WHO: Natalia Romanova, Clint Barton (Both 616) WHEN: the Wednesday Natasha was suddenly alive in Delta block WHERE: Delta block WHAT: Tasha wakes up in her new block and then goes to find Clint. TRIGGERS: Natasha's version of PTSD which is more like shutting down.
______________
Alfa felt devoid of color, as if life had been drained. It made a sick sort of sense that, after the bloody arena, Natasha could appreciate. The longer the days went on, though, the harder it was to feel completely revived, as if the lack of color was still draining her life. The more people showed up, the more Natasha retreated.
There was no respite in dreams. The blissful darkness of death was more welcomed than this, but Natasha refused to show it it. Being brought back to life always had consequences, no matter the circumstances. Dying, your death — it stayed with you, and a piece of you was lost in the void. It could be recreated sometimes, but never completely filled in the way it was before.
She wouldn't be allowed to go off on her own while she was here, but Natasha was well versed in how to distance herself from people. It was one of those traits that earned Jan Van Dyne's suspicion and most of the Avengers refused to trust her for some time. It was easier to get reconnaissance on them; people put more effort into suspicion than they did in keeping their affairs quiet.
Natasha was tired though, the kind of tired that came from being resurrected. She flopped down on the bed she called hers, only for a few moments, and when she opened her eyes, it was like suddenly being flooded with color. Except everything was pink. The bed was comfortable and large, much larger than she was used to in Alfa, even Hotel. Sitting up, she surveyed her surroundings. Bathroom off the bedroom. Desk. Large room off from the bedroom. Empty, blank.
She pushed herself to her feet. More goddamn pink. Where the hell was she because this was no safe-house she remembered? Maybe she was back in their world, somehow in someone's bedroom dressed like a school marm. A quick inspection of the closet revealed all of her previous scenario costumes, and Natasha felt her sails deflate. She wasn't home; she was still here.
New scenario?
Time to get to it then. Figure out where she was and what was going on. The door to the room wasn't locked to Natasha's relief. She was tired of doors that didn't budge.
"Jesus, why is everything pink?" Natasha cringed as she looked up and down the hallway.
Pink red orange. They had really all started to bleed together for Clint in the almost two weeks since Natasha hadn't come back from the death trap they were supposed to go into together. He never doubted Natasha for a moment, and that's why he had known from the moment she teamed up with those kids, that she wouldn't be coming back. Even as her hands lied with signs that really meant I love you but I made up my mind days ago. Natasha lived under the burden of her sins like Clint, but had trouble with the truth which flowed out of him like a deep cut.
One would think, as an Avenger, particularly one with his track record, particularly knowing her well-covered sense of obligation, that he would have been used to death of friends, family, lovers. Natasha was always all three. But he hadn't expected her to go out so early, and he never would have been prepared at all.
He still didn't know what-or how-to feel, so when David Bowie had torn him from drinking himself to an early grave. He hadn't really cared. Leaving to eat occasionally before flopping into bed. But after four more days, and three suggestions of a shower, he had wound up fully clothed in Delta's pool. He had been there for probably six hours, draped against the concrete lip.
As someone walked by, he glanced without moving. Though he knew her walk. He muttered a greeting returning to his unfocused gaze groundward. He'd been studying a drying feather. "Hey Tasha."
Wait… what?
Maybe she had died after all, and this was some funhouse projection that some underworld god had put her in. Pink. Godawful and everywhere, like a giant Pepto Bismol coated world. She heard Clint's voice before she saw him, stopping to look down. He hadn't shaved in who knew how long, his hair was unkempt even without the chlorinated water, and he was definitely wearing his clothes into the pool.
"I should have known I couldn't leave you alone for two seconds. You turn into a hobo."
Grace was not normally a quality Clint Barton was known for, but he at least usually managed coordination. Now even the simple act of getting out of a pool was a tangle of limbs and eagerness as he clambered like an overexcited dog onto the concrete, splashing as he went.
But looking at her, color returned to the world and to his face. It was pink, like love. Like some sort of pining and West Hollywood concept of a flamingo, he was dripping and ridiculous, but wasted no time throwing his arms around her. In that moment, his face was wetter than when he got out of the pool. But he wasn't letting her go for anything this time.
"It was over two weeks, you jerk."
The hitch in his voice snipped something inside her. Her hands, which had been limp at her sides, hurried to comfort him. There was little space between them in any way that mattered at the moment. Natasha held onto him for as long as he needed, never mind that she needed it too. Clint was a constant flow of emotion, and it was contagious sometimes.
"You know me. Fashionably late," she whispered. "Clint?"
"Fashionably?" He rested his cheek against her hair, taking in the scent that hadn't even been on his pillow since he swapped blocks. It had the cadence of a joke but a vulnerability he was still unable or unwilling to let go. Neither of them could be called exactly fragile, but dying changed things. People dying changed things. Even when they came back, coming back could feel more wrong than dying. For a long time.
Clint didn't want to think about that for her. Instead he kissed her shoulder, feeling his name hushed against his neck. "Yeah?"
It took her a moment of holding onto him as tightly as possible before she could disentangle herself away long enough for him to be able to read her lips. Until then, she buried her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. It wasn't often that she gave into these kinds of feelings, and even less when it was with Clint Barton. He deserved better than what she'd given him in the past.
Finally, she looked at him, and it was difficult to tell if her face was wet because he was wet or if she'd been crying too. "What are you wearing?"
Clint moved his hand up, weaving his fingers in between hers to extend the contact even as he had to shift away to watch her talk. He actually let his eyes linger on her. She seemed uninjured, but couldn't be unhurt. Unless what they had seen had all been a trick. But she didn't hug like that over a trick. He made a vow to keep an eye on her, easy because he didn't plan to leave her side for a while.
"I dunno…." He looked down at the outfit, recognizing for the first time how much he looked like some sort of fancy Barbie pimp. "David Bowie gave it to me."
One of Natasha's eyes narrowed as she studied his face to see if he was kidding or making some off-color joke, but there was nothing but honesty. (That was the trouble with Clint.) She pulled away, not letting go of his hand, but forcing it to stay entwined with hers as she pulled open his arms to get a better look at this hideous monstrosity.
"Are those pants what I think they are?" Natasha didn't wait and reached out to rub her hands down the side of his pants, watching them change color. Yup. Those stupid mermaid sequin things like the pillows. Ridiculous as they were, they were a good look on someone who did not skip leg day. "Why am I not surprised that you didn't change out of this?"
"It's clothes," he offered with a shrug still tethered by her hands.
As a circus performer before an Avenger, Clint had worn equally if not more garish clothes without a second thought in the past. And while the pink was new and certainly elements of the costume were a bit much, he honestly hadn't entered thought of it in the fog of the post Natasha Hunger Games.
Clearly, that she had pointed it out, he was beginning to do so now. Clint took a hand back and brushed shaggy hair out of his face, the hand going to rest on the back of his neck.
"I mean. I could change I guess."
"When was the last time you did change? Or shower?"
An idea blossomed in her head, and she knew Clint Barton well enough to know that he wouldn't object to this one. It had been weeks since she'd had contact with anyone, and she knew that he'd heard her last words in the arena. Maybe it was time to show him that she'd meant them, even if she could only say them on her deathbed.