Sokovia had been Clint's last op with the Avengers.

He'd returned to his job as a field agent, doing recon, surveillance, infiltration, whatever SHIELD assigned him. He'd fallen back into his old patterns of life as an intelligence operative: briefings and debriefings, last-minute plane trips, sparring and target practice, filing mission reports. He liked the stability in the routine of this life, but it did have the tendency to become depressing. When his life was so monotonous, it could begin to feel empty. Purposeless.

The way it had felt before she was in it.

He never saw her anymore. He never saw any of them anymore, and he preferred it that way. He had long since given up trying to get over her, but he saw no reason to torment himself by spending time with her. And really, he did his best not to think about her anymore either.

This had been all but impossible at first, but over time, he'd so good at it that he'd barely spared her a thought in weeks the day Stark had called.

Nearly two years had passed since Sokovia the day this had happened. Invitations to Stark's parties regularly popped up on his phone, but he'd never accepted any of them, and Stark had never called him personally.

So he'd been surprised when he'd answered his phone and had found himself talking to the man himself.

"Hey, Barton. Ignored my latest Evite yet?" Stark had said.

"Uh… yeah, I think I got it."

"And let me guess, you're super busy with work right now and you just don't think you can make this one, am I right?"

Clint had mumbled something vague about an upcoming op.

"Yep, that's what I figured," Stark had said. "Guess I'll break the news to Romanoff."

Stark must have guessed that that would get his attention, even if he couldn't have guessed why.

"What?" Clint had said, suddenly alert.

"Yeah, we were just talking yesterday, she was asking if you were gonna be at this one. Sounded like she really wanted you to be there."

Clint hadn't responded right away. He'd been thinking, wondering why she wanted to see him at this party in particular. Wondering what had made it different from all the other parties he'd skipped.

Wondering what it would be like to see her again.

Was he actually considering this?

Stark had been waiting, obviously expecting an answer of some kind, so he'd said slowly, "Well… I'll have to look at my work schedule—"

"Perfect," Stark had cut in. "See you Friday."

And he'd hung up.

And that was how, on Friday night, Clint had found himself driving to a party at Avengers Tower.

When he'd stepped off the elevator, he'd seen her almost immediately. She'd been moving across the room a ways ahead, chatting with a friend, and even just that quick glimpse of her through the crowd had been enough to make a thrill roll through him. He'd been struck by how happy she looked. It wasn't that she'd ever been a particularly unhappy person, but when she was happy, it wasn't always obvious. It was obvious tonight.

He'd only seen her for an instant, and she hadn't noticed him. After that, he'd stood alone by the wall for a time, unsure what to do next and already beginning to question why he'd come tonight. Then Banner had approached him, had tried to make conversation, and while he'd appreciated the gesture, he hadn't known what to say. He'd never been especially good at socializing in the first place; now he was crap. The conversation had been awkward and filled with gaps, until he'd finally come up with an excuse to walk away.

And then, at last, he'd spied Richard Alph and Melinda May sitting at a table in the corner, and he'd headed over immediately, relieved to find someone who wouldn't expect him to make small talk. They'd accepted him at their table with a murmured word of greeting and an offer of beer, and now he was sitting here, rehashing old missions with them over drinks. The dimly-lit corner their table was situated in distanced them somewhat from the general chatter in the room, and they stayed there awhile, talking comfortably, none of them minding the thoughtful silences that slipped in now and then.

"So anyway. Siberia," Alph was saying, lounging back in his chair. "Dead of winter, two goddamn feet of snow. I'm there with a team of maybe a dozen men, and we're just now realizing SHIELD forgot to mention our target's an enhanced."

Clint let out a low whistle, and May shook her head.

"We ended up wallowing around like pigs in that gunk for over an hour, looking for the target. Then finally one of my men looks up and realizes the guy's been flying behind us the whole time." Alph gave them a disgusted look. "You heard right. Flying."

Clint chuckled and took a swallow of beer.

"Was he on the register?" May asked.

"Oh yeah, they had a profile on 'im and everything," Alph said, folding his hands behind his head. "Just forgot to bleedin' mention he was the one we were after, is all."

"So was this before or after San Francisco?" May asked.

