writing. It's been crazy. This story will be AU, and won't be related to my other stories. Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or any of the characters.
His patience grew thin. Years of being a sniper were cut down in the matter of seconds. And he hated himself for that gut wrenching feeling. Why did he do it? His mind couldn't let it go. The scene replayed over and over again, haunting him every waking moment. The proof of it was lying in the room across the hallway.
The machine was breathing for her.
There was nothing he could do as he sat on the floor, staring off into the distance, willing her mind to come back to him. He rubbed his eyes, driving away the urge to sleep.
He stole into her room when things quieted down. The silence was deafening against the machine's respirations. A mechanical puff drove into her chest. A green line rose and fell on the monitor with every second that passed.
"This wasn't supposed to be this way," he grazed over her cold hands. "Why didn't you listen to me?" He waited for a reply from his longtime partner. The ventilator continued its nonchalant hisses and puffs.
He tucked a strand of a fiery red curl from her face. He wondered what it would take to bring her back. "I need you to give me a sign, anything that you're still here."
The walk back to his apartment was hard. Every corner he turned, images of her remained from standing at the crosswalk, waiting for the traffic light to change or at the local café. And then it was over, as if she blended in with the rest of society. That's how easy it was to disappear. The double lives they lived.
The neon lights casted their glow, illuminating his leather jacket as he walked through the changing masses. The nameless faces that were part of his reality, never knowing what true darkness loomed ahead. Some still mention the attack on Manhattan, but after the dust had settled, normalcy slowly seeped back into their mundane routines with only a few whispers about the Avengers.
Clint found his way back to his apartment. With its current state of half eaten cartons and clutter that was acuminating, Natasha would've disapproved of him and casted one of her annoyed stares. There was no point in cleaning the mess.
He walked over to the balcony and pulled aside the patio doors. The gush of air swooshed by him, sending chills up and down his spine. He was hurting and there was no one to catch him.
His fists connected with the railing, as a vibration reverberated through the hollow pipe. "Damn it, Clint. You're so stupid. You were too slow." His voice tore at himself.
The defeated marksman collapsed on the ground. The pain of it all was deeper than Loki's mind control. The ache in his chest was real. He never had a chance to say it to her, as she was always on the run. Budapest he came close for a brief second. They were outgunned by foreign assets, trying to extract intelligence on S.H.I.E.L.D. She had taken a bullet in her arm as he reloaded his bow. The heavy gunfire drowned his voice, but he could've sworn her green eyes caught his intentions. He watched her reload her gun and charged up her Widow's Bite for another round.
"You and I remember Budapest very differently."
It always had been a long running thing between the two assassins. Ever since they returned from that mission, there were subtle changes. From their gazes as they passed each other in the corridors to the times they played husband and wife. Every second, they became closer and the lines blurred a little more until one night they were stuck in Provence after escaping from Paris.
~Flashback~
Hot, dry air ran from the Mediterranean into their safe house.
"What now genius?" She mused over their depleted weapons cache.
"Why did we sign up for this mission again?" He walked over to the open veranda, checking his bow. A frayed string at the corner caught his attention.
"You wanted to check out the locals, I believe."
"Funny…Tash. Just go blame it on me." He countered back, "Next time, why don't we just give away our passports before we set foot in customs."
She shot him a death glare and kept her silence between him. Her green eyes bore a hole through him, "You don't know what it's like to be there. She needed our help."
"Fine then."
The two assassins wondered how they were going to get themselves out of this predicament. They figured the borders would be closing on them unless they sneak out to Italy to make contact with their assets.
Clint reached for his tablet, seeing if there was a strong enough signal to send back to S.H.I.E.L.D. in an encrypted format. His fingers swiped at the screen. "Gnomeo and Juliet for sale."
"They don't stock this place often," she called over from the cupboards.
"I think this safe house is the least of their priorities" he snorted and resumed to look online until he heard a dish breaking from the kitchen. "Tash? Talk to me…"
"I'm fine."
He leaned against the entranceway, seeing his partner holding herself upright against the sink. "You're not," he closed the distance in two long strides.
"I just got dizzy."
He sternly gazed at her as he countered her weight against his legs. He looked over to see anything out of the ordinary until he felt her slipping from his grasp. "Nat!"
There wasn't anytime and his mind kicked into overload. His hands divested her black suit and he found his answer over her abdomen. A shard of glass had cut through her skin, robbing her of blood. "Fuck."
He didn't need a second adrenaline rush. He thought he had left that feeling behind in Paris while they raced through the streets after nearly being ambushed by two grenade explosions at the cafe. His hands ran through the useless apartment, tearing away the shelves hoping to find the medical kit.
There was no use as he rushed back to her side. Something was off…why wasn't the serum working? He pushed that thought aside and went to his own kit that he carried around. He yanked at the plastic cap with his teeth and plunged the needle into her skin. "Sorry," he spat the cap across the floor.
"Geeze, Clint," she gasped for air. It took her a moment to realize what had transpired.
"Just lay still." He added pressure to her wound. "Never do that to me again." The redhead remained silent. "You should've told me."
"Tell you?" She raised her eyebrow.
"Never mind." He sat on the floor beside her, watching the wound slow down in bleeding. The serene white was marred with burgundy.
"I'll live," she muttered and slowly sat up next to him. Her slender fingers zipped up her catsuit.
"You're not healing as fast." The statement was a shot in the dark.
"I'm fine, Clint," she stared at the floor. "Honest."
"You're a terrible liar."
"And so are you."
There it was that slow smoldering spark that finally ignited. There was no turning back as the final line was crossed. She pushed him against the cabinets, holding him against the fake particleboard, staring vividly into his tense gray eyes.
Through their unspoken language, they've been waiting for so long. He returned the favor, grabbing a fistful of her fiery locks and bringing her closer to him. "What took you so long?" he smirked.
She crashed her lips against his.
"You sure about this?"
"Barton…shut up." She felt his arms wrap around her waist, as he carefully carried her to the couch.
~End of flashback~
He pulled out his cellphone and clicked on her phone number. Her voicemail message greeting was only one word, "Speak…"
How was that? Leave as one-shot or more chapters? Please review! I would greatly appreciate it. Thanks for reading. I was inspired by a song titled "New York" by Snow Patrol.