Chapter title from Lazy Eye by Silversun Pickups.
Natasha shadows him as he heals up. She wears her hair loose most of the time, up in a ponytail when she works out. Most of the other agents are too freaked out to spar with her, but a few step up to the challenge. Clint whoops from the side-lines as she takes them all out with a grace no one else can match. She's as deadly as the knives she throws down at the range, and just as fast. Clint has to attend physio sessions before he can work up to pulling back a bowstring again, but it's worth it when he stands next to the Black Widow, her throwing knives and him shooting arrows. They hit every single one of their targets, and when Clint gives her a grin at the end, she actually smiles back.
Still, she's silent and withdrawn. The information she gave them on the people who employed her to kill their leads on the Zodiac Cartel holds solid, and she's allowed to sleep without a camera in her room and go in the training room, gym, and common room without Clint. He stays with her as much as he can anyway, because she gets an uncomfortable look about her when she's thrust into an unfamiliar situation and left alone. The people who encounter her have no idea how to treat her. Some ignore her, some are scared, some make a poor, blustering attempt at including her that's clearly all about making them look tough instead of making her feel at ease.
True to his promise, Clint doesn't ask about her past. A lot of the time they spend together is spent in silence. Whenever she does venture a question, Clint's careful never to make a big deal out of it.
"How did you join SHIELD?" she asks one day. They're in the common room, sitting next to each other on the comfortable seats near the back. A few people are watching the TV, but Clint's got his headphones in, and Natasha's reading a book Coulson gave her called Midnight's Children. He pulls out his headphones and looks at her.
"Come again?"
"How did you join SHIELD?" she repeats.
"Oh." He pauses his music and shrugs. "I didn't. I got picked. I used to be a sniper in the army. Some guy bought a bow while I was on tour and I showed off a bit. I guess SHIELD was looking for a marksman with flair or something, because Coulson came along and that was it."
"You could already shoot?" she asks, maybe a little curious. Her expressions are so subtle that it's hard to tell sometimes what she's thinking. For Clint, usually so good at reading people, it makes her as much of a challenge as the eternally-calm Coulson.
"Uh huh," he grins and leans closer as if he's about to share a secret. She looks unimpressed, but leans in obligingly. "I grew up in the circus," he tells her, and pulls away to see her reaction. She raises an eyebrow.
"Really."
"Cross my heart," he draws an 'X' over his chest. "I joined with my brother when I was ten and he was thirteen. Learned to shoot from the archer there, and I took over when he left. I'm just real good with a bow. Plus, I had about ten years of pretty much constant practise."
"What does it say in the SHIELD files about me?" she asks, definitely curious this time.
He pauses. He knows most of what's in his own file, so he doesn't see what harm it can do. Most of what they have on her is probably rubbish anyway. "Well, they might've updated it since you came here – I haven't seen it since before I left to find you."
"To kill me," she corrects him.
"Finding you was part of that," he says defensively. "Anyway. Uh, we don't know that much about you – you're one of the Black Widows from a facility we know as the Red Room, you started drawing attention to yourself in 1994, and in '95 SHIELD cottoned onto the fact that you were working alone. We don't know where you come from, your real name, how old you are – nothing. Only what we think you've done since 1994. And since you change your methods a lot, it's hard to get a fix on the things you might've been involved in."
"How did you know I wasn't working for the Red Room?" she asks, expression carefully blank.
Clint thinks about it for a moment. "You worked outside of their stomping ground, I think. I can't remember exactly. I think you were implicated in the deaths of some people we were pretty sure were connected to the Red Room."
"You're not curious?" she raises an eyebrow.
"About you?" he asks, and she nods. "Well yeah, but I can put my mind off it pretty easy, and I told you I wouldn't pry, so I won't. I'm pretty good at keeping my promises."
They sit in silence for another few minutes, but Natasha doesn't go back to reading, so Clint doesn't put his headphones back in. He's got a feeling she's going to say something else, and he's good at waiting.
"They told me I was born in 1979," she says suddenly, so quiet he almost misses it.
"You're only twenty-six?" he stares at her. "Huh. I'll be thirty on the twenty-eighth. No Sagittarius jokes, please."
"Sagittarius?" she frowns.
"Yeah. Star signs?"
"Oh."
"I get at least one Sagittarius joke every year from some smart-ass who thinks they're a comedy genius, so none of those. But I will accept presents." He grins at her. "Drink is always welcome."
"And how would I get that?" she smirks slightly. "Skydive to the nearest shop?"
"You haven't got any pay yet either," Clint sighed, nodding. "Okay, I forgive you for this year, and for Christmas, but I'll be wanting a present next year. When's your birthday?"
"I don't know," she shrugs, unconcerned. "I was never told."
