A/N: This is probably the first time I've updated a story so quickly! I was inspired, and the result is this chapter that's a lot longer than what I originally planned. Oh, well. Hope you enjoy. ;) I'd love to know what you think about it.
It was an easy mission: get in, find the target, eliminate the threat, get out. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
Their cover was in no way original. They were a married couple on vacation in Sao Paolo, Ethan and Gabrielle Green, young and smitten and happy. Natasha had gone blonde for the occasion, and she smiled and laughed and cooed at Clint's arm as they wandered through the city, seeing the sights, taking pictures and kissing in every corner; the perfect picture of marital bliss, noticeable but easily forgettable. It allowed them to stay under the radar while scouting the neighborhood where their target lived, just like hundreds of other tourists. Their target, the leader of a crime syndicate that had gotten under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar, was rumored to meet with a local criminal organization to expend his business. Clint and Natasha had been tasked with getting to him first, taking him down, and helping local authorities with the arrest of members of that organization – nothing that they hadn't done a thousand times before on their own.
It was supposed to go smoothly.
It didn't.
It wasn't his fault nor hers, not even theirs; they moved in sync as if they'd been doing this for years, communicating with just a look or a sign and looking out for each other in an almost choreographed dance. But then civilians had gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was only so much they could do to dodge bullets while still tailing their target and his men and avoid casualties at all cost. It was no one's fault when a bullet tore its way through Clint's right arm, the sudden, throbbing pain making him let go of his bow as he fell to his knees, defenseless and exposed for a moment too long before he could reach for the gun at his thigh holster with his left hand.
Two things happened then. The man who had shot Clint lined up another shot, aiming at his head this time, but before he could pull the trigger he was falling backwards, a hole in his forehead and a red pool surrounding him in the span of a few seconds. Natasha ran from her position to Clint's side, pulling him up and dragging him with her, and she gave him one of her guns as she kept firing the one she held in her free hand. Two other men fell as they searched for a shelter, and though Clint was weighing heavily against her, he pushed through the pain and aimed with his left arm, taking another of their assailants down.
"How many?" he asked her roughly, the loss of blood and its metallic scent making him slightly light-headed.
"Only Montoya," Natasha replied as she helped him lean against a wall, holding onto him tightly as he lowered himself to a sitting position. "He ran inside one of the houses. I'll go after him."
Clint grabbed her wrist, his hold firm despite the pain in his arm. "Not alone," he said, his eyes dead serious. "You're not going alone in there."
Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, irritated and impatient. The more they stayed here, the more opportunities Montoya had to escape. And despite Clint being a great shot, he was right-handed and aiming with his left arm would leave him vulnerable against their target; Natasha would have to look out for the both of them while trying to take Montoya down, and there were just too many what ifs and maybes in the equation.
The look Clint gave her told her that he was very well aware of that, but had decided to ignore it as he stubbornly pushed himself off of the ground, his good hand pressing against the wall for balance. "At least let me check your arm," Natasha urged him, closing her fingers around his bicep to hold him. She assessed his injury, finding both entry and exit wounds, the bullet having gone through and through. It didn't seem that it had hit any major artery, but he was still losing a lot of blood and Clint looked paler than usual, almost paler than her, and Natasha had to think quickly. They were hidden from the street, but still exposed, and she had no idea where Montoya was. She was fairly sure that all of his men were down – they had counted a dozen when the assault began – but with Clint injured, it was down to her to find him which was going to be very difficult with her stubborn partner refusing to see that.
"I'm not gonna get myself killed, Nat," Clint told her out of the blue, as if reading her mind. "If it was down to you being injured, do you think I would leave you behind?" he asked.
Her fingers stilled as she tied his torn sleeve around his wound to stop the bleeding. She hadn't meant to leave him behind; she wanted to find him shelter and make sure he was well concealed before going hunting. But the one thing Natasha knew was that if their positions had been reversed, she would have never let him go alone either. The very thought shocked her; she'd been alone all her life, but the idea of leaving a man she'd met hardly five months ago was intolerable. "No, you wouldn't," she spoke softly, letting the truth of her words and his commitment to her sink in. "How do you want to do this?" she asked.
"We stay close. He could be anywhere, and he'll shoot on sight. We can't use the roof, so we'll have to check every house," he quickly assessed.
Natasha nodded, accepting her gun back as Clint took his. He was in more pain than he let show, Natasha could tell, but he was also just as stubborn as she was. Silently they wandered through the narrow street, covering for each other and watching out as they checked the houses, finding bodies of civilians that had had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Clint's brow furrowed and his jaw tensed, but he didn't say anything, shaking his head and focusing on their mission. It was Natasha who couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips at the sight of a young girl with a bullet in her head.
