OOM: Natasha, regarding Nataliya

[hasthehighground]

It's been a day since their talk, and Clint still hasn't figured out what to ask her (or even what he's supposed to ask her).

He has, though, remembered something he needs to tell her.

Clint finishes wiping down the kitchen counter -- Natasha cooked, he can easily clean -- and tucks his hands into his pockets, walking out of the kitchen proper to lean against the bar, watching her.

She's on the sofa, reading some book, and overall looking pretty peaceful. He feels, briefly, guilty -- but this is important.

"Hey, Tasha?"

Comments

[hasthehighground]

His breath huffs slightly. He loosens his arms, but won't let her go until she steps back.

"Yeah," is all he says, because what else can he say? ... Oh. "Want me to get your curry?"

[redintheledger]

"I think food sounds like a sensible idea," Natasha says, only then stepping back a bit. "Thank you, Clint."

She's not only referring to the food.

She sits back down on the couch, tucking her feet up and letting herself relax back into the cushions. She's tired enough to sleep right there, curry or no curry, but she's not entirely sure she's going to get any sleep at all.

Partly to distract herself from that, and the knowledge that disturbed her in the first place, once Clint's returned, she asks,

"...What were your impressions of young Shostakova?

If you didn't mind saying."

[hasthehighground]

"Smart." Clint laughs slightly, sitting down next to her. "Too smart. Apparently other Westerners just got nervous around her and didn't tell her why," he says. "I think she thought she was being subtler than she was. But overall ... you know," he says, uncertain. "Nice. Talked about sci-fi."

[redintheledger]

Too smart and thought she was being subtler than she was are descriptions that don't exactly surprise her, and she looks somewhat amused as she starts to eat.

Nice, however, makes her look startled.





"She has that to look forward to," is what Natasha ends up saying. "So many sci-fi novels."

[hasthehighground]

Clint snorts, quietly. "How do you want me to handle it, if I run into her again?"

[redintheledger]

It's a good question. It's a useful, needed question.

Her mind goes blank with the effort of trying to think out options and consequences.

"Normally?" she says, eventually. "I mean, treat her like you would anyone else you meet there.

I think that's the best option," she adds, uncertainly.

[hasthehighground]

"Sure."

Clint turns on the TV, and after a moment settles his arm across the back of the couch behind her.

There's almost a month's worth of Iron Chef on the DVR. They'll be fine.

[redintheledger]

He doesn't even particularly like Iron Chef. He'll watch it with her, and laugh, and he'll mock and mock-complain, and he kept it on his DVR for her. Keeps it.

She's tired. She's tired, and shaken badly, and it was only yesterday she'd learned just how blind she'd been to how much he cared and, well.

It's a little hard to see the screen to start with, through the blurring of tears.

By the second episode, the world is a little more steady. She has her head resting against his arm, and is able giggle at the chefs' frantic creativity and Clint's low comments.

By the third episode, she's able to snark back, and she can practical feel Clint smile.