"You don't know your birthday?" Clint frowns. "That'll make paperwork difficult."
"I'll make one up."
"Hey, no, you can't do that!" she stares when he leans forward, eyes wide. "You can't just pick a date out of thin air!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's important! And you could choose a really cool date if you wanted. I wonder what happened in 1979 that's worth putting a birthday on. Oh! Or you could do it by star signs! See which one your personality matches best."
"Are you always this strange?" she asks, looking a little perturbed.
"He gets worse the longer you know him," Coulson says, appearing silently next to Clint's chair.
"Jeez!" Clint clutches his heart dramatically. "Warn a guy!"
"You heard me coming," Coulson says mildly. "Natasha, Director Fury wants to see you on the bridge. Barton, you're coming with me."
"You know the way?" Clint checks as they get up. Natasha nods.
"I'll be fine."
"Am I in trouble?" Clint asks as soon as she's out of earshot.
"We're going to a de-briefing meeting." Coulson tells him without looking at him. "Miss Romanoff cannot attend for obvious reasons."
Clint's eyes widen. "Did you just send her off to Fury when he hadn't asked for her?"
Coulson glances at him. "Is that a problem?"
Clint almost gapes in horror, but then narrows his eyes. "You're not that mean. Especially not to newbies."
"I hardly think that the Black Widow qualifies as a newbie," Coulson points out, and Clint relaxes.
"Okay, but what does Fury want with her then?"
"I didn't ask."
"But you know, right?" Clint grinned. Coulson shot him a narrow-eyed look only a couple of shades off a glare.
"If I did know, I certainly wouldn't tell you."
Ouch. Point taken. "Sorry," Clint mutters, falling back to walk half a step behind him.
After a moment, Coulson sighs and stands still for a second so that he and Clint walk side by side again. "I'm not mad at you," he explains. "I'm just –"
"Still pissed at me," Clint finishes. Coulson looks at him, and he shrugs helplessly. "It's fine, I get it. I acted out and it could've really screwed up."
"So far though, it's not screwing up," Coulson paused in front of one of the briefing room doors, hand on the handle. "If this is some kind of bluff, she's fooled us all."
"She'll've fooled me first," Clint reminded him, but Coulson shook his head.
"Irrelevant. She will have duped all of us. Your part in this potential duplicity may have been instrumental, but she's not just your responsibility anymore."
"Doesn't feel that way," Clint says wryly.
Coulson tilts his head curiously. "Do you want to be rid of her?"
Clint frowns. "No. She's…she's still new here. I think she's starting to trust me a little. Enough, at any rate. We going in?"
"We are." Coulson looks him straight in the eyes. "Before you say anything in this room, I want you to stop, think, and say to yourself, 'what would Coulson think?' before you actually speak. Is that understood?" Clint's only an inch or so taller than Coulson, but this close they're pretty much on eye level. It's slightly intimidating, not that Clint will ever admit it.
"Yes, sir," he says.
"Good," Coulson nods and pushes the door open.
x
The de-briefing is long and dull, and Clint gets sick of answering the same questions ten times with different phrasing. But he catches Coulson's eye every time he almost makes a sarcastic comment and forces himself to keep his mouth shut. It's harder than he'd expected. He almost wants to write down all of the witty comments he could have said and present them to the SHIELD agents in there with him, or at least to Coulson.
When they get out, Coulson waits until it's just him and Clint in the hall, and then he smiles and pats Clint's shoulder before going on his way.
It shouldn't make him feel as hopeful and happy as it does, Clint thinks as he walks back to his room. It makes him feel like a dog. But he's always wanted to please and impress Coulson, ever since swearing that he would complete the SHIELD basic training in one year rather than two or three. Something in Coulson makes Clint want to prove himself, and it's as useful in spurring him on as it is irritating for making him feel like he isn't entirely his own man.
He checks Natasha's room, which is down the hall from his, but she's not in there. He checks the common room, even though he knows she won't be there, and the training room, though she almost never goes in there alone. Giving up, he goes to his room and tries to unwind, turns his music up loud and stretches out on his bed. Lying down, he can almost touch the opposite wall with his outstretched hand. There's only enough room at the end of his bed for the standard SHIELD size cupboard where he keeps his clothes. That and the tiny bedside table are all he has in the way of furniture. Bathrooms are communal. He doesn't particularly care, and doesn't join in when some of the other agents complain that they've seen closets bigger than the rooms on the Helicarrier. The way he sees it, he doesn't usually do anything more than sleep in his room anyway, so it doesn't matter what it looks like, and as long as the bed fits, he doesn't care how big it is either.
Natasha finds him some time later, opening the door and peering in cautiously. When Clint sees her and turns down the volume, she says, "I knocked," somewhat defensively.
