she’s TIRED. there are probably a thousand more accurate terms for what she’s feeling; shock, horror, regret, apprehension & FEAR ( just to name a few. ) yet it’s so much easier to blame lethargy for the way she carries herself about the tower. natasha still proves to be a skilled actress, apathetic mask still in place even as her mind fills with what ifs. but her posture is too rigid, her silences far too drawn out to be considered merely thoughtful.
it doesn’t help that more and more people are flocking to the tower. she’s relieved to see that so many have survived, yes—-because for what felt like so long she wondered—-but their entrance now only reminds her of moths rushing to a flame. tony’s heart is ( probably ) in the right place—but his logic ? and yet she’d still agreed with him because natasha is a FIGHTER and like hell will she allow the world to crumble in thanos’ hand. it’s just—how they go about it that has her hesitating.
she questions it even now—standing on what remains of a balcony thirty floors up. her eyes scan the wreckage before her, the streets that are undoubtedly filled with THINGS that make her feel completely out of her range of expertise. so what about the people inside who aren’t trained, who aren’t gifted with powers that press the boundaries of natural themselves ?
her thoughts are briefly interrupted by the sound of someone entering the room behind her. her fingers curl around the remaining railing, but she doesn’t bother to redirect her gaze. “ if you’re here for a good time, you might wanna try the next floor. i’m pretty sure i’ve broken tony’s no ‘ PESSIMISM ’ rule six too many times. ”
dozens of arrows lay scattered on the ground, discarded there in fury. electro arrows mingled with putty arrows and suction-tip arrows alike. a single boomerang arrow -- his last one -- lay in the center of the parade, the slight aerodynamic curve glinting from the sunlight slipping through the crack in the wall, peeking past the passing by clouds. the world was ending, that wasn’t anything new. but god fucking damnit, did the weather have to be so depressing?
he would abandon the salvaged pile of assets, in search of something, or someone, that could part the clouds and let some metaphorical sunshine in. well, as much sunshine as natasha romanoff actually had up there in that vicious head of hers. which was basically nonexistent. staying in stark towers, avengers tower, still felt so off -- even if he was an avenger. as he sat there, brushing his fingers against the ridges of the wounded arrows and sorting them into groups, he thought about how shitty of an avenger he really was. there were more than a few occasions clint had stopped to get coffee on his way to an urgent mission or attack.
the floorboards creaked -- of course, he couldn’t really hear them -- as he rounded the corner and into the long hallway, filled to the brim with doors both shut and open, housing all-around heroes and refugees from the battle against thanos. he can’t tell the difference between victim and hero anymore; the lines are so devilishly blurred that every hero seems like a victim, and every victim seems like a hero for just putting up with this extraterrestrial shit.
clint found the infamous head of red curls lingering on a secure balcony just at the end of the hall. he approached cautiously, not wanting her to fall off the ledge in surprise, but then he remembered that she was a mother effin’ spy, and if anyone were to end up falling off the side of the building, it would be him. plus, she would probably dive off the building and do a couple backflips, whereas he would literally just manage to emit an ‘ oops. ’
‘ wanna BET?? i’ve probably broken it seven times. ’ he mumbled, taking foot next to his comrade. clint cleared his throat. ‘ do you know.. if there’s a working coffee machine anywhere?? asking for a friend.. ’ he sputtered. ‘ side note: should i be asking you how you’re holding up? or is that against the spy code? ’
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