She'd seen her fair share of horror ever since she joined the Red Room, and done plenty. She was the best in her class, outsmarting everyone else, going through torture without blinking an eye or letting a tear or a cry out, smiling smugly through everything to show she would not be bent nor broken. She'd basked in being called the strongest; in all these years, not once had she taken the time to think of what it was exactly she was doing, or the people she'd killed. But today, seeing that little girl who had to be the same age she'd been when the Red Room had recruited her, knowing that she was dead because she hadn't managed to take Montoya and his men down in time to avoid civilian casualties, Natasha felt her chest tighten and a heavy weight settle in her stomach.
Clint caught the look on her face and wordlessly he tugged at her elbow, moving her forward at his side. Natasha was thankful for his help, something that she would have loathed admitting, even to herself, even just a few weeks before. She followed him, covering for him as he ran from one house to another, until they'd narrowed their search to the last one in the street. They'd flattened the tires of Montoya and his men's cars earlier, and Montoya had to have noticed it by now and realized he had no way out unless he could outrun or outsmart them. Which made him arrogant and stupid, Natasha thought, which were two flaws most criminals had. But she also knew that they were at a disadvantage with Clint injured, so she stood at his side, entering the house first.
It all happened very fast then. There was a gunshot, the bullet missing Natasha by an inch as she bent quickly to dodge it, catching a glimpse of Montoya hiding behind the staircase, and then Clint was in front of her, shielding her with his body as he took a shot, and then another, the loud thump of Montoya falling down the stairs following. She almost wanted to slap him in the face for thinking she needed his protection, when she realized that he wasn't protecting her but having her back, very much like when she'd shot the men after him and run to him.
She barely had time to see the body and the fatal wound at the man's neck when all she could focus on was Clint on the wooden floor, the faint color on his cheeks completely gone as he fell. She was at his side before she could even process what had happened, kneeling in the dirt, her fingers crimson with his blood as she realized that his wound had started bleeding again, the sleeve she'd tied around gushing red. She rolled him to his back, and her chest constricted again as she saw his eyes fluttering close. "Clint!" she almost shrieked, all but slapping him in the face for real this time. "Don't you dare do that to me now," she went on, the panic in her tone and running through her completely uncontrollable. She painted the camisole she wore under with his blood as her fingers fumbled around the buttons of her shirt and took it off, and she replaced the drenched fabric around his arm with it, applying pressure on his wound. It elicited a low groan from him, and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. "Barton," she spoke his name roughly, her voice husky with the fear and the painful beat of her heart. "You stay awake. Open your eyes," she pressed, bringing her other hand to his face and cupping his cheek. "Open your damn eyes."
Clint flinched, but opening his eyes seemed to be too much of an effort. Natasha felt the panic overwhelm her again. What if she'd been wrong when assessing his injury earlier? What if it had only been the sheer adrenaline and stubbornness not to let her go alone that had pushed him to his feet and made him carry on, but the wound was more serious than she'd thought? As he lied on the floor, Natasha let her eyes take him in, finding tears in his clothes, scratches and wounds that mirrored the ones on her body, but nothing that seemed deep enough to make him pass out.
She reached for the satellite phone in her pocket, dialing Coulson's direct number. She listened to it ring three times before he answered. "Coulson."
"This is Romanoff. Clint's been shot," she said, not beating around the bush or going into details. She knew that Coulson would be even more worried than she was, having quickly noticed the bond between the two men than ran deeper than just a professional relationship between a handler and his agent. "He fainted, and I can't keep him awake. I can manage the bleeding, but I need a medic," she explained.
"A team will be there in an hour. Go back to the safe house if it's not been compromised, and try to keep him stable until then," Coulson tried to say in a calm voice, but failed. She could only guess how he had to feel, miles and countries away and unable to help his friend; it had to be close to the desperation she currently felt. "How are you?" he then asked softly.
It took her aback, the gentle tone, the concern and the care. She had expected his anger, his panicked voice or even Coulson blaming her for Clint getting hurt – she sure did blame herself – but she could have never imagined him being concerned about her. She was nothing to him but trouble Clint had brought and that he'd tried to deal with in the best way he could; he shouldn't be concerned. Clint's caring nature she had learned to accept, despite not understanding what he saw in her or why he tried so hard; it had been easier as she'd come to care about him, too. But Coulson was another story. She'd hardly spoken to the man ever since that first day at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ, and here he was, asking her if she was okay with that soft tone that could only mean she was one of them.
"I'm fine," Natasha replied, dismissing the pain in her ribs. She'd fought with one of their assailants and she'd felt the blade pierce her skin, but hadn't stopped to think about it or allow herself to feel the pain. She'd stopped letting herself feel a long time ago, and though she'd recently felt overwhelmed by unwanted feelings, she tried to tune them down as much as she could. "Please help him," she finished, almost in a whisper.
"We're coming for you. Both of you," Coulson added. "Just hang on, Natasha."