Clint sits up and shrugs. "It's fine," he says. "You're probably the only one who ever bothers. You okay?"
"I'm fine," she hovers and frowns. "Can I come in?"
"Sure," he budges up on the bed and gestures for her to sit next to him. "What did Fury want?"
"In two weeks I'll be put on probation, allowed to go along on supervised missions," she says, frowning. Catching Clint's puzzled look, she explains. "He wanted to know if I was ready to become a full-time agent."
"You said yes."
"What else am I good for?" she shrugs with one shoulder and Clint frowns. She looks around his room and her eyes come to rest on the laptop perched on Clint's bedside table. "What is this?" she asks, wrinkling her nose.
"You mean the music?" Clint grins. "You are currently listening to the tuneful, yet chaotic sound of Muse. You like it?"
"No," she says flatly. Clint laughs.
"That's okay, I know how to accept a differing opinion. Oh, that reminds me – I've got something for you." He gets up and goes to his cupboard, which is also where he keeps his CDs. There's more music in there than clothes, but as far as Clint's concerned, that just means he has less washing to do. His fingers flick through the stacks until he finds what he's looking for and pulls it out with a triumphant sound. "Here," he hands it to Natasha, who takes it with a small, confused frown.
"What is it?"
"You've never seen a CD before?" he asks sceptically. She glares at him and turns it over. The front shows a red-haired woman in denim squeezed into a box, a tiny grand piano at her feet.
"What do you want me to do with it?"
"Listen to it," Clint shrugs. "If you like it, you can keep it."
"Tori Amos," she reads the name above the photograph and her frown deepens. "I don't…I haven't got anything to play it on."
"You can borrow my old discman," Clint gestures for her to lift his legs so that he can open one of the drawers under his bed. He rummages around until he finds it and hands it to her with a crooked smile. "You can keep that too, if you want. I never use it." She takes it with the hand not holding the CD and stares at them. He wonders for a moment if she's ever been given a present before. Probably not, he thinks, and decides not to make a big deal out of it at all.
"Thank you," she says after a while, and gets to her feet without looking at him. She still looks slightly confused, but he doesn't try to push her.
"I'll get you when I go for dinner, okay?" he says, and she nods, leaving without another word.
He hopes she likes the CD. If not, he's got different music he thinks she'll like. He's always been good at reading people, after all.
x
Natasha's silent when he gets her, and she doesn't speak as they walk to the canteen, or when they sit down to eat. Clint doesn't push her, and talks instead to Jimmy Woo, who's on the Helicarrier temporarily for a series of meetings. Clint doesn't ask him what about – he knows he won't get an answer. Jimmy finishes before they do, and sends Natasha a small smile before he gets up, which she either doesn't see or just ignores. Clint shrugs at Jimmy, who shakes his head and leaves, not minding.
They walk out together, and Clint looks down at her. "You okay?"
She frowns and waits until they're alone in the corridor before she looks back up at him. "I liked the CD."
"Oh," he brightens. "Great! It's yours now then. You want to train at all tonight?"
"I…" she looks down again and frowns harder, determined. "No. No, thank you. I'll just go to bed."
"Okay," he shrugs and they turn down the hall their rooms are on. "I'll see you tomorrow then." He goes to open his door, and he's halfway in when Natasha speaks.
"Clint."
It's the first time she's said his name. She's never needed to before, because they've always been in each other's company. He supposes it's that odd sort of intimacy that's prompted her to use his first name instead of Barton, or Agent Barton. It's more familiar than he would have expected, but not unwelcome. He smiles, strangely happy that she seems to be opening up. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the CD."
"You're welcome," he nods. "Any time."
The corner of her lips moves up in a small smile, and it's not a smirk, and it doesn't come with raised eyebrows or narrowed eyes. She looks young and startlingly lovely when she smiles like this, and when she turns and walks down the hall to her own room, Clint thinks that he'll stick with her for as long as she'll let him to try and get her to smile like that again.
x
It shouldn't surprise him that Natasha's supervised missions are all going to be supervised by him (and Coulson, on the other end of the earpieces in their ears), but for some reason it does. Still, he swallows it down, suits up, and gets on with his job. Their first mission together has them posing as a couple, paying for the honeymoon suite at a beautiful hotel in Belgium. They're there to prevent an assassination happening in the room exactly one floor below them. Natasha's steely right up until they step out of the SHIELD car and into the car park of the hotel. In the space of two seconds, she becomes a demurely smiling, utterly smitten newlywed. Clint feels like he's made of wood next to her effortless charm. She kisses his cheek after they get their keys, and drops the act the moment they step into the elevator.
"Wow," he stares at her, and she raises a single eyebrow, chilly Natasha once again.
