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Clint is nice, and, well, everything is okay, honestly.
It’s all just okay, alright? So, stop asking. Except, it’s really not.
It’s not that Natasha regrets marrying him, she really doesn’t. She never has. It’s just that, when did it become a chore? When did it become a duty? When did the sex stop mattering, when did it start getting boring? When did she start wanting to shove him off a tall building? When did she become so hard?
Probably the day her agency told her she had to marry him. When they told her she had to stay married, stay in that same bed, in that dreaded single-family home, in New York. When her agency said, “he is your cover, Natasha. Nothing more. He is purely, completely expendable.” And then, she tried really hard to convince herself of that.
She would stand in the bedroom door, late at night, look at his still body, tangled up in their sheets, and she would tell herself, I do not love you. You are nothing. You are collateral damage. You are expendable. You don’t even know my name.
It’s always harder to convince yourself you hate someone when you’re standing over them, a gun pointed in their face, and you know everything about them. You know their touch, you know their body, the scars across their arms and torso that they told you was from a car accident. Even when you find out it was all lies. That makes it worse.
Because when every fact you know is stripped away, all you have left is the feel of your fingers in their hair and their lips against yours.
“Well, this is awkward. Natalie.”
Everything always gets worse when Clint opens his mouth. It's a rule. Except, this time, he has a gun too, locked on her face over him. The barrels of their pistols almost touch, but neither of them move. “You lied to me,” she manages to whisper, schooling her expression back into apathy.
“Pot, meet kettle.”
And, really, what can she say to that? It’s true. They both lied. They were each other’s elabourate cover story. Intricate detail and enourmous depth- full immersion. He’s right. But she still knows the touch of his callused fingers to her cheek, his lips brushing over her brow.
She can hear the click of her boss’s heels behind her, approaching from down the road. Then, an impatient and demanding call. “Natasha, waste this idiot, so we can get the hell out of dodge!”
Natasha looks back down at Clint, holding his gaze, grip tightening on the butt of her gun. Her thumb moves over the hammer, striking it back as she closes her eyes for just a moment. Pinpoints the sound of her boss behind her by the tap of those god-awful stilettos.
Then, Natasha turns away from him and fires one shot.