….
The swell of emotion washing over her was not unexpected, considering the setting and the stage, though Natasha still found herself unprepared for it. Talking was not really their thing, and everything they felt was so often unsaid in a comfortable, easy way. Natasha knew that she loved him, knew that he loved her in return, and words were messy. Words were so messy, and despite knowing how she felt and knowing that how much she loved Clint would always ring true, she’d been more nervous than she’d been in years when it came to putting vows together - as luck would have it, the flowed with no hesitation or hiccups, came just as effortlessly as loving him every day did.
Blinking away misty vision (because she would be damned if she had smeared mascara for her wedding, even for a moment) and quietly clearing her throat as she reached to open the tiny white clutch she’d collected at a thrift store to match the dress. “My turn again,” she began, voice wavering a little as slim fingers worked quickly to retrieve the ring she’d selected for clint from the velvet box inside - platinum, simple with a beveled outer edge for more of a matte finish, practical considering that was an outright demand in their line of work. It felt heavy in her hand, and she took in a slight and subtle breath as she reached across the small space between them to take his left hand.
“I, Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” she began with an easy (if a little watery, still misty despite her efforts), “Natasha Romanoff and everything in between, take you, Clinton Francis Barton,” that grin grew a few degrees warmer, wider, spreading naturally across her face, “to be my husband, my life, my heart. I used to think that love was for children, a fairy tale, and you showed me otherwise. So here’s to our fairy tale,” she slipped the ring onto his finger, a perfect fit, just as she’d intended, “full of explosions, pizza, bad trashy TV and jumping off buildings together until the end of the line.”
Holy shit. The thought echoed quietly through Clint’s mind, threaded through with total disbelief and breathless excitement. Because holy shit, it was actually happening. He’d known that from the start, obviously—they were in the church getting married, after all, weren’t they?—and still, when Natasha pulled out the ring she’d picked for him—
Clint swallowed down some tight-sweet feeling that’d been clogging his throat, hand in Natasha’s as she said her vows and slid the ring onto his hand. He’d said he’d never get married again, wear a ring again, do this whole song and dance again, but for Natasha? His impossible girl?
Yeah. Yeah. He squeezed the fingers holding his, pulling back when the priest murmured to him. Clenched his hand a couple times to get used to the welcome weight, smiled, and held his right hand out for Natasha’s left as his now-ringed hand slid into his suit jacket to retrieve her ring from the inner pocket: a delicate thing with rounded edges and the thinnest little line of diamonds inset along the top.
“I, Clint Francis Barton, take you, Natalia Alianova Romanova,” his mouth quirked, the name falling easy off his tongue after over a decade of lessons in Russian, “Natasha Romanoff, and anyone else you ever decide to be, to be my wife. I never thought we’d end up anywhere near here, but I should’ve known better—you always have a way of making impossible things happen, of making things feel real, and I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you. Ride or die, baby.” The ring slid onto her finger, notching perfectly into place.
Clint didn’t need a translation for the next bit. His arms opened for Natasha when the priest stepped back, and he was smiling into her pretty red mouth as he lifted her off her feet.
