"It really wasn't like Budapest, you know," Clint reminded her for the hundredth time as they sat sprawled across the cushions of the small sofa in one of the countless rooms of Avengers Tower. Natasha smirked and shook her head, rolling her eyes as she absently stretched her legs out over his lap while he laid a warm, gentle palm against her knee, a comforting, routine gesture she'd learned to both enjoy and rely on. He cast a pointed glance her way, one brow raised.
"At all," he continued, and she tilted her head back to rest against the arm of the couch, closing her eyes as he began to draw slow, lazy circles over her kneecap. He watched, smiling, as the light from the nearby window lit her fiery hair with slivers of gold, tracing the sharp angle of cheekbones as if he could reach out across the small expanse between them and cup her face in his palm, longing to do just that the more he contemplated the idea. She held up a hand, pointing her index finger toward the ceiling as if it were a meaningful gesture he should instantly understand.
"Ok, there were explosions," she began knowingly, nodding to herself as the light seeped past her eyelids to illuminate the darkness there, "and really irritating soldiers that wouldn't stop shooting at us-"
"Alien soldiers," Clint interjected amusedly, and she held up a different finger entirely, aimed in his general direction. She interpreted the instantaneous bout of laughter, familiar and healthy and home, as a sign that she hadn't missed, and continued, resisting the urge to laugh herself.
"There was a blond, muscular guy trying to help us, and a guy with extreme anger management issues amazingly fighting on our side."
Clint cracked a grin as she opened one eye to peek over at him, an imploring glint in her gaze as she wondered if she should go on, and he nodded, feeling that same swelling sensation in his chest at the very sight of her, lithe and relaxed and casual beside him, her red curls framing such a deceivingly innocent face.
She reclined against the arm once more, sighing quietly-a peaceful, happy thing-and proceeding to tell him in painful detail all the ways in which he was wrong. Clint didn't mind, though; he could listen to Nat talk all day.
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