A/N: Why do almost ALL of my supposed one-shots turn into stories or a collection of one-shots lately? Silly plot bunnies. (Other supposed one-shots include The Mechanic, Somebody, and The Spotted Bandana.)
She was home. Or, at least, as close to home as she could get. Natasha watched as the yellow taxi cab pulled away, joining its fellows in the black rivers of Manhattan. She stared up the glass plated monstrosity before her. Stark and his masculinity-issues at their best.
Ever so slightly shifting the pack on her back, Natasha entered the glittering lobby. For the slob he was in the lab, Tony kept a neat business facility. She gave a small nod to the concierge on her way to the elevators.
Once the heavy doors closed, Natasha allowed herself to slouch and lean against the elevator walls. There was a lovely bed waiting for her. Like a commanding officer's whistle, the elevator pinged and Natasha stood at attention.
She pulled a pistol from her pack, ready to go through her routine. The elevator doors slid open.
She quickly entered the suite, her heels eerily making no noise as she surveyed each room. She checked each drawer; the small hair she left inserted in each one showed no sign of disturbance. The clothes that she "accidently" left all over the floor had also remained in place. The area was secure. With a tired sigh, Natasha came back to the living room, looking over the currently foggy city. She plopped onto the couch, happy to take off her killer (sometimes literally) high heels. The red light on her answering machine blinked incessantly, like a dying light at the end of a dock.
Lazy, finally allowing herself to feel the ache and pain of her muscles, Natasha poked the "play" button with her big toe. She smiled when she heard Clint's voice.
"Hey, I heard your flight was postponed." Partner talk for "You're back in town!"
"I might be late picking you up. Having some technological issues at the laundromat, if you'd believe it."
Natasha frowned. Was he still on a mission? He should have just left a note, in their code, of course. SHIELD still had difficulties trying to decipher it.
"Should've taken Stark up on his offer of a new washing machine and dryer set. Even if he would have made them walk and talk and scare the shit out of me."
Natasha grinned. So it really was laundry issues. Knowing Clint, he probably let all his laundry back up and didn't want Natasha to complain of the stench. He'd tried defending his reason for procrastinating once, but he ended up doing the whole team's laundry instead.
"Anyway, I'll see you later. Don't wait up for me."
She'd remember that voicemail later, when her lungs were scrambling against her body for air and a dark laugh hovered above her. But for now, she just looked out over the city, the fog rolling over the cityscape, ripe with the promise of a rainy night, of new life, of forgetting, of redemption.
Natasha woke up the next morning to silence. No omelettes burning on the stove as he sang off key to his latest favorite in the Top 40. No "Morning sleepyhead" or other terms of endearment that came with the response of a playful gag and toss of a pillow. Just quiet, sterile silence.
With the speed of oh-crap-mission's-blown, Natasha changed and grabbed her gun… only to run into the stoic wall that was Phil Coulson.
"Whoa there, Agent Romanoff." Sometimes Natasha wondered about Phil. Like how he could be the most robotic, yet most human person she'd ever known.
"Barton's missing," she huffed as she struggled against the literal wall that Phil was. When he did get so strong? Or rather, when did she get so weak?
"You're not thinking. That's why you can't get past me." When did Phil turn into a mind reader?
"And I'm not a mind reader." Natasha delicately raised an eyebrow. He mustered a grin. "You're predictable when you're in a panic."
Natasha opened her mouth, but Phil beat her to punch once more, "Yes, you're in a panic. Now sit down."
Natasha complied reluctantly, flopping onto the bed. She tried to lean back nonchalantly, failing as she remained stiff. "Last night, we gave Agent Barton a new mission."
Natasha sighed. So Clint was just on a mission. She could handle that. He could handle that.
"He hasn't checked in."
That was normal. Sometimes Clint would do something Phil or SHIELD wouldn't approve of. Like making a different call. Natasha flopped onto the bed, a gentle smile on her face.
Now it was Phil's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"He's coming, Coulson. He's just a little bit late. He probably got his ass stuck somewhere, trying to create more paperwork for you." Natasha gave a light, breathless laugh. Everything was going to be okay.
Clint wouldn't let it end like this. No, if they were anywhere near the end it would be the best goddamn end ever, with a pyrotechnic show courtesy of Stark and Thor, some ear-shattering bellows from Banner, Rogers running, shield singing as projectiles bounced off it, and her and Barton running through hell, grinning like demons, like idiots, like they had something worth dying for.