Debt
Clintasha fic
for @rosawright (same girl same)
1,096 words
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Clint comes back from the debrief to find a pile of laundry folded on his bed. Weird. He can’t remember the last time he folded laundry. Who the fuck has folded his laundry?
The next surprise is the smell of something cooking. He’s done some dumb shit in the past, but could he actually have walked into someone else’s room? The agents’ quarters all look pretty similar at HQ. It could happen. But no, there’s his quiver, there’s his coffee maker, there’s the heavily redacted postcard from Kate sitting on the bench. Who-
Natasha turns and smiles at him. It’s so strange seeing her standing by the stove that Clint does an actual double take. She looks so domestic. It’s a highly unsettling image, especially after what he saw her do to four men at the sparring mats yesterday.
“Romanoff?”
“Hey,” she greets him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d make dinner. There’ll be enough for leftovers, so I hope you like pasta.”
“Did you do my laundry?” he asks. She nods, and for a moment she looks nervous.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” she says. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. Surprise him? Yep, this is definitely a surprise. But it’s also weird, and quasi-invasive, and she’s looking at him funny. He doesn’t know how to handle this particular situation, so he goes to the fridge and gets a beer.
“Clint?”
First name. Weirder. Clint opens the beer and leans against the kitchen bench, studying her. She has a wooden spoon in her hand. Very out of place.
“What’s all this about?” he asks.
“I’m just making dinner,” she laughs. “You’re being paranoid.”
He’s not, though, he knows that. She’s good at convincing him everything is fine - her SHIELD assigned psychs, too - but this is ringing several alarm bells for him.
“What are you doing?” he asks. It’s harder this time. He doesn’t think any of this is funny, and her smile fades.
“What do you want me to do?” she asks. “I don’t have to cook. I could do anything.”
He doesn’t get it. She sets down the spoon. He still doesn’t get it. She takes a few steps over to him and he still doesn’t get it.
“Romanoff-”
“Call me Natasha,” she says. “If you want.”
She grabs his hand and pulls it to her chest. He doesn’t understand what’s happening even when she splays his fingers over her breast, curling her hand so he’s squeezing-
He pulls back, like he’s been stung. Natasha advances, and in a fluid movement his eyes barely follow, she pulls her shirt off.
“Romanoff!”
“Natasha,” she says again. She’s wearing a barely-there black lace bra. Where the hell did she even get that? Did she go shopping just to fuck with him? Clint feels questions and confusion overwhelming him, and suddenly all he can focus on is the fact that the pasta water is boiling over. He pushes past her, and turns the hob off. The water simmers, and the bubbles dissolve into steamy calmness. Disaster averted, Clint turns back to the show. Natasha is holding her shirt, and looking at him in total confusion.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“What are you doing?” he retorts. “Put your goddamn shirt back on.”
She does, but she’s still looking at him like she’s not the insane one, and Clint still can’t work out what the fuck is going on, and now she’s looking at him like she’s just realised something, and she looks upset, and fuck, what the fuck?
“If you don’t want me, that’s okay,” she says, and it doesn’t sound okay at all. “I can do other things for you. Anything you want. Just let me do something.”
“Why do you want to-”
Clint stops, because the quaver in her voice strikes at something in his throat, and he finally understands what’s happening.
“Natasha,” he says, and he hates the spark of hope in her eye and the way she fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “You don’t have to do anything for me, okay?”
“But-”
“No. I don’t know what you thought, but you don’t owe me anything.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “I literally owe you my life.”
“I didn’t do that so you’d do… any of this,” he says, gesturing around the kitchen. “I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do,” she repeats, tasting the words. “That’s noble and all, but you can’t expect me to believe there’s no quid pro quo, Barton. Surely there’s something you want.”
“Sure,” he says. “I want you to finish the deprogramming with the shrinks, get field clearance, and start working with me. I mean, I’ve got the seduction down pat, but you’re way better at cracking heads than I am.”
She stares at him. “But what do you want?”
“That. I just told you, Romanoff.”
Natasha can’t seem to get it into her head. He can practically see the words floating around in front of her, refusing to coalesce into something she can understand. He walks over to her, and puts a hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t save you because I wanted you to owe me a debt,” he says. “I saved you because I wanted to save you.”
“It can’t be as simple as that.”
He nods, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “It can. It is.”
She searches his face for some trace of dishonesty, and finds nothing. He’s an open book, and her face slackens for a moment. He shrugs at her, as if to say ‘told ya’. She moves back, and he waits to see what she’ll do.
“Okay,” she says, and her voice is unsteady, but he can almost hear relief in her tone. That’s all he wants - for her to feel safe, and in control.
“Do you want to keep making pasta?” he asks. “I’ve got passata in the fridge, it’s simple but it’s delicious. I’m starving.”
She clears her throat, and nods. Clint points to the top cupboard. “Pasta’s in a packet up there. You do that, I’ll heat up the sauce.”
They orbit each other in his small kitchen, completing separate tasks to bring the meal together. Before too long, they are sitting at his table, each with a beer and a plate of simple tomato pasta.
“This is weird,” she says. “It’s so… domestic.”
He chuckles, and clinks his bottle against hers.
“Here’s to us,” he says, and her smile is all he could have hoped for.
