![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Avengers Cinematic, "Mediterranean" (Clint+/Natasha)
Natasha pays Clint a surprise visit during a mission, but she wasn't expecting to surprise him right out of a sound sleep. You know. Since the mission shouldn't have included naptime.
Contains Natasha/Clint UST, aw yeah. Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fic_promptly to the theme "Clint/Natasha, Little Boy Blue", a reference to this nursery rhyme.
.mediterranean.
She dropped in on the site unexpectedly, intending to surprise Clint with a visit, but the expedition team couldn't really say where he was. Natasha wished she could say that she was surprised, but it was more or less the MO that she had grown familiar with from him.
"He's up there somewhere, probably," they said, peering up at the rocky cliffs stretching high above their heads.
Of course he is, she thought, not bothering to look up. Clint's way of making his charges feel protected was alarmingly similar to making them feel like they were being hunted: stay out of sight, but always keep them feeling watched.
His team seemed to take for granted the fact that he was out there, even though none of them had seen him. So that was technically good; at least they did manage to feel secure with a nonexistent guard. Of course, it also meant that Clint might not be present sometime while they were assuming he was, and that could be trouble.
She strode briskly away from the scientists and lifted a hand to trigger her commlink, saying into it, "Barton, this is Romanoff. Give me your position."
While she waited for his answer, she turned her gaze up to the rocky outcroppings above, trying to determine which ones she could use to get up there, which ones he might be on -- not too much aerial exposure, but enough visual on both the outside and the inside of the chasm. He would be in camo gear, so she couldn't expect to get too good a glimpse of him from this angle...
...and he wasn't reporting in like a good boy. Natasha let out a breath. She'd have to find him herself, then.
She wasn't properly suited up and her clambering up a bare rock wall with only a grappling hook resulted in a broken nail and a hole in the thigh of her jeans, but he wasn't hard to find once she was crouched low on an overhang above the encampment.
Clint was on a particularly large outcropping, one that could be comfortably stood in, but he was flat on his back, motionless.
She would have been worried if she hadn't known better. Instead, she worked her way over to him, plucking a long strand of crabgrass growing from a crack in the rock, and silently leaned over him, taking in his features, easy in sleep, relaxed, basking in the still quiet and the warm air.
Less of a hawk than a lizard, she thought, fond in spite of herself. She thought of beaches, afternoons spent in the shade of a cabana while awaiting their nightlife mission, listening to the waves with a book in her lap that she wasn't reading, because less than a foot away Clint had drifted off in his deck chair, and he looked so... content.
She erased her smile studiously before reaching out with the crabgrass to dust it across his nose, his cheek.
Immediately Clint was awake, wrinkling his nose and stirring, and when his eyes opened and he caught sight of her he went tense.
"Guilty conscience, Barton?" she drawled.
Clint straightened up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... don't know what happened," he said, insincerely.
"Sure you do. You got bored babysitting some egghead scientists and you figured if anything went wrong, the screaming would wake you up."
The sniper paused and admitted after a beat, "That might have been my exact train of thought, now that you mention it." Then he craned around to look at her, curious. "What are you doing here, Tasha? Weren't you in Ghazni?"
"I heard you were enjoying a vacation in a Mediterranean paradise, and I wanted in on that," she said, looking out. Gorroppu Gorge was beautiful, and Sardinia beyond it was stunning. She had spent half the trip here staring out the window, admiring.
"So Teymouri is bugged?"
Natasha glanced back at him, lifting her eyebrows. "Some of us do the work we're assigned before relaxing."
"You're a harsh taskmaster," Clint complained, but he was grinning. "Call it my lunch break."
She could have brought up what could have befallen his scientists while he was dozing in the warm air, or the inherent problems in waiting for the screaming to begin before taking defensive action. Instead she just said, "And here I was hoping to join you on that."
He paused, rubbing his arm lightly with one gloved hand, and then he pulled up his quiver and slung it over one shoulder.
"Two lunch breaks?" he offered with a grin.
The truth was that she liked watching him sleep, liked that side of him that other people so rarely saw. He was an assassin and a spy to the core, like she was; he didn't let down his guard often. Natasha felt privileged to have been in his presence more than once when it happened.
Maybe he shouldn't have been sleeping, but maybe she shouldn't have wanted to just watch him instead of waking him up with an impersonal brush of grass that was all the contact she could manage without triggering him into reflexive violence because he wouldn't be expecting physical touch. Maybe he should've paid more attention on the job, but maybe she should've banished any thoughts about curling up beside him. Maybe they were both damn fools who should've known better.
So they were even, in a way.
"Tasha?" he asked, his voice slipping a notch lower when she didn't answer right away. His gaze meeting hers was gentle and curious.
The privilege went both ways. She had seen him let down his guard over the years, and he knew that she would do the same with him. But not about this. Never about this.