With that he hung up, and Natasha felt more alone than ever. The street was quiet, people either dead or too scared to make a sound, but she felt exposed. Clint was injured and slipping out of consciousness and she couldn't leave him alone, defenseless and vulnerable, to get to the car, but at the same time he was too heavy to carry. She cupped his jaw again, tracing her thumb over his cheekbone. "Clint," she spoke his name, "You have to wake up. We have to move." No reaction. She touched his neck with her fingers, breathing a sigh of relief when she still found a pulse, low but still beating. "Come on, Clint," she went on, the plea clear and desperate in her voice. "Please."
She felt him stir then, and Natasha felt like giving her thanks despite not believing in anything. She muttered something in Russian, caught between laughing in relief and crying. "'Tasha," Clint murmured, his eyes still closed, his lips barely moving that Natasha had to strain her ear to catch her name.
"Don't you dare Tasha me, Barton," she said, pretending to be annoyed, but the huge smile spread on her lips said otherwise. Were he more conscious, Clint would probably make a joke or say something about her ridiculous smile and the way she was looking at him like he was her miracle; Natasha was almost glad for a second that he was still loopy and out of it. "Do you think you can get up?" she asked.
Clint blinked his lashes a few times, lifting a trembling hand to his face. "Did I faint?" he asked, an almost childish pout forming on his lips. "Don't tell me I fainted."
She couldn't help it; Natasha laughed. Only Clint would joke about being embarrassed of fainting when mere seconds ago she was afraid she was going to lose him. "Yes you did," she said, "and I'll tell everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. that you needed a girl to rescue you."
"Aw, but you're not a typical girl," Clint said as she helped him sit up, an arm behind his back. "Don't punch me, I'm bleeding," he added immediately as she narrowed her eyes at him. "And don't think I didn't hear you," he continued. "I speak Russian now, remember? I don't think that calling me a brainless stupid dog will help me feel better, you know."
She rolled her eyes. She'd punch him later; now, all Natasha could think about was getting out of there and keeping him conscious until the team arrived. It took them a moment, but she managed to help him up and with an arm at his waist and one of his looped around her neck they walked out, Clint leaning heavily at her side. They would be vulnerable if someone attacked them, but Natasha felt better now that Clint was conscious again despite his drowsiness. "Tell me a story," she told him as she dragged him along, hoping that it'd help keep him awake.
"What kind of story?" Clint asked, every word he let out a clear effort as he breathed heavily.
Natasha tried to shrug, finding it difficult with him leaning on her. "Just a story," she repeated. She could see their car, but they still had to drive for fifteen minutes at least to get back to their safe house and everything could happen until then. She needed to keep him awake.
"The first time I saw a picture of you, I thought it was a shame that you were on the other side because you were too beautiful to die," he stated without any trace of a sexual innuendo. Natasha wondered if he even realized what he'd just said. "And when I first saw you, I knew I was screwed."
"You knew I was better than you and could kill you off in my sleep?" she probed, almost teasingly.
"No," Clint shook his head, and then winced at the effort. "I knew I could never kill you."
"Because I'm too beautiful?" she asked as they reached the car and she helped him lean against it as she unlocked the passenger door.
He looked up at her as she helped him sit with blurry eyes, a child's eyes filled with honesty and understanding and compassion. "Because I saw you," he said simply.
Natasha's eyes widened at his words, but she didn't push him to explain. He was barely conscious and probably didn't even know what he was saying. She closed the door behind him and got in the driver's seat, speeding off to the safe house. She kept asking him questions about nothing and everything to keep him awake, and twice she had to pull over and stop the car to rouse him. They finally got to the house, and she half helped, half carried him inside, lying him down on the bed they'd shared since their arrival three days prior.
She gave him water, a hand carefully tucked behind his neck as he gulped the glass down, and then she went to the bathroom, looking for everything she would need to clean his injury. She took a look at the clock in the living-room, hoping that the team Coulson had sent would be there soon. She'd learned to deal with physical pain because the Red Room never wasted resources on a little scratch or a cut; even when she took her first bullet, they'd let her deal with it on her own, and Natasha remembered tasting blood in her mouth and wanting to throw up as she'd extracted the bullet and stitched herself up. But she hadn't given them the pleasure of showing any sign of weakness. She'd swallowed the bile and the blood, and shown up for training the following day like nothing had happened.
For Clint though, she wanted the best treatment, and she knew she couldn't give it to him. Once she had everything gathered, she went back to the living-room where Clint had managed to sit up awkwardly and looked paler than before. She put the bowl of water she'd filled down, and carefully, she untied the fabric around his bicep. Clint grimaced, his jaw tensed as he looked down at the wound. "Sexy, huh?" he said.
