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NC-17/hard R like the rest of my fic.
“I leave you alone for six hours and you come up with this? Seriously, Clint.” She spoke in low, terse Russian on the cargo plane. It was a rare trip when they were sharing a plane together. The pilot and copilot were well out of hearing range, not that they spoke Russian anyways. Natasha had checked their dossiers.
“Well we are going to spend the rest of our lives together,” he replied. He loved when they spoke in Russian, mostly because he liked the way Natasha’s mouth moved and expelled the words in her low, husky voice. It was irresistible to him.
“That may be true, but it puts both of us, and our partnership at risk. How do you think Fury would react? Or Coulson? How much would our enemies love to take one of us hostage when they realized we’re married?” She was mad, but he didn’t care.
“Coulson speaks Russian,” the archer noted. Coulson nodded at the pair from his seat where he was reading a magazine. He’d been brought along in case of diplomatic negotiations. It was hard to negotiate with assassins.
Natasha’s face paled before turning a shade of red Clint knew she had in a tube of lipstick at home, “are you fucking kidding me?! Who the fuck else knows about this?”
She tore a gun out of its holster and held it, cocked, against Clint’s forehead. Clint seemed unphased, and Coulson’s eyebrows rose in amusement. She repeated, “Who else fucking knows?”
“No one. I swear it, Nat.”
She considered something for a moment, then uncocked the gun slid it back into its holster. “Why do you want to do it?”
“Because between you, me, and Coulson here, you’re all I have. And even if I can’t tell or show everyone, it would mean a lot to me if I could declare it to the world, even if I’m only whispering it to an empty room.”
“How in the world did you end up so alarmingly romantic? Coulson, is this some sort of genetic defect or experiment gone wrong?” she asked the suit, not taking her eyes off Clint.
“I wish it was, Agent Romanoff. He’s been that way since I met him.”
“Are you going to tell anyone?”
“What happens in Budapest stays in Budapest,” he said airily as he flipped the pages of his magazine.
She still didn’t say anything, just staring Clint straight in the eyes with a grimly serious look on her face. He’d been trained for all sorts of interrogations, but something about her was just damn unnerving sometimes.
“No paper trail,” she said finally. It was as close to a “yes” as he’d ever get, and he knew it.
“No paper trail.” He affirmed.
“Approaching drop zone in three minutes,” the pilot called back in Hungarian. Clint thanked the pilot and he and Natasha attached their parachutes and checked over each other’s straps and buckles and weapons.
“Alright, kids. Time to go stop a civil war. Remember, green guys are bad, we’re on the red and blue team. Don’t get blown up by any of their pretty little stolen soviet rockets. Call me if they surrender, I’ll see you at the hotel.” He patted Clint on the shoulder as the door opened for them to jump. “Gives a new meaning to ‘taking the plunge,’ eh?” Natasha gave him a look that should have turned him to ice, but he smiled and waved as they dove from the air craft.
On the descent they could see the city was more torn up than the satellite images they’d seen earlier, not a promising start. They hit the ground running, guns and bow’s pulled, shooting anything with a green insignia on their chest.
Natasha started ordering the rebel forces they were fighting for to get back to the funnel created by the narrow city streets and wait with their best marksmen and all the ammo they could find. They laughed at the woman trying to lead them; she shot a group of six men charging at them without even looking. They left to follow her command without another word.
Meanwhile Clint had scrambled up a light post, “What do your elf eyes see, Legolas?” Natasha smirked from the ground. He had half a mind to shoot her in the foot.
“More troops, a few tanks.”
“how many more troops?”
“I’d guess 500 in front of the tanks, more behind.”
“We don’t have that much ammo. Hit the tanks, yeah?”
“Already on it,” he said as he dialed up his favorite specialized arrow heads. He took a deep breath to steady himself, whispering, “boom!” on the exhale as he shot at the several tanks.