"What?"
"You're a great actress."
"I wouldn't have gotten far if I wasn't."
True.
They complete the mission easily, and Coulson gives them both a pleased nod when he meets them on the jet back to the Helicarrier. That mission seems to be the decider of a question, and Clint finds himself being shipped off on missions with Natasha almost every time he leaves the Helicarrier. Somewhere along the way, slipped between a gunfight with a group of drug smugglers and every time they clean out the minibar in whichever hotel room they're given, they discover that they work well together.
Natasha puts on her mascara with the care and attention of a surgeon in the mornings, never eats more than a slice of toast or a croissant for breakfast, and never lets him see her naked. They're careful not to touch when they slide into bed together (a rare, but not stressful occasion), but it's somehow not weird if they wake up pressed against each other. Clint takes care to give Natasha as much space as she indicates that she wants, and becomes familiar enough with her habits that they don't faze him at all anymore. Given the time and the hot water, she can spend up to half an hour in the shower. She doesn't like black coffee. Her smiles become more regular when it's just the two of them, often accompanied by a sarcastic remark concerning his manners or taste in television (even though she will watch Teen Titans with him, and he knows she has a soft spot for Avatar: The Last Airbender).
They're on a long mission in an apartment in Botswana when Clint's woken up abruptly in the middle of the night by some sort of sniper sense. He's out of the bed and reaching for his bow before he's really awake, because he trusts his gut more than his brain, but when nothing stirs, he realises that Natasha hasn't woken up. Usually, she's as alert as he is, so when his brain catches up to what's happening, he's surprised.
Natasha's eyes are screwed closed, her face contorted, and he realises with a swooping feeling in his stomach that she's having some kind of nightmare. She doesn't thrash around or make a single noise, but her lips peel back in a silent snarl that show her teeth grinding together. He kneels on the bed and leans close. "Natasha? Natasha, wake up. Natasha!" his hand hovers uncertainly over her shoulder, not sure whether to touch her or not. "Come on, Natasha, wake up now, come on. Natasha, wake up!"
Her eyes snap open and Clint only just manages to catch the fist she swings at his head. "It's me!" he whispers loudly. "Natasha, it's just me, it's Clint, it's alright."
She stares at him in silence for a long moment, her smaller fist trembling slightly in his. "Clint," she says finally. "Hawkeye."
"Uh huh," he nods warily. "Can I let you go now?"
She pulls her hand away from his and sits up. He pulls away and watches as she runs a hand through her dark red curls, pulling her knees up to her chest and taking deep breaths. "I woke you up?" she says after a while.
"I think so," he nods, crossing his legs. "You gonna be okay?"
"I'll be fine."
"Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"
She glances over at him, expression mostly hidden in the dark shadows. "Would you mind?"
He likes that she doesn't try to play it off as nothing. They've been working together for months now, and this is the first time her tough exterior has ever cracked without her control. Natasha, Clint's come to realise, is all about control. "No, it's cool," he shakes his head and slides off the bed, snagging his pillow and the blanket they kicked onto the floor earlier. "See you in the morning."
x
Natasha's gone when he wakes up, so he takes a shower. When he gets out ten minutes later, she's sitting at the table, a cup of black coffee waiting for him. "Thanks," he says, coming to sit next to her. Neither of them care that he's only wearing a towel. She nods and pulls a piece of bread into pieces on her plate.
"The Red Room killed more Black Widows than it used," she says suddenly, eyes still on her plate. Clint stares at her, but doesn't speak. He won't push. "Only a certain kind of girl ever made it through. The rest died off. Or were killed off." She moves her head to the side as if she's going to look at him, but she keeps her eyes down. "You can ask, if you like."
"You were one of the ones who made it through?" he says, quiet. He doesn't want to push her too hard.
"Obviously." She tears the bread into smaller pieces, a small frown on her face. "To decide who was going through to the next level, sometimes there would be competitions. Occasionally you had to kill off your competitors."
Clint's silent, taking that in. If Natasha was only fifteen when she escaped, she would have been no more than a child when she was forced to do these things.
"I shared some training sessions with a girl called Anya," Natasha continues, still not looking at him. "We were both exceptional. They called us Drakov's daughters, because that was what our handler called himself. To decide which of us was to pass the final test, he told each of us to kill the other. I won. Coulson called – we have to be ready to leave in half an hour." She gets up and takes the plate to the small kitchenette, leaving Clint spinning in the wake of her abrupt subject change. He gets dressed and they're ready when Coulson calls again with orders. He doesn't push, and when they leave the apartment, Natasha brushes her shoulder against his arm more than necessary. Physical contact is another big deal for her, so he takes it for the gesture of gratitude it is.
