"Tony, you have the maturity of a twelve year old. A female one. I'm not taking orders from you."
"You sure about that?"
"One hundred percent positive. Lab results don't lie, you would know."
"So damn fiery. One hundred percent about me being a twelve year old, or taking orders from one?"
"Go paint an "x" on your forehead and stand outside. I'll send Clint for you shortly."
"If Clint wants to play with his toys, I get to bring out mine."
Clint tried not to watch the two of them interacting, tried not to seem interested. There was something about that red-head that made Clint want to get down on a knee and hand her a ring. Of course, his proposal would be much more exciting: he had a few ideas in mind. Natasha wasn't his yet, despite everything. She was too distant, too "on the surface." He wasn't sure she had ever really opened up to anyone before.
"I'll leave you two, to this," she said, her voice monotone. Clint was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smirking as he studied the floor. On the rare occurrence she actually was around Stark Tower and not just in her room, Tony was the first to try to rile her up. She never broke her emotionless façade, or whatever it was. Clint still hadn't figured out if it was a character trait, or a learned trait.
"Oh okay, that's fine. I'll just tell your boyfriend the protocol and I'm sure he'll inform you when you're off your period."
Natasha was halfway through the door when she stopped and turned, eyes on Clint. He felt like she was scrutinizing him, and he cursed the dumbstruck look that always crawled its way onto his usually stoic features whenever that gaze found his.
"He's not my boyfriend."
"You sure?"
She stared blankly at the iron superhero.
"One hundred percent, positive."
Tony let out a loud breath, turning back to the window he'd been looking out of prior to Natasha's entrance. Tony had called them in because he'd just received a phone call from none other than Fury himself. Clint knew those were never fun conversations; of course Tony, with his sarcastic and cynical sense of humor, found them hilarious.
"That woman has more of a stick up her ass than Fury does."
"Yeah well, you don't exactly bring out the best in her."
"Do I hear a bit of resentment in that tone, Barton?"
"No sir."
"I think I do."
"You don't."
Clint rolled his eyes and smiled as Tony inclined his head, eyebrow raised doubtfully.
"How far have you two gotten?"
"I don't understand the question."
"Worse than Steve. Should I speak slower, spell it out for you?"
"She's got me wrapped around her finger."
"Please tell me you've at least banged."
Clint wasn't one to speak of Natasha in a sexual aspect. He didn't really want to delve into the details, he didn't think Tony needed to know them. Plus, if Tony knew, that meant that all of Stark Tower would know within a day or so, and he did not need this to come back and bite him.
"I don't like the question."
"That's better than not understanding it."
Clint was suddenly bombarded with thoughts of soft milky skin and bright red lips...
"Whatever, not important. What is important, is that you and Natasha have one of those assassin missions. You know, where she shows a little leg, distracts a group of guys before you expertly pick them off with unnerving accuracy?"
Clint's lips were still curled, his eyes tracing the pattern of hardwood on the floor. Anything to do with Natasha was worth his time. Missions on their own were fun, but missions with Natasha were practically dates.
"Yeah. Who, what, when, and where?" Clint asked, lifting his gaze to Tony.
"2301-18 Glenbrook Crescent. Tonight, about midnight. A group of men without names. And you'll be retrieving Stark weaponry that is being illegally held in a secure safe in their basement."
Clint nodded his approval.
"No why?" Tony inquired.
"People like us don't need an explanation, Tony. Long as we're paid we don't care the reason."
Tony nodded, his smile turning sly.
"How useful."
"Natasha?"
The red-head started, blinking at Clint a few times before her mind registered he was friend, and not foe.
"Clint," was her reply. She was looking up at him with those eyes. He closed her bedroom door, leaning against the wall next to her personal bathroom.
"You want me to explain the mission?"
"No," she said without a pause. "Just lead me through the motions when we get there."