Most people would have thought the shot impossible, he just smiled as he watched the tanks blow off their tracks and falter to a stop. The neat lines of ill equipped and poorly trained soldiers suddenly scattered like teenagers at a party when the cops show up. He looked down to see Natasha, carrying a small child followed by a woman in tatters and holding a bundle, they were running towards a shop, he could see she was telling them to get down and stay down. She shoved money in their hands and shooed them.
“GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE, NOW!”
He looked back to see a mortar sailing towards him, he agreed it was a good time to get down. It whistled overhead and the impact shook in from the pole to the ground in a rough landing.
Suddenly she was grabbing his arm and swearing. He hadn’t seen the troops coming in the side streets, heavily armed and mad as hell. The dove into the wreckage of an old building. Her laugh rang in his ears. He gave her a look, and she merely pointed at the dust covered alter, still perfectly intact in the ruins of the church.
“No paper trail?” he said with a grin.
“No paper trail!” She laughed back before popping up and shooting as she walked backwards, seamlessly stepping over broken alters and brick rubble. He followed her, placing explosive arrows at the front of a large group before picking out heavily armed individuals. His back bumped the alter and he looked to his right, and there was Natasha. Firing away, smiling. Dust and blood in her hair, chapped lips, and perfect.
“I vow to always have your back,” He yelled over the gun fire.
“I vow to keep disputes to words only,” she replied.
“I vow to never leave on a mission without telling you.”
“I vow to let you have a secret nest,” She said as she kicked a man who’d snuck up on the side in the face before slitting his throat.
“I vow to never, ever touch your secret stash of tea.”
“I vow to only make fun of your ridiculous emotions in light heartedness.”
“I vow to do whatever it takes to get you back if you’ve been compromised.”
“I vow to do whatever it takes to get you back if you’ve been compromised,” she repeated.
Without another word they leaned over and kissed, hands still holding their weapons out, but damn if the heat from that kiss couldn’t have just melted the whole army in front of them.
Natasha laid some mines down before they ran off towards the rendezvous point. She was almost tempted to reach out for his hand as they ran, but that would slow them down. Instead she stole a glance at her newly minted husband. Sweat carving streams in the dust, cocky grin on his face, a gash trickling blood down his arm, perfect.
“Get the marksmen on those buildings and up here, NOW!” she yelled at the rebel forces as they approached. The men scrambled into position and Natasha and Clint coolly stopped in front of the gathering rebel forces. They really had brought everyone.
They could hear the other army approaching.
“Listen!” Clint shouted, “We’re here to help, Nick Fury sent us,” whispers went off through the crowd and every face instantly tuned into him. He’d thought it strange when the Director had told him to tell the rebel crowds that he sent them, but he didn’t question it. Fury was one of the few people Clint was afraid of. Natasha asked and the answer was something like “Shut the fuck up, Agent Romanoff and read your file.”
“We know this is scary, but we need to stand our ground,” yelled Natasha, “They will surrender to us when they realize we have everyone on our side,” suddenly she whistled and the woman and child from earlier came out of a building, leading a lengthy train of women and children. One of them held a sign that said, “Father, please stop fighting us.” So that was her play, emotional warfare, Clint thought. She would be the best at it.
“They’re almost here, stay strong!” Clint called and raised his fist, the crowd mimed in solidarity. Agent Coulson stepped out of the group, straightening his tie and walking calmly to the two dirty, bleeding agents at the head of the crowd.
“Coulson,” Clint greeted, Natasha just nodded.
Natasha opened her mouth to yell something obscene, but he held up a finger to shush her. Her hand snapped forth to break it, but Clint caught her by the wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze to communicate that breaking Coulsons fingers, albeit warranted, was still out of the question.
“What happens in Budapest stays in Budapest,” he continued smiling smugly, “’mum’s’ the word or whatever.” His eyes focused behind them as the sound of the boots on the old streets rounded the corner. “Our friends are here.”
The three turned to face the approaching army, Natasha waved the little girl with the sign up.
“Nick Fury sent us,” Coulson said.
Whispers went over the forces.
