It shouldn't hurt so much, but it did. The awkward way she was touching him, how they were both dancing around the subject as if that would change anything. Change what they were about to do.
They were holding up a facade for each other, barely, and weren't they long beyond that? Clint wasn't stupid enough to believe Natasha's distanced behavior for even a second. If he let her swallow it all down, bury it under just another layer inside, it would eat her up just as much as the rest of her past. Another nightmare to wake up to screaming and crying. He didn't want to be the reason for her crying, not if he could help it.
So he reached for her hand with his own still trembling instead of just standing up to get his phone, and pressed his too dry lips against it, holding it there. When he finally lowered his other hand from his lids, it was dry, but the remaining burn in his eyes let him know it wouldn't be for long. Even if he wanted, he couldn't play this role all the way through for her.
He needed to know and to work through what was happening, not push it away like it didn't really matter. He did that with most of his life, and that was what had left him a train wreck in the first place. He couldn't do this with Natasha. They needed to face this like one of their missions, head first, no matter how much it would cost.
"I need to know, Nat. I need... I have to be sure."
His voice came out strangled, colored by that ongoing fight he had with himself, about something that wasn't even a possibility. As far as they knew. Before he could even think about exploring or not if that knowledge maybe was outdated, he had to be certain about her mindset.
"Do you want this baby?"
Finally, with the last words he made it to look at her again, no matter how much it hurt, and though he had never been exactly a poet, this one most important question he chose very carefully. He didn't want to hear about if she could have it or not. And they had talked about wanting kids or not before. But not under these circumstances. Not when a comfortable why-even-think-about-it suddenly turned into a very real possibility.
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Date: 2014-06-09 04:52 pm (UTC)From:They were holding up a facade for each other, barely, and weren't they long beyond that? Clint wasn't stupid enough to believe Natasha's distanced behavior for even a second. If he let her swallow it all down, bury it under just another layer inside, it would eat her up just as much as the rest of her past. Another nightmare to wake up to screaming and crying. He didn't want to be the reason for her crying, not if he could help it.
So he reached for her hand with his own still trembling instead of just standing up to get his phone, and pressed his too dry lips against it, holding it there. When he finally lowered his other hand from his lids, it was dry, but the remaining burn in his eyes let him know it wouldn't be for long. Even if he wanted, he couldn't play this role all the way through for her.
He needed to know and to work through what was happening, not push it away like it didn't really matter. He did that with most of his life, and that was what had left him a train wreck in the first place. He couldn't do this with Natasha. They needed to face this like one of their missions, head first, no matter how much it would cost.
"I need to know, Nat. I need... I have to be sure."
His voice came out strangled, colored by that ongoing fight he had with himself, about something that wasn't even a possibility. As far as they knew. Before he could even think about exploring or not if that knowledge maybe was outdated, he had to be certain about her mindset.
"Do you want this baby?"
Finally, with the last words he made it to look at her again, no matter how much it hurt, and though he had never been exactly a poet, this one most important question he chose very carefully. He didn't want to hear about if she could have it or not. And they had talked about wanting kids or not before. But not under these circumstances. Not when a comfortable why-even-think-about-it suddenly turned into a very real possibility.