A Crazier Than Average Year, A Matt/Nat Story

Will you Come out with me Tonight, 2

Natasha, 2012

"Will you come out with me tonight?"

His heart lurches under her right ear. His carotid artery labours in his throat, ribbons of muscle standing out suddenly as he works his jaw around an answer. He bends his head down, shading her from the moonlight, and kisses her temple. A soft, lingering touch against the yellowing bruise and the new flesh still knitting three weeks after The Incident.

"Not tonight, 'Tasha." He's taken to shortening her name. She isn't sure if it's sweet, or if he can't bring himself to say it in full. Is he upset with her? Mad that when shit hit the proverbial fan she didn't call? That when aliens dropped out of the sky she didn't do enough? Maybe he regrets not joining when she asked. None of it quite sounds like Matt, the man who leaves his window open at night, waiting for an assassin to step through.

She's not surprised by the bandages. Not shocked by the red, angry skin, gleaming with a waxy sheen, puckering around his ribs. He's the kind of person who chastises you for carrying an umbrella when the forecast says rain, it's beautiful, he'll say, the sun is shining. Better believe he has one stashed somewhere though. He'll charge into the black when the world falls apart but can't admit he lacks faith in its ability to hold itself together.

So she's not surprised he said no to her but still fought.

Something does surprise her.

He keeps swallowing the words. The questions. Matt keeps himself from pacing and yelling by squeezing her tightly to his chest. Like he just wants to believe she's real, everything else is too much. He opens up his arms to her like nothing has happened in the several months they've been apart, like the whole world doesn't know who she is now. Her face is still in the newspapers, she had to dye her hair black when she came back to New York. Then there's the way he grimaces when the sirens start up three blocks over, grits his teeth and pops an aspirin, pretends the simulated gunfire on the television downstairs isn't keeping him awake.

It surprises her when he says no. No, he won't dance with her.

"Will you come out tonight?" A week after that first night and she's back on the futon with Matt sprawled over her legs. His cheek rests against the curve of her stomach, he's making small circles with his finger against her thigh, her skin is covered in tiny answering bumps, his touch raising gooseflesh.

His jaw works against her belly, his fingers stop circling and he grips her thighs instead. Knuckles white. He shifts like his ribs are bothering him, even though she knows his expression isn't one of pain.

"Not tonight."

She nods, folds herself so she can kiss him on the forehead reassuringly. His hair is grimy and smells like sweat.

She sidles up to Sheryl at the bar later and pushes another cocktail towards the blue-eyed blonde.

"Foggy's been devastated, you know, he's just wrecked."

"God, I can't imagine." Natasha sighs dramatically, taking a long sip so that Sheryl feels obligated to fill the beats between bass notes in the music.

"Ya, poor guy. Can't say I've really connected with him, he's so quiet. But Foggy really loves him. It's been so hard to watch him go through this."

"What can you do?" Natasha shrugs, moves a little closer. Her body angles forward to form a conspiratorial bubble between them. She tilts down her head, "What happened though, really, you say the guy is blind ?"

Sheryl takes the bait. She bites her lip and Natasha understands they're done feigning compassion. It's time for the nitty-gritty details, the morbid curiosity that follows calamity.