Alph snorted. "After, thank God," he said. "Barton, I don't know what I've told you about San Francisco, but all you gotta know is, don't ever get yourself in a shootout in a tunnel. The bullets don't stop when they hit the wall, just change direction. They bounce."

Clint shook his head. "Son of a bitch."

Alph took a long drag at his beer, and Clint suddenly caught himself craning his neck to look around the room. He stopped himself. If she'd wanted him here tonight for a particular reason, she would find him.

His eye was caught instead by a group of young partygoers across the room. One was entertaining the others with a story, and they were all laughing uproariously, the sound carrying to his ears.

It struck him suddenly that, not so long ago, he would've been a part of that group. The group that looked like it had come to the party, with the actual intent of partying. Instead, he was sitting in a dark corner, dressed in the jeans and leather jacket he wore to work, talking to his co-workers about their job. Times had changed.

Alph had opened a pack of Camels and was lighting up. "Have a smoke?" he offered, pulling another from the box.

May shook her head, but Clint shrugged.

"Might as well."

He stuck the proffered cigarette between his lips, and Alph flicked his lighter under it until the flame caught. Smoke spiralled up to the ceiling, hanging in the dull lamplight.

"Hey, wasn't it Siberia where you and Coulson got snowed in for like a week?" Alph asked May at length.

"Sochi," she corrected. "And it wasn't a week. We were stuck there with nothing to do for a month."

"Nothing to do but each other," Alph said, grinning.

May just looked at him, unamused.

"What? You totally banged, didn't you?"

"Classified," May said, deadpan.

Alph laughed. "Damn, I think I've still got money ridin' on that one," he said. "If you ever come clean, I'm gonna be a rich, rich man. Barton, too."

May gave Clint a withering look. He smiled and shrugged.

"How 'bout you, Barton?" Alph asked finally. "You've probably seen hell in Russia, the number of times you used to go down there."

Clint thought for a minute, taking long, slow pulls at his cigarette. Only after he'd considered and discarded a few ideas did he realize he was subconsciously looking for a solo mission, rather than a Delta team job. He didn't want to subject himself to the kind of teasing May had gotten. Especially now.

"Well, there was this one time. I was in Minsk." He took another drag at his cigarette. "'S doing infiltration. They told me I was gonna be undercover for a month. I was under for three."

"Damn." Alph shook his head.

"Isn't easy, y'know. Undercover work," Clint said. "'Specially when exfil's overdue. You gotta keep playing pretend, lying to everybody around you, wondering all the time what the hell's taking so long."

Alph grunted in agreement.

Clint shrugged. "Guess our job's never really easy though," he mused. "They never said it would be. And it's down to us to try and cope."

Alph nodded. May looked thoughtful.

A few minutes passed in pensive silence. At last Clint stirred. His cigarette had burned down, and he put out the remaining stub in the ashtray on the table.

"Gonna get another beer," he grunted, getting to his feet.

This was pretty classy, for a Stark party, he reflected as he weaved his way slowly across the room. No loud, thumping music, no scantily-dressed girls. Just a bunch of people drinking and hanging out on a Friday night.

The mini-bar was located by a floor-to-ceiling window, through which could be seen the scattered lights of the city below. Clint took a beer and popped the cap off to take a long swallow. He stood there a moment, looking out at the distant ground, then turned and slouched back toward his table.

He was midway across the room when he felt a hand on his arm, and he turned, and it was Natasha.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and for a second he felt actually dizzy. Her eyes crinkled into little crescent-moons as she smiled up at him, and one side of his mouth slid up in a stupid half-grin before he could stop it.

"So it is you," she said as her hand slipped off his arm. "I didn't think you were coming tonight."

He'd forgotten how bright her eyes were, how endearingly hoarse her voice was, and he realized he was standing closer to her than he had stood for almost two years.

Finally he found his voice.

"Well... I did," he said lamely, shuffling his feet. There was a soft smile at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and she tilted her head, searching his face fondly.

"I'm glad you did," she said; and suddenly it was all too much – her voice, her proximity, the way she was smiling at him, and it was making him feel things he hadn't felt in a long time, and he couldn't meet her brilliant green eyes anymore and he dropped his gaze, looking at her shoulder instead.

He noticed then that she had grown her hair out, that it curled down past her shoulders now, and suddenly he wished he had made more of an effort. He hadn't imagined that, when he saw her again, it would be in his work clothes, with too much stubble on his face and neck, smelling of beer and cigarette smoke. He hunched his shoulders self-consciously.

