"So," Clint asks from the cabin's excuse for a kitchen, "how snowed in are we, exactly?" He comes out handing her a cup of coffee made from grounds stale enough that she can taste it, but at least he remembered to put sugar in it.
Instead of replying, Natalia absently reaches over and yanks back the burlap sack that was doing duty as a curtain: the top line of white is nearly at the top of the window and it looks like it's still snowing. "Coulson says it'll take two days to get anything capable of handling the conditions to get to us," she says, not looking up from where she's decoding - by hand - the message (Morse code over radio, and wasn't that fun) Coulson had sent.
"So," Clint says slowly, "I have two days to get really claustrophobic." He sounds about as thrilled as Natasha expected, and now she does look up.
"Yes," she says. "Sorry." Which he knew to take as an expression of regret: she hadn't stuck them here on purpose, after all.
"No, fuck, sorry from me," he says, sighing and sitting down at the table's other chair. "In advance."
"I have sedatives," she says, mostly joking. "I know where you sleep."
"Nnng," he says, putting his head in his hands and then letting it slide further so his forehead rests on the table. "I swear the fucker does this on purpose." His words are slightly muffled, and the tragedy in them is enough that even Natalia has to laugh.
She reaches over to ruffle his hair and drops a completely mocking kiss on the crown of his head. "You probably did something to deserve it," she says.
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Instead of replying, Natalia absently reaches over and yanks back the burlap sack that was doing duty as a curtain: the top line of white is nearly at the top of the window and it looks like it's still snowing. "Coulson says it'll take two days to get anything capable of handling the conditions to get to us," she says, not looking up from where she's decoding - by hand - the message (Morse code over radio, and wasn't that fun) Coulson had sent.
"So," Clint says slowly, "I have two days to get really claustrophobic." He sounds about as thrilled as Natasha expected, and now she does look up.
"Yes," she says. "Sorry." Which he knew to take as an expression of regret: she hadn't stuck them here on purpose, after all.
"No, fuck, sorry from me," he says, sighing and sitting down at the table's other chair. "In advance."
"I have sedatives," she says, mostly joking. "I know where you sleep."
"Nnng," he says, putting his head in his hands and then letting it slide further so his forehead rests on the table. "I swear the fucker does this on purpose." His words are slightly muffled, and the tragedy in them is enough that even Natalia has to laugh.
She reaches over to ruffle his hair and drops a completely mocking kiss on the crown of his head. "You probably did something to deserve it," she says.