"Very," Natasha snorted before she focused on cleaning his wound. It started bleeding again, and she put pressure on it with a soaked sponge. She was at least glad that the bullet had gone through and through, because she had the feeling that Clint would be less obedient if she had needed to use tweezers to get it out. "How are you holding up?" she asked as she washed away the dirt from his skin.
"I'm not gonna die on you, Nat," Clint said, and she wondered if it was for her sake or his.
"Not what I asked," Natasha replied softly. "You don't have to play tough with me."
Clint smiled. "Isn't it what you always do with me, though?" he asked, tilting his head to meet her eyes. His eyes went wide all of a sudden. "God, Nat, you're bleeding," he exclaimed.
Natasha looked down at herself, following his gaze, and found that the hem of her camisole was soaked with blood – hers. "That's nothing," she said, focusing again on his wound.
Clint reached out, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. "Bullshit," he said. "Jesus, Natasha, let me see," he almost growled, concern dripping in his voice. Natasha frowned, but let him. He lifted her camisole with one hand, finding the wound that had started bleeding again. "You got stabbed," he said, baffled. "Fuck, Nat, why didn't you tell me?" he asked, a hint of anger in his tone.
"It's nothing," Natasha insisted. "You were shot."
"And you were stabbed," Clint stretched the word. "You should be lying down. This is not a one way thing, for Christ's sake," he went on, shrugging his arm off as she tried to wrap a bandage around his wound. He grabbed the sponge in the bowl, and applied it against her abdomen. "You're supposed to tell me when this kind of things happens, especially when I'm too out of it to realize it in the first place," he muttered under his breath.
"You saved my life," she said before she could think it over. She owed him a debt, and maybe she'd started paying it back today.
Clint shook his head. "Is this what this is about?" he asked, incredulous. "I didn't save your life. I was sent to kill you and I didn't," he corrected. "You don't need to let yourself bleed to death to repay me."
Natasha didn't argue. They would probably always disagree on that subject, she thought. At first she'd been confused and angry because she didn't understand why Clint had spared her life; but now she couldn't help but think of him as a savior. It might not have been a role he wanted to take on, and he didn't seem to ask for her gratitude, but she couldn't help it now.
She let him tend to her injury, and then helped him lie down again. Despite his reassurance that he was fine, Natasha could see how tired he was. She sat down by his side, his hand on her lap, watching over him as he rested.
It was only after the team got there and took care of Clint that she allowed one of the medics to take a look at her wound.
The Red Room didn't know that such things as an infirmary existed. Natasha was always expected for her post-assignment debriefs, no matter in which state she was.
Coulson visited them after personally requesting that they stayed at least one night in the sick room, much to both their dismay. Clint had insisted that he was fine, and Natasha had said he wasn't but that she was and didn't need to be watched over. Clint had snorted, nodding at the bandage wrapped around her abdomen, and Coulson had put an end to their bickering by giving them the direct order to rest and stay put.
Natasha had wrinkled her nose. "I don't need it, boss," she'd said, glancing at the IV linked to her arm.
Coulson had smiled. He'd thought Clint was crazy when he'd brought her back with him, but time and patience had proven that his agent had made a smart call. He'd heard the desperation in her tone when Natasha had told him Clint had been shot; seen the concern on her features when they'd finally gotten back to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ and she'd refused to leave his side. Phil Coulson had known then that she was and would always be loyal to her partner.
Hearing her call him boss meant a lot.
Coulson sat at the feet of Clint's bed, putting a hand on his leg. "How are you feeling, Clint?" he asked in a quiet voice, friend to friend, brother to brother.
"I feel like I got shot," Clint shrugged. His right arm was in a sling, and his other superficial wounds had been tended to. He was more tired than he was hurting, and for that he was grateful.
"What about you, Natasha?" Coulson then asked, turning to look at her. Despite her defensive stance, arms crossed over her chest, he could see the way she kept them above her wound and flinched when she moved.
"Barton snored all night," she just said, wrinkling her nose. "That was more of a pain than being stabbed."
"Aw, Nat," Clint snorted, grinning at her. "I was shot, remember? Cut me some slack."
Coulson looked at them like a father who knew he had to love his children but still thought they were idiots. "Director Fury called. He congratulated the both of you for the mission."
"Are we gonna get a medal?" Clint laughed.
Coulson rolled his eyes, ignoring his comment. "Taking Montoya down was our main goal. But you exceeded expectations by taking his men and members of the local organization down, too. I think you two deserve some time off."
"And are we getting paid for that?" Clint asked, smiling at his handler. "I mean, I'm almost paler than Natasha. I think we deserve a week in the Bahamas or something."
"I don't want to go to the Bahamas," Natasha said. "All I want is a hot bath and red wine."
"I could lower my standards and agree with that, I suppose," Clint said with a shrug, the corner of his lips twitching up in a smile for her.
