Just Between Friends

by Catwings 1026

Disclaimer: Avengers, Avengers Assemble, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton,and all affiliated places and characters are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment, LLC, a wholly-owned subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company. Not mine, not mine, not mine, and I'm not pretending they are.

Continuity: Avengers Assemble#5

Author's Note:This prose is taken almost verbatim from the published copy of Avengers Assemble #5 - you know which one I'm talking about. The Kissing Issue. I've heard a lot of talk about what on EARTH Bendis was thinking, how out of character the kiss was, how stupid... but I don't buy it. To me, that kiss made perfect sense, and was entirely in character for both Black Widow and Hawkeye. This is my prose trying to share my view of that scene - but the scene, the verbal dialogue, the staging - none of it's mine. No stealing intended... think of this as an adaptation, nothing more.

The shoulder throbbed, pulsing angry and hot, as Natasha Romanova leaned on a chair in what she hoped was a convincingly casual gesture. She forced the pain to separate out from her thoughts, boxed it up and stored it for later, concentrated on projecting the aura of "Black Widow, Master Assassin" to the roomful of assembled heroes... to any who might glance her way, at least.

But dammit, that shoulder was a misery.

It never USED to hurt this much... Muscles knotted and twisted in the small of her back, protesting the effort it took to maintain that cool, detached front. I'm getting too old for this... special serum or no.

She couldn't remember what had happened to that shoulder to make it hurt so much. It had been far, far too long of a day already, and all Natasha wanted was the solitude of her own room, a chance to deal with the shoulder and various other nicks and scratches, and a long soak in a hot tub. Maybe a good book and a cup of hot tea after that... but no, most likely a graceless plunge into her bed. Sleep. Yes, sleep would be VERY welcome. She risked a momentary half-turn to wipe at her sweat-beaded brow, and wished she hadn't moved. That shoulder hurt more than it ought to.

Well, if it was poison, I'd have known it hours ago, at least.

Across the table, Hawkeye quirked an eyebrow at her, but she pretended not to see it.

Just let Tony get the Starlord talking strategy and tech, and nobody will miss me if I slip off...

She kept the bland mask up, turned her face to the skyline beyond the windows. Cool, calm, collected... it never used to be so much work to keep up the facade between herself and the world. There had been a time when she could maintain with a sucking chest wound for hours until she could patch herself up...

Okay, Nat, no delusions of grandeur. A stab to the shoulder, sure. Maybe an ab slice...

The hand at the base of her neck, soft as it was, was sudden and unexpected. If her shoulder had been at 100%, she'd have wheeled and cold-cocked the owner as a matter of instinct - but at the moment, off-balance with the effort of hiding the pain and not as wary in her own home territory, she merely tensed, eyes flashing as Hawkeye pressed close to her, his hand slipping to the uninjured shoulder as he steered her towards the door. She could feel the warmth of him, sense his concern, knew he'd placed his body between her and the others, shielding her escape. Even so, she tensed, resisting him, and the resulting lance of pain made her grit her teeth.

"Come with me." His voice, pitched to her ears only, was full of concern, and he didn't pause, gently herding her recalcitrant feet forward.

"I'm fine." She tried to keep her voice level, chilled, but his fingers tightened ever so slightly on the sound shoulder in silent reproach. She shot him a look - THE look, the one he knew all too well - and his response was a subtle tightening of his lips, a brow creased with irritation.

"Stop it." And when had he developed that tone? Clint Barton was many things, but "laid back" was generally one of the primary descriptors people used when speaking of him. He wasn't one to argue with her - not in the field, not at home. Sarcastic commentary, sure. Biting jabs, playful teasing, definitely. But when she glanced at him, his face and jaw set told her that this time, he wasn't having any of it.

And so she allowed him to guide her down the hall, away from the voices and tension, into the kitchen suite, where his arm fell away as he stepped back.

"Show me." Not, "Are you hurt?" Not, "What's wrong?" This wasn't Hawkeye, the clown prince of archery. This wasn't even Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD, smirking at authority. This was just Clint... her friend, her partner, the one person she'd known longest of all the members of the Avengers.

The one who wasn't taking any of her Black Widow attitude right now.

And so she sighed, turned from him, and peeled down her bodysuit to reveal the shoulder. There was no modesty between fellow soldiers in the trenches, and Clint had seen her fully exposed in far more seductive scenarios than this. She felt the fresh blood trickling as the half-formed scab came away, felt Clint's fingers trace the wound - gentle, probing, examining - then brushed her hair away from her neck, checking for any injuries she might be inclined to hide. She heard him mutter something under his breath, sigh in clear exasperation, and then step away, rattling about in cabinets before the first aid kit thunked down beside her.

"Natasha..." There was an edge to his voice, even as he began to clean and disinfect the wound. "If you're hurt... you say something. You don't have to act tough."

If she'd been less than exhausted, she'd have found some tart rejoinder for that. If he hadn't been so right, damn him, she'd have teased him into some verbal sparring match. But she was, and he was, and so she allowed him the scolding. Besides... it felt so good to have someone else tending her wounds for a change. Someone whose hands were the hands of a friend, hands she could trust.

Someone who can reach the damn thing without making it bleed and tear more... She hissed softly as the cold antiseptic spray hit the nerves, stinging. It was a reaction she wouldn't have allowed herself in the presence of anyone else, and she felt Clint press gauze over the shoulder, holding it there.

"You kept the Ultimate Nullifier out of the hands of a crazy alien demigon who WILL use it." His voice was softer now, as soft as the muted fabric rip of bandage tape as the gauze was secured into place. "You saved the world." And now he rested both hands on her shoulders, squeezing slightly, punctuating his next words with gentle shakes. "You don't have to act all tough. Everyone knows how tough you are."

