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Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The black-rimmed clock in the corner of the room made more noise than either of the two assassins, who were both dead to the world as they lay asleep and tangled in each other’s arms on the torn couch. One of Clint’s hands was knotted in Natasha’s fiery red hair, and the other wrapped around her waist in a small gesture of comfort. The Russian was curled up close to him in the fetal position, her knees tucked up in between them. It was the first quiet moment either of them had experienced in at least a week. It had been explosion after explosion, fight after fight, and Strike Team Delta was growing weary. Both were light sleepers most of the time, but the noise of the clock didn’t wake them as it normally would. Natasha relaxed at the archer’s warm exhales on her forehead. Clint was captivated by the way her hair smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Their first night was quiet and peaceful. It was the first time either of them had felt safe in a long time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“Ад!” Natasha swore quietly as she watched the plate shatter on the ground the second night. The usually graceful woman had managed to burn nearly everything she was cooking, lose her target in a crowd, get shot once and stabbed twice, and now this, the damn cherry on top of a horrible day. Her distress slowly consumed her, and she found herself sitting down in the middle of the shards as tears ran down her face and blood ran down her palms. And then there was Clint, who came into the room concerned after hearing a crash, who saw her crying on the floor, who wrapped his arms around her and gently picked her up, who rocked her back and forth while murmuring soothing things into her ear. Clint, who held her on the couch as she soaked his shirt with silent tears. When the tears stopped, the archer continued to hold her as she sat there. It was exactly what she needed, and exactly what no one had given to her before. She fell asleep in his arms, and around midnight, when he was sure she was okay, he gently set her on the couch and stood up. In the morning, Natasha woke up wrapped in a blanket, to find her palms bandaged and the shards gone.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Clint’s face was smudged with the frosting Natasha had playfully put there. The two were laughing, really laughing, for the first time in a month. And when Natasha looked over at him, eyes filled with happiness, the words came out before she could think,
“I love you.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.