AN Do you ever realize that you haven't updated your fic in nearly a month and slowly sink a little lower into you writer self hate? Yeah, me too.

I kind of want to cartwheel into the sun in all the worst ways possible because with this story and this story ONLY do I have constant battles over not slipping into the incorrect tense. They're slight mistakes, but one wrong word and suddENLY I'VE BEEN WRITING IN THE PRESENT TENSE FOR NEARLY A PAGE AND NOT THE PAST TENSE LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO. AUGHASDFJKL;URGH. So I apologize now for any silly mistakes I have about misplaced tenses, I tried to catch as many as possible.


"I've Got to See You Again"

Lines on your face don't bother me
Down in my chair when you dance over me
I can't help myself
I've got to see you again

Late in the night when I'm all alone
And I look at the clock and I know you're
not home
I can't help myself
I've got to see you again

Norah Jones


nearly a month passes.

The nights go by for Natasha, skittering past in an ugly haze. She was tired so often these days, tired and cold. And not just from forsaking most of her nights to saunter along street corners, cooing at anyone that might give her a buck, and constantly keeping an eye out for the police. It wasn't anything physical that dragged at Natasha's bones, but merely the nonsense that had somehow packed its way into her head. Every time someone opened the door for her, or told her that she really didn't need to bother with a seat belt because we'll be there soon, or the Landlord casually told her that someone had booked her for three consecutive nights, she felt another small piece of herself break off and get lost somewhere.

She kept wondering if she would find them somewhere, tucked against the wall beneath her bed, or maybe hiding in the back corner of one of her vanity drawers, but Natasha knew she would never search. It hurt enough to lose them the first time, she didn't want to throw herself open eyed into a second.

Yet through all this, Natasha found herself thinking about Clint. Again, and again, and again, he would pop into her head, and it wasn't just disgruntled curiosity anymore. Clint, damnable Clint with his stupid sticky notes and his sad blue eyes, he has turned into a fact, a landmark. There should be nothing inside her for him, and yet he somehow managed to find purchase.

It absolutely infuriated her.

Natasha didn't know what exactly he was doing there inside of her head, or what he meant, but she knew that it could never be anything good for her. Not getting caught up was not an object to her anymore, as she had clearly and fully handed herself over to him.

To what extent though, was the main concern.

As much as Natasha wanted to deny it, Clint was a fire to her. He was warm and wonderful and he casts out bits of dark from her soul, but oh how he hurt when she tried to touch him.

Because she was always trying to touch him, dipping her finger tips into his flames every time her mind wandered over to him, longing for his respect and decency. Then the truth of the matter always came back to burn her, as she remembered that he does not care about her, does not respect her as she would like to think. The light he cast over her that allowed her to think that she might be a little bit better is fake, a joke. The most Clint could possibly respect about her or even see in her was the beautiful simplicity of the system she had ground herself under.

Thinking about it just made her even more cold and tired.

then he calls and resets the clock.

Natasha walked through the streets, head down as she waited, waited, waited for her courage to come back.

Clint had called for her, right out of the blue, like last time. Just when she had settled in the assurance that he would not ever ask to see her again, he had smashed it all apart. She could have dealt with that, though. That was fine, she really didn't care. Natasha wanted to lose the pain of having nothing, even if it was just for a while, even if it was just by drowning it in another sort of pain. What had her pacing the streets instead of sitting quietly in her room and waiting until Clint wanted her, however, was the Landlord.

Just hearing her name, Natasha, slip from his lips sent a shudder down her shoulder blades. It was smooth, easy, a pack of daggers wrapped up in the bow that was his friendly Texan accent.

She had turned in the hallway when he had spoken, pulling her strings tight and keeping anything from reaching her face. A bag of laundry in her arms as she was dragging herself back from the Laundromat, but Natasha looked at him like she was the most refined creature in the world, like he had not business in speaking to her.

No fear.

He had been quite civil all through the interaction. There was no hair grabbing, no knocking her bag to the floor, not so much as a hissed couple of words in her face. Simply him saying that he was pleased with her, that she had been doing good lately.

"You were out nearly every night last week, managed to get Mr. Barton as a regular—"

"A regular?" she interrupted, caught up in herself for a moment. She sank her teeth into her tongue when she saw the Landlord shift ever so slightly, manner turning from a warm blanket to steel. She kept the worry from leaping into her eyes, though, kept herself from shifting back and shrinking, becoming a smaller target. Natasha was a statue, big and frozen and unable to be hurt by looks and words. She waited a moment, worried about what his next move was, but while the Landlord's expression turned colder at her trespass, it wasn't flinty.