Coulson smiled to himself, watching them unabashedly flirt – or, well, Clint being his usual flirt and Natasha pretending to roll her eyes. He wondered if they even realized what they were saying. Five months ago Clint had been sent to kill her, and now here they were, discussing what they were going to do with their time off as if it was natural for them to spend it together. It should have alarmed Coulson, but it didn't. He'd tried to partner Clint up for years now, and it had never worked; so what if he was flirting with an international assassin? She made him smile, and against all odds, she was attached and loyal to him, more than she even seemed to be aware of.
They were good for each other.
Coulson left them after saying that he didn't want to see them anywhere near the gym or the firing range for at least a week, chuckling to himself as he heard Natasha mutter in Russian that she wasn't a big baby like Clint.
"How are you really doing?" Clint asked her after Coulson left, sitting up straight and balancing his legs off of his bed to go sit on Natasha's. "No lies, please," he pressed softly, gently cupping her calf in his hand.
She looked down at his hand, then up at him, meeting his eyes. "I'm sore, but nothing I can't handle," she answered honestly.
Clint frowned. He either frowned or smiled a lot around her, Natasha had noticed. It was almost cute, but it made her uncomfortable sometimes, seeing how much he cared and how it pained him when she said or did some things as if she didn't care about her life. She didn't, not really. All she'd cared about for so long was to survive; she didn't know how to live. But then he would take her out to that diner he liked and make a point of making her taste just about every milkshake flavor, or spend the night listening to his favorite bands and telling her all about them, and Natasha felt like living wasn't that bad.
That was when she'd think of him as a savior; he'd given her a chance to realize that her life mattered. With that realization had dawned another, that his life mattered to her, too. That he meant something to her, beyond the debt she owed him.
"I wouldn't be against a burger and a beer," she told him after a moment with a little grin.
Clint smiled back. "Now I know you're just trying to make me feel better," he laughed. "How about I get a burger and a beer and you have that red wine you wanted earlier?" he suggested, cocking an eyebrow at her.
"Are you suggesting that we mix up drugs and alcohol, agent Barton?" she asked, her eyes widening a little. "I don't think that's what Coulson meant by getting some rest."
"Because you listen to Phil now?" Clint asked, grinning. He could see she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him, and he laughed. For someone who was famous for killing viciously, Natasha could be such a child sometimes – and he liked getting to know this side of her. "I'm suggesting that we take a well-deserved break. And I've got something to show you."
Natasha's eyes lit up. "Does it involve getting me off of the IV?" she asked, casting a nasty glance at the tube linked to the inside of her elbow. "I don't like the way it's making me feel," she whispered in a rare confession.
Clint gave her a sympathetic look. "Me neither," he said. "I get dreams I can't wake up from." He paused, averting his gaze for a moment. "I hope I didn't wake you up last night," he said, an apology in his voice.
He did, but Natasha wouldn't tell him. Part of her wanted to; wanted to get to know him better and press the issue. But she felt like she'd intruded his privacy and gotten to see a side of him that he might not have been ready or wanted to share with her. She'd had trouble sleeping the night before, unlike Clint who had dozed off quickly after they'd hooked him on his IV; so when he started tossing and turning, she'd felt herself grow more alert and desperate to protect him from enemies she couldn't see.
She'd heard him call out names, his voice husky from sleep and fear. Barney seemed to terrorize him; Phil was the one he called out to for help. Natasha had gotten up and padded to his bed, gently smoothing his hair that was slick with sweat, and then he'd spoken her name as he calmed down, just a low whisper, like a prayer. She had pulled her hand away, thinking she'd woken him up, but he never opened his eyes; Clint's features had relaxed as he said her name again, and she'd resumed stroking his hair until the crease between his brows disappeared completely. Natasha had gone back to bed after that, listening in his quiet breathing for another hour before allowing herself to surrender to sleep.
"I slept like a baby," she lied, giving him a small smile. Clint's furrowed brow relaxed, and she felt better. She wasn't ready to share her own demons, so it wouldn't be fair to ask him about his and considering the relief she could see on his face, he wasn't ready to do so now either. One day, maybe, she thought. "What about this surprise?" she asked, switching to a safer topic.
"It's not really a surprise," Clint said with a shrug. "Just something I want to share with you."
Her heart constricted, but Natasha welcomed the pain. It was something completely new to her, hurting but in a good way. She wanted to ask him why; why he did all of this, why he was so kind and genuine in a world of evil and lies, why he tried to save that light inside of her that she knew couldn't exist. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she pulled at the IV and disconnected it.
It stung a little, and for once, she allowed herself to grimace at the small discomfort.
That felt good, too.
Feeling.
For all their training as soldier and spy, they hardly took three steps out of the infirmary before getting caught by the staff. Clint could walk but the throb in his arm still made him dizzy at times, and Natasha was very slow, careful not to pull at the stitches she had needed after all. Luckily they were caught by a medic that Clint knew well and who understood that they needed some fresh air. He agreed to drive them wherever they wanted as long as they left with a bag full of pain killers and promised to actually take them or call if one of them got worse. They dropped by their quarters to gather their things, and less than half an hour later, the young medic dropped them in front of a building downtown.
