clintasha oneshots

Mr and Mrs Barton Part 13

Natasha:

She kept up the façade of nonchalance through the rest of the work day before going to the first place that she thought would be appropriate to drown her misery in. The place he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him.

She had known the fool was going to do it. She found the ring a week before he even got up the nerve to ask her to go to the restaurant. He had been nervous, like that of a child waiting to show his mum or pop a gift that he made himself. She had thought he was adorable.

Now he was gone.

She drank the alcohol that they brought her. A type of white wine that they claimed to be a house specialty. She wishes she had just gone home to drink the bottle of vodka she had in the kitchen. Except the memories there were worse than the ones here.

The ones here were from the beginning of their relationship, but at home were the ones closer to now. Over time, her emotions for the fool actually grew. She's upset that he is gone. She wants to claim that it's because of the blow to her cover. However, it was probably more than that.

Not that she'll ever mention it to anyone other than herself inside her mind. If she even let a piece of her emotions loose, they'll wipe her memory of everything she had of him. She can't let that happen. There were too many happy ones that would be lost.

So here she is, sitting at the table they shared all those years ago. Him nervous and ready to come up with an excuse if her answer had been no. Her, well, she had a plan in place to say yes.

She holds her glass up for a refill, when callused fingers curl around her wrist and the thin neck of the bottle in her hand. "Need more?"

"Clint?" He survived the crash. How? How did he survive?

His smile doesn't reach his eyes, but she can make out the tears in them. "Can I have this dance?" He's already released her wrist, but had the glass in his hand. He sets it on the table in front of her, looking for all the world like a kick puppy.

Natasha takes his offered hand and lets him pull her to the dance floor. She hits him a bit harder on a spin in than she expected. But she isn't shocked when he pulls the knife that was holstered on her thigh. "Sneaky." She pushes her hand under his suit jacket to take the gun out the she suspected was there, and gave it a quick kick across the floor.

He finds one of her hidden guns with a sparkle in his eye, and places it in the punch bowl as the dancing brings them close to it. "We need to talk without pointy objects." He smirked when she went flush against him. Talking about pointy objects... Natasha glances down at his waist with an eyebrow raised. "Just flesh. You know me."

She knows his file. An operative as skilled as himself wouldn't come in her with only one weapon. Right in the middle of the dance floor, she drops down and checks his ankles and empties the holsters found there. She's gently pulled up. "I need to freshen up." She twirls out of his arms and escapes up the stairs.

There, she plants another bomb with a smile and motions for the other women in there on out.

Another. Hopefully Clint is as good as his file said. She was wondering what he wanted to talk with her about.

It would be bad if he exploded before getting the chance.

Clint:

He watches her go upstairs, fairly certain that he can get her to at least talk to him now. Well, he thought that before the explosion and smoke rolled out of the bathroom on the second floor. He's already running that way to help move the civilians out of the way, and to make sure Nat wasn't in the explosion.

He happens to turn and sees her moving out with the crowd of people. The look she gave him...He knows where she's going to go. At least, he's fairly certain he knows where she's going.

He moves out into the crowd, when a random man bumps into him with the comment, "You're beeping."

Ugh, Clint knows he should have turned up his hearing aids this morning.

He yanks his suit jacket off and throws it in the trash can next to the road. Just in time, too, because the thing blows up as soon as he puts the lid on it.

He liked that jacket. It was one of the few that fit him correctly.

He smiles at the man driving a limousine before pulling him on out and taking the car. A few bruises would be better than having a top notch assassin running loose in the city.

Well, besides him.