This is a mere introduction to the collection, situated some weeks after the battle in New-York (even though I might add flash backs later). You'll find ficlets and drabbles about Natasha and Clint, and how much their relationship is kind of messed up. Sometimes, they'll be cute, others more submerged by bitterness.

You also need to know that I'm French; Utsu is my lovely beta who helps me to improve my English and she does an amazing job. However, don't be surprised if my English is sometimes weird in PMs for instance. This collection will also be published in French.

I don't own Avengers.

Enjoy!

Get used to it

Natasha, moving with her feline grace, made her way through the streets of Paris with a light grin on her lips.

The fame generated by her adventure as part of the Avengers was quite affecting her career. The confidentiality necessary to her job was no longer possible, and as a consequence she was no longer able to work for anyone but SHIELD. She could no longer count on infiltration missions – the most fun of them, though – during which she could slip into a new skin, be another person; the role suiting her perfectly, her training and self-control hiding her fears, her expectations, her excitement. It was a facet of her job that she'd learned to appreciate, this mask-wearing and its myriad of nuances, these exhilarating showy parties, those fools to play with and her senses, always on high alert. That tense feeling she'd learned to master while delighting in the adrenaline that was running through her veins.

Now that she was coming to the end of her career, Natasha was getting used to it; it was just another occupational hazard in her life. One more. Like when Alexi died and she truly became the Black Widow. But this time it was her anonymity disappearing, stepping aside to let fame in the forefront. And she would get used to it, as always.

It was also the reason why she'd decided to take the first flight to Paris when Fury had allowed them leave. She was convinced that there wouldn't be as many fans as soon as she got out of American territory and just to be sure, she used her second identity, Natalie Rushman. Once in the French capital she'd met some friends and colleagues; she couldn't help herself from getting information, even during her well-deserved holidays. Old habits die hard.

She sat in a café terrace, smoothing her skirt, adjusting her white blouse before ordering a coffee in a soft but still important tone. She liked to sprawl under the sun with the company of a book in her native language and a coffee; it let her slip into another world, far away from the blood, the worries and the guilt that sometimes crawled to her heart when she was too inactive.

She didn't raise her eyes when someone sat in front of her; she'd heard those steps so many times she could identify them instantaneously. She was used to trusting them, to trusting him. His was one of the rare presences she found reassuring and one that never startled her. They'd fought side by side for such a long time now.

"Barton, I thought you were somewhere in South America," She greeted in a neutral tone.

He raised his hand to order a coffee and let his blue-grey eyes rove over his partner. "Oh. I was there, until Fury called me back and asked me to find you."

Natasha took her sunglasses off and sent her best sarcastic look at the man known as Hawkeye, raising an inquisitive eyebrow in response to his statement. The question passed her lips, teasing: "You've come all this way to Paris for me?"

Clint resisted the urge to smile at the charming irony of the ex-Russian spy and chose to take a reproaching tone instead: "It wouldn't have been necessary had you not deliberately 'forgotten' to take a communicational device with you, Nat."

"Well, if I'd taken my phone or even my laptop, it wouldn't have been a holiday, would it?"

It was the only real thing that Natasha allowed herself during vacation time; radio silence. No need to take something with her which would allow her boss or her super-hero friends to join her easily.

Clint took a sip of his coffee, his eyes still locked with hers. She guessed that he was looking for a way to put his thoughts into words, something moderated, calculated. But his reply still came out as a blunt and harsh sentence. If anyone could get away with being straight with the Black Widow, it was him: "Vacation time's over."

"Already?"

"We're SHIELD agents after all. You need to get used to it."

Of course, the small-talk had been fake. She'd gotten already used to this irregular way of life a long time ago and she'd already guessed the reason why Clint had come to her – even if deep down just for a brief second, she'd expected something else. That tiny thread of hope had fluttered in her chest in a frenzy for a few seconds before being repressed by a wave of strong professionalism. But she needed some normality in her existence; she needed at least seem as though she were surprised, as if she cared that her holidays were now over. Tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear before putting her sunglasses back on, she pouted: "I'm working on it."

A smile furtively bloomed on her lips, briefly reflected by Clint's grin.