AN: WOW. Thank you SO much again guysss! Hurr hurr—I personally apologize for the typeos of the previous chapter, and smackin' ya'all in the face with angst and alcohol and crap. *Throws towels* My usual editor is too busy to clean up after my stupid dyslexic bum—so I'll work doubly hard for no typeos. But thank you SO much again! (*Yes, I understand Clint has no real powers and is just in "top physical condition"—but he's so good, even his eye sight improves, I mean, Hawkeye, come on! So letsjustrollwithitgo!)

Here, has some "luv".

The Avenger's Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:

WARNING: Things get a little saucy. T for teen.

Chapter Four: Stars

Summary:

Clinton "Clint" Barton is the world's greatest marksman. It's said that his incredible eyesight can see so far, and for so wide, he could hit a fly at mile away, and it'd still be living. And of course, rumors do as rumors can, and Clint welcomes all compliments. But the truth is, the only thing he can't seem to see straight on is a particular auburn haired Russian. And he loves it that way.


"What if I blindfolded you?"

Clint's mouth opened, and then shut, eyes scanning and re-scanning his surroundings. Beside him, Natasha sat, pointing at random potted palm trees, ferns, bushes and tropical flowers for Hawkeye to slice through with a single, well-placed shot.

"What?" He asked, forgetting the question as he ripped through a tree, 200 yards away along the ground. Natasha rolled her eyes.

"What if I blindfolded you?" Natasha intoned again. "I think it'd definitely be more of a challenge. I mean, Tony's poor bushes don't stand a chance against your elite skills,"

"I'm hitting these things dead center at night, you know," Clint responded, a smudge arrogant.

Natasha waved away Clint's accomplishment like smoke from a cigarette. Around them, Tony's private pool court yard opened up into wide, sweeping, freshly mowed grass and breezy long leafed superfluous botany. The huge cylindrical pool gurgled and stirred in cerulean ripples. Though, they weren't anywhere near it. They were two stories above, seated on the cold, stone tiled roof, still slick with raindrops from the late afternoon shower. It was weird; Natasha decided thoughtfully, that Tony managed to build a pool with the calculated trajectory of the perfect spot for actually seeing stars in New York City. She raised her head up to take in the booming, blossoming white theater lights and skyscraping windows that blinked green, red, yellow, orange all over the city, the zoom of the neon traffic below them that never slowed. But still, high, high above, there was the night sky. With actual stars. She blinked at them, wondering if they too were a trick of pyrotechnics and wires that made up Tony's empire in the city of metal. He built it to have a direct connection to Stark Towers through a bullet train line, for privacy from the endless newsmen and paparazzi.

Please, as if Tony Stark wanted privacy from anything.

"Oh no, we're doing this. And I swear that if you're thinking about doing anything else with that blindfold, I'm going to get up and let you get a long, fading view of exactly what you won't be getting." She hitched a hand into her jeans pocket with authority.

"And when have I ever gotten you?" Clint inquired, a witty and self-congratulating grin pulling across his mouth.

"When you play fair, and stop acting like an ass," Natasha snipped, producing a soft, long black cloth. She didn't meet his eyes.

"Oh," Clint coughed into a dry scornful laugh, "because I'm the one that doesn't play fair."

Natasha dodged around his 'hiding shadows' blow. "Your eye sight is not just perfect, but pretty insane, if I recall right. 20/20 miles, give or take? Or is 30 now?"

"Hey, I worked hard to get this way! I didn't cheat." Clint bartered, picking an arrow from his quiver that rested next to his feet. "What can I say? I got trained to be the best of the best of the best."

"Congratulations," Natasha said bitterly, glaring as she crossed her arms over her chest. The black of her tank-top shifted back and forth, melting with the passing shadows of a puffy cloud sailing over the owl-eyed moon.

"Fine," Clint nodding, excited about the challenge, ready to show off. "I accept. I memorized this area anyhow."

"Memorized?" Natasha popped a thin eyebrow incredulously.

"Photographic memory. Comes with the eye sight, doll." He clicked his tongue at her.

"Ha," Natasha laughed falsely, "Nice try, Barton. But that's only cute when Steve says it."

"Yeah," Clint snorted, tying the cloth tightly around the back of his cropped hair. "The guy that drinks milk like a freight train on fresh coals and wears blue and white long-pajama pants at night. A-freakin-dorable." Clinton then sputtering into a laugh, "I mean who does that? Wasn't the 40's supposed to be a 'man's man' time? Milk? Really?"

"Ugh, stop distracting yourself from losing and shoot your damn bow." Natasha smacked his shoulder, annoyed.

"With pleasure," He grinned, gripping up the bow and hosting it into position. Natasha studied the muscles of his arms as he pulled the strings tight. She waved a hand in front of his covered face and he smugly turned up the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry," he said calmly, before the spy could yell at him for dishonesty. "I can only feel the air your hand is stirring by my face. I can't see anything."

Natasha pulled her hand away, staring off into the inky blackness. Her eyes had adjusted long ago, but now it was getting harder and harder to glimpse the basic outline of the closest tree branch.

"How far can you see, exactly?"

