Clintasha One-shots

Wings

A/N: please tell me if you know the Artist of the Fanart!

Natasha stepped out of the hot water raining down the shower in her Shield quarters. She loved to just stand under the stream for hours, enjoying the warmth. Back in the Red Room they only ever had ice cold showers in winter and luke warm ones in summer. 
A month had passed since Barton had captured her in Bucharest.
A week since she was allowed to leave her prison cell, under the condition that she shared a bunk apartment with Agent Barton.
Six days since she got annoyed of her roommate.
He was secretive and usually left for the night once she went to sleep. Natasha assumed he went to the training rooms or the range. She would have gone there herself but the spy needed to built a normal and trustworthy reputation first. Director Fury didn’t trust her yet and it took a lot of persuading by Barton to even let her out of the holding cell. The more it bothered her to see him leave every night when she had to stay. There was not nearly enough time to blow off steam during the daily training sessions and the red-head began to get restless but at least she got to kick the Archer’s ass everyday now. A small triumph.
Natasha was considerably better at hand to hand than him but he proved to be the only one in SHIELD that at least could bring her on the mat from time to time. It was refreshing since she’d surpassed her trainers in the Red Room a long time ago.
She dressed in dark grey Shield issued sweatpants and a hoodie with her Name printed across the back and the Eagle on her right Shoulder. Seriously these Americans printed their Logo on Everything. Everything. She’d even seen towels with embroidered Eagles on them. Still, the clothes they’d given her were comfortable and from good quality. Natasha was grateful for the thick cotton of her hoodie and comfortably snuggled deeper into it before leaving the bathroom and walking back into the main area.
Through the half opened door of the bedroom, she could make out her roommate. Barton was changing from his uniform to more comfortable clothes like hers. While starting the coffee machine, the only non-shield-issued item in the bunk, Natasha carefully observed him. He had his back turned to her and began to change out of his black cargo pants into the same sort of sweats she was currently clad in. The cargos were carelessly tossed to the floor. Another thing that annoyed her; Barton treated nothing with care except for his weapons. She frequently found his clothing in odd spaces. Meanwhile, he began to pull the hem of his shirt over his head, ruffling the dirty blonde hair in the process.
Suddenly, Natasha stopped, looking more closely. There was a black pattern running from his shoulder blades down to his hips. No, she thought, no pattern, a tattoo. A pair of tribal styled wings stretched over his broad shoulders and ended just above the hem of his pants.  Strange. She wouldn’t have pictured him for a tattoo person. It was too risky in their line of work to possess such a recognizable feat. Then, he pulled the grey hoodie on and turned to join her. Quickly, Natasha averted her gaze. She would ask him about it later.

One year later
Of course he’d been shot, he was always the one who got shot. Natasha called it bad luck, Clint was stoic that bullets hated him. They had just finished a mission in Krakow and were currently waiting for their evac.
Once inside the Quinjet, The red-head pursued him to have a look at the wound he kept pressing against. It was clean, through and through but bled a lot. Wincing at the sight, she took a clean bandage and began to apply pressure on it again. Under her hands, she could feel him wince slightly at the harsh touch. “How bad is it?” Barton’s voice was gravelly and tired. It had been a long two weeks hunting down a polish Mafia.
Her reply was precise and detached “You lost a feather but otherwise it looks ok. Maybe you can shoot again in two or three weeks if it heals well.” They always talked about their wounds like it didn’t concern them. It made it easier to detach from the pain and worry for the other.
“I lost a feather?” he asked with a trace of confusion. Usually Nat was not one for stupid puns. “Your Tattoo, the bullet hit right in the outer feather, chipping it off at the end. You could always retouch it of course.”
Clint only nodded, letting her words lull him into blood loss induced sleep.
Two weeks later, he would look into the bathroom mirror and examine the damage. SHIELD’s advanced healing meds worked wonders as per usual but there was still a distinctive piece missing on one of the feathers just like Nat told him in the Jet.
With a sad smile, he touched the scarred skin and looked over the rest of the once flawless tattoo. He had it for a long time. Before Natasha. Before SHIELD. Before his days as a gun for hire. And before countless scars of long forgotten wounds.