second guess

"Who taught you?" asks Natasha one day, lying on her bed and watching Clint upside down as he plays something by Elvis. Her fatal mistake, she says under her breath to Laura many years later, was letting him catch on that she knew he was good. This is the fourth day that week he has barged into her bunk with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a cocky smile on his face. Now, he's showing off, bobbing his head with the beat and every so often throwing her a smirk or a wink. But behind the self-centered swagger is true, genuine talent, and Natasha is at a loss as to the why.

Clint stops his playing mid-verse. "You're impressed, huh?"

"If I say yes for the hundredth time this week, will you stop asking me?" She sits up, brushing her hair out of her eyes and taking another tortilla chip from the bag he brought her. "How did you learn?"

He shrugs, as if she'd asked him where he'd found a recipe for blueberry muffins. "Necessity. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent me undercover to protect this ambassador's kid they thought was a target. He was sort of AWOL – the usual 'my parents just don't understand' spiel – and was traveling the eastern seaboard as the lead singer in this really hard band. I went undercover as the back-up guitarist."

"So, what?" Natasha stares at him, bewildered. "You just picked up a guitar one day and sounded –" She throws her hands towards him, unable to describe how he sounds, unable to describe the way she only sort of can't breathe and the way the guitar strings resonate with her blood, ringing in her ears for hours after he finishes. "Like that?" she eventually says, flustered.

Clint smiles, and stares at his guitar. She doesn't know if it's because he's searching for words or if it's because he's found them and doesn't know how to say them. He says, "I sort of knew how to play before. My… a good memory, the only good memory, basically, I have of my dad is sitting on my porch and him teaching me how to play guitar. Just basic stuff, you know. But, uh… he loved that guitar, and I think, I don't know. When I was little, I used to practice all the time, behind the house, because I thought if I was any good…"

"You are good," says Natasha fiercely, overcome very suddenly by – by something. He looks up at her. She unclenches her first. "The least you are is good, Clint."

He laughs without humor – it's more of a tired sounding exhale. "Still got the shit beat out of me, though."

It's quiet, doubly so because before the quiet there was music. Natasha doesn't say anything (he doesn't expect her to). She watches him as he runs his hand up and down the neck of the guitar absent-mindedly, feeling each fret, lost in songs played long ago. When he looks back up at her, Natasha folds her arms over her knees and gives him a quiet smile. "I'm glad you had that undercover gig."

"Me too," he says. He brightens, giving her an almost childishly exuberant look. "Hey! Wanna learn?"

"Come again?"

"Learn to play. I can teach you, it's easy."

Natasha laughs at the puppy-dog look in his eye (if he had given her that look in Russia in the alley in the cold, she wouldn't have tried to shoot him). "Nice try, Barton."

"Oh, come on, Nat," he almost whines, sitting down next to her and pulling the neck of the guitar into her lap. She tries not to squirm at how close he is, at her knee resting on his leg and at his shoulders brushing hers. "It's easy." He moves one hand to hover above hers. There is a moment of hesitation, and Natasha swears he swallows before taking her left hand and moving it to the guitar neck. He bends her fingers, carefully placing them in position on the strings. She gives up watching the guitar and instead watches him, at the quiet focus in his eyes and the something more. Natasha tries not to smile and she tries not to breathe and she mostly tries not to focus on the hammering under her rib cage. "Okay, push the strings down," he says. She does, barely feeling the way the strings dig into her fingers. There are other things to feel. With his free hand, he raises it above the body and strums once. The notes are strong and sweet and clear.

"See, G chord," says Clint. "It's easy."

In one fluid movement she kisses him, her hand abandoning the guitar to rest on his chest. He responds, and she likes the way his hand is in her hair suddenly, her curls twisted around his finger, and she likes the way he's not playing but there's still music, and she loves the way she is barely aware that this is the first time she's kissed someone because she wanted to –

Her hand slips and lands on the strings, and the room is filled with a harsh clash of notes. Clint laughs breathily, air hitting her nose, and he pulls back barely an inch, not looking away as he moves his guitar to the side. "Careful," he says. "We'll break it."

"Is this how G chord always goes?" murmurs Natasha, smirking.

"This is better," he assures her, and his hands are once again in her hair.