"Hmm," Clint hummed in his throat, flicking at the string with strong, nimble fingers. "I don't know—far?"

"Thank you so much for that personal glimpse into being a master marksmen,"

Clint laughed again, switching the bow to his other hand to honestly point in Natasha's westerly direction.

"You remember seeing The Empire State Building, way over there, right before the sun went down?"

"No," Natasha pouted darkly, her eyes tight in her desperate search to prove the marksmen wrong.

"Well, it's there. And I suppose I can see a little ways beyond that."

Suddenly, her eyes snapped wide. "That building is ridiculously far away! What—How can—Are you seriously just getting better with time?" Natasha snapped, agitated.

Then, before Clint had time to gloat, Natasha was on her feet.

"There!" Natasha suddenly called, leaping up and pointing at a barely noticeable dampened vine. "That vine, over to your left."

Like a machine, Hawkeye simply cocked his head, and turned his arms less than three inches to the left. The arrow sped nearly silently out of its held position—and struck the plant dead on.

Natasha 'humm'ed herself, manicured fingers tapping at her chin.

"Hit Tony's diving board."

A turn to the right, adjust upward about a foot. Launch.

The board made a flapping sound, breaking onto the quiet night air. Clint swore he heard Natasha give a little growl in her chest. She focused her eyes on the farthest area away from her, only barely catching the glint of moonlight on tiny windows.

"Hit that window to the building with the Coke Bottle sign, farthest to your right."

He did. Effortlessly, not a single pause, or drag. The sound of shattering glass finally caused Natasha to practically stamp her foot. But she didn't, breathing in harshly through her nose.

"I can't believe you just caused public property damage to impress me, Barton,"

"They'll blame it on a pigeon."

"And when they find your arrow?"

"They won't," Clint concluded confidently. Natasha rolled her eyes again and sat back down, her jeans slightly wet against the roof.

"Hey, don't feel bad," Clint said, hearing the shifting of clothing close to him, laying on his pride a little too thickly. "I warned you I was good."

Natasha merely glowered at him through her bright green eyes, though he couldn't see it. She hoped he could feel it.

After a moment of anticipation, Clint chuckled, and slowly sat back down as well. The night air whooshed between them, stirring the wild chestnut-shade of the spy's hair. He reached up to touch at the blindfold, but then thought better against it, thinking that Natasha would consider it a sign of surrender.

"Is there anything you can't see more clearly than any other human on Earth?" Natasha whispered finally, leaning back on her hands, neck craned to the night sky.

Clint twitched the corner of his mouth, "Stars. I guess. I see them as anyone else would. Well, maybe a bit better than that. It's almost like they're touching, but they're not a close as they seem, you know. They're just bright, burning spheres, endlessly expanding, and they're never going to touch. Parallel until they explode upon one another."

Natasha turned to look at Clint as he spoke, his mouth stubborn and resistant in his concentration, arm still ready to peg the nearest target, fingers flexing over the curve of his bow. She slowly brought out a hand, and pulled at the top of the blindfold, bringing it down the archer's face, to where she could see the gleam of his stormy blue eyes.

"And…me?" She breathed, leaning forward.

"You, what?" Clint managed back, caught off guard by the sudden all-consuming abstruse look in her eyes, the first thing he adjusted to, and how deeply he could see into them. People were idiots to just deem them 'green', because only a fool would call them such a blank colour. Natasha's eyes were a foamy verdant; twisting, changing like the sea, like a Cat's Eye crystal on a while silver ring, with flakes of gold, ribbons of emerald that wrapped around themselves, folding like velvet cloth laced around her pupil.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

"I— "Clint swallowed, his arrow lowering from its clenched position. "I…I don't know." He admitted. "I've never felt so perfectly happy not being able to see straight through someone."

Natasha froze for a moment, considering his words. "I'm your blind spot?"

"Only because you're too allusive to tag," Clinton added, his voice still full of badinage.

"Oh, wonderful," Natasha purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "And here I thought you were going to say something cheesy like 'I'd shoot a star out of the sky for you', but hinting about a woman's non-committal issues, and hard mastered skills at the same time. That's certainly original. Such a lady killer."

"'Shoot a star out of the sky'," Clint repeated belligerently, drawing forward, his thigh resting against hers. "Please, that'd be way too easy."

"Oh?" She mocked, her lips smooth and glittering, catching Clint's eyes in fascination, a whole new level of beautiful. She pulled the cloth down lower, dropping it from his neck.

"Yeah, Natalia," he murmured, leaning in, greedily taking the distance between them, sensing perhaps his only opening. "I could do that with my eyes closed,"

"No blindfold required, then?"

"And no whip, either," Clint chuckled. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, the outline of his jaw highlighted by the moon. She leaned in close, provocatively stopping, a slender hand reaching up to touch the soft warmth of his parted lips. Clint raised an eyebrow.

"Do it then, Barton," Natasha smiled, leaning once again to touch her lips to her own hand, blocking the physicality that ran through them on a live, smoldering wire. Clinton, without turning away from her spellbinding eyes, pulled back his bow, an arrow in hand, and pointed it to the night sky.