As her feet touched the ground, Natasha realized for the first time that she was free. She'd spent the last five months at Clint's side, training with him, sharing meals, getting to know him, and though no one had told her she couldn't go anywhere, she'd settled on following him wherever he went. He had taken her out a few times, but this was the first time it really dawned on her that there was a life outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. and that she had the right to go explore it, with or without Clint.
With Clint sounded nice, though.
She followed him as he climbed the stairs leading to the building, typed a code at the entry and held the door for her. They then took an elevator to the last floor, and Clint guided her to a flight of stairs that led to the rooftop. Natasha gasped at the view, taking in the city beneath their feet. "Impressive, huh?" Clint said, cocky grin on his lips as if it was his doing, a simple snap of his fingers producing all this restless beauty.
"Is this how you do it?" Natasha asked, leaning at the edge of the roof and admiring the city lights. "You take girls up there, jump from one roof to another, tell them about how this is your last night before being deployed and their smile is what you want to come home to because you want to know that the best part of your life is still ahead of you?" she went on, embellishing a gag.
Clint's eyes lit up as his mouth stretched into a huge smile. "Natasha Romanoff," he started, "did you just quote Pearl Harbor?" he asked, chuckling.
Natasha's eyes widened for a second before she schooled her face. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, turning away from him.
"Jesus, you so did, Nat," Clint laughed, looping his good arm around her neck. She tried to shrug him off but Clint just let out a chuckle again, and Natasha surrendered, deciding not to kill him just yet. "You're something, you know that?" he said with a smile.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "That's your best pick-up line, Barton?" she mocked him.
"Says the girl who watches American chick flicks and loves them despite pretending she doesn't," Clint countered easily. "Maybe you're a typical girl, after all."
Natasha ducked from under his arm, resisting the urge to punch him. "I'm not a girl," she hissed, "I could take you down easily, Hawkeye."
Clint chuckled. "What is it with you thinking that it's an insult when I say you're a girl?" he asked, leaning next to her. "I'm very well aware of the fact that you're a grown woman and that you could probably kill me in five hundred different ways, you know? It doesn't mean that you can't enjoy terrible movies and rocky road and the world's greatest archer's pick-up lines."
Despite herself, Natasha laughed. "Who said I was enjoying your pick-up lines? Maybe I'm just worried you'll spend your life all alone because you're terrible at flirting?"
"I see you're not denying the part about movies and ice-cream and me being the best," he smiled. "And I won't be all alone. I got you, Tasha," he said matter-of-factly, bumping his good shoulder with hers.
Natasha wanted to roll her eyes, she really did; she was Nat or Tasha and everything in between in his mouth and she didn't remember giving him permission to be so familiar. Giving someone a nickname was an intimate, affectionate habit that Natasha had never taken with anyone, and between Elena, Anya or Maria, no one had called her anything but theirs. A trophy, a doll, a weapon. Anything they'd wanted her to be. Clint didn't do that. He'd asked her her real name, and then given her the chance to choose who she wanted to become. He had started calling her Nat before she could realize it and though it was strange at first, this fondness he had for her, Natasha had grown to appreciate it. It was nice, knowing that she wasn't Black Widow to someone, that there was at least one person who saw her and not her ledger.
"Didn't you say something about red wine earlier?" she asked, changing the subject. Although she'd teased him about it, the idea of a picnic on that rooftop was definitely something she could contemplate. Not with him, of course; the idea was nice, that's all. It wasn't often that she allowed herself to have such thoughts – she hadn't exactly been raised to think about romance and happy endings. Everything and everyone had to serve a purpose, and there was no room for anything else.
Clint seemed to believe that it was okay to be something else than just a soldier or a spy.
She wanted to believe it, too.
His brow furrowed a little, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "About that red wine…" he started, trailing off. "Maybe I lied a little about that. I don't know. It's been ages since I've been here, there's probably a dead rat in my fridge."
"This is your apartment building?" Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, yeah," Clint shrugged. "You thought I had the keys to just any building to enjoy the view from the rooftop?" he teased.
"Of course not," Natasha replied. She hadn't thought about anything, really. It was stupid, now that she did think about it. She'd followed him blindly without knowing where they were going, and not once did she stop and think about how out of character for her it was. Natasha liked control; she liked knowing and understanding things, even if the Red Room had always kept secrets from her. But what they didn't tell her, she tried to find out, probing, blinking her lashes, playing innocent and lying. Clint, for some reason, she trusted almost blindly.
Five months ago, she would have found that dangerous.
