Clint Barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasthehighground) wrote2013-09-16 03:06 am
hasthehighground) wrote2013-09-16 03:06 am
OOM - SeaWorld
Clint didn't sleep great last night. Natasha was jetlagged, so she claimed the couch, and he woke up a couple times wondering if that's really why she did it. If Natasha's uncomfortable sharing a bed, that should be fine -- she's full capable of making her own decisions. But... he didn't mean her to think she wasn't welcome.
("Do you want to see me?" she'd asked, as if he might actually say no.)
It's stupid. He gets over it.
-
Clint doesn't concentrate that well at work, either. The coffee doesn't seem to be helping as much as it should be, and what they're currently doing isn't strategy-oriented, it's just... the standard stuff.
Clint likes the standard stuff (when it's not expense reports), but it's not exactly engaging.
The intra-office chat client on his computer blinks after lunch (he didn't really eat lunch).
"Clint," Beamon writes. "I can hear you stressing."
Clint looks down at his hands, which are completely still, and can see what she means. Metaphorically.
"Take the lady to the zoo or something. We have three meetings Monday, and I need you on the ball."
He acknowledges the message, and packs up his stuff.
-
Clint has a cigarette in the area just outside the doors before he leaves, because these days in San Diego he can basically only smoke here and on the roof of his apartment, and he's pretty sure the last one might be illegal.
After that, he buys a hot dog, and sits on a bench as he thinks about whether or not he should head back. Natasha might not want him there.
It's his house.
He goes back for his car.
("Do you want to see me?" she'd asked, as if he might actually say no.)
It's stupid. He gets over it.
-
Clint doesn't concentrate that well at work, either. The coffee doesn't seem to be helping as much as it should be, and what they're currently doing isn't strategy-oriented, it's just... the standard stuff.
Clint likes the standard stuff (when it's not expense reports), but it's not exactly engaging.
The intra-office chat client on his computer blinks after lunch (he didn't really eat lunch).
"Clint," Beamon writes. "I can hear you stressing."
Clint looks down at his hands, which are completely still, and can see what she means. Metaphorically.
"Take the lady to the zoo or something. We have three meetings Monday, and I need you on the ball."
He acknowledges the message, and packs up his stuff.
-
Clint has a cigarette in the area just outside the doors before he leaves, because these days in San Diego he can basically only smoke here and on the roof of his apartment, and he's pretty sure the last one might be illegal.
After that, he buys a hot dog, and sits on a bench as he thinks about whether or not he should head back. Natasha might not want him there.
It's his house.
He goes back for his car.
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Once he goes to work (earlier than he has to, but it's not as if she's going point it out), she crawls back into his bed, and falls into a fitful sleep until 10.
She dreams of trying to find pointe shoes in freezing water; when she wakes, she spends too long in the shower under slightly-too-hot water trying to warm up.
(At least Clint's not here. He'd be distinctly annoyed at how she's wasting water, and that's all she needs)
The last thing she wants to do is go anywhere. Sofia is dead, Sofia is so very dead, she made sure of that, but the thought of going outside without back-up makes her chest feel a little tight. On the other hand, she refuses to eat cereal for lunch, and Clint's fridge is looking distinctly bare of things she can use to make her own food. There are leftovers, but even if her clothes have their own space in his closet, she doesn't want to overstep whatever bounds are in play at the moment.
I hate everything, she thinks, and stomps back over to the bedroom closet to retrieve her San Diego handbag and some sandals.
Venturing to the local supermarket without anyone trying to kill her, and managing to acquire most of the things on her shopping list, makes her feel more like herself than she has in days. She puts her items away, and then goes to find the chopping board.
And if she takes her time chopping everything thoroughly, well, the only person waiting on her to finish is herself.
By the time she has her meat and mushrooms solyanka cooking on the stove, though, the restlessness has returned. Having nothing to clean, and disliking the directions her thoughts keep turning, Natasha boots up her laptop to catch up with her various forums and communities.
Reading arguments about how Latin's grammar changed over time is a far more pleasant exercise than contemplating how many hours of therapy the last mission (and her stalker) is going to cost her, the state of her career, and all questions pertaining to one Clinton F. Barton and herself.
She'll need to think about those things, and soon. But if Fury's given her a week off, the least she can do is at least try and relax for some of it.
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"Hey," he says. He doesn't add smells good because... he doesn't. It feels fake, even though it's true. "Uh. Are you busy?"
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"Hi," Natasha says, very carefully, when Clint walks in, as if she hadn't spent the last few seconds calculating the distance from table to door, and any weapons on hand.
(Spoon, mostly empty bowl, chair to distract until she got to the kitchen with those knives)
She frowns a little at him, but it's a calmer expression than her initial reaction.
"Not particularly," she says, putting her spoon down. "Do you have something in mind?"
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"Well," he says. "The zoo's open."
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"The zoo sounds good," she says, and then hesitates for a second. "I, uh. Also still owe you SeaWorld. But I'm happy with either."
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(She does, though, only take a few minutes.)
"Ready when you are."
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"Always," he answers with a half smile, straightening. She looks nice.