"Which one?" His eyes glinted, burning, itching for a mark, as if he was taking on the entire universe at once.

Natasha rested her head against his shoulder, her breathing tickling his ear, the nerves in her spine tingling from the warmth of his skin, which was still salty with beads of sweat, damp with the remains of drizzling rain. Maybe she actually missed this. A little.

"The farthest one you see."

"A challenge out of million odds," Clint studied her every movement, not missing a second of her clandestine eyes.

"Of course," She pressed the word as a lingering kiss on his neck.

"Your call?" He breathed across her skin, the storm in his eyes making his gaze unreadable. Natasha curled her fingers, touching the structure and strong muscles of his cheeks and stubble of his jaw, squeezing, nails nearly digging into the lightly tanned skin. Slowly her hand pulled away, dragging down his neck. Hawkeye's fingers clung to the handle of bow tightly, knuckles white.

"I'm not the one overcompensating for things he can't possibly obtain," She mouthed, nibbling faintly at his bottom lip. Instantly, Clint's grip on the arrow fumbled. He breathed in against her, the thrill of her mouth racing through him. The competitive part of his brain forced him to grasp a new arrow, sliding it into place, his arms locked tight, but his nerves jumpy as hell. Dammit, he was so close to letting her not do that.

His heart slammed against his rib cage, and she lowered her eyelids at him, daring him on.

"God, I love it when you insult me," He smirked, all of his teeth showing, and he nearly lunged for her, narrowly missing her lips as she turned her head at the final second, and so he settled for trailing hungry kisses over her cheeks, her nose, down her neck. He nipped at her shoulder, and she pounced back in retaliation, biding him to just try and gain some dominance. Expertly intimate arms coiled around his neck as she forced herself onto him, winning a low moan from the assassin as she pulled her knees into his lap, pressing her body against his, nudging his arms off balance. She bared her nails down hard along his back, stinging, surging and passionate, the action pulling his shoulders together, and Clint, no longer caring, let his fingers loose and the arrow shot out of its center string with a rocketing hiss.

"Oh," Natasha suddenly gasped as the flickering sound plunged past her ear, and Clint couldn't bring himself to pause to appreciate the sound, his lips trailing along her jawline, to her throat, breathing in her scent—it always was the same alluring, misty perfume, soft, like lavender, but dark and restless, calling all the things that haunted and fluttered through the night like the cry of a black cat. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, wanting to taste the pale white thinness resting there, to feel her heart beating just as fast, just as reckless against his. In the heat of the moment he so desperately wanted to capture, he wanted to stop, to memorize the colour that had to cast the wind in silk around her shadow; purple, black, flares of red—balanced so tastefully, so unnerving hypnotic that he felt, if he stretched his arms a bit further, sped his body a little faster, he might just catch her. Just for one moment, he could struggle along her silver tread, the purring, soft curl of her words, her spine…

And would no longer be the prey.

Suddenly, the clenched, forgotten grip of the weight of his bow was ripped from his hands and Natasha was moving away. Her scent, her skin, her warmth—slender and aloof, pulling back into the night, called again by a force that made her so nearly perceptible, impossibly palpable. Clint chased after her voice, spiraling over the roof-tops in his mind, the towers of Budapest, his eyes searching, addicted to her allure, her bite, her glass-glow eyes, a goal so much farther than any arrow he could let fly. But the auburn tease's muscled frame bounced up onto the balls of her heels, and Clint's stomach irked when he heard the windy cascade of his bow plummeting two stories below into the dewy grass. Rough hands were gripping at his shirt, and he felt himself somehow being lifted up and shoved against the roof, the weight of her legs secure around his waist. He looked at her in shock, arms numb with relief from the furious train strain of his bow, and she slowly reached up to grasp an arrow out of his quiver. She eyed it like a toy, before running her tongue seductively up it's shaft, and then flipped it around, jamming it through the thick cloth of his shoulder's sleeve, pinning him there. Clint felt his heart drop thirty stories, only to be caught on a single wire.

She was so perfect.

She pulled him in for a first, and final, kiss on the mouth, before she let go, soundlessly, fingers trailing coolly over his cheek, fading into the shadows, the scent of lavender following her, sweet and calling on the air. Clint fought to keep it in his memory, an image he never could picture no matter how hard his imagination pushed, it was never good enough. It was never completely her.

Now all he could see was the endless, bright stars stretching over for miles above where he lay.

"It's a pity," Natasha sighed, her voice low and taunting, as she whipped her fiery hair around into the wind, bringing up a hand to hold it there, out of her eyes, as she gazed up at the full, starry sky, echoing over New York. "I don't see a falling star anywhere,"

She walked to the edge of the platform before jumping, arms thrown out into the wind. She turned bravely; she leaned backwards, ready to masterfully tumble to the court yard and out of sight. She placed two fingers to her lips, blowing a discreet, merciless kiss:

"You missed,"

The sound of the wind ruffled through the buildings and trees. Clinton trembled.

She was gone.


EN: Gosh, I'm just…so over-whelmed by the reviews alerts, favourites and LOVE guys. I hope this was a decent Clint/Natasha. I tried. :) You guys make me so very happy. Seriously. Just.

Thank you.