That first confession opens a crack of sorts in Natasha's dam, and she tells him more and more over the next few months. By the time the anniversary of her joining SHIELD approaches, Clint knows more about the Red Room than anyone else outside of the facility itself. The picture Natasha has painted for him is not a pretty one, and it's far from complete, but it's definitely more than she's ever given up freely to anyone before.
Natasha doesn't remember any other place. She tells him that her earliest memories are of isolation and training tests. She would eat sometimes in a large white cafeteria with other girls, sometimes on her own. She remembers fragments of lessons where she learned how to walk, how to talk, sit, eat, smile, sleep, move, breathe. She was trained literally from birth to be the perfect spy. She thinks that she was operated on numerous times, but she can't remember, and that's the worst thing of all – she tells him that the Red Room specialised in memory implant, extraction, and modification. She has memories that she knows can't exist, and she can do things she has absolutely no memory of learning how to do. She can speak fluent Latin, but she doesn't remember any lessons in the subject at all. She tells him she has vivid memories of dancing in the corps of the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, but she knows that this is impossible, because she hardly ever left the Red Room facility.
Her memories of the Red Room are a jumbled mess of inaccuracies and impossibilities, and Clint is sure that it's the lack of control that frustrates her more than anything. Her nightmares are rare, but Clint makes it clear after the first one that he will do whatever she needs to feel comfortable and safe again. They're back on the Helicarrier in a lull between missions when Natasha knocks on the door of his room in the early hours of the morning and asks if he wants to train with her.
It's at least three hours too early for him to get up, but he swings his legs out of bed regardless and throws some clothes on. They're alone in the training room, unsurprisingly, and Natasha walks right onto the sparring floor and starts warming up, stretching and doing handstands, hair tied in a neat bun at the base of her neck. Clint's a little more sluggish, but she waits until he's ready and then beckons him forward. They haven't exchanged a word since she invited him in, and he knows that this isn't going to be one of those sessions where they chat between throwing punches. Natasha's face is shuttered, eyes narrow. She's had a nightmare, and she means business.
"Don't hold back," she warns him.
"I don't plan to," he says, and that's all the preparation he gets before she attacks.
With nothing but skin, they're evenly matched – Clint's bigger and stronger, but Natasha's faster and better at using the environment to her advantage. She clambers halfway up one of the metal poles at the edge of the floor, past the protective padding strapped around it, and when he pauses to steady himself, she launches herself at him feet-first. He only just manages not to get flipped around onto his back, her thighs like iron around his neck. He grabs them and pries them apart. She slams the heel of her palm into his ear. He drops to the floor and gets his leg over her side, his calf across her neck. He levers her off his shoulders, she rolls and aims a punch for his throat that he blocks. He's not fast enough to deflect the kick to his abdomen, but through the pain he grabs her foot before she can pull it back and yanks it. She lands on her ass and he uses the time to stumble to his feet. She's up as fast as he is and they're at it again.
For a few minutes they go through the motions, but then Natasha's eyes blaze and he finds himself driven back by the sheer speed of the blows she's lashing out at him with everything she has. He blocks fists, feet, elbows, knees, her head, and he only just manages to dart away and back into the centre before she drives him off the floor. Her hair has come undone, and the curls bounce on her shoulders as she whips her head around furiously and comes for him again. He absorbs one blow, ducks another, blocks a knee aimed for his aching stomach, head-butts her to try and slow her down enough for him to at least fight back, but she won't be stopped. She skids back and spins on one toe, her other foot flying through the air, the heel slamming into his head hard enough to knock him to the side. She crouches; hand grabbing his weakened ankle to make him trip and fall, and when he's on his back she punches his kneecap. It hurts like hell, but he only grunts and kicks her in the side with his other foot. She coughs and he rolls up and uses the momentum to crash into her, tackling her clumsily to the floor.
She gets a knee between them and shoves him off, but she doesn't get up again, and when she doesn't, Clint doesn't bother either. They lie next to each other on the floor and pant, exhausted and sweaty, for several minutes.
"Thank you," she says, voice loud in the empty room. "For always being ready to do something like this with me."
"No problem," Clint's still breathing heavily. "You keep me in shape, that's for sure."
They look at each other and smile. Clint laughs and they both go back to looking at the ceiling, too tired to move, even though they should be stretching to keep themselves limber.
"Up late, aren't you?" a familiar voice comes from the door, and they both sit up quickly. Clint's abdomen and stomach protest at the sudden movement, but he relaxes when he sees that it's Coulson.
"Speak for yourself," he says, and Coulson smiles, gesturing to the seats at the edge of the room where people watch the sparring matches sometimes.
