Work Text:
Natasha had sustained several scrapes and irritated patches on her face in the fight that would get them stopped if they passed through a station. No need for anyone to think Clint was her abuser.
But all the makeup she was unearthing from her purse served as weaponry.
"Concealer," Clint offered nonchalantly, holding out a suspiciously normal-looking compact.
She stared at him.
"What?" he asked, then rolled his eyes. "I was in the circus. I was a performer. And you're not the only one who needs to hide the bruises."
She took it cautiously. "Which bruises?"
But Clint didn't answer.