Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters mentioned in this story. Rated K+ for some romantic themes and light language.
"She's my better half."
That's what Clint told them, and he meant it. On mornings when he couldn't pull himself together, when the memory of the last mission was dark and heavy in his mind, she would be in the kitchen messing with Stark's ridiculous coffee maker in one of his shirts, hair like a flame going down her spine. He would stand in the doorway, one shoulder on the frame, and watch that hair. That red, red, red hair. He'd sneak up behind her and slip and arm around her waist, maybe getting in a whiff of freshly brewed goodness before she'd step on his instep and snicker as he'd stumble back, clutching at his foot. Sometimes Nat would take pity on him and bring him a hot cup of coffee, and they'd go to the kitchen table and stare out the window. If Clint was feeling brave enough, he'd wind a hand through that red, red hair and watch it catch the light, shades shifting like dying embers. And then they'd shift apart as soon as the other's footsteps came down the hall. She would untangle her hair from his fingers, trail her long, cool fingers down his face, and leave him feeling enchanted and clean for a few brief moments. And that was all he needed.
It was some half-assed, dusty boutique in the middle of a dusty little town. Clint already had one hand to his ear, listening to the crackle of shield efficiency, when a scrap of color caught his eye. He turned and began walking.
"Agent Barton, location? Report." Clint eases open the door and finds himself in a women's dress shop. The sheer amount of things overwhelms him for a moment, and he takes a moment to orient himself before he sees it again.
"I'm still on track, Hill." Clint looks around for anyone manning the front desk before he goes back to the front window and admires the dress on the mannequin. The red fabric glints in the low light from the cracked glass window, jeweled bodice glinting over a low cut back and layered hem. It is exotic and beautiful and rare. And Natasha must have it. He slithers it off the mannequin and slips it into his satchel. Leaving the store, he slips a pile of money onto the desk and resumes his cover. And the dress remains a secret, deliciously his, for Natasha.
His Natasha.
He gets back to base at four thirty in the morning with only a few bandages across his face and throws himself into a chair in front of Fury's desk with barely concealed exhaustion. Fury takes a look at him over the file he's reading.
"Agent."
"Director."
They go over the mission report for half an hour. Finally, finally, Clint is sliding out of the chair and to the door when Fury's voice stops him.
"You want to tell me where you disappeared to for five minutes in the middle of a sting operation, agent?" Clint surreptitiously adjusts the bag over his shoulder and meets the director's gaze.
"Not particularly."
Fury snorts and looks back at his report. Clint is just letting the door shut behind him when he hears the Director.
"You have excellent taste, Barton."
Clint flushes up to his ears and hurries down the hall, the director's chuckling following him out.
He manages to get the car back to Avengers tower without crashing the car and slips in the delivery elevator. Twelve dizzying moments later, he's outside Nat's room, bag over his shoulder, heart in his throat. He taps lightly on the door and, hearing nothing, eases it open to find her spilled across her comforter, the olive spread accenting her pale skin and that hair. He sneaks silently across the floor and settles on the edge of her bed. He gently shakes her arm.
"Nat." Her eyes slide open, and a flash of alarm flies across them before she recognizes him and slides up against her pillows.
"Clint? You're back early." She looks him over, fingers finding the bandages on his face. There's a question on her lips and her eyes.
"Flying shrapnel caught me across the face after a probie agent got grenade happy."
Natasha makes a disapproving noise and sits up even further. He can see the plans forming in her head already, and pulls the satchel between them to distract her.
"What's that?" She crawls out of bed and kneels on top of the covers, the morning light filtering through the blinds turning her eyes the green of bottle glass. Slowly, carefully, he opens the bag and eases out the dress. She stills and scoots closer, running one hand over the glittering cloth. Everything is still.
"Is it-" Her voice is soft. "Is it for me?" Clint feels a slow smile creep on his face, and meets her eyes.
"It is indeed." She grins and slips it from his hands, leaping off her bed and holding it up in front of her. It could be Christmas. Nat slips out of her nightgown and into the dress, feeling it settle and fall about her legs in soft layers of red. Softly, she slips to the mirror and stares as it glitters and flows about her as she turns lightly in a circle. She whirls and spins in an even tighter circle, going up on one foot, savoring the feel of the flapping fabric and the specialness of the moment. Whirling, she knocks into Clint, who looks down at her with a happy grin.
"I take it you like it, then." She gives him a smile that is one half delight and the other something wild and feral and ecstatic, and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. A long, sweet, red kiss, with red hair tangled around fingers and a red dress on a red girl. And in that moment, Clint isn't sure who is who's better half, but it doesn't matter, because this girl in red is his, and this moment will be theirs, and in that moment, they are whole together.