They sit in a line, Coulson, Clint, then Natasha, and Coulson turns so that he can see them both easily. "Congratulations," he says to Natasha, who frowns and shakes her hair back from her face.
"What?"
"You don't know?" he smiles, crooked and wry. "Today is the anniversary of your arrival here. You're officially a SHIELD agent now, with full level five security clearance, same as Agent Barton. Congratulations."
"I had to pass the one-year mark?" she sounds surprised, still a little breathless.
"Of course," Coulson nods. "Director Fury decided that a year would be long enough for us to be sure that you weren't trying to destroy us from the inside. As of today, you will no longer have to be paired with Agent Barton on field missions. I believe your first solo mission is being processed as we speak."
"People are still awake?" Clint stares at him.
"No, the Helicarrier maintains itself while you happen to be sleeping," Natasha says sarcastically. "Of course there's a night crew. Idiot."
"Your charm is one of the many qualities you possess that I can't help loving," Clint grins at her and she swats his shoulder lightly. Coulson just smiles, and Clint knows why. This time last year, such honest behaviour from Natasha would have been unthinkable. Now, it's normal, and Clint knows that she's still hiding parts of herself. He's waiting for the day when she feels comfortable enough to let her guard down completely, but he's fully aware that that day may never come.
"Why are you still up?" Natasha asks Coulson, who raises his eyebrows.
"Who says I stayed awake all night? It is past five in the morning, you know."
"Getting up that early is a punishment, and I don't understand why you do it," Clint tells him seriously.
"I like the birdsong."
"We're in the middle of the ocean right now."
"And the sunrises are therefore exceptionally beautiful."
"You don't watch the sun rise!"
"And you would know that how, exactly?"
"Children," Natasha cuts in, amused smirk in place.
Clint pouts and plays along, pointing at Coulson and saying, "He started it!"
"Then I'm finishing it," she says, getting up and tucking her hair behind her ears. "Showers. Now."
"Yes, ma'am," Clint rolls his eyes, but gets up obediently. He's aware that he probably stinks right now. Coulson gets to his feet behind him and smooths down his suit.
"Natasha, you'll have a briefing later this morning," Coulson tells her before she walks into the changing rooms. She nods and leaves, and Clint pauses before following her, looking back at Coulson.
"How come you call her Natasha? You never call me by my first name."
"You never call me by mine," Coulson says mildly, but Clint can hear the challenge there even though he's sure no one else ever would.
"Hm." He grins and pushes the door to the changing rooms open. "See you later, Phil."
"I can't wait, Agent Barton," Coulson gives Clint his best innocent smile and turns away before Clint can say anything more, but he resolves to call Coulson by his first name as often as he can get away with from now on.
x
Natasha's on a mission out of the country when Clint's asked to accompany Coulson to a meeting with General Ross' sector. The General won't necessarily be there, but Coulson knows how to work around things like that. As far as Clint can tell, he does this by threatening, cajoling, and reasoning the underlings into doing little favours for him here and there. It's his version of keeping up a good relationship with the canteen staff.
"What am I here to do again?" Clint asks, shifting uncomfortably as they wait on the airstrip for one of the general's jeeps to pick them up.
"Look intimidating, make Ross' security look like overpaid thugs, and make me look superior when I go in."
"Will I have to sit in on these meetings?"
"No. There's another reason I thought you might want to come along, Agent Barton."
Barney. Clint glances sideways at Coulson, ignoring the approaching jeep. "My brother's here?"
"First Sergeant Barton is indeed currently residing on this particular base."
Clint looks forward again and tries to process this. Barney had sprung to mind the moment he heard he was going to Ross' neck of the woods, but he hadn't allowed himself to get his hopes up. Now it seems that he'll be seeing his big brother for the first time in…he does the math quickly in his head and realises with shock that he hasn't seen Barney for sixteen, nearly seventeen years. Last time he saw Barney, he was a ropey eighteen year-old who looked out of place in the bright whirl and noise of the circus in his ragged thrift store clothes. Clint can't remember the last time he actually saw Barney. His clearest memory of that time is of sitting down on his bed and reading the short note Barney left. The shock of it. Barney never spoke a word about his thoughts of leaving to Clint.
Maybe now he'll have the chance to ask why.
He shoots another sidelong look at Coulson, who's just standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the jeep approach like he has all the time in the world. Clint opens his mouth, but it still takes a moment for the words to come. "Hey, Phil?"
"Yes, Agent Barton?"
"You didn't need me along for this at all, did you?"
"Not as such."
"…thanks."
"Don't mention it." Coulson looks at him and smiles slightly just as the jeep pulls up and a soldier leaps out and salutes. It's all Clint can do not to laugh. Sometimes new recruits salute at SHIELD. They learn to stop when the only result is sniggers hidden behind hands.
