@sequentis / chara. natasha / requested prompt( drabble ): deaf clint + avengers.
word count: 598 / mira. i h8 you. i haven’t wrote this much in eons & i’m even more sad that i lost my goal halfway through this. asdf i’m too tired to be writing. but here you go. have some sneaky fuckery between sam, nat & clint. written very poorly
“so ----- ?” sam’s voice is heavy against the silence. cutting through it like a knife to butter. he’s taken it upon himself to plop down in the unoccupied chair between the two veteran shield agents. the commotion immediately draws natasha’s attention, and her thumbs curve over the top of the mug she’s clasped between her hands before raising it to her lips.
“so?” natasha encourages with a tilt of her head, her gaze flickering to clint, who continues to remain unaware of sam’s presence, and back again.
“so, what happened in budapest?” it’s a question as old as their partnership. it comes with a flourish of sam’s hands ---- a searching gesture that ends with a thump against the table. one that doesn’t even manage to rouse clint from his stupor,
suddenly, the toes of tasha’s boot bite into his shin, hard.
clint starts, his knees jerking up into the tabletop. he’s quick to clap over his smarting injury, rubbing it into a sort of numb acceptance with a glare or two sent her way. the line of her bottom lips hitches up. ---- it’s one of those small key-gestures he’s picked up from her over the years, and without missing a beat, clint’s head swivels left to find sam, frustrated and expectant, slouched in the dining chair.
he’s clearly missed something, but he plays it off with a feigned yawn, a hand finding purchase against the nape of his neck --- absently rubbing at the ever present tension there.
‘budapest.’ natasha mouths in his direction, her fingers tapping against the brim of her recently settled cup. he doesn’t have to hear it to know she’s humming in her ploy. It’s a small gesture, a single word but it’s enough.
with an easy push, the chair slides back, and clint slumps lazily --- his ankle tracker knocking against one of it’s legs in his sudden movement. “oh, right. ya haven’t heard the story yet ----” it’s the start of the game and from the corner of his eye, he can see that nat’s even leaned in a fraction closer. amusement coloring her otherwise neutral expression.
clint goes on, weaving the most inane story he can think of. a spiel of fabrication that absolutely no one should believe, but it’s not until he’s nearing the end of his assassination - turned fairytale does tasha’s head swivel toward their guest, catching his attention. he watches the mirth bleed from her posture, but by the time he follows her gaze, it’s too late.
sam’s practically stretched across the table, a scowl plastered against his complexion ---- and he’s clearly asked something. something clind hadn’t heard. ( of course this had to be the one day he ventured into his kitchen without his hearing aids. ) “what?” he tries, his own expression now mimicking sam’s. “---wasn’t what yer were expecting?” clint adds after a moment, and watches as sam drops back into the chair, defeated.
there’s a flash of movement in his principals, and his gaze follows suit. catching the tail end of natasha’s sentence. he’s signs back a simple ‘what?’ before she’s repeating herself --- ‘ you’re damn lucky, barton. ’ ---- and a smirk chases across his features, one that’s accompanied by a short huff of laughter that’s swallowed soon after.
“the hell is that?” natasha’s head snaps left once more, her brows hitching up an inch. “Code…” is all she gives in response and clint can’t even begin to even try to stifle his laughter as she slides from her chair with practiced ease and vacates the room, leaving the boys to their own devices.
