Sacred Band of Avengers - A @fandomtrumpshate piece for freakyflob
RatedE, Stucky, Historical/Modern AU, Immortals
The goggles are shit.
They do nothing to protect against the frigid wind, the ice shards that come at them like missiles, the negative fifty-degree standing air temperature that doubles with the raging storm. Whoever had the bright idea of sending them out to a literal frozen wasteland when the sun doesn't even break the horizon for months must have been high on coffee and antacids, too lazy to research the Alaskan climate in winter, and too busy crowing about their latest breakthrough in technological survival suits.
Probably some self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist with a micro-dick.
If only they knew why they're out here searching for the wreck of some WWII-era plane, maybe it would make up for the extreme conditions. Here they are, blindly (literally, the damn goggles are fogged the fuck up) trudging over ice ridges the size of cars in zero visibility with a too-soon deadline and too-little payment. They should have listened to the locals at the village who very angrily saw them out onto the ice, warning them about 'little people' and other vengeful spirits for trespassing on their homeland, which is ridiculous because their destination is the middle of the fucking frozen ocean.
There's a tap on her shoulder and a tug on her elbow, and when she whips around, her partner has pulled off his gloves — the idiot — and is signing before her face. Since she can't see a damn thing, she pulls off the goggles and the air is immediately sucked from her lungs by an errant gust.
Natasha covers her mouth with her glove and glares into Barton's unprotected face, glad that her headlamp forces his eyes closed. He's been a thorn in her side for weeks, doing all sorts of dangerous things without including her, and she's close to losing her shit all over him.
"I caught a reflection over there," he signs, pointing north. There are icicles on his eyebrows and his cheeks are rosy red, chapped and sore-looking. He's still incredibly handsome, dammit, even though his lips are bleeding. She isn't sure if she wants to punch him, or kiss him.
She signs back, teasing, that hopefully it isn't the Russians, who are also out here on the ice searching for the plane. Clint's excitement quickly fades into a sarcastic Garfield glare.
"Really?" he says.
Natasha would laugh if she felt like laughing, if her own cheeks weren't stinging and she wasn't suffering from near frostbite.
Fuck Stark and his 'social betterment.'
"Let's go."
They help each other bundle up, and Natasha punches Barton's arm, just because she can. There's a fine line between partners and 'partners,' and lately, they've been tiptoeing around that line. That kind of dancing gets people in trouble.
If Clint dies, she'll kill him.
At first, the reflection looks like all the others; jagged ice displaced by the ocean currents and wind, pretending to be a clue. They approach with both lamps trained on it. It's unnerving not being able to watch your back out here, too much interference, low visibility. Natasha resists the urge to fling Barton's hand from her elbow, since he knows how much she hates to be coddled, but the moron is probably leaning on her because he needs the support.
Up close, it's most definitely not ice, although it's covered in it.
Barton shoulders Natasha and points to her pack, then moves closer, offering a shield from the wind as she begins to remove it. She kneels on the icy snow and unfastens the stays around the heavy pouch. Then she lays it on the ground and rises once more, keeping a strong hold on the activation device.
The tent is one of those pop-up jobbies with a thick woven fabric. It's different from other tents, not only because it's a beast to carry and a bitch to put away, but also because the fabric and supports have heating elements embedded in them, which is about the only thing Natasha likes about the damn thing. They'll also get some reprieve from the storm until backup arrives.
Barton helps her position the structure over the piece of not-ice, and then holds it in place while she drives the stakes into the ice. Once this is finished, Natasha removes Clint's even heavier pack, and they both struggle with the tarp that will serve as their floor, pushing the frozen material inside and pressing it into the corners. Then they climb inside and zip the entryway shut.
Their lamps create a strobe-like effect on the sides of the tent, which is annoying, and they both remove and set them away. Barton begins unpacking the equipment they need to run their tests, and Natasha activates the heating elements, and waits.
And waits. And waits. And waits.
"How long did he say it would take?" Clint says. He's removed his headgear, and the white plume from his exhalations rises like a cloud to the top of the tent. His movements are stiff, uncoordinated, sluggish. Usually, he powers through, denying the pain and exhaustion with a stiff upper lip. Just like Natasha.