Clint had noticed that on all of the missions they'd ever accepted together, she'd never allowed him to tell her what was going to happen until just before they arrived. He guessed it had something to do with her mentality: maybe she didn't like to over think her action sequence. Clint found he worked best with a bit of a plan; either way, she was the most spontaneous person he knew, often going missing-in-action for days before showing up for breakfast. She never told anyone why, either.
"Leading you through the motions, is that what you call it now?"
She pursed her lips at his question, and he swore she saw a flame pass through those devilish orbs. "Call it whatever pleases you," she replied. She was sitting in a chair by her window, legs crossed. He could tell she had previously been examining her view of the world, probably leaning her elbow on the armrest, her head turned to the side but her body facing the door in case she needed to move quickly. How clever of her, always on top of things, always ready for the worst. Clint didn't want her to always assume the worst. He wanted her to see the good in things. He wasn't one to talk, they both worked with death on a weekly basis and it had imprinted negativity on their conscience, but he knew there was more to both of them than that, and even if it was in secret, he wanted to see her other side.
"Depends. Are we thinking about the same thing?"
She could hold a man's gaze forever it seemed, and he swore she could bend anyone to her will if she wanted. The intensity of that stare changed on a whim, and when she was using it for business, it was twice as deadly.
"If you're thinking about anything other than our mission, then no," she told him, straight-faced.
"Can I offer you some insight then?"
"Only you, Barton."
"I'm thinking about something that I really hope isn't just "motions."
That seemed to catch her off guard, but she didn't drop her eyes.
"What if it is?"
"Then I don't want it anymore."
Clint sniffed, scuffing the ground with a shoe as he examined her carpet. When he looked up again she was still staring, her head tilted slightly to the side.
"Oh, but I know you do."
"Nope."
"You're a terrible liar."
"You couldn't persuade me, Natasha."
"I could. I'm one hundred percent, positive."
Clint swallowed, hard. She was right, and as she stood from her chair he begged the ceiling to save him from his fate. He could barely hear her feet as they crossed the threshold, but he could definitely hear her voice, and when her hand was on his tie he closed his eyes, smiling.
"No."
"Yes."
He could feel her hands on his shoulders, the way she pressed her chest against his, the way her fingers played with his suit.
"Tell me no one more time Clint, and I won't give you a choice in the matter."
Clint suddenly shot his hands upwards, catching her wrists before he hooked a foot around her ankle and tripped her backwards so she landed in his arms, rewarded with the rarest of surprised expressions.
"No, Natasha. No, because I want a romance, not a sex partner."
She was studying him, he knew that, and allotted her silence while her thoughts raced.
"Are you saying, that you want a relationship, Agent Barton?"
He whirled her back to an upright position, still holding her against him, one arm around her waist, the other pressed against the wall behind him to keep them steady.
"I'm saying I want a romance, Natasha. I want someone who knows me. I want someone who likes what they know about me. I want someone who I can spend quiet evenings with."
She was turning her face away, as though she hadn't yet figured out if she liked what she was hearing, or strongly wanted out of his arms. "I want someone who knows how to respect silence. Someone who's intelligent and enticing and beautiful inside and out."
"I'm not that person," she told him. "My past will catch up to me one day, and until I can clear it, I won't burden anyone else with it."
Clint raised his free hand to her face, grabbing a loose curl of red between his fingers, rolling it gently. He loved the feeling of her hair. It was always so soft and sweet smelling, entrancing even. Just another one of those things he had come to love. "As fast as your past may catch up to you, my arrows will always be faster. You know I've got your back Natasha, always. If anyone came to hunt you down, I'd be right behind you," he chuckled; she was responding better now, her hands on his muscular arms, her forehead inches away from his. She was watching her fingers as they glided over his skin, back and forth; Clint couldn't help but think she had beautiful eyelashes, the way they fluttered when she blinked.
"Of course Mrs. Trigger-fingers, I know you could fend for yourself." He pressed his forehead to hers, smiling contentedly with closed eyes. "With or without your permission I'll be in the shadows, because I care about you too much to know that if one day you... If one day you got hurt, or worse, I wasn't there to save you." Natasha put a hand on his chest, pushing herself out of his grip. She stood there in front of him, arms crossed.