Coulson is whisked away into a conference room immediately, and he gives Clint a significant look before the door closes. Clint nods and finds the nearest soldier to direct him to wherever he can find Barney. Who is no longer gangly, ginger Barney Barton, he has to remind himself as he searches for his brother, but First Sergeant Barton. He can't imagine it. And when he does find him, walking along the hot tarmac on the way to the barracks, he almost doesn't recognise him.
"Barney?" he stares.
"Can I help you?" the man glares at him against the sun, and then frowns. "Hey, do I know you?"
"You should," Clint grins. "We lived in a truck together for about five years."
Barney gapes. "Clint?"
Clint spreads his hands and laughs. "Surprise."
"Holy shit," Barney moves around so that he isn't squinting into the sun and looks Clint up and down for a long moment before opening his arms. "Well come here, little brother!"
Clint laughs and they step into an embrace that miraculously isn't awkward. The relief that floods through Clint at the touch is like a drug or something, flowing through his body and relaxing him. He hadn't realised how tense he was before this. "Good to see you too," he smiles as they draw apart. Barney's grinning, amazed, and Clint's heartened by how pleased he seems to see him again.
"I can't believe it!" he slaps Clint's shoulder and laughs, and that hasn't changed at all. "How the hell –? I can't believe you're here! What are you doing here?"
"I'm with SHIELD's liaison agent."
"SHIELD?" Barney makes a face. "Urgh. What, they got bored and decided to come and harangue us in their spare time? Give me a break."
Clint raises his eyebrows, amused. "Why don't I tell you who I work for, Barn?"
Barney stares at him for a moment, and winces when he realises. "Oh crap. I blundered right into that, didn't I?"
"Pretty spectacularly," Clint agrees. "Don't worry about it."
"How'd you get mixed up with them?" Barney asks, jerking his head for Clint to follow him off the road and into the shade.
"Got talent scouted," Clint grins.
"What, from Carson's? SHIELD recruits from civilian circuses now?"
Clint laughs. "They recruited me from the army, Barn. I joined when I was twenty."
Barney looks delighted. "No shit! I can't believe it took you that long to leave Carson's, man. I suppose they paid you better than they did me."
Clint shrugs. "I left in '94, spent a year on the road."
"Just you?" Barney leans his shoulder against the wall. "On your own?"
Clint smiles crookedly and tells him about Lori. Barney whistles and gestures for Clint to go on, so he does. He tells Barney about enlisting and being sent abroad, tells him about Coulson appearing from nowhere and spiriting him away to the SHIELD base in New York. He can't tell Barney about his missions, of course, but he tells him about being sent all over the world and being able to use his bow whenever he wants.
"You really got lucky, didn't you?" Barney snorts when he's done, and turns to look out across the base. "You were always luckier than me."
"How'd you figure that?"
Barney laughs, and it doesn't have much humour in it now. "You can barely remember our parents, right?"
"Right." Clint shifts, slightly uncomfortable with the direction their conversation is taking.
"Lucky. I remember dad. Mom tried to leave once, you know," he glances at Clint, a faraway look in his eyes. "Not that long before the crash. You must've been about three. Dad got drunk and hit you so hard you fractured your arm. Mom and me…we couldn't do anything. But she tried to leave as soon as you were better. He'd hit me around before. Never broken anything, but still battered me pretty bad. But he laid a hand on you too hard and she was ready to run. She didn't make it, obviously, but she still tried for you."
Clint doesn't know what to say. It's true – he really doesn't remember much of their parents. He has no memory of their faces. He remembers their old house, but very little else. He doesn't remember fracturing his arm, or this escape attempt Barney's talking about. Barney hangs his head and sighs, and while Clint's still trying to figure out what to say, he goes on.
"It was like that in the circus, a bit. You were smaller and cuter when we joined – you were so blonde when you were a kid, do you remember that? So you were the Swordsman's assistant. And then when Trickshot showed you how to shoot, well. You were a real star attraction. And I was stuck setting up tents and taking care of the animals, doing food runs and stuff. I guess I didn't realise at the time that I was just jealous of you." He looks at Clint, a small smile dancing around his lips. "Been wanting to say this for a while, I think. It's shit being the big brother and not being needed. It's even worse being overshadowed. I nearly didn't enlist at all, but I just wanted to be better than you at something. I had to get away. We weren't all that close anyway, were we?" he looks away again, and the silence fills up the space left behind by his words.
This isn't what Clint was expecting. He frowns and looks down at his hands. "I'm sorry," he says finally, sounding smaller than he intended.
Barney smiles and clasps his shoulder in a big hand. "Don't be," he says warmly. "It's fine. I'm okay now. I was a frustrated kid when I ran out of Carson's. I'm all grown up now, little brother. And so are you. And I know you never meant to make me feel bad or anything. It's not your fault."