Three months ago, she still knew it was dangerous, but she couldn't find it in her to care as they sat down in that coffee shop where the waitress knew Clint as Adam and kept refilling his plate with pancakes and maple syrup, telling him he was too skinny. Natasha had poked at his pancake, forking a little piece in her mouth, and he'd just sat there, smiling at her, and though it went against everything she was and knew, she'd just enjoyed the moment. She couldn't be wary of a man with a smile that shined so bright.
Today, she knew she was a fool. But fools seemed to be far happier than she was, so what was so appealing with being guarded and wise?
She followed him again as he led her to the stairs, and then to the last floor where he dug out his keys from his pocket and opened the door to the apartment at the end of the hall. "Welcome to my man cave," he grinned as he held the door out for her.
Natasha entered first, stopping after a few steps to take the inside of Clint's apartment in. She smiled as she realized it was everything she had imagined. Even if he didn't spend as much time as he liked there, it still felt warm and lively. She could easily see him sprawled on his couch, feet propped on the coffee table and a beer in hand, some stray dog curling at his side. He just had this thing about him that screamed he was a sucker for strays, with this instinct to protect those he thought who needed it the most. Wasn't it what he had done with her, treating her like a wounded animal, bringing her home with him, a hand outstretched in the darkness?
Clint went to the kitchen, fetching a bottle of wine and putting it on the coffee table before going back to pick two glasses. "I know this couch looks like it has flees all over it, but it's actually pretty damn comfortable," he said as he sat down, his good arm resting on the back of the old leather couch and the other at his side. "Actually, there might be flees. There was this one dog once…"
Natasha smiled to herself. Clint could be so predictable and yet still so mysterious at the same time. "I'm not holding your hand if you need a vaccine," she told him as she joined him. He snorted and held out the bottle for her and she opened it, pouring them a glass each. "Merlot?" she said, her eyes widening in surprise as she read the tag. "I'm impressed. I was expecting cheap wine from you."
"Aw, that hurts, Nat," Clint replied, giving her a pout. "You should know better than to underestimate me by now." He clinked his glass with hers with a wink. "To wrong assumptions," he toasted.
"I made one mistake," Natasha whined. "You're still predictable in so many ways, Barton."
"Yeah?" Clint taunted, an amused spark in his pale green eyes. "Go on, do tell," he went on.
Natasha curled her legs beneath her, getting more comfortable as she took a sip of her wine. "You're Coulson's favorite," she started.
"That was easy. I'm everybody's favorite," Clint replied easily.
"If that's what you like to believe," Natasha chuckled. "You men don't like to admit it, but you mean a lot to each other and that man would hold your hand when vicious Martha stabs you without even mocking you."
"Phil's a big softie," Clint admitted with a silly grin. "That's what true friendship is about, Nat," he added. "Holding each other's hand. Drinking wine and talking about our feelings."
"I'll just take the wine, then," Natasha said, a sly smile on her lips. "You care about his opinion more than anybody else's. When we were in Paris, you kept talking about how he would understand. You hardly mentioned Fury."
"That's because Fury doesn't have any friends," Clint said. "He has a lot of enemies. Plenty of people who think he's a legend, for sure, but no friends. Kind of like you, actually. And that's a compliment, sort of," he added quickly as she cocked an eyebrow at him. "Is that all you got, Romanoff?" he teased.
Natasha shook her head. "No," she said, almost arrogant. "You're a flirt, but you're not a jerk. You flirt because it's simple and fun, but you're the kind of guy who'd fit nicely in that white picket fence American dream. You're a good guy deep down, Clint Barton, savior of lost puppies and damsels in distress," she finished with an overly sweet smile.
Clint bowed a little. "I'm a real-life Prince Charming, what can I say?" he grinned. "You got me, Nat. I got a thing for the lost and the hopeless. That's why I like you." The confession took Natasha by surprise, and she took a moment too long to school her features, which Clint noticed. "And you are not used to being told that kind of things," he said in a quiet voice.
Natasha shrugged, putting her glass back on the coffee table, temporarily hiding her face from him as she replied. "My lovely disposition isn't what the Red Room liked about me, no," she said.
"You're not lovely," Clint commented, and though it could have sounded harsh to anybody else, Natasha could hear the underlying compliment behind his words. "You're more like…a forest fire, you know?" he tried. "Strong and fierce and you could kill us all, but we just stand there and look at you because we just can't look away."
"That was deep," Natasha teased him, despite finding the description fitting. She far preferred being called strong than beautiful or all these other terms in between that men usually used to describe her. Clint had said she was beautiful, sure, but he hadn't put it in a way that it was meant to be the best thing about her. Strong and fierce she embraced gladly.
"That's the wine," Clint shrugged. "Gets me all deep and poetic. That's why I like beer better." He put his glass down too, turning to face her. "Not that I'm not having fun, but I'm also starving. How about burgers and beer?" he suggested.
