Fears of the Widow

Sparring Fatalities

Clint was smacking his hand against the door for who knows how long before Nat answered.  Her hair was matted to the side, eyes were sunken in, and a sickly smell radiated from her person.

"What the heck were you doing?" Clint snapped the minute he saw her appearance.

She scowled, "sleeping.  What do you want?"

Oh... Sleeping was actually a good excuse.

"You never sleep this late.  We always meet for a morning jog!  ALWAYS!" Clint exclaimed, noticing the half present girl in front of him rolling her eyes, "Maybe I was tired.  Maybe I needed sleep.  Maybe I just wanted some alone time from touchy people."

Clint hadn't thought of that.  In fact after she didn't show for ten minutes he had rushed up here and began beating on her door.

"I... I'm sorry Nat.  You've just been worrying me," he murmured before glancing at her cut.  She hadn't bandaged it back up, and the purplish wound seeped of a clear liquid but no blood however it looked ghoulish.

Natasha pursed her lips, "I'm a big girl, Barton.  I don't always need your protection.  You aren't my daddy."

"No but I'm your b... partner," he corrected himself. Boyfriend?  No.  Clint and Natasha were just friends.  Very good friends who occasionally went out to eat or had very hands on... Romantic cover ops.

Nat rubbed her eyes half mindedly before nodding, "I don't need protection, Clint, and I'll be down in the training room in fifteen."  Then she slammed the door in his face, and he heard her muttering under her breath on the other side. 

Was she just nice to him?  No head slapping?  No yelling? No glares?  He had mixed feelings on the new Natasha, but he had other things to worry about at the moment.  Natasha related cuts and a sparring match they were to have in fifteen minutes.

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Nat flushed her puke filled toilet and practically poured Febreeze around the bathroom.

She took a microsecond shower but avoided her cut so that she wouldn't pass out again.  After taming the mighty red beast atop her head and putting on just enough concealer to not look like a zombie the assassin got dressed.  Tight black leggings and a red T-back tank top were really all she needed.  Wrapping her wound, ankles and wrists completed her sparring uniform and she met Clint in the sparring ring.

"You sure you wanna spar with the hurt arm?" Clint asked.

Why was he always so worried about her?

She grimaced, "yes, father, I'm sure!  It won't make it any harder kicking your ass."

"Feisty huh?  Well c'mon... Make a move then Nat," Clint dared.

Nat grinned, "happily," before sending a side kick into his stomach and shoving him against the sparring ring.

"Oh, well played Tasha, dear," he teased and threw a punch at her head.  She barely caught it, but he used his strength to throw her weight down.

But Natasha was fast.  She slid under his left leg and caught his feet.  He slipped to the ground and she rolled up to her feet.

"Not so bad yourself except you fight like an old man," the black widow was less than temperamental for easy goers, "so get up if your lazy butt and fight like Hawkeye."

Hawkeye jumped to his feet and scowled, "I would hate to hurt you."

"All in the experience," she dead panned before catching his eye in a nice blow and then charging an uppercut. He caught it just barely and twisted her arm back hearing a light pop.

She grimaced but then grinned, "I was a little tense, Hun.  Thanks," and then she had him in a choke hold.  He grabbed at her arms and sunk his nails into that perfectly creamy flesh he so admired.

Nat fell off of his back and kicked his legs out from under him.  Both fell to the floor and she pinned him by his shoulders.  Well except he was much stronger than she.  Clint tossed her sideways shoved her shoulders to the ground.  Their faces were inches apart and both could feel the other's ragged breathing.

Without thinking, Clint lightened his hold, and Nat took the chance to throw him over her head.  He fell with a thud and came up with a fury in him to win.

Her arm.  Mindlessly, you could say, he kicked her right on the wound.  Awful idea.

Natasha Romanoff fell to the floor screaming in a cold sweat.  Screaming from a blacked out stupor.  Literally she was passed out but screaming, and

Clint was screaming too, "Nat!  Nat!"

She didn't budge.  Her pale face only lightened in color and sweat rubbed off her head though she shivered slightly.

"TONY! TONY, dammit!" Clint screamed.

Tony.  Where was that tin man?