The moment seemed like a lifetime, her staring at his grey-green eyes and trying not to pay attention to how noticeably empty they were, no soul for them to reveal. But then he nodded, melting into something sunny and complimentary.

"Yes, a regular. Didn't Alexandria tell you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alexandria was Natasha's main rival for position in the boarding house, reveling in the petty, self-serving atmosphere. Where Natasha had tenure and a charisma that was all sultry elegance (or as much elegance a street corner hooker could have), Alexandria had a fervor and never ending willingness to fling herself at customer's feet. Underneath her determination and hard work, Alexandria had nails like a cat's; liable to shoot out at anyone that displeased her without a moment's notice.

The Landlord's smile became real as he read the truth of the matter on Natasha's face—of course Alexandria hadn't told Natasha that there was another regular calling for her. That would only increase Natasha's standing with the Landlord, exactly the opposite of what Alexandria was fighting every day for.

There was very little in the world other than money and indulging in vice that brought such satisfied amusement to the Landlord's face, and it made her sick.

"Yes, well, our Mr. Barton has called for you again. Make sure you don't go on and disappoint him, that won't be getting us anywhere, now will it? Your numbers are already teetering as it is, can't afford much more happening can you?" He chuckled and touched her arm, a far too familiar farewell for her liking.

The threat still made Natasha's hands clench. Not in anger, not in resentment or determination or disgust. It was only fear that made her hands move, only fear that sent her walking all over hell knew where in heels that could probably be used as chopsticks. She couldn't maintain the removed, cold façade when the Landlord did that to her, not when he touched her arm like a friend and threatened her like an enemy.

Not in a place like the boarding house, anyways. The other girls were all sharks and wolves, circling and waiting for a drop of blood or waft of fear to lunge.

Natasha kept her head down, walking fast in a bad neighborhood with the banner of a prostitute streaming behind her. Voices barked out at her from alleys, whistles echoed off the walls, fingers beckoned her closer, all asking if she would cut them a break, just this once. Natasha cast them looks entirely made of ice and kept moving, hands clenched in the pockets of a coat that was a little too heavy for the weather.

It was all she had though, the only shield between her and everything from the wind and the vagrants that watched her disappear in the gloom to the doubts and unceasing cold that radiated out of her. Natasha had bought it for herself with her street corner money, not long after her grandparents had died, but before she had gone to live in the boarding house. It was the last thing she had before she had marched herself into this terrible era of darkness.

A radio crackled down to her from an apartment above, a soft voiced woman saying that it was 'ten twenty-seven, folks', telling Natasha that she had better get going if she was going to find Clint's motel before the hour was up.

She walked a little faster towards where his motel was, wanting to be able to not think as she handed herself over to the simple task of performing and getting cash.

this is a habit he is making. she can feel it.

Clint let her in with a smile and a nod. He was dressed nice as always, slacks creased just so, shirt looking like it had just rolled out of one of the expensive men's apparel stores over in Manhattan. He wasn't wearing a tie, though, the loose collar exposing the edges of his collar bone.

"Good to see you," he told her as he closed the door. Natasha gave him a warm smile that she didn't mean, and shrugged out of her coat. It gave a dull sigh as it hit the wood, something she could sympathize with. Clint fished out his wallet, handing over the money. He was entirely casual as he spoke, as if this was the way everyone behaved.

"I would have called sooner, but I just haven't had the time."

Natasha tucked away the money, wondering why he even bothered to explain it to her. Her opinion didn't matter, not in the slightest.

"I can see that," she said, settling in close to him. "There's all sorts of stress sitting on your shoulders. I think you really ought to let me work that out."

"Work it out," he murmured, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her a little bit closer. He was looking through his lashes at her, eyes following her arms as she settled them around his shoulders.

"That sounds like an appealing option," he admitted, and Natasha smiled. Immediately he was tasting it, drinking up her laughter in great greedy gulps that drew all of the oxygen out of her.

Clint was some sort of mix between their last two encounters, not the fevered creature that had first bought her, nor the gentle, steady one from the time before. There was some sort of intensity coursing through his fingers that pressed itself through her clothes and her skin as he pushed her up against the wall by the door, raising her arms above her head.

As Clint kissed her, Natasha closed her eyes. Shudders skittered across her spine as he brushed his lips over her neck, which only seemed to excite him more.

She had been right, she thought vaguely, hands clenched in the back of his shirt. Worries about the Landlord had been lost in the flurry of his hands and lips covering as much of her as possible.

Clint shifted her to the table, but she pushed back, getting her feet under her and forcing him back towards the bed. His laughter trickled past her teeth and his tongue and ran on down into her throat, where it settled, dark and forbidden and sweet.

