Clintasha Advent (3)
Prompt: Maybe like a mixture of making own holiday traditions and no where to go, with Clint/Nat or Maria/Nat (your choice !!).
For/Prompter: @emmeywemmy (sorry couldn’t decide on which pairing so it became all of them.. <3)
Warnings: childhood stories but nothing graphic
Word count: 770
A/N: I may not continue posting daily, but will do as many as I can <3
——
“Never have I ever,” Maria starts, bouncing the ball over to Clint.
“No,” he vetos, “with the two of you playing, I’ll lose, get drunk and then who knows what you’ll go.”
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Natasha supplies, Clint bouncing the ball over to her.
“Boring,” Maria tells her.
“Hangman?”
The ball moves from Maria to Clint again, as Clint and Natasha share a look.
“No hangman, no tic tac toe,” he says, saying what Natasha is thinking.
“I’m out of ideas,” he groans, throwing the ball.
“Stories?” Natasha asks, bouncing the ball across.
“I don’t know how to play that,” Maria tells her, even though it’s met with a laugh from the red head.
Clint passes the ball.
“No,” Natasha says, “like we just tell some stories.”
Maria sits up intrigued.
Natasha never wants to tell stories about herself.
“Like two truths and a lie?” Clint clarifies.
Natasha shrugs.
“Sure we can play like that.”
The church bell rings, and Clint stops talking, wishing they weren’t hiding out in the middle of a church on one of its busiest days of the year.
The ball moves from Natasha to Maria and they wait for it to finish it’s song.
“Okay, two truths an a lie, do you want to go first?”
Natasha throws the ball back at him; hard, reversing the chain.
“Ow-hey, what? You came up with the game,” he defends.
“You go first,” she says with a huff.
“Okay fine,” he twirls the ball in his hand.
“I can draw, I have a middle name, I’m allergic to legumes,” he says, throwing the ball to Maria.
“Legumes?”
“You can’t draw?”
The refutes come together and he shrugs.
“Chose one.”
Maria and Natasha look at each other, unspoken in their communication.
“Drawing,” they say simultaneously.
Clint shakes his head.
“Legumes.”
Natasha frowns.
The ball back to Maria gives her the next turn.
“I can’t feel a portion of my leg, my mother named me after her, I visit a cemetery every Christmas.”
Clint and Natasha stare.
The game feeling oddly personal now.
“Sorry,” Maria apologises, feeling like she’s stepped over a line.
“No,” Clint refutes.
“Your mother?” Natasha tries, to which Clint nods in agreement.
Maria nods.
“Yeah, too easy.”
“Who do you visit?” Natasha asks.
It’s usually Clint whose the one to ask personal questions, but the untold story draws Natasha in.
“My brother,” Maria sighs, “he was a force. The one who’d make family gatherings worth it. KIA. I’ll visit when we get home. He won’t mind a couple of days being late,” she finishes.
The matter of family and siblings sends both Natasha and Clint quiet.
“I learnt English in Ohio, I’m immune to a black widow bite, I once licked a frog to seduce a mark.”
The last one throws Clint hard.
“Just when I think I know all the things about you,” he laughs.
Natasha is far too quick.
“Barton, you’ll never know everything about me,” she blinks slowly.
“Stop flirting,” Maria laughs, catching the ball Matasha throws.
Clint likes his tongue out.
“Clearly, it’s the black widow bite,” Maria guesses.
Natasha shakes her head.
“Nope, they named us after black widows, it was one of the things they made us immune to,” she nods.
“The frog then?” Clint guesses.
“Nope,” Natasha shakes her her.
“Ohio?” they both guess, simultaneously.
Natasha nods.
“I learnt on Russia, on American cartoons.”
Pieces fall into place for Clint.
“Oh that’s why you don’t like Disney Classics.”
Natasha nods.
Clint feels sadness roll over him that his favourite classics are tainted, and likely he’ll never get to share them with his best friend.
The ball passes to Maria.
“My go again?”
Clint nods.
“We should just make a run for it,” she tells the other two.
“You’re turn,” Natasha says insistently, clearly having fun.
“It’s the 23rd of December, how about, next year we do more?” She avoids.
She’s lucky really, the mark enters the church and Maria turns into the militaristic personality that Natasha doesn’t love.
The parabolic mic is directioned to the meeting and Natasha watches the recording commitment.
Clint already in position to shoot, his finger on the trigger as they all listen to the rhetoric and hate speech.
Maria’s voice is low.
“Next year,” she whispers.
“We’ll play again next year.”
1/ Clint/Nat/Laura + traditions
2/ clintasha + temporary blindness
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