Russian Doll

Imperfection

The next morning, the man whose name I now know to be Clint Barton comes to my so-called 'room' to collect me for training.

When he open's the door, he doesn't step aside to let me out as he usually does but remains standing in the doorway.

I'm expecting him to say something about what happened yesterday. I didn't know if it would be an apology or otherwise, but something.

Instead, he turns and starts walking the familiar route to the gym.

I walk a few steps behind him, not too far back to cause concern but far enough that I wasn't feeling uncomfortable, given what had occurred the last time we spoke.

Every morning is the same; Leave the room, walk to the gym, take him on in the boxing ring, get my ass handed to me at the shooting range because he won't let me use a gun yet, go back to the room, rinse and repeat. This time, though, I hesitate when I step towards the boxing ring.

"You good?"

I look up to see Clint, already inside the ring, casually resting one arm on the topmost rope as he looks down at me.

He reaches down with one hand, which I eventually grab, allowing him to haul me up into the ring.

It comes as a surprise to me that there is no awkwardness between us. We do what we do every day. We spar.

I block a series of punches he throws at my face.

He dodges the kick I send at his chest.

When he gets me in a headlock and I manage to land an elbow to his face, I get a 'good job', and we continue.

After only five minutes, I'm beginning to sweat in the shirt I'm wearing.

I hold up a hand to signal that I'm stopping before pulling it off and throwing it over the ropes, leaving me in the crop top that I usually wear when training.

When I turn back around, Clint is staring at my stomach. It only takes me a couple of seconds to realise what he was looking at. Indeed, when I glance down, I can see the ugly, jagged scar that was the result of getting shot a few years back.

I look up, straight at him, and shrug. "Perks of the job, am I right?"

He doesn't smile. Instead, he takes a step towards me and gently brushes two fingers over the mangled flesh.

I hold my breath and fight the urge to pull away as he traces the scar, fingers only lightly resting on my skin.

After a few moments, I place my hand over his. The movement stops.

I look up at him. He's staring straight back at me. Our faces are barely inches apart.

Suddenly, I know what's going to happen. It freaks me out, but I don't move. I stay perfectly still as his hand moves from my stomach to around my waist, his other hand coming up to rest on my neck as he leans forwards. I close the gap between us, and our lips meet.