"That's it- attaboy, that's right, just like that," lilting and thickly accented as he only gets when he's compromised or a little drunk. Maybe he's both right now — drunk on grief, drunk on shared heartbreak and the overwhelming desire to help. To fix things. To take away a pain he cannot possibly take away.
Three, four, five breaths. Six, seven, eight. Steady on, steady on, until Clint finds a rhythm he can keep and hold. Only then does Frank begin to peel away a few inches — hand still on the back of his neck, the fingers of the other furled in his sleeve, but enough distance that he can glance over Clint's bowed head to meet Natasha's eye.
She nods. He nods back at her. They both pretend like neither of them have red-rimmed, shining-wet eyes. Like they aren't both falling apart on their own and for Clint. He gets her, he thinks, better than some of her team members do. Not Clint, obviously, maybe not Steve, but better than Thor. Better than Rhodey. He gets her. They've had talks.
He knows where her head's at, and he concedes a little space to her, to the artful dance of her palm running along his back, to the gentle bow of her head as she leans in to murmur a few things now, too. She needs this. She needs to be able to comfort him, it's important, and he's more than willing to let her, because God knows this man's gonna need every speck of fucking support he can handle for the next-
For a long time.
It's quiet, after that. Quiet for a long time, from everyone. No words but Natasha's soft murmurings, no sound but the engines of the jet, until at last they're making their descent for landing.
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Three, four, five breaths. Six, seven, eight. Steady on, steady on, until Clint finds a rhythm he can keep and hold. Only then does Frank begin to peel away a few inches — hand still on the back of his neck, the fingers of the other furled in his sleeve, but enough distance that he can glance over Clint's bowed head to meet Natasha's eye.
She nods. He nods back at her. They both pretend like neither of them have red-rimmed, shining-wet eyes. Like they aren't both falling apart on their own and for Clint. He gets her, he thinks, better than some of her team members do. Not Clint, obviously, maybe not Steve, but better than Thor. Better than Rhodey. He gets her. They've had talks.
He knows where her head's at, and he concedes a little space to her, to the artful dance of her palm running along his back, to the gentle bow of her head as she leans in to murmur a few things now, too. She needs this. She needs to be able to comfort him, it's important, and he's more than willing to let her, because God knows this man's gonna need every speck of fucking support he can handle for the next-
For a long time.
It's quiet, after that. Quiet for a long time, from everyone. No words but Natasha's soft murmurings, no sound but the engines of the jet, until at last they're making their descent for landing.