She didn't have to see him shake his head, disbelieving, as he spoke. She glanced back at him, one eyebrow quirked upwards.

Everyone knows how tough I am? the look asked. So how come I'm in here with you?

Clint chuckled, needing no translation. "Don't look all surprised... you know you're my best friend, right?"

He said it so easily, so guilelessly, as though he expected she DID know, and merely needed the laughing reminder. So trustingly... as though he knew it was true in the reverse, though she'd never said as much. Never even thought as much.

And no... no, she hadn't known. Hadn't ever considered it, even.

Best friend.

The hardened spy in her rolled her eyes - What, Natalia, and you're now ten years old again, looking for someone to share your secrets? To have a tea party with, perhaps? Idiot. Friendship is a liability to be avoided. Love is a weakness to exploit. People like us do not have best friends.

And yet... there was Clint. Clint Barton, grown up in the most dysfunctional of all pseudo-families, save perhaps for her own. Clint, who valued the people others would consider colleagues, workmates, as a sort of adopted family. Clint, who hid his vulnerabilities and fears behind a mask of jokes and jibes - or under the rock-hard guise of the professional killer who chose not to kill unless he had absolutely no alternative.

Clint, who had loved her without reservation so many years ago, loved her with a devotion she'd never felt she deserved.

Clint, who would have shot the moon out of the sky for her, if only she'd asked.

Who had continued to love and protect her even after she'd turned her back on him.

Who had moved on, loved again, and yet bore her no ill will. She deserved it... for all she'd said to him, for all she'd done to him, she deserved the icy front he reserved for those the Avengers hunted. And yet... the harshest words he'd spoken to her were those of moments before. Chastising her for trying to be too tough. Reminding her that she didn't need to keep up the Black Widow mask all the time... that she didn't need to continually prove herself.

Reminding her that she wasn't alone.

I have... a best friend.

All of this flashed through her mind in seconds that felt like minutes, and she ducked her chin, instinctively hiding her eyes which, traitors that they were, prickled with tears.

Dammit, Clint... She'd stood against torture and mind control, fought empty-handed against battalions, and it was a simple phrase that undid her completely.

And the realization came home, the truth of it, lifting a weight in her chest she hadn't known was there.

She didn't need to hide her reactions, her feelings... not now. As if she could, given Clint's apparent ability to see clear through her.

I have a best friend.

Then, startling both of them, she raised up on her toes and kissed him. She'd intended it to be swift and sweet, a fraternal kiss, expressing gratitude words could not. She'd meant it for his cheek, really... but whether he had shifted in surprise or her body remembered long-forgotten habits, it did not turn out that way.

At all.

The moment her lips met his, the years seemed to freeze, then to fall away. Her body remembered loving this man even more than her heart did. His arms encircled her, crushing her against him, one hand moving to knead the warm, tender nape of her neck; she held him back with no less tightness, one hand cupping his jaw, the other tangling in his short hair. She was kissing him insistently, possessively, and was lost in his response, utterly beyond thought - the warmth of his ragged breath, the softness of his lips devouring hers, as tender as she was fierce. She knew without needing to think how to respond to his caresses, how to invite him closer, wanted to...

No.

She pulled back then, met his eyes for just a moment, read the confusion there, the amalgam of desire and uncertainty and "What the hell just happened?" Ice flooded her stomach - guilt, shame, anger. Anger at him, at herself. She hadn't meant for it to happen that way. And yet... his response... and she'd wanted it to continue. That was what made her angriest. He'd given her the gift of his trust, his friendship... and she'd responded with seduction?

You don't know HOW to be a best friend, the spy inside sneered. You don't know how to love anyone without seducing them. You don't even really know how to love, do you? Admit it. You're a spy, Natasha Romanova. You cannot trust or be trusted. You cannot love... or be loved. And you cannot be anyone's best friend.

"Okay... wow." His voice was hoarse, his breathing still ragged, and he stood like a man clotheslined by a pole. She turned away from him, jerking the bodysuit back into place.

"Sorry." She said it through gritted teeth, as much for her shoulder's protest of the rough treatment as at the pain inside her just then.

"No." His voice was forceful, insistent - he wasn't sorry, didn't want her to be sorry, just wanted to figure out what on earth had just passed between them. "I mean... uh, wow."

If she hadn't been burning with mortification and self-loathing, she'd have laughed... same old charming Clint. But her embarrassment, her anger drove her away from him, grimacing, not looking at him.

"You have a GIRLFRIEND, Clint Barton!" She zipped the neck of the suit harder than was necessary, hating herself for throwing that into his face. He wasn't the one who had forgotten.

"But I... you..." He swallowed, trying to rally his thoughts, but even at his best, Clint was never very quick with his words. "I..." She could see him in her mind, his face utterly befuddled, eyes miserable as he tried to work out what he'd done wrong this time...

If Jarvis hadn't passed her on her way out, she was certain he'd have followed her. But she used the butler's arrival as cover, pausing only just outside the door to listen...

"... feed such a motley lot on such short notice?" Jarvis's British reserve was askew, and he sounded quite put out. She heard him complain about some stipulation about dinner... pizza from this take-out, not another, and heard Clint mutter an indistinct reply.

She turned on her heel, fleeing back to the shelter of the crowded room before he could gather his wits and follow... but as she paused at the entryway, her hand moved involuntarily to her lips, and she closed her eyes, remembering his touch. Her eyes prickled, but this time she forced them to obey her, slamming up the shields of her persona. She would think about this later. Later.

Right now... there was still a world to save.

-00-