She smells like what damp earth smells like after a heavy rain and that perpetual scent of gunpowder, like it’s seared under her skin, and Clint’s trying to cling onto it all so hard that his hands are shaking.

“Natasha,” he breathes out without exactly knowing what he’s saying, just that there’s this raw, anxious ache in his chest that’s suddenly burst wide open and he can’t hold onto the pieces of him tightly enough. “Oh my god, Natasha. Natasha. Natasha.” — exerpt from x