"This time, tell your team you're not going to be hovering over them," she advised him, shoving up and holding out a hand to help him to his feet. "And you owe me a new pair of jeans."
Contains Natasha/Clint UST, aw yeah. Written for
fic_promptly to the theme "Clint/Natasha, Little Boy Blue", a reference to this nursery rhyme..mediterranean.
She dropped in on the site unexpectedly, intending to surprise Clint with a visit, but the expedition team couldn't really say where he was. Natasha wished she could say that she was surprised, but it was more or less the MO that she had grown familiar with from him.
"He's up there somewhere, probably," they said, peering up at the rocky cliffs stretching high above their heads.
Of course he is, she thought, not bothering to look up. Clint's way of making his charges feel protected was alarmingly similar to making them feel like they were being hunted: stay out of sight, but always keep them feeling watched.
His team seemed to take for granted the fact that he was out there, even though none of them had seen him. So that was technically good; at least they did manage to feel secure with a nonexistent guard. Of course, it also meant that Clint might not be present sometime while they were assuming he was, and that could be trouble.
She strode briskly away from the scientists and lifted a hand to trigger her commlink, saying into it, "Barton, this is Romanoff. Give me your position."
While she waited for his answer, she turned her gaze up to the rocky outcroppings above, trying to determine which ones she could use to get up there, which ones he might be on -- not too much aerial exposure, but enough visual on both the outside and the inside of the chasm. He would be in camo gear, so she couldn't expect to get too good a glimpse of him from this angle...
...and he wasn't reporting in like a good boy. Natasha let out a breath. She'd have to find him herself, then.
She wasn't properly suited up and her clambering up a bare rock wall with only a grappling hook resulted in a broken nail and a hole in the thigh of her jeans, but he wasn't hard to find once she was crouched low on an overhang above the encampment.
Clint was on a particularly large outcropping, one that could be comfortably stood in, but he was flat on his back, motionless.
She would have been worried if she hadn't known better. Instead, she worked her way over to him, plucking a long strand of crabgrass growing from a crack in the rock, and silently leaned over him, taking in his features, easy in sleep, relaxed, basking in the still quiet and the warm air.
Less of a hawk than a lizard, she thought, fond in spite of herself. She thought of beaches, afternoons spent in the shade of a cabana while awaiting their nightlife mission, listening to the waves with a book in her lap that she wasn't reading, because less than a foot away Clint had drifted off in his deck chair, and he looked so... content.
She erased her smile studiously before reaching out with the crabgrass to dust it across his nose, his cheek.
Immediately Clint was awake, wrinkling his nose and stirring, and when his eyes opened and he caught sight of her he went tense.
"Guilty conscience, Barton?" she drawled.
Clint straightened up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... don't know what happened," he said, insincerely.
"Sure you do. You got bored babysitting some egghead scientists and you figured if anything went wrong, the screaming would wake you up."
The sniper paused and admitted after a beat, "That might have been my exact train of thought, now that you mention it." Then he craned around to look at her, curious. "What are you doing here, Tasha? Weren't you in Ghazni?"
"I heard you were enjoying a vacation in a Mediterranean paradise, and I wanted in on that," she said, looking out. Gorroppu Gorge was beautiful, and Sardinia beyond it was stunning. She had spent half the trip here staring out the window, admiring.
"So Teymouri is bugged?"
Natasha glanced back at him, lifting her eyebrows. "Some of us do the work we're assigned before relaxing."
"You're a harsh taskmaster," Clint complained, but he was grinning. "Call it my lunch break."
She could have brought up what could have befallen his scientists while he was dozing in the warm air, or the inherent problems in waiting for the screaming to begin before taking defensive action. Instead she just said, "And here I was hoping to join you on that."
He paused, rubbing his arm lightly with one gloved hand, and then he pulled up his quiver and slung it over one shoulder.
"Two lunch breaks?" he offered with a grin.
The truth was that she liked watching him sleep, liked that side of him that other people so rarely saw. He was an assassin and a spy to the core, like she was; he didn't let down his guard often. Natasha felt privileged to have been in his presence more than once when it happened.
Maybe he shouldn't have been sleeping, but maybe she shouldn't have wanted to just watch him instead of waking him up with an impersonal brush of grass that was all the contact she could manage without triggering him into reflexive violence because he wouldn't be expecting physical touch. Maybe he should've paid more attention on the job, but maybe she should've banished any thoughts about curling up beside him. Maybe they were both damn fools who should've known better.
So they were even, in a way.
"Tasha?" he asked, his voice slipping a notch lower when she didn't answer right away. His gaze meeting hers was gentle and curious.
The privilege went both ways. She had seen him let down his guard over the years, and he knew that she would do the same with him. But not about this. Never about this.
"This time, tell your team you're not going to be hovering over them," she advised him, shoving up and holding out a hand to help him to his feet. "And you owe me a new pair of jeans."