Who: Clint and Natasha What: More drama aftermath! Where: Clint's place (his house is v. popular) When: A couple days after ALL THE DRAMA Warnings: Forced prostitution, (faked) violence against women
It had been a while since Clint had actually seen Natasha in person which was, by itself, not a particularly strange occurrence, but it felt strange, given the trouble she'd been in recently. He hadn't pressed much, when she'd told him to leave her alone. Years ago, he would've. Months ago, he might've. But if any message had been hammered home to him in the recent past, it was that she didn't need his help. And more than that, she didn't seem to want his help, especially the frail, emotional kind that often felt like the only thing he could give her -- or anyone -- in the current political climate. She wasn't like Steve, with his big dreams and misguided ideals. Natasha had been born practical; Clint had known that since before he'd even met her. It stood to reason that someday, she'd outgrow him. So he didn't pry, not this time. He let her handle it like she wanted.
So it was a pleasant surprise when she showed up at his house, an unexpected gift. He'd been let off of his ordinary practice schedule for a week to let his ribs heal, and he'd been home for most of the day when Natasha knocked on his door. "Hey," he said, pulling the door wide for her, his smile not quite as bright as it would've been if he hadn't noticed the bruise that even the most skilled makeup artist couldn't quite conceal. "I was just making some dinner. Rice and sausage and stuff. Want some?"
The food was simmering on the stove, its spicy, comforting smell spilling into the front room. The table was set (sort of, if you could call the presence of a plate and a half-full beer "set") for one, but he was already reaching for another plate.