They’re already calling it the coldest winter in twenty years, something Clint doesn’t doubt. It’s Russia, after all, where blue fingers are to be expected even in summer. The cold starts from the marrow of his bones, dull and painful, spreading out through his muscle and onto his skin. They’ve been in this position for so long, it’s difficult for Clint to wonder if they aren’t actually freezing to death.
Snow falls from the sky in thick white clumps, sticking to their white uniforms. Clint glances over at Natasha. The flakes settle onto her hair, weaving in and out of her thick red ponytail, melting slowly. Her eyelashes sparkle with bits of ice on the tips. Natasha blinks a few times, keeping her gaze focused forward. They melt, streaking down her face like tears, although Clint has never seen her cry. Watery eyes when confronted with harsh winds don’t count, and even then, it’s a rare occurrence.
In the distance, the technicolor spires of St. Basil’s rise into the air defiantly, flurries swirling around the onion-shaped roofs. In this part of Moscow, though, there are no bright colors. Everything is a dank stony gray, covered with graffiti, grime in every possible crack. From their perch on the roof, Clint can see that the snow here, rather than a pure, powdered white, is simply a horrible gray-brown slush.
Beside him, Nat is almost impossibly still, almost as still as Clint. He’s in sniper position, of course; he can spend hours like this, but it’s harder for Nat. She’s used to being in near constant motion, to threats around every corner, men waiting until she’s still enough to attack. Her eyes scan the streets below, flicking back and forth as she scans everybody’s activity. Clint registers her presence in his body more than anything else.
They’ve been partnered for three years now. Being next to her, with her, is almost like being with his bow. It’s calm, familiar, reassurance in a life where nothing is stable.
Out of the corner of his eye, he registers her biting her lower lip repeatedly, peeling back the chapped skin until her mouth is raw and bleeding, a nervous habit, one she only allows herself when she is either alone or with Clint. Natasha tears her lip apart until it’s raw, blood seeping into her mouth, watery and metallic. Clint doesn’t bother telling her to stop. It’s her way of holding control in situations like this, where everything is too familiar.
It’s her first time back in Russia since she’s been with SHIELD, and she's amazed by how different everything already feels. Most of the buildings are still the same, and yet many of them are occupied by new businesses, new families. She’d been expecting the change, of course, but it’s still shocking, seeing her, well, home, for lack of a better word, like this. Natasha has come back to see that everything has moved on without her, people living their ordinary lives. Still, there are the constants, like the busyness of the streets, and the rows of children in the Bolshoi Academy lined up at the barre, doing the same exercises that they’ve done their entire lives. Taking a deep breath, she runs her white gloved fingers through her hair, pulling the low ponytail over her shoulder. If not for her hair, she’d be almost completely invisible up here. Both of them have traded their usual black uniforms for hooded white ones lined with a silky fleece. Clint had complained about the sleeves at first, citing lack of mobility, but that had ceased once they had made it to the top of the roof. Up here, the snow it more icy than at ground level for obvious reasons. The hard ice whips their faces, stinging their cheeks. Natasha lowers her goggles over her face as the wind picks up, Clint following her lead.
“Nat,” he finally says. She turns to look at him, face scrunched against the cold. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are flushed pink. It’s reassuring, this color, against the white and grey around them. He holds onto these, the anchors. They all do. Little ways to remind themselves that this is real, that their minds haven’t been tampered with in some way. The anchors change from job to job, yet Clint finds that his is always Natasha in some capacity. She’d hate it if she knew, would tell him that it’s stupid, dangerous. Still, it’s reassuring.
The sun barely shines, at least not at this time of the year. It’s strange, not having the sun. There’s no real indication of time, and he’s unsure how long they’ve been up here. Hours, hell, days, even. Clint could check his watch, of course, but that isn’t the point. It’s this feeling of being in horrible stasis, of limbo.
Natasha stares at him, waiting for him to continue, eyebrows raised slightly.
“Everything ok?” he asks, looking back to the streets below.
“Yeah,” she says, and shifts her weight. “Fine.”
And there’s the target, hands in the pockets of his thick coat, and suddenly, the man is all Clint sees. The world around him is blurry, unnecessary. Macy’s Thanksgiving’s Day Parade could start rolling down the street and he wouldn’t even notice. That’s what Natasha is for. She’s familiar with his lunacy, knows how to keep him in line. The target stops for a second, pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s all the time Clint needs. He sets the arrow, draws back the bowstring, and releases. It flies straight into the dilapidated building the man stands against. The explosion rocks the nearly deserted street. Next to him, Natasha tenses. She’s not a particularly religious person, but she prays that no civilians die. Injuries at this point are unavoidable, but Natasha does not need any more red in her ledger.
Debris fly at them, even from this far away. Pieces of stone and brick scrape against their faces. Nat grabs his shoulder instinctively, tucking her head down. The noise is deafening around the, and Clint winces, tucking his head towards Natasha’s. Their chests heave n time, Natasha’s fingers digging sharply into Clint’s shoulder, around and under his clavicle, finding that place where it meets his socket. It’s hurts like hell and he’s grateful for it. Clint focuses on it rather than the pieces of concrete embedded into his skin, the ringing in his ears.
And as long as her fingers are there, digging into his skin, she’s alive. Alive and conscious.
It won’t be a long life for either of them, Clint knows that, and although Natasha would be furious if she knew, it’s her life he worries about. She’s fourteen years younger than him, and the idea of her life being cut so short terrifies Clint. The very thought of outliving her is even worse. She deals with close-quarters action so much more than he does. Clint trusts Natasha, knows that she fights smarter than he does, and that she’s the best out there, but he still worries. Finally, she lets go. Natasha stumbles back a little, and falls to her knees, where she takes several deep breaths and tucks a stray copper curl behind her ear.
“We have to get out of here,” she says after a moment, pulling herself together, and stands. “Get back into the building, change, get to the airport.”
“Right.” Clint follows her to the entrance of the building, praying that they’ll be able to get out, that they won’t run in to any additional complications.
He fools himself like this after every job. Even if there are no more obstacles with this particular mission, there will always be something else to take care of. Another target to take out, and always more death. Any hope of a better life has been lost. Not after what they’ve seen.
“Natasha,” he says, and grabs her hand from behind. She turns around. There’s a large cut against her face, rubble digging into her skin. He kisses her there on the roof, not caring that they need to get out of sight as quickly as possible. She kisses back, harder. It’s perfect, the way there mouths fit together.
When they break apart, Natasha smiles, a real smile, green eyes lighting up. She reaches up and draws the back of her hand along his cheek, blood staining her hand and his face.
“I know.”