The two of them tumbled onto the bed, Natasha straddling him and unbuttoning his shirt further. Just one glance at his face told her that yes, this was a habit now carved into his bones.

She pressed her lips to his sternum, partly because she had to and partly because she was so incredibly relieved.

the smile he gives her later is made of angel feathers. she thinks it ironic, as his words echo with vice.

Natasha pulled in a breath, waiting for sleep. Clint's breathing was steadier than hers, and his eyes were closed. His heartbeat wound through his veins and into her bones, comforting even though it was out of rhythm with hers.

"I wish I could stay here for forever," he mumbled, making her chuckle.

"You could, if you want. I certainly won't kick you out."

Clint cracked a smile, then shifted so his legs were a little less entangled with hers.

"Oh, it's not you that I'm worried about. It's more work, which has had me up in the ass crack of the morning all week. First the flight to Germany, then attending waaaaay too many conferences, pleasing this person, making nice to that guy, flying back for most of the day...it's a nightmare."

"Germany?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it. He gave a tired 'mm-hm', then sighed and cracked open one of his lovely, if exhausted, blue eyes to look at her.

"Apparently only the new, promising young minds of engineering are allowed to travel nine hour flights to Germany," he sighed. "The older minds get to stay in boring old America to wake up in the ass crack of the morning."

"Lucky them" she mused, thinking that Clint must have done a lot of traveling, if going to Germany for a few conferences was unimpressive. It also reminded Natasha of her childhood dream to go traveling across the world, excited by stories from her parents. So far, the only real traveling she had done was the trip from Russia to New York, and then migrating her way into worse and worse neighborhoods.

"At least you're home now," she murmured, which only made him sigh again.

"Yep, except my fiancée wants to spend all day with me to hear about Germany," Clint groaned, face half hidden in his pillow. Natasha gave a chuckle as if to point out how well he had it if the worst he had to worry about was his fiancée wanting to spend some time with him after a week in Germany.

"She do that often?"

"Every time I have a business trip. Even if I'm just going out of state, she demands I spend at least all of lunch talking about the things I've seen. It's exhausting, but I don't mind. It's sweet."

It shows she cares, Natasha thought, wondering who this faceless, sweet woman was before drifting into apathy.

"S'why I wish I could just stay here," he said, voice stumbling about as he spoke. Clint broke into a broad smile, one that was so completely full of amusement that Natasha found it a bit stunning, nearly impossible to look at it was so bright. He was so tired that his filters had stopped working, letting all of that simple pleasure flood to the surface.

"I don't have to do anything I don't wanna...with you. No limits pushed…nothing unexpected happening…it's nice. I like it," he mumbled into the pillows, practically asleep, even while speaking.

"It's nice…you're nice."

Natasha sighed as he finally drifted asleep, wondering when she would follow.

How many times, she wondered, had some man fallen asleep beside her, thinking of another life, another woman? She hadn't bothered to ever count such a depressing thing, but she personally thought that it was not enough. Terrible as it was, Natasha wished that she could have managed only on being a call girl and save her the shame of posing for a world she wasn't sure she even liked. Being able to get at least a few hours of sleep, a few more bucks an hour, and not having to deal with the men that hardly even looked back as she stumbled out of their car, it was nice. It made it a bit easier to keep her pride form turning to shambles in her hands, which was becoming a more and more common occurrence these days.

when she wakes, he isn't there.

Natasha rolled over, tumbling into consciousness when the shocking cold of the other side of the bed pressed into her skin. She jerked up onto one elbow, heart playing racket ball against her ribs as she dragged in a breath. Disoriented, she looked around the half lit motel room, trying to figure out where she was. She raked through her memories, slowly realizing what was out of place.

Clint wasn't there.

She pulled herself to her feet, making sure that her money was still there, then heaved out a sigh when she found it all in the same place. Natasha flopped back against the bed, trying to make her heart slow.

She wanted to crawl back under the covers, but it was time for her to go. As much as she wanted to curl up under the protection of the warm blankets and forget what had brought her there, Natasha knew she had to leave. Clint had left, probably had checked out of the room already, and the last thing she wanted was to be chased out by the cleaning lady.

If she had been with anyone else, Natasha probably would have worried over the late hour, which was marked by both the clock and the full morning sunshine streaming through the room. With Clint, however, she felt entirely at ease. Probably because of his habit of making sure he never woke her up when he left (sneaking away out of shame, and not quietly leaving out of politeness, she told herself).

