He wandered the festival alone, his hands, still greasy from the dozen or so dumplings he’d already polished off, tucked in his pockets. He felt loneliest in crowds like this: groups of friends, dates, teammates, families. Seeing them all pinged him with a bitter jolt of envy, an ache of memory from a long time ago. Maybe, Clint was starting to realize, he they do so great solo. Kate was off being Kate, doing God-knows-what, and Lucky had been deemed “not a good idea to take to a festival, Barton, look at him, he’ll start a mob” and reluctantly left at home with an extra half a pizza as an apology.
They stopped at another stall and bought another round of dumplings, then kept walking on ahead. He wouldn’t admit to looking for anything or anyone; he was just… wandering. Exploring. Browsing. Hoping to catch a flash of red in the crowd, sure they’d recognize the sway of a pair of hips, the set of shoulders, the silent footfalls. It wasn’t so hard to imagine; he’d seen her every day, around every corner, up every flight of stares. Every redhead in the supermarket checkout line, every woman in a black jacket across the park. They were all her. Everything was her. She was dead. Clint knew that. He was seeing fucking ghosts. The one time he’d made it to therapy, he’d been given a bunch of psychobabble bullshit about how it was a manifestation of his own guilt, yada yada, they couldn’t let go of her and move on until they got over it.
And he’d been trying! Really! He’d been working on it! And then the dead started rising, and Clint couldn’t keep saying it was all in his head. If Steve and Tony were back, she was too. She had to be. Any of those faces around any of those corners–that could be her, for real this time. Flesh and blood and breathing and not a fucking guilt-induced, sleep-deprived traumatic hallucination. She could be there, getting a drink, or there, admiring some jewelry, or–
No. There. She was there.
Clint stopped dead in his tracks, a dumpling falling sadly from his hand. He gawped, blinking, his mouth opening and closing silently. “Nat.”
natasha’s always loved a good party . people watching . it was one of her absolute favorite things to do . seeing the joy on people’s faces as they celebrated with their loved ones ; watching as people got a little too drunk on wine and made a fool of themselves ; and , yeah , maybe keeping a little bit of an eye out to make sure nothing goes awry ( so far , she’s kind of shit at this whole retirement thing ). but natasha is having a good time . she’d dressed up , had matched her assortment of earrings to the red and gold of her dress , actually did her hair and she’s feeling . . . sort of normal . the celebration makes her feel normal . and if she focuses on other people , focuses on their conversations and how happy they are to be together , maybe she can ignore the nagging feeling in the back of her brain that tells her she’s out of place . that she doesn’t belong here anymore .
and , really , when natasha hears her name , she doesn’t even recognize who spoke for a split second . hadn’t been paying much attention , really . had kind of felt like a spectator of the celebration , invisible in the background like she was still a ghost , just a memory that people were moving on from . but then –––– natasha recognizes that voice . that voice . and it’s like she’s being pulled back into her body and she can feel her feet on the ground and the breeze on her arms and the quickening beat of her heart in her chest telling her this is real . she feels like a real person again . she turns , slow slow slow , until she’s facing clint barton . for the first time , in years ( at least , that’s what she’s been told . and looking at it now , that’s what it feels like ) .
“ clint ? you look . . . old . ”