(The yellow of the sundress reminds him he has to tell her about Shostakova. Not now.)
He opens up his arm slightly in a silent request for a hug. It's silent because he doesn't want her to feel like she has to accept.
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From the way her arms wind around him, head turning so she can settle herself comfortably, it's clear that she's not just embracing him because he asked, but because he's not the only who would really appreciate a hug right now.
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After a minute, he lets out a long breath, and presses a kiss to the side of her hair.
"We good to go?"
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She pulls back just enough to look up at him, not moving more than she has to.
"We're good," Natasha says, answering both his questions.
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Natasha tenses a little when they get soaked with cold water, but he rests a hand against her back and she leans into him, smiling as she glances up.
Clint loves it, whenever he gets to watch the sea lion show. The tricks, the splashing, the excited capture of treats -- it reminds him, distantly, of home. Or, well -- it's been a long time since the circus was home.
The sea lion detective skit comes on, and he laughs.
--
Clint's stopped in the main area, staring at the sign on the ice cream cart.
There's whales, and seahorses, and fish in half a dozen different shapes.
"Something catch your attention?" Natasha asks, resetting her hat as she comes out of the restroom.
"Yeah."
Not fifteen minutes later, Natasha has a lime seahorse on a stick, dipped in chocolate, and Clint's dismembering a strawberry octopus as they walk to the aquariums.
--
Clint drops off the sticks in the trashcan at the entrance, then wanders back to join Natasha.
She's watching the manta rays, arms crossed lightly in front of her. The big ray swoops its wings, and the children up by the tank gasp. Clint smiles, and sees the expression mirrored on Nat's face.
"Hey," he says, giving her slight forewarning before wrapping his arms around her. She leans back as he sets his chin on her shoulder.
It's been a nice afternoon.
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She's still jumpy, still overly aware of everyone around them, but she's trying to damp it down.
"I'm glad you came back early," she says, half turning her head towards him.
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"She's very wise."
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Over the speakers, a 30 minute warning to the close of the park is issued. He straightens, eyeing the families.
"Retreat?"
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Then she hesitates, clearly thinks, fuck it, and steps close.
"If I'm jumpy with the crowds, I'll explain when we're home," she says, quietly.
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By the time they're back at his place, it's mutated into something about spaceships and an alliance with sapient dolphins. (Natasha read a book, apparently. Natasha reads a lot of books.)
"Yeah, but they couldn't even hold a light-sabre." Pause. "Except the sea lions, I guess, in their teeth -- but who'd make them?"
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She hangs up her hat, and makes her way over to the couch. Her normal spot happens to be the one furthest from the door anyway; it doesn't show any nerves.
Possibly, she's over-thinking this.
She's just...going to wait for him to join her. There's no point in stumbling over explanations when the man's just walked through the door. She can wait.
Wait, and absently rub the back of her wrists in one of the few nervous gestures she allows herself.
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He hands her hers before sitting down, turned slightly on the couch to face her more easily. He sets his free hand down on the couch, open; an invitation, but not a request.
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"Before I start," Natasha says, "I just...The threat's over now. So you don't have to worry.
But, in Moscow, I...acquired a stalker. Not the 'we are destined to be together kind'. Um, but the 'I deeply admire you, so I'm going to test you, and then kill you and take over your life' kind."
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"Sound logic."
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Brief, but there.
"Sure. I can completely see SHIELD respecting her wishes to be known as the Black Widow."
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He squeezes her hand, gently. He's still listening.
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"She said she followed me for a week. I can't confirm that, but she knew where I was staying. I had Evenstar crash my hotel room."
A brief glance up, another quick smile - this one sharper.
"I kicked their asses, but, I didn't know until then. She was working for a man who was after the same thing I was, but for her it wasn't professional. And I didn't-" know, didn't see her, I had no fucking idea...
"I'll be okay. But I'm not okay just yet."
Natasha glances up to catch his gaze, and her expression turns faintly apologetic. "So, when you came back earlier, that's why I was acting weird. I'm a bit jumpy."
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"That makes sense," he says. His voice is calm; it's his habitual reaction to uncertainty. "It's contained?"
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"The immediate danger? Yes. But if she had records somewhere, they haven't been found."
She's not too worried about that; not the first time someone's had records on her, nor will it be the last. Stalking aside, it's the price of having a reputation.
She's trying not to worry about it.
"If I'm told I need to worry about it, then I'll...let myself be rationally concerned," Natasha says, after a moment's pause.
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Not something they do, hugging when there's actual emotional distress.
He can stop maintaining the distance he prefers when upset. He moves a bit, and presses lightly against her side.
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"I, uh, went to Milliways yesterday," she says, shifting her head to look up at him.
"Got your keyring."
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But mostly, well.
Dinosaur keyring.
"I am passably fond," she says with a certain degree of solemnity. "It's still in my wallet."
Clint looks pleased at that, in the way he gets when he's quietly yet genuinely happy at how things have turned out. Still smiling a little, she settles back against him, curling her fingers around his hand.
No matter what else is going on, they, at least, are okay again.