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Natasha doesn't look at him when he walks in to one of the under-construction sitting rooms. She doesn't have to. Assassins see without looking. He sits on the far edge of the sofa, leaning forward, hands together.
He fidgets when he doesn't know what to say. He never fidgets when he's nervous. That's a bad habit for an archer, an assassin, an agent.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Natasha asks. Clint glances at her without moving his head.
"What's there to talk about? Not like talking will make them go away." He sees in his peripheral vision as she slides over to sit right next to him, close enough to smell her (like the ocean and exotic spices) and feel the heat off her, but not touching. Invisible barriers.
Natasha doesn't speak, waiting for Clint to open up on his own. He knows her interrogation tricks. He stays silent. What is he supposed to say?
"If you didn't want to talk about it, you wouldn't have come," she says finally, turning to look at him. He stares at his knees and fiddles with the small hole he's worn into his jeans. He gently tugs on a loose thread, watching the hold widen.
"I don't know how to put myself back together after being so completely... lost" He looks up and meets her eyes. Her expression is blank. "How'd you do it, Tasha?"
Natasha frowns, almost a cringe. Clint knows how that feels: the self-disgust and loathing that comes from being controlled, being own, body and soul, and liking it. He regrets asking; he places his hands on his knees, preparing to stand so he can leave, so they don't have to have this conversation, but a cool hand reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles. He waits.
"You can't. I didn't." Clint's brows knit together. What does she mean? Natasha slips her fingers under his hand, brushes her thumb across the knuckles, and lifts the hand to her lips. "You did." She presses her mouth to the back of his hand and Clint is speechless.
They hold hands for a long time. Clint eventually falls asleep against the back of the couch with Tasha's head in his lap, twirling her hair around his fingers while she reads her book. It's the first time he doesn't dream of Loki since she saved him.
I don't even know. Is this okay? I hope it's okay, it took a lot of frustration and fudge to get it done. It had better be okay.
There’s a lot of Clint/Kitten bonding and some Stony and maybe a Hawaiian shirt, IDEK. I’m tired and going to bed because I work in six hours.
Index
A Trickster’s Guide To Wooing A Hawk
By: stop-the-fading
BLAME CHESH (especially since this chapter - and it’s special guest star - are dedicated to her)
Day Four: Your Kitten, Should You Choose To Accept It...
"You know, if I take you with me, people are going to be trying to cuddle you all day," Clint remarked as his new friend stared up at him from her perch on his thigh, all floof and innocence and malevolent golden eyes. "They might even do that creepy baby-talk thing."
The kitten mewed her displeasure, her teeny tail flicking pointedly.
"Oh, they so would."
Fifteen minutes over my projected time, but it's DONE.
Have a third chapter, y’all! Enjoy (or else)!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
A Trickster’s Guide To Wooing A Hawk
By: stop-the-fading
BLAME CHESH
Day Three: Psych!
"I don't care if you just got a marriage proposal from Satan, Agent Barton, Director Fury is in a very important meeting, and he cannot be disturbed for anything short of the end of the world," Agent Hill said calmly, hands planted firmly on her hips as she glared at him from her position behind Fury's desk.
Steve cleared his throat. "No offense, but I think the Devil's attempts to infiltrate a team of superheroes would qualify as 'the end of the world'."
"Would Director Fury not prefer to be alerted prior to the end of the world, so that we may put a stop to it," Thor mused, mostly to himself.
"Besides," Bruce piped up, "Clint's not really Tony's type."
There was a brief pause during which Clint could practically hear everyone working out that seeming non-sequitur, before Tony smirked and held out his opened package of pineapple chips for his science buddy to share. "Cheers, Beelzebruce."
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I've done some (read: a lot of) work on Chapter Two.
I'm sorry about posting it half-done; I don't think I was really thinking at that point. I know I dozed off while typing a few times, and that's usually my clue that it's time to quit and head to bed.
So, yeah, no more posting half-asleep.
Anyway, you can find Chapter One here and the edited Chapter Two here.
I'll be posting the update on AO3 and ff.net, as well, sometime tonight, and I'll probably put a page for it up here at some point. Not sure when I'll have Chapter Three up - I'm not pulling an all-nighter for the third time, because it's not worth it if all that comes of it is crap.
But some semblance of being done, so here, have chapter two.
I'm having trouble sorting out my fingers now, so I'm just going to leave this up and go to bed. I'll edit it when I have the time (and cognitive ability to do so).
EDIT: I have reworked most of it to add the things I obviously left out. I apologize for even posting this before it was really done, but it's all better now. Well, not the story, that still sucks, but I feel less disgusted by it since I've had the chance to go through and rewrite parts. Hopefully it's less disjointed now.
Chapter One is here.
A Trickster’s Guide To Wooing A Hawk
By: stop-the-fading
BLAME CHESH
Day Two: Reality Pants
"You know you're out of your mind, right," Bruce inquired blandly, tugging on his earlobe as he surveyed the distraught archer stalking up the corridor beside him. Their teammates meandered behind, muttering several theories regarding Clint's recent lapse in sanity and watching him in various stages of dismayed exasperation. It made his fingers itch for a bow and quiver and the time to shoot each of them in their respective left feet.
Sadly, he did not have the time to do so, as he was on a vital mission to figure out what the fuck was going on with his life.