post-PFSB EP

[hasthehighground]

Clint walks through the door into his (empty) apartment, and slings the bounce-y ball with all of his force into the bathroom. He hears it hitting off of the tiles before there're a series of plastic thuds as containers are knocked onto the floor, then silence. He sighs; tries to breathe deep, but can't manage it. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead, and slides down the wall so he's resting on the balls of his feet, facing the front door.

He can do this. He just --

He just.

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[hasthehighground]

He turns his head towards her, eyes red.

"I don't know, 'Tasha." He opens his mouth again, then closes it on his lack of words and shakes his head. His arms are starting to tremble from being clenched too long; he stares at them and tries to relax.

[redintheledger]

"I do," she says, unquestioning where he is hesitant.

"No one who does things like that to another person has any kind of basic respect for them. And they don't, they'll never care.

But that doesn't mean that they are right."

She takes a breath, and offers out her hand. If he'll accept, she rest it against his arm, stroke his hand with all of those tense muscles. If not, she'll curl her hand back, and wait.

[hasthehighground]

"It's," he ponders his word choice for a moment, breathes a laugh, "stupid."

He shifts his right arm toward her, opening his hand up.

[redintheledger]

"Yeah," she says. "It is. I've, uh." She shifts over, sits down properly on the floor next to him, and curls her hand around his.

"Emotions often are stupid."

[hasthehighground]

"Educated, you are," he says, teasing creeping into his tone as he watches her. "Downright eloquent."

[redintheledger]

"Oh, darlink," she says, lacing her American accent with too much Russian, "I try."

She smiles at him, the expression more of an implication of a curved mouth, of a lightening in the cast of her face.

"You want to actually sit down?"

[hasthehighground]

Clint considers this. He could hold this pose for hours; in his twenties he could and did hold it for 6 hour stretches without negatively impacting movement. In his twenties.

"If you laugh," Clint warns, before sinking down fast, feet sliding in front of him. He winces, a bit, at his joints unbending.

[redintheledger]

"I would never," Natasha protests, and then rests her head against his shoulder.

[hasthehighground]

"Sure," Clint drawls, amused, tilting his head against her hair.

Eventually: "You have a good day, baby doll?"

[redintheledger]

Her smiles brightens, is more natural than slyly innocent.

"I did. I did nothing in particular, and it was decadent."

Pause.

"And I found The Master and Margarita in Russian. The uncensored version, even."

She is very pleased with this.

[hasthehighground]

Amused: "If you're going to duplicate your whole library, we're going to need a bigger place."



...Wait.

[redintheledger]

She lifts her head to look at him.

Stare at him.



Same thing.

[hasthehighground]

"I mean," Clint says, static in his ears almost like his hearing aids are on the fritz. "If you were planning on staying. That'd be a, um, thing."

Is she? Had he assumed she was planning on it? He hasn't really looked too hard at the situation since she showed up at his door without forewarning after they got back from New Zealand almost two months ago.

[redintheledger]

"I...hadn't planned on moving out." Which is not, exactly, the same thing as planning to stay.







"I'd like to stay. But. Somewhere bigger would be...good."

[hasthehighground]

"We can do that."

...This seems to have exhausted Clint's planning capacity. He presses a kiss into her hair, and rolls to his feet. He stares into the kitchen for a moment, then down at her.

"Waffles?" he queries; it's both would you like some and have you taken my ingredients.

[redintheledger]

She would never take your ingredients, Clint, without making full plans for a grocery run in the very near future.

"Waffles sound amazing."

Lunch was a while ago for her. And, not much of one.