It's only lately, and only when they're alone, that he shows this other side of himself. The vulnerable one. It should irritate and annoy her, but Natasha finds it oddly endearing.
"Doesn't matter," she responds, digging inside her own pack for the good old-fashioned hand warmer packets. "Would have been a lie anyway. Tony Stark is a blowhard, and I don't trust anything he says or does."
Barton laughs at this, a warm, golden sound that's good enough to heat Natasha's insides.
"That's what I love about you, Tash," he grins, and his eyes sparkle. "Trusting no one."
She breaks the packs and massages them between her fingers, then walks on her knees to Clint's side. He's looking at her like she hung the fucking moon. It's disgusting.
Smirking, she leans in and teases the lobe of his ear with her lips. "That's not true. I trust you." And she slides her frozen hand, heating packet inside her palm, down the front of his jacket and under his clothing, until she reaches skin and causes Barton to yelp.
"Hey! Not cool!" He looks utterly betrayed.
Natasha purrs. "Very cool."
He smiles. She grins and works the hot packet under his armpit.
Clint shudders, but stays still while she repeats the action on the other side. Her forehead brushes against his chin, and he makes a swipe at her with his mouth, kissing the top of her head, and letting out a deep sigh.
"Thanks. You always know how to take care of me."
She does, but she'll never admit it. Instead, she straightens and gets to work setting up her share of the equipment.
It does begin to warm, slowly, so slowly that they don't even notice the change in temperature while Stark's ridiculous devices are unpacked and waiting. All of the lenses and displays are fogged up and useless, and Natasha loves the fact that even the smartest minds don't consider what effect the natural world has on things. She, on the other hand, understands liquid crystal and hypothermia, and the state of Barton's blue lips is more concerning than some eighty-year-old chunk of metal that may or may not be from a German airplane.
"Come here," she commands, reaching out for Clint's hands and wrapping them in her own.
He pretends to be shocked by her touch, and makes a joke. "Aw, you do care, see? Nobody believes me when I tell them that underneath your ice princess exterior, there's a soft, pink gummy heart."
Natasha drops his hands in disgust. "If I ever hear you say that out loud to anyone —"
Clint slides a palm over her cheek, and his fingers are still freezing. "You'll punch me in the face, I know."
"Damn right."
She unzips his jacket the rest of the way, then does the same with hers, and straddles him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their heat together. Being the cuddler that he is, Barton does the same, only harder, then buries his cold nose against her neck.
"Stupid cold. I'm freezing."
"Aren't you glad you wore the thermal underwear, even though Stark told us we wouldn't need it?"
"Mm."
They huddle for a good long while, breathing warm, moist air against each other's skin. Eventually, Natasha begins to sweat, but even though she's dying to pull away, she doesn't. They seldom get chances like this to be close. Whether they're working on a super-secret spy mission or extracting prisoners and hostages, there are always others around. Natasha wouldn't be caught dead being unprofessionally intimate with a teammate, but there's something about Clint Barton, orphan, former circus performer, tough as nails, dumb as a doornail and sweet as sugar that makes it extremely difficult.
"Just like Budapest," Barton sighs as he nuzzles against her cheek.
Natasha snorts and pushes him away. "This is nothing like Budapest."
Clint's cheeks have color in them again, the good color, and his fingers have begun to tingle (Natasha knows because he won't shut up about it.)
"Only because you hated my guts then."
The space has warmed substantially, and the instruments are slowly coming to life, one at a time. They turn their heads to watch as lights begin to blink and power banks charge batteries and CPUs search for satellite signals. It won't be long, and they won't be alone any longer. Stark's voice will come over the sat phone, and he'll be giving them instructions on how to take readings and collect samples. And if it really is the bomber that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes landed in the ocean to save the world, they're going to be a bit busy.
Natasha thumbs at Clint's chin, drawing him to face her once again, and kisses him. Nothing devastating, not passionate or hungry or anything like that. Just a simple reminder that he belongs to her.
"I still hate your guts. But they're very nice guts."
Barton laughs. "You love me for my guts?"
The radio scratches out a tinny, impatient, garbled voice, and both people tense at what they're about to do.
Pinching Clint's stupid chin, Natasha inhales, and exhales.
"No. I love you for you."
And then she adds, just in case: "And if you tell anyone that, I'll put you down."
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