"I don't need a hero."
"Ah. There, I've gone and offended you again." Clint leaned back against the wall, crossing his own arms dejectedly.
"I'm not offended." Natasha countered.
"Then what are you?"
Natasha's lips parted, then closed as she eyed him.
"I'm nothing."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
Clint did not object when she reached towards him, pulling him off the wall with a strong grip around his collar. He steadied himself, swallowing loudly.
"I don't need a hero, Barton. I don't need a partner, I don't need an associate, I don't need baggage." She brought her face very close to his. "You, are baggage."
Clint wrapped his hand around hers, trying to loosen her grip.
"I am not baggage, and you know it. I have never gotten in your way, and I won't."
She was silent for a few seconds, then:
"You want a romance, Clint?"
"Is this an offer?"
"It's a question."
"You already know the answer."
"You wanna know mine?"
Clint leaned in closer, his jaw moving with anticipation. Her lips were so close, and she was looking up at him with such, fire...
"No."
"Wha...?" Clint breathed as she pulled away, smiling at him as she swung the door open and disappeared behind it. The archer was left alone in her room, nothing but her sweet scent to remind him it hadn't been a dream. She was a handful. When she wanted to she could piss off even the most patient of men. She could play Devil's advocate just as well as she could the innocent Angel, but Clint was used to her many changing personalities. If he had to say one good thing, she kept life interesting.
"Oh no you don't."
As soon as Clint came to his senses he was out the door, jogging after Natasha. She had already turned down the hallway and he grabbed her arm, twisting her around. She pulled back, resisting his attempt to drag her.
"Let go."
"You wanna do this the hard way?"
"You want to be lying on the floor unconscious in five seconds?"
Clint laughed, shaking his head.
"I'd like to see you try."
"I'm not smiling, Barton."
"I am."
"And you look like a fool."
"A fool in love?"
"You really need to get some new material. Read something different once in a while."
Clint gazed at the ceiling, biting his lip as he contemplated his next move. "How about I make you a deal."
Natasha's eyes narrowed, but she merely nodded his continue.
"Give me something, anything, to prove to you. If I can do it, you have to say yes."
"There's nothing I want from you."
"Well, there's something I want from you." Clint let go of her arm, crossing his own again. "I want a kiss."
"A kiss? That's, certainly nothing new, Barton..."
"Oh? Not just any kiss, Romanoff." Clint's chin was tilting slightly, thoughtfully as he watched her. She was staring at him like she didn't quite understand.
"What are you getting at? Spit it out."
"Kiss me like you did that night at the coffee shop. You remember."
Natasha was swallowing, most likely her doubts.
"Why?"
"People like us, we don't need explanations."
Maybe it was the challenge, maybe it was because she just couldn't resist him, or so he liked to tell himself, but she was closing the gap between them- lips, embracing as if they'd been meant to sit against each other that way, flesh on flesh before Clint's hands were around her waist, eyebrows knitting as he fought to keep it slow. He was doing this for a reason, and as much as he wanted her up against the wall... Her fingers were pressing into his biceps, and Clint knew by the way she angled her face up at him, that this was more than just a kiss. It was lingering, and no one had broken the tongue barrier, it would have felt wrong, and this was so, so right. She was pulling away, letting out a shaky breath, gazing into his eyes as though she'd felt the magic too...
"I love you, Natasha."
"I know."
"Then why can't we be together? We're perfect for each other, you're a bad-ass bad guy killer, and I'm your, sidekick."
She smiled at him then, genuine. Like at the coffee shop. Like the first time she'd ever admitted he'd caught her eye.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"Come on, Natasha, why?"
She was walking away, leaving him breathless, her memory still hovering against him like a soft blanket of fantasy-
"Because people like us-"
She was leaving through the open door, hair aflame against her back, his fingers raising in a silent goodbye-
"We don't need explanations..."