"How have you been?" she was saying.

"Good," he replied, a little too defensively. After a moment, he added, "You?"

"Pretty well, actually," she said. "Are you still at SHIELD?"

He nodded, still looking at her shoulder.

"They working you hard?"

He shrugged. "No more so than usual," he said.

A moment passed, and Natasha shifted. "Well, I gotta track down Steve," she said. She squeezed his shoulder. "I'm glad I ran into you. I'll see you later."

And she was gone.

Clint stood there a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he headed toward his table.

He found himself reflecting on how good it had been to see her again. For awhile now, his method had been to avoid her, to spare himself the pain of wanting to be with her and knowing he couldn't. And it was working. But now it had been so long since he'd talked just to her, just spent time in her presence. Of course, distancing himself was the whole point, because being with her still hurt. Yet he found that he missed it. Missed her.

And, going by their conversation, she hadn't wanted him here tonight for any particular reason after all. Maybe she had missed him, too.

"We were just talking about Kyrgyzstan. That little Black Market business we broke up," May said as he sat down. "Alph thinks you weren't along on that one. You were there, right?"

Clint paused, his brain working sluggishly as he tried to shift his attention to the question.

"The time with the drug cartel?" he asked finally.

"The other one," May said. "The time evac had to be rerouted and we almost didn't make the rendezvous point."

Clint frowned, trying to think. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"He wasn't there," Alph said, lighting another cigarette.

May scowled, looking confused. Then her face cleared. "No, you know what I'm thinking of? Kazakhstan. The Chuya Alps?"

Clint nodded, his mouth twitching. "Now that I remember."

"Alph, have you heard this one?"

"Don't think so."

"Barton, tell it," May said, looking amused.

Clint smiled. Back in the day, this had been one of his favorite mission stories to tell at parties. He hadn't told it in awhile though, and for a second, he hesitated, worried that thinking about the way things had been so long ago would be painful. But as the details of the op flooded back to him, he found himself starting to chuckle, and suddenly, he wanted to tell it.

"So this happened right after, uh, Romanoff got off probation," he began. "We're talking months, maybe weeks. There was some group in Kazakhstan SHIELD wanted out of the picture, and Coulson decided to pair us up with May and this recruit she was S.O.-ing. I don't even think he works here anymore, think he was a washout, but his name was Tills.

"You remember how the recruits—well, everybody, really, but especially the recruits were just terrified of Romanoff when she was first approved? Yeah, that was Tills. Poor kid was pissing himself the whole ride out. I'm sure he'd heard stories, probably all true, and he wouldn't go within twenty feet of her. 'Course, she didn't give a damn, and May and I just thought it was funny."

Clint lounged back in his seat, starting to enjoy himself.

"So we finally get there. We find the group's hideout up in this mountain range, and it turns into a shootout. I don't know exactly how it happened, but it was snowing and the rocks were pretty slick, and Tills lost his balance and slid down the mountain a ways."

Alph's eyebrows went up.

"Me and May had our hands full with the shooters, but Romanoff had a window, so she shinned down there and pulled him out. Saved his life."

Clint took a sip of beer. "So on the ride back, Tills is a changed man. Wouldn't shut up about the op, how crazy it was, how much fun he had, whatever. And then at one point he turns to Romanoff, and he goes, 'You know, when I saw you coming toward me on that mountain, for a minute I thought you were gonna push me.' And you know what she said?" Clint's smile broadened. May was smirking across the table.

"She looks at him, real serious, and she goes, 'That's absurd. I wouldn't do that to you. Not when I knew Barton was watching.'"

Alph laughed loudly, slapping his knee. Clint chuckled and raised his beer to his lips. "He shut up after that," he said, and took a swig.

"Romanoff was always a laugh. Still is," May commented. "Wouldn't guess it by looking at her."

Clint nodded in agreement. Then Alph turned to him, one eyebrow raised suggestively, and Clint stiffened, sensing he was about to get a question he didn't want to answer.

But at that moment, a hush started to fall over the room, and Rogers' voice could be heard addressing the crowd.

"Thank you," he was saying. "I just have a quick announcement I'd like to make."

