A/N: I need to stop answering my own prompts. *facepalms* Title comes from the Dire Straits song Romeo and Juliet
like the stars above
I.
Tomorrow, the circus will arrive in Guadalajara. There'll be a parade, which in current cold snap is going to be little fun, and they'll be in the city for weeks. Living on a field, sure, but there'll be buildings and cars and trash, and the sky always seems smaller in the city. Too many lights hitting the clouds and smog until the sky is low over his head.
Right now, though, the sky is clear and big, a huge doom curving over him and the whole damn world, hung with stars that are nothing like stage lights. Clint, lying on the roof of his boyfriend's caravan, shifts so his head is cushioned by his arm and idly tries to find constellations.
Ramón, lying next to him, laces his fingers with Clint's, and says nothing. Tomorrow, when everyone is awake, it'll be noisy with English and Spanish and circus-slang being shouted here and there. Tomorrow it'll be loud, parade and cars and then the din of the city.
But right now, it's quiet, with the wide, open sky full of stars and all the possibilities in the world. Even Ramón is still, and he's so rarely still. His hands move, his body tilts this way and that as he talks; he moves in ragged jeans and faded T-shirt like he's never left the stage and is about to leap, grab the trapeze and fly.
Not that the stillness lasts.
Ramón shifts slightly to kiss him, all slow and lingering so they don't disturb anyone, and for a glorious moment, there's nowhere else Clint'd rather be.
II.
By some miracle of Army bureaucracy, he and Bobbi got leave at the same time, so they packed up her car and just drove until they felt like stopping. And here they are, on some obscure little beach in the middle of nowhere, listening to the waves and watching the stars. Or, well, Clint's listening to the waves and Bobbi, because spur-of-the-moment roadtrips aside, Bobbi is a girl who likes plans. She's full of them, her mind conjuring them up until they spill out and fill the air with earnest possibilities.
(Not that she'd appreciate being called earnest.)
She's talking about when she gets out, about getting to college, about studying biology or chemistry or maybe both, and Clint's got some idea that this is all supposed to...
He doesn't know. Romantic, maybe? Beautiful star-sparkling sky, nice beach, his girl in a good mood.
But he listens, and the wide open sky isn't working like it should, because he's finding it hard to breathe.
She gets out next year.
“Marry me,” he says, and Bobbi stops mid-sentence, her mouth still open.
“Huh?”
He's grinning at her because this could work, it could, he doesn't do plans, but this is a brilliant one. “Barbara Morse, will you marry me?”
She says, “Yes,” and she only says, “Yes,” before she reaches over and kisses him, no clever comment or sarcasm like there would be if she caught his true meaning:
Don't leave me.
III.
He can't concentrate on the sky.
It's curved like a giant bowl, all wide and full of stars, but it's just a visual trick. The stars aren't neatly pressed against a surface but scattered throughout time and space. Probably half of those stars are just illusions, the ghostly aftermath of suns long since destroyed.
Somewhere amongst those stars is Loki. Somewhere amongst those stars are the people who gave him that damn sceptre. He'd settle for just killing Loki, but he wasn't allowed.
Natasha shuts the door of her car with a quiet thump, and he can hear the crunch of her boots as she walks around the vehicle. She leans against the car next to him, hands in her pockets and body slouched. The slouch is deceptive – she could slide into action on a hair-trigger – and that makes it a little easier to breathe.
“Long weekend coming up,” he says eventually. “We could take off.” Properly, not just driving to the nearest rest area outside San Diego's sprawl.
“We could,” she allows, and he can feel her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she says, “Clint.”
“I'm fine.” It's automatic, and so blatantly incorrect that even he has to fix it. “I'm better.”
She goes mm quietly, and then moves so her head rests against his shoulder. “Where would we go?”
“No idea,” Clint says, and the idea pleases him. “Just, you know. Wherever.”
“I'll even let you drive,” Natasha says, voice wry enough that she's putting it on. For him, to make him smile.
It works. “I knew I married you for a reason. Road-trips.”
“I thought it was because I bring you coffee.”
“I'm a complicated guy,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I can have many reasons.”
