OOM: 2011, Helicarrier

[redintheledger]

After talking with Fury, she works on her after-action report, and drinks just a few too many cups of coffee.

The result is, by the time she should grab something to eat again, she's far too wired to try and deal with the cafeteria and the number of fellow agents, analysts, and crew that would be there. She grabs some Doritos from the vending machine, and retreats to her assigned room.

It's possibly not the best frame of mind in which to call Clint, but...

She misses him. And needs to let him know where she is. She'd told Fury she'd be in San Diego for a week, but in the resulting hours, she's come to the conclusion that she really should ask.

Pulling out her phone, she presses his name in her contact list, and waits.

Please don't be in a late meeting.

Comments

[hasthehighground]

Clint's just finished searching for his keys (in his front left pocket, where they were supposed to be but he didn't remember putting them) when his phone rings. He smiles slightly at the 'H' on his screen, but he doesn't know if Natasha's back from her mission or just wants to let him know she's not dead. Or went AWOL again, and decided to give him heads-up this time.

"Barton," he answers after hooking the Bluetooth over his ear. The door to his apartment unlocks remarkably easily, now that he actually has keys.

[redintheledger]

There is a moment of silence, because she's shut her eyes and rested her head against the wall in relief. The sound of his voice shouldn't be this reassuring, but-

"Hey, Clint," she says.

How are you

I'm sorry if I scared you

Sorry I didn't call earlier

Sorry-

"I'm, uh, back on the Helicarrier. How are you?"

[hasthehighground]

He breathes out something that isn't, really, a laugh, shutting his door behind him. "I'll live. You? All Kos told me was 'stop worrying'."

[redintheledger]

The corner of her mouth twists a little at the note in his voice, but it's not as if she doesn't deserve it.

If she had Fury concerned, than Clint must have been...

"I'm not injured," Natasha says, carefully. "And I'm not fired, but I'm not great. Off field-duty for a while."

[hasthehighground]

Clint hesitates, brow furrowing. "Did they give you a timeline?"

[redintheledger]

"When my head's straight again. I requested the transfer off-field before anyone said anything. So-o-o I don't know when or if they are giving me a time."

She draws in a quick breath.

"And, Clint? I'm sorry."

[hasthehighground]

He leans against the wall, and swallows. "Going back to linguistics, Natasha?"

[redintheledger]

No one's watching, so she lets herself twist the hem of her shirt at his silence.

"That's the plan," she says lightly. It's where S.H.I.E.L.D. put her while they were still assessing her; seems a reasonable place for her now.

[hasthehighground]

What does she want him to say? What can he even say? 'That sounds good,' is, to his ears right now, some of the most condescending bullshit.



"I'm glad you're back."

[redintheledger]

I didn't run away, please don't think I ran away, I just cut contact because homicidal stalkers make me freak out and-

Yeah, she thinks, there is no good way to put that, even if his opinion is important to her. So she breathes out, and keeps her tongue still.

"Mission's over," is what she settles with. "And objective achieved. I have a week before I have to be in Chicago.

Did you want to see me?"

[hasthehighground]

"Tasha." Clint closes his lips tight, breathing deeply through his nose. "God," he says, voice suddenly tired. "I -- of course I want to see you."

[redintheledger]

"Okay," she says, but her voice gets stuck in her throat, and the word is far too soft, cracking a little around the 'k'.

Of course he does. Even if he's angry with her, and she could hear it in his words before, he's still making sense. He's another person making sense, and the more people who make sense, the firmer the ground under her feet feels.

(She still wants to cry.

After this phone call, she thinks she might.)



"Okay," she repeats. "I'll be in not tomorrow, but day after. I don't know the time yet."

[hasthehighground]

"Okay," he echoes. "I don't have any short-notice vacation time, but I might be able to leave early."

He can't see Beamon resisting too hard. He'd say not resisting at all, except when they're needed for meetings, but Henry's managed to land two weeks of half-days since his family's not moving with them to the upcoming NASA project.

[redintheledger]

"Good to know. I'll keep you posted."

She draws in a breath, more shaky than she'd like.

"It's, uh. I'm glad I caught you, not your voicemail."

[hasthehighground]

"See," Clint says, and -- while there's still underlying tenseness -- the levity's real. "That sounds like a criticism of my voicemail."

What'd it ever do to you, Romanoff.

Quieter: "Thanks. For calling."

[redintheledger]

The levity prompts a sudden smile, even if he can't see it. He might be able to hear it, though, as she says,

"You're welcome."

[hasthehighground]

He doesn't exactly return the smile, but the silence that follows is a little easier.

"Well," he says, after a few seconds. "I have plans I should probably get ready for."

[redintheledger]

"Oh! That's right, it's Tuesday." She'd forgotten what the day was, rather than the date. "Good luck?"



And I should...eat something. So, I'll see you Thursday?"

[hasthehighground]

"Yeah." He waits for a moment after she hangs up to do likewise.

Tuesday Night Poker (which is really only a formality for "Tuesday Night beer-and-wings-away-from-the-significant-other-unless-he's-also-here,-in-which-case-expect-no-mercy,-and-also-poker" these days. He loves his friends.) doesn't start for another hour and a half.

But. He needs to take a shower, and make dinner, and...

He's not sure why relief she's alive feels so much like personal betrayal that she ever left. He's not the person whose op she ruined, and... she's back. Everything should be fine, now.

Right?

Right.