habromania → marvel imagines

{ clint barton }

line without a hook
type: fluff, angst(?), mutal pining
pairing: clint barton x fem!reader

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You know that feeling: seeing the person you oh-so-desperately are yearning for waltz gracefully on in their life without you?

That's how Clint felt.

Every single time he saw her.

Of course, he had known right from the start that she was out of his league, but that couldn't hold his feelings back. Especially considering their defined strength.

No matter what she was doing, she was always so... appealing.

Not in a sexual way whatsoever, just pure adoration. Adoration on how someone as perfect as herself could possibly face a cruel, dark world like this own. Regardless, she still held that same smile everyday. That warm, comforting smile that Clint had once fell in love with. And will all over again, each and every time it was exposed to him.

What he wouldn't give to be with her; the list was bare. Truth was, he would do absolutely anything he could.

Another truth was that he couldn't.

He couldn't even begin to fathom the thought of ruining their friendship in any way - no matter the chances of reciprocation, which (to Clint) were dangerously low for his liking.

So, there, he stood.

Stood alone.

Observing her, her movements, her smile, her everything.

Reminiscing on something Natalia had once told him, Clint sighed. Not a necessarily despaired one; however not particularly a jovial one. An unattainable content, if you will,

"Like her or not, you have to admire her. She's perfect."

How right she had been, Clint already knew.

Unfortunately, he was also somewhat vaguely aware of the fact he had no chance whatsoever.

He plucked the sting of his bow mindlessly, reluctantly withdrawing his respectful sight away from you.

Eyesight and attention now drawn to his purple-conversed feet, Clint's mind drifted to when you showed up at his apartment door that one day he needed you more than ever.

He had just fought off the (supposed) last of the tracksuit mafia, now flushed against his rutted material draped sofa, feeling his physical self and his dignity sink along with the velvet cushions.

No motivation to get up, he let the doorbell ring through the space, echoing with the lack of furniture.

He didn't have time to buy, let alone assemble, fixtures. Either way, what was the point? It's not like anyone would see it. Or, at least, care. Even if they did, no one would be there long enough to judge. If so, let them. Why should he worry about other peoples views on how he lived?

It was the voice that pulled him out of the daze.

That worried voice that let Clint know that the only person he had ever wanted was right beyond that door. That one piece of oak being the only thing separating them was simply too much for the archer, considering he stood, dragging his feet as quickly as he could around the forgotten bandages and abandoned cafetière that had once contained scolding liquid, now a chilled void at the bottom of the glass,

"Clint? You in there?"

After opening the door, the before helpless man was filled with a sudden energy, a feeling only you were able to assign to him. There you were, purple sneakers in hand.

They had nearly fell out of your palms at the sight of him, the man you loved, with too-thin gauzes poorly wrapping his what looked like fresh wounds.

After dressing the cuts properly, you applied those small lines of plasters Clint always treasured you applying on him. Something about the delicacy, the gesture, all meant so much to him.

I suppose it was routine, by then, to do so.

Needless to say, the amount of times clint had taken off the shoes were slim.

But, there, he stood.

Looking at what he all but wanted to be his. What he needed to be his. 

And there, right then, you continued walking along the S.H.I.E.L.D corridors with no absolute bother in the world.

Except one:

Clint Barton wasn't yours. And, as to what you thought, never would be.