That gets a soft laugh and he smiles, presses a kiss to the side of her head, and remembers how to breathe.
like the stars above [Clint/OMC, Clint/Bobbi, Clint/Natasha]
I.
Tomorrow, the circus will arrive in Guadalajara. There'll be a parade, which in current cold snap is going to be little fun, and they'll be in the city for weeks. Living on a field, sure, but there'll be buildings and cars and trash, and the sky always seems smaller in the city. Too many lights hitting the clouds and smog until the sky is low over his head.
Right now, though, the sky is clear and big, a huge doom curving over him and the whole damn world, hung with stars that are nothing like stage lights. Clint, lying on the roof of his boyfriend's caravan, shifts so his head is cushioned by his arm and idly tries to find constellations.
Ramón, lying next to him, laces his fingers with Clint's, and says nothing. Tomorrow, when everyone is awake, it'll be noisy with English and Spanish and circus-slang being shouted here and there. Tomorrow it'll be loud, parade and cars and then the din of the city.
But right now, it's quiet, with the wide, open sky full of stars and all the possibilities in the world. Even Ramón is still, and he's so rarely still. His hands move, his body tilts this way and that as he talks; he moves in ragged jeans and faded T-shirt like he's never left the stage and is about to leap, grab the trapeze and fly.
Not that the stillness lasts.
Ramón shifts slightly to kiss him, all slow and lingering so they don't disturb anyone, and for a glorious moment, there's nowhere else Clint'd rather be.
II.
By some miracle of Army bureaucracy, he and Bobbi got leave at the same time, so they packed up her car and just drove until they felt like stopping. And here they are, on some obscure little beach in the middle of nowhere, listening to the waves and watching the stars. Or, well, Clint's listening to the waves and Bobbi, because spur-of-the-moment roadtrips aside, Bobbi is a girl who likes plans. She's full of them, her mind conjuring them up until they spill out and fill the air with earnest possibilities.
(Not that she'd appreciate being called earnest.)
She's talking about when she gets out, about getting to college, about studying biology or chemistry or maybe both, and Clint's got some idea that this is all supposed to...
He doesn't know. Romantic, maybe? Beautiful star-sparkling sky, nice beach, his girl in a good mood.
But he listens, and the wide open sky isn't working like it should, because he's finding it hard to breathe.
She gets out next year.
“Marry me,” he says, and Bobbi stops mid-sentence, her mouth still open.
“Huh?”
He's grinning at her because this could work, it could, he doesn't do plans, but this is a brilliant one. “Barbara Morse, will you marry me?”
She says, “Yes,” and she only says, “Yes,” before she reaches over and kisses him, no clever comment or sarcasm like there would be if she caught his true meaning:
Don't leave me.
III.
He can't concentrate on the sky.
It's curved like a giant bowl, all wide and full of stars, but it's just a visual trick. The stars aren't neatly pressed against a surface but scattered throughout time and space. Probably half of those stars are just illusions, the ghostly aftermath of suns long since destroyed.
Somewhere amongst those stars is Loki. Somewhere amongst those stars are the people who gave him that damn sceptre. He'd settle for just killing Loki, but he wasn't allowed.
Natasha shuts the door of her car with a quiet thump, and he can hear the crunch of her boots as she walks around the vehicle. She leans against the car next to him, hands in her pockets and body slouched. The slouch is deceptive – she could slide into action on a hair-trigger – and that makes it a little easier to breathe.
“Long weekend coming up,” he says eventually. “We could take off.” Properly, not just driving to the nearest rest area outside San Diego's sprawl.
“We could,” she allows, and he can feel her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she says, “Clint.”
“I'm fine.” It's automatic, and so blatantly incorrect that even he has to fix it. “I'm better.”
She goes mm quietly, and then moves so her head rests against his shoulder. “Where would we go?”
“No idea,” Clint says, and the idea pleases him. “Just, you know. Wherever.”
“I'll even let you drive,” Natasha says, voice wry enough that she's putting it on. For him, to make him smile.
It works. “I knew I married you for a reason. Road-trips.”
“I thought it was because I bring you coffee.”
“I'm a complicated guy,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I can have many reasons.”
That gets a soft laugh and he smiles, presses a kiss to the side of her head, and remembers how to breathe.