As Natasha got dressed, though, she couldn't help but feel…disappointed that she had missed Clint leave. She prided herself on getting up before her clients most times, and there was the fact that she had begun to wonder about what he did every time he woke up. She was curious about why he was so determined to not touch her in the morning, and because she was never going to ask, she might as well observe as much as she could to draw an accurate conclusion.

she gets ready to leave, but helps herself to a bit of coffee.

Natasha paused before leaving, and wondered 'why not?' before indulging herself. She turned to the counter, which sported the standard microwave and sink, but also a mug and a small container of instant coffee that Clint had probably carried with him. She quickly went about making herself a cup, quietly wishing there was orange juice. It was impressive enough that Clint had carried instant coffee with him when coming back from Germany, but there was no way he was going to go out and buy a bunch of hassle in the form of a carton of juice.

She sat down at the small table sipping from her coffee, which was a little watery from her having to eyeball the amount she poured into the water, but she didn't mind. She looked at her coat, which was hanging off the side of the table, clinging to the top to avoid falling to the questionable floor below. Natasha brushed the heels of her shoes along the worn carpet, vaguely wondering how many people like her this room had seen, and then how many of that number had chosen to linger just as she was doing.

The cup was comforting in her hands, the warmth wriggling its way up through her fingers and into her chest. It warmed her up much more than the cash staring at her on the table ever could. Probably because the coffee (for her, at least) was free, while she had worked hard for every cent sitting beside her.

Sighing, she picked up the money and placed it in her coat pocket, not wanting to feel the reproach flowing off of it. Natasha pulled on her coat, telling herself that she would leave soon, but didn't get up. She picked up her coffee mug, took another sip.

the door opens, making her jump.

The sound of the door opening and disrupting the perfect quiet around Natasha made her jump, nearly spilling her coffee. She stared at Clint, who had just walked through it. He looked at her in equal surprise, as if not having expected her to have been there.

"You're awake," he said, and she nodded, a stream of curses bursting through her head in Russian. She began berating herself for sticking around, for having taken up more of his time than he had paid for. That was something amateurs did, not girls that had been doing this for the better part of ten damn years.

"I thought you would still be asleep now," he said, slowly closing the door. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and was slipping his phone into his pocket. She wondered whom he had been calling, then told herself to not care.

"Uhm, no, I just woke up, actually," she said, then cleared her throat to push the accent out of her voice. It always bled through in the mornings when she first woke up and wasn't as on guard. Clint nodded, and she wondered why on earth he had come back. Did he normally do this? Or had he be gone long enough for him to think she would be gone? She glanced at the clock, nervous at the time she had taken back from him.

he sits down and talks with her a little, but mostly watches her. she feels uncomfortable even though it's totally innocent.

"Mm," he said noncommittally, nodding and taking a step towards her. Natasha pressed her thumb against the mug, turning the nail white from the pressure. She glanced down at her hand, thankful that it was hidden by the cup so that Clint couldn't see how anxious she suddenly felt. Natasha thought she had a general grasp of Clint's character, but she wasn't sure what he was going to do next, whether he was subject to the especially nasty things always came out at unexpected moments.

"Mind if I…?" Clint asked, nodding towards the chair beside her. She blinked in surprise, then nodded, gesturing absently at the space beside her.

He drew the chair back and settled in it, giving her a passing smile.

"If I'd known that you wanted some, I would have packed better coffee," he said, nodding at the mug in her hands. She gave a fleeting smile, suddenly aware of how very much he owned the mug.

"It's alright," she said, more out of politeness than actual conviction. She had the sneaking suspicion that the coffee wouldn't taste much better even if it were at full strength, but it was something in her stomach and she was never one to look at the teeth of the horse she'd been given.

Clint laughed and shook his head, resting an elbow on the table.

"Come on, I only take that stuff with me so I can get my caffeine fix to get me on my feet before I go find coffee that doesn't taste like disgusting river water."

"Not all rivers are dirty," she said, shrugging, which made him chuckle again.

"I don't know what kind of rivers you've been privileged to see, but most people 'round here think of just the Hudson."

"That's frightfully narrow minded, don't you think?" Natasha asked, breaking into a smile. She was trying to do anything to move his gaze off of her, but wasn't having much luck. For having been so exhausted the night before that he could barely focus his eyes, they were shockingly sharp right now. It felt like Clint was yet again looking at her like he could see through to her soul, and it made her uncomfortable. The more she thought about it, the less of her she wanted himt o see.

The strangest thing, though, was that Clint gaze wasn't even the hungry, lecherous thing that she was used to, the kind that bar flies sent her when it was late and they were both a little drunk and she was truly desperate for some cash. Instead Clint was just watching her, nothing but idle interest and a little bit too much perception filling his eyes.