Clint turned in his chair. Rogers was standing in the center of the room, and he had his arm around Natasha. Suddenly Clint's stomach dropped, and he wasn't sure why.

"I think a lot of you have noticed that, uh… this party isn't really Tony's style."

This earned an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.

"Well, that's because this isn't really Tony's party," Rogers said. "I just asked him to host it, 'cause he has the greatest venue in New York." He smiled down at Natasha, and she smirked at him. "Nat and I organized this party," he said. "And we asked Tony to invite all of you, because we wanted to tell you all that, well…" He looked around the room, a nervous but excited smile on his face. "Nat and I are getting married."

Immediately a delighted murmur ran through the crowd, and then the room erupted in cheers. Clint just sat there, stunned. Then Rogers bent his head to kiss Natasha, and Clint turned away.

May and Alph were still sipping their beer, looking pleased but not overly enthusiastic, and Clint was glad he was with a group he wouldn't have to fake a reaction around. He merely tried to look pleasant, tried not to show the disappointment he was feeling even as it weighed on his chest.

So they were going to get married. Perhaps this shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, but he was just now realizing that in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed—hoped, really—that their relationship wouldn't last. Largely because he'd never really thought of her as the type to consider settling down. He realized, with a pang, that she'd just needed to find the right person.

And then suddenly guilt was tugging at him, because he had no right to be disappointed. Even had Rogers not been that person, he was delusional if he thought for a second that he could be instead. He couldn't. And this wasn't about him anyway; this train of thought was utterly selfish. Tonight was about them, and he owed it to them to at least try to be happy for them for one night, even if he never could be again.

So he took a gulp of beer and stood up, pasting on a weak smile.

"Guess I better congratulate the happy couple."

Everyone else seemed to have had the same idea; Rogers and Natasha were being swarmed with well-wishers when Clint headed over. He hung back a moment as they received kisses and hugs and warm handshakes, and as soon as he saw an opening, he approached.

"Hey, congratulations," he said, forcing another smile as he paused in front of them.

"Thanks, Barton," Rogers said with a nod and a smile. Clint ventured a swift glance at Natasha, and saw that she was grinning.

Clint hesitated, feeling he should say something else. "So when's the big day?" he asked finally.

"March sixteenth," Natasha said happily.

Clint raised his eyebrows. "Pretty soon, then."

"Yeah, we were gonna wait til summer, give ourselves more time to prepare, but Nat wanted a spring wedding and we thought, why wait?" Rogers looked at Natasha and they shared a little smile, and suddenly Clint wanted to leave.

"Well… take care of her Rogers," he said, shifting away.

Rogers chuckled. "I don't think she needs it."

Clint tried to laugh. "Yeah, well," he said. "Take care of her anyway."

He turned to leave.

"Barton, wait."

He halted at the sound of her voice and turned to face her.

She nudged Rogers, and he looked down at her. "What?"

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Clint.

"What is it?"

She gave him a meaningful look. "You were going to ask him about…" She trailed off pointedly.

"About…? Oh!" Rogers grinned sheepishly and turned to Clint. "Look, Barton, I was actually hoping I'd see you here tonight, because we never really see you anymore and I wanted to ask in person if you'd be one of my groomsmen."

Clint froze, his heart sinking. He couldn't do that. He couldn't. He was having enough trouble with just the idea of their getting married; to actually be there… to be a part of it…

But he could feel Natasha watching him eagerly, hopefully, and he couldn't disappoint her either, couldn't say no.

So he shoved his hands into his pockets, summoned a smile, and said, "'Course I will."

Rogers may have thanked him, but he wasn't listening because suddenly she was right there, beaming up at him and murmuring "Thank you", and she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. Clint went rigid, trying frantically to remember what you did with your hands when you were hugged, but before he had time to even take them out of his pockets she had pulled away, leaving a hint of perfume on the air. It was a mindless gesture, over before it had begun, and now she was standing with Rogers again, thanking Banner and giving him a hug, too. Clint stood back a little, hovering uncertainly.

"Well," he said aloud. "I guess… I'll go now."

No one heard him. And no one tried to stop him as he headed for the elevators.


Only one chapter left! It's hilarious to me how much my chapter lengths vary in this one. Oddly enough, this was actually one of my favorite chapters to write. Maybe I'm sadistic, I don't know.