"Loss and possession, death and life are one.
There falls no shadow where there shines no sun."
~ Hilaire Belloc

Natasha let herself into the apartment, and instantly went on the alert. The place was silent, and that was wrong. Normally, if Clint was home, he had music playing in the background, frequently Dire Straits or something like that. She'd spoken to him about two hours ago, and he'd said he'd be home all day. So where was he?

She shook her head slightly, and reminded herself that this wasn't a mission, it was a date. There was no reason to assume that Clint had gone any further than the local convenience store to pick up some forgotten ingredient for the meal he was supposed to be preparing. One of the more surprising discoveries that she'd made about him, since they started dating properly about six months ago, was that he could cook pretty well, though he didn't do it often. Today he was supposed to be making Indian food, and Natasha could smell appetizingly spicy aromas lingering in the air.

She walked through to the kitchen, and frowned. Though there were signs of activity - pans piled in the sink, a wooden chopping board with a knife lodged across it, a couple of stray onions on the counter – it didn't look as if anything was actually being cooked right now. Curiously, she opened the fridge, and found several containers of half-prepared food. If he'd only gone out to the corner store, why had he packed everything away?

A thought struck her, and Natasha went into the bedroom, looking for the backpack that she knew Clint kept ready at all times, containing a change of clothes and other items that he'd need if he was called away at short notice. It was gone. Glancing around, she noted signs that he'd changed in a rush – jeans and a t-shirt in crumpled heap, a dresser drawer open with the contents stirred up. So he'd obviously gone somewhere in a hurry, which wasn't exactly unusual in their line of work, but when it had happened before, he'd called her.

Natasha's phone chirped, and despite her concern, she smiled. Clint still didn't know that she'd programmed his ring tone with a bird call. She pulled the phone out of her pocket.

"Clint?"

"Yeah, Tasha, I'm sorry..."

"Where are you?"

"La Guardia. Something came up suddenly, I'll be in D.C. overnight."

"Mission?" she asked.

"No, uh... it's a personal thing..." he sounded wary, and very distracted. "Listen, Tasha, if you need to get a hold of me in an emergency, call the N.C.I.S. office. They'll pass on a message."

"N.C.I.S? I thought you said it wasn't a mission."

"Yeah, it's... sorry, they're calling my flight, I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow night."

He hung up, and Natasha frowned at the phone in her hand. What personal business could he have with N.C.I.S., other than Ziva David? Clint had told her that his involvement with Ziva, during the mission earlier in the year had been a casual, one-time thing. He'd insisted that there had been no strings attached, but from the sound of it, he'd dropped everything and run for the airport the moment he heard from her.

After a moment, Natasha pocketed her phone, and headed for the door. She decided to visit the gym before she went home; she had a feeling that she'd sleep better tonight if she'd spent a couple of hours hitting something.

Her phone chirped again around 11.30 the following evening. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but it seemed kind of pointless as a gesture, so she answered it.

"Yeah?"

"Tasha? Sorry it's late, I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No," she said.

"Uh – can I come over? There's something I have to tell you."

That sounded kind of ominous. "You can't tell me on the phone?"

"It – it'll be better in person."

Natasha was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Okay."

"I'll see you in half an hour."

As she put her phone down, Natasha had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she had a feeling that she knew what was coming. Clint had gone off to visit Ziva, and now he was coming back to break up with her. Why else would he insist on speaking face to face? She supposed she should at least be grateful he was doing her that courtesy, instead of ending things over the phone. She got up and paced the living room restlessly. She should have known it was too good to last, and she hated how helpless it made her feel. When it came to her work, she was the best, well-trained, efficient, and ruthless. But when it came to a personal life, she sometimes felt like she didn't have a clue – especially when it involved Clint.

Maybe it would have been better if they'd never gotten romantically involved. It had been bad enough before, feeling the way she did about him. But having finally had a taste of being with him, it would be much worse to lose it.

Her expression hardened. Well, she wasn't going to pull the clinging vine act with him. Impulsively, she walked around her apartment, gathering up the belongings that Clint had left here – a change of clothes, his spare shaving kit, a couple of books – and dumped them in a box, that she put by the door. It was going to be painful enough, she didn't want this scene to last any longer than it had to. She stared at the box, then picked up her key fob, and took one of the keys off. The key to Clint's apartment. She threw it into the box, then went to sit on the sofa, staring blankly at her hands while she waited.

Finally, she heard him unlocking the door – she'd have to remember to get that key back from him – and stood up, ready to take the bad news.

Clint closed the door behind him, and paused in the act of putting his backpack down, as he saw the box. His belongings, with the key on top of them. He dropped the backpack, and looked up at Natasha, confused.

"I figured I'd save you the trouble," Natasha said, trying to sound unconcerned.

Clint just looked at her, then shook his head slightly. "I don't understand."

"It seems pretty straightforward to me. You went to see Ziva, didn't you?"

Clint's expression cleared slightly, as if he thought he understood what was going on now. He nodded. "Yes, but..."

"So you've come here to end things with me – I've saved you the trouble of finding your stuff."

Clint seemed to relax, and let out a breath. "No." He walked over to Natasha and pulled her into his arms. "Tasha, I'm sorry, I didn't mean this to upset you. I should have explained before I went, but it was such a shock..." He bent his head to kiss her, and it reassured her. There was no hesitancy, it was the way he always kissed her – as if for that moment, nothing else in the world existed for him. Drawing his head back a little, he looked at her, his eyes slightly narrowed. "You know, for a cold-blooded assassin, you're actually kinda vulnerable." There was affection, and a slight touch of surprise in his voice.

Natasha let out a slightly shaky breath. "Only where you're concerned," she admitted.

He kissed her again, and just held her for a moment. Finally, she asked, "So – if it's not that – what is it you need to tell me face to face?"

Clint closed his eyes for a moment, running his hand over his hair, though he still kept one arm around Natasha. "Yeah... well, it's going to complicate things a bit," he said. "Come on, let's sit down." He drew her over to the sofa, and as they sat, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. Natasha watched, frowning slight, as Clint searched quickly through some photos, then he handed the phone to her.

The photo was of a newborn, red-faced and still wrinkled, with a shock of dark hair. Natasha looked up at Clint, her expression wary.

"That's Eli," he told her. "He's my son."