“Papa!” the little girl yelled and waved to her dad, like he wasn’t standing there with blood on his clothes and a gun. He started crying.
“As you can see, you are matched,” Clint said.
“Plus we have Fury,” Coulson continued, “So, if you want to surrender and negotiate, you can take us to your general.”
“Or we can take you all out,” Natasha said blankly. “What you saw on your walk here was just me and the archer,” she added.
The men shuddered, they duo had certainly left more than one pile of bodies on their way to the meeting spot.
“I will take you!” a man stepped forward.
“Alright, let’s go!” Coulson said cheerily.
The father ran to her daughter.
“There will be a cease fire. This war is over.” Clint addressed both sides, and the leaders of the groups nodded. The crowds mingled in relief as they followed Coulson.
Later that night, when negotiations were over, they collapsed on the hotel bed.
“What, Mr. Romanoff?” she replied, he couldn’t deny that’s really how their relationship went, so he let it slide.
“No paper trail.”
“No paper trail.”
He turned to her, smiling. She grabbed the neck of his vest and pulled him in for a kiss. There was a knock on the door, and he groaned as she eyed it suspiciously. He answered it while she sat on the bed, gun in her hand. Debating to kill whoever interrupted them.
“A mister A. Gentkay upgraded you to the honeymoon suite. I will take your bags if you will just follow me.”
They insisted on carrying their own bags, as the tiny man led them to a much larger and much nicer hotel room. There was a bottle of Champaign waiting for them. The card simply read, “Budapest.” In Coulson’s chicken scratch handwriting.
“Remind me to sign the Christmas card,” Natasha said quietly as she examined the room.
“Will do,” Clint said picking up the expensive Champaign and popping it open. The cork went flying in her direction and she caught it without looking. “Hey, come have some of this,” he said before putting his thumb over the top and shaking it. When she stepped over with glass ready, he sprayed her. She actually squealed in surprise, which was a first. She dove at him, swiftly taking the dripping bottle out of his hand and pinning him to the ground in a fluid movement. The golden liquid dripped down her face and neck, and Clint leaned up to lick a stream of champaign between her breasts.
“Don’t waste a nice gift,” she said before kissing him back. She set the bottle down and tore him from the floor, pulling him up by his vest before hungrily kissing him. She was pulling at his vest, and he was pulling at her jacket as they pushed their way to the beds. She bit his ear lobe and his nails wracked over her shoulders as he pushed her jacket to the floor.
They were still covered in dust and blood, some theirs and some not, but they didn’t care. They hurriedly stripped the rest of their clothes and before she could even climb on the bed Clint was grabbing her thick hips and thrusting up into her soaking wet heat. She moaned out loud as his hand slid roughly over the front of her body and held her throat gently. Her hands on the footboard to steady them as he pounded into her from behind. She wanted more, and somewhere between the moans, gasped out “bed.”
His strong arms turned her around and he kissed her hard as they moved carefully to the side of the bed. She crawled backwards as he kissed forward, suddenly he was back inside her and they were both calling out for God. She pushed back and flipped him over, and he bit at her neck hard enough to bruise as she rode him. They tumbled all over the bed, exchanging dominance, moans, and rough kisses. There were going to be bruises on her hips from his hands, and there was most definitely a red mark that fit his hand perfectly on her ass. He had more than a few claw marks from her sharp hand as well as matching teeth marks. Somewhere in the midst of all the furious, passionate fucking, “Till death do us part,” was whispered on both ends.
Some hours later when they were both spent and sated they slip into the shower to finally clean off the blood, and dirt, and now each other, they hold each other and smile and kiss tenderly. They were married in their own way. Ceremony under possibility of death. Honeymoon in a war torn city. Bodies battered by enemies and with love. Nothing fit them more perfectly than each other.
She’d always remember it as the mission where she’d risked everything for emotional responses.
He’d always remember it as the mission where passion and fear of loss had been the only reason for it in the first place.
Either way, they’d never forget Budapest.
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