"I guess," he said, shrugging. He turned his eyes to the mug in her hands, but it wasn't in an accusatory or passive-aggressive display of ownership, just an act of observation. She pulled her hands away from it, even though she immediately missed the shreds of warmth in the porcelain.

"You much of a coffee person?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"It's something," she said, and he shook his head, gave a soft sigh that was almost another laugh.

she retreats into the bathroom, just for some space, just for some air.

There was another awkward pause and Natasha shifted again, then got to her feet.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured, quickly retreating to the bathroom before Clint had even finished something like 'sure'.

She closed the door behind her and nearly sank to the floor, wondering how the hell she had gotten herself into this situation. Of course, logic said that she should have just gotten up and left, but instead she had walked into the bathroom, which she would have to then leave, simply to return to the room. Natasha sighed and sat on the lid of the toilet, wishing that he hadn't even called for her the night before. She was not being paid to go through this sort of social embarrassment, she was to have sex with him and then get out.

And what was Clint even doing, letting her stay and even sitting down with her?! He should have kicked her out, told her that it was time for her to go. That's what everyone else did. They kept it simple, distant, and efficient.

Natasha closed her eyes and took a moment to breathe without Clint's clear blue eyes on her, analyzing her very being. She tilted her head back, listening to him move in the main room. She was curious, no doubt, but she was also relishing being alone. Natasha had been far too long without real social interaction, and now was definitely not the time to start it back up with one of her clients.

She waited, listening to the water in the pipes, the slight creak of the lid as she breathed, the sound of the people all around her, separated by less than a foot of plaster, wood, and sheet rock.

when she comes out, he has vanished.

Natasha finally worked up her nerve to go back out, but when she opens the door of the bathroom, it is to find that the room is empty.

She stared in confusion, part of her wondering where on earth Clint was, but a much bigger part was on its knees, completely thankful that he had the grace to let her leave in solitude. The embarrassment of having walked in on her, lingering and having a cup of coffee when she really should have been back on the streets was probably enough to make him short her pay the next time he bought her.

If he buys me again, she thought glumly, unable to imagine the mar this must have put on her record for him.

Natasha paused her pessimism a moment to realize that the room had changed. It was slight, but the difference caught her eye.

A bright pink sticky note sat on the table, curled upwards from having been roughly pulled from the main pad. Natasha walked closer, more out of impulse than anything. She knew there wouldn't be anything on it, just like the other two, but she still had to look, had to make sure that it was real.

Natasha sighed slightly, then blinked. Her cup (or rather, the cup she had borrowed from Clint) had disappeared as well. She wondered if he had taken it, but then reminded herself that he had no purpose in trucking around a coffee cup with him when he could just leave it in the room with the rest of his things.

Briefly Natasha wondered if he had thrown it away, but then rolled her eyes at her wild conclusions. She checked the small sink, utterly unsurprised to find it sitting primly in the basin, completely washed.

She shook herself then turned around, and walked quickly to the door. Natasha picked up the pink sticky note in one swift movement, not even hitching her step on her way past.

she can't help but smile as leaves, because now she knows.

The air was crisp on her skin, and her coat was practically hanging off her shoulders, but Natasha didn't slow down, didn't adjust her clothes. As she walked, Natasha looked at the sticky note, holding it up before her eyes for the entire world to see. A tiny quirk came to her lips, and she stowed it in her pocket.

She got it now. After all of that wondering, she finally understood was those stupid blank sticky notes meant.

They were a good bye.

Each time he left them, he was saying goodbye to her. That was probably why he had come back in that morning, to place a sticky note in the room or to get something before he vacated the area so she could leave with some shred of dignity.

Natasha felt her stomach flutter at the thought, suddenly filled with appreciation for Clint. He was undoubtedly still a scoundrel that preferred spending his first even back from Germany with a prostitute rather than his fiancée, but Clint did have some sense of decency. At least enough to let her walk away with her wounded pride and her tail between her legs without anyone to watch her.

And…stupid as it was, there was some triumph there, too. To some extent, she had been right in thinking that Clint was a little bit more than her standard fare.

Walking back to the boarding house that day, with her head held high from the victory of finally defeating a mystery that had haunted her for weeks, Natasha also knew that was it. That was the day that Clint wasn't just a curiosity or a nuisance or a mental affliction to her.

That was when she finally admitted he was a little bit more than interesting.


AN I like the Landlord as a character. I have no idea why, but I enjoy writing for him. I also like having not-so-good-guy Clint in my story. He is even more fun to write for, as all this bad stuff makes for all this lovely character development~