She gave him that look that she used every time he was being too American, whenever he had bacon for breakfast or screamed at the TV as if the players on the field could hear him. "Tomorrow we're going shopping and I'm putting you on a diet for a week," Natasha sighed.
"How very domestic of you, Tasha," Clint teased her, reaching out to bump her chin with his knuckles. When she narrowed her eyes at him, he held up his injured arm in defense. "I got shot, remember?" he grinned.
"I was stabbed but I could still kick your ass," Natasha countered, aiming her punch at his thigh instead. It was a light punch, more of a brush, and damn she was going soft on him and they both knew it.
It was easier to joke about it than to dwell with her emotions, and allow the sheer panic that had overwhelmed her at the sight of him bleeding on the floor to come back. The paleness of his skin and the pool of red growing around him was a vision she would never get out of her head; but the very idea of losing him, of being helpless and useless as he slipped away, had kept her up for hours the night before. The pain in her abdomen she could deal with; she would have gone through it all over again if she could have taken the man who had shot Clint first before he could aim at her partner.
Her partner.
It was the first time that Natasha really meant it as she thought the words. Clint had called her his partner many times; had offered his friendship, and put his career in jeopardy to bring her back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and make an agent out of her. He had stepped in front of her the day before, risking his life to protect hers, without hesitating.
It had taken almost losing him to realize that he meant just as much to her, too. He wasn't just someone she felt gratitude towards. He wasn't the savior she'd made him to be, almost unreal, just the idea of a miracle – he was real and human and he wore his flaws upon his sleeve unabashedly, smiling when she called him an idiot, admiring her strengths and empathizing with her weaknesses. Natasha had lived her life burying them beneath the ground and she was a mess; together they formed a bigger mess, both stubborn and conflicted and damaged but with all of her and all of him laid out together, maybe something good could come out of it.
Wine made her deep too, apparently.
Clint felt the change in the air as her hand brushed him, but he didn't push. They were both raw and exhausted and though their little game had started as a friendly competition of who was the best observer, it could escalate quickly. He'd seen the look on her face as she hovered over him in that house, seen the color vanish from her fair skin and heard the desperate plea in her voice as she'd begged him to keep fighting; he had scared her, and if there was one thing that Clint knew about Natasha, it was that she didn't know how to deal with her emotions.
Tonight wasn't the moment to push her and make her face them again.
Instead, Clint showed her the way to the bathroom, letting Natasha indulge into her guilty pleasure of a hot bath with a glass of wine. He waited in his room until he was sure she had managed to get into the bathtub, hearing the soft thud of her body gliding in the water, and he left, giving her some privacy. He had a sense that she loathed being touched and checked out by doctors as much as he did, but he'd noticed the way she favored her left side, the wound low at her abdomen on her right side surely throbbing. But Clint also knew that she wouldn't take any more painkillers; he took their drugs out of the bag the medic had given him and lined the bottles of pills on his kitchen counter, promising himself he would take them before going to bed and try to make Natasha do so too.
He then picked up his phone and ordered them burgers and a salad for Natasha, smiling to himself at the thought of that disgusted look she sometimes gave him when they shared a meal together. It had become a recurring habit, almost a tradition by now, that the first one up in the morning would wake the other for breakfast. Even if she would never admit it, Natasha wasn't ready to face other agents on her own without Clint at her side. Clint had tried to help her with that, telling her again and again that she was one of them now, but Natasha didn't believe it just yet; she couldn't understand how people could forgive and forget that she'd killed so many. So it'd become their routine, sharing every meal, Clint making a point of getting her to eat more and at regular intervals. Natasha was slender and strong, but he found her too skinny, the consequence of being taught that food needed to be earned for years or being deprived of it if she hadn't excelled at a class or a mission. In the past five months he'd already witnessed some progress on that front, her ribs and hipbones not as prominent as they used to be, tender flesh giving her body curves she hadn't shown in her frail state in that dark alley in Paris.
Once he'd placed his order, Clint went to his small balcony, breathing in the night. He enjoyed the peace and quiet of the city between dusk and dawn, the slow motion, the calm after the storm of the day – and what a day they'd had. Time was such a fleeting concept to them. The morning before he had woken up in Sao Paolo, the soft light of the sun filtering through the curtains warming his skin. He'd opened his eyes to find Natasha curled in a ball at his side, small and peaceful and innocent, her blonde hair spread on her pillow and her hand tucked beneath her cheek. Hours later she'd helped him into the very same bed, tending to his bleeding wound. Clint had dozed off at some point, and when he'd woken up, they were back at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ – all in the span of twelve hours or so. And now it was night again, and Clint could feel the exhaustion pull him under.
It was nice, getting some time off to level out. He'd been through much worse, but he was grateful to get a few days where he could just be himself.
Having some company for once definitely was a nice change.
to be continued