There was something in the cold hard set of her face as he said the words, "Barton's been compromised," something in the black of her eye, something in the way her neck seemed to snap slightly, like she had been jerked forward by the collar.
They were familiar.
He always spoke first, always had more feelings. Angry, determined, upset, torn. He had feelings, she didn't, and they worked that way. She told him what he needed to know. From that he learned what she never said.
She is comfort in connections, in knowing how to deal with a situation. "It's just like Budapest all over again." He is comfort in humor. "You and I remember Budapest very differently."
She is sarcastic and cutting and she can't even help it, and she tries to take it back but it's never quite the same. It's clear it's what she was actually thinking. He is genuine, without malice or an ulterior motive. She wants to be like him, but every drop of Russian blood in her resists the desperate, deep rooted desire to be genuine and honest without trying.
She knows how he ticks, what he's thinking and because she knows him so well she knows what he'll think is funny in the most solemn of times, like when Thor takes Loki back to Asgard. When they all look like someone's died (well, someone has, but they try to not let it get to them), when they all look like fierce statues of marble or bronze, shining in the light. It's even at times like these that she can lean over and whisper in his ear, and his grave expression behind black shaded glasses cracks into a devious smirk.
And there was a time in her life when she wondered how significant the work "Widow" actually was in her life, because it seemed to cling to her or chase her like an animal. She knows now though that as long as Clint is around she will never be lonely, never truly be a Widow.
In the split second after Coulson told her Clint was "compromised" and her blood stopped moving, she began to rationalize why she felt like she was going to throw up, why she felt like she had whiplash. An instant after that, she stopped rationalizing.
He was Clint. She was Natasha. They were everything.
She needed nothing more.
