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Natasha's hand was shaking on the small slip of paper. Clint stopped what he was doing to watch her with concern. It took the metaphorical end of the world to shake Natasha and her ostensibly Russian composure. (She couldn't get drunk on vodka either from what he could tell.)
"Tash?"
She shook her head, aborted the gesture, then tucked her hand around his arm, and drew him toward her.
"It's Bucky," she said evenly, and it was only by dint of knowing her so well that Clint realized she was panicking. "He's alive."
—
Clint knew about Bucky. He knew the man was Natasha's first love, a mutual childhood friend of Steve's and hers, and that he'd gone off to war to end up MIA. He knew that they'd been engaged and that Natasha had barely gotten over Bucky before she met Clint. He knew she first stayed over at his place curled up on the couch under his arm with the soft words, "I can't sleep alone anymore," and that she used to whisper Bucky's name in her sleep before somewhere along the way, that had slowly turned into indecipherable murmurs, then "Clint." He knew that was the first moment he'd known he was in love with her.
—
"You still love him, don't you?" he'd asked once, tangled with her in the covers as if they hadn't just had sex and as if their own intimacy wasn't a given.
Natasha shrugged. "I always will." She rolled over, her body warm and soft against his. "But you're here. With me."
He pulled her down and claimed her with another kiss.
—
The hospital room wasn't exactly crowded, but there were too many people. Steve and his friend Sam. Bucky's parents and sister. Natasha tugging Clint in with her, fingers twined into his. He let that sensation anchor him in the middle of too many voices for his hearing aid to sort out comfortably from the three lively conversations going among family, friends, doctor, and nurse.
He squeezed Natasha's fingers and shook his head slightly at her questioning look. He was here for her, but this was all too much.
She gave him that slight smile that said she understood, then turned toward the doctor to frown as she listened in. Bucky had lost an arm and had a long road of therapy and pain ahead of him. That much Clint understood. He'd come home from his own tour of duty without most of his hearing. He got it.
That's why he stayed with Natasha as she kept vigil with Steve at the hospital, telling stories of home whenever Bucky rasped out a request for more.
Once, Bucky smiled at her with that besotted smile Clint knew he often wore on his own face when looking at Natasha.
"You look good, Nat."
She tucked one hand into Bucky's. "You'll be fine, soldier."
He untangled his hand from hers and brushed it gently through the ends of her red hair.
Clint felt something twist inside him and held just a little tighter to Natasha's other hand.
—
"Clint."
There was that small line furrowed between her brows. Clint's stomach clenched. Natasha only hesitated when it mattered or when she wasn't quite certain how he was going to take it.
He tried to gauge her, but her expression was unreadable, even to him. "Yeah?" he asked roughly.
She blinked, wet her lips, turned away and back again.
The butterflies in his stomach turned to knots. "Natasha?" he prodded. Waiting for her to work up her nerve was worse than hearing whatever it was she didn't want to say.
"I—" She stopped and tried again. "He needs me, Clint."
Clint took a step back, staring at her with slightly wide eyes, not sure what she meant, then all too sure of exactly what she probably meant. "He was gone…"
"He was hurt," she corrected. She sighed, hands dropping in resignation. "He never thought I was dead."
She was choosing Bucky. F—, Clint cursed fervently in his head, but said nothing, just nodded as if he understood, as if this were any sort of okay.
She looked relieved, and it was killing him. Natasha, beautiful Natasha. She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."
He didn't have it in him to say, "You're welcome."