Clint sneaks a suspicious glance at him. "Did you get therapy? I swear you never used to be this mellow."
Barney laughs. "No therapy. I'm just happy here. I like what I do, and I'm good at it. I'm looking to be promoted pretty soon."
"Good for you," Clint says, brightening up a little.
"And since you were only a specialist when you got pulled out by SHIELD, I still outrank you," Barney grins. "Suck on that, Hawkeye."
"Eat me," Clint grins, punching Barney's arm. "I'm a special secret agent now. Some respect would be nice."
"A super special secret agent with a bow and arrow," Barney snorts. "I don't respect Disney characters, Robin Hood."
"Harsh," Clint says, but he's still smiling. He opens his mouth to say more, but his phone goes off. He shrugs at Barney and takes it out. "Barton."
"We're leaving," Coulson tells him. He doesn't sound happy. "Sorry to have to cut your reunion short, but I'll meet you out front in five minutes."
"Yes, sir," Clint keeps the sigh out of his voice. "See you there." He hangs up and gives Barney a rueful look. "I gotta go."
"I get it," Barney pulls him into a tight hug. "We should meet up again soon. Next time I've got leave – what's your number?"
Clint pulls a pen from his pocket and writes his number quickly on the palm of Barney's hand. "Next time, I'll buy you a drink," he says, and Barney laughs.
"I'm definitely holding you to that," he says. "See you around, little brother."
Clint grins and salutes before jogging off to where Coulson's waiting. He does not look pleased at all. Most people wouldn't be able to tell, but Clint sobers up when he sees the tightness in the corners of Coulson's mouth and the rigid line of his shoulders. His fists aren't clenched, but his thumb is pressed hard against the knuckle of his index finger, which is Coulson's version of the gesture. They get in the jeep and don't speak until they're on the jet.
"You look like you need a drink," Clint tells him. Coulson sighs and forcibly relaxes his fingers.
"I need a distillery."
"Ross was there?"
"He was not." Coulson narrows his eyes and pulls a pile of paperwork towards him. "Ross is on a hunting trip that is of his own making."
Clint considers this and speaks slowly and carefully. "Is this sensitive information, sir?"
"Extremely sensitive."
"Too sensitive for me?"
Coulson glares down at the open folder on the table between them. "You may well be one of the agents we have to dispatch to deal with this if it gets much worse."
Clint frowns. "Sir?"
Coulson sighs and looks up. "How much do you know about the super soldier program, Barton?"
"The super soldier program?" Clint raises his eyebrows. "What, you mean like Captain America?"
"Exactly like Captain America, yes," Coulson nods, "but while Captain America was a hero made great by brilliant men, the incident I'm speaking of was one idiot overreaching himself and creating a monster."
Clint stares and logs away the part about Coulson calling Captain America a hero – he's never heard Coulson speak of anyone like that before, and Coulson's the kind of man who takes the definition of hero very seriously.
"Last year," Coulson continues, "General Ross authorised military funding to be given to a team of scientists working on replicating the super soldier serum. The serum was created by a German scientist called Dr Erskine for use on Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers was the first and only successful super soldier – Erskine was shot by an enemy spy before he could repeat his success. Even worse, his notes did not contain the full formula – quite sensibly, he believed that the information would be safer if it was in his head and nowhere else. Unfortunately, that means that Ross' team of scientists was working with unfinished and unrefined data. The team was led by Dr Bruce Banner, and included Ross' own daughter. Banner believed that gamma radiation held the key to replicating the original formula. He was successful, after a fashion." He grimaces, and Clint pulls a face.
"Let me guess, he got so convinced he was right, he tested it on himself?"
Coulson sighs. "Banner's smarter than that. No, there was an accident in the preliminary testing phase, and Banner was on the end of it."
"He died?"
"He became a monster," Coulson rubs a hand across his forehead. "Or something to that effect. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what happened, and Ross is doing his level best to stop me. As far as I can tell, Banner transformed into something capable of ripping his lab at Culver University to pieces and breaking out of one of the most secure underground military facilities in America. According to the information I've managed to glean from the meeting this morning, Banner does not remain this creature all the time, but switches back and forth with almost no control over the process."
Clint absorbs this and sits back in his chair. "Sounds like something out of a science fiction movie, doesn't it?"
"I very much wish this was fictional," Coulson says. "The paperwork this event is generating is reaching record-breaking status already. And there's no way of double checking the reports because Ross is evading me at every turn."
"Maybe because his daughter's involved?" Clint suggests.
"No," Coulson shakes his head and frowns, "I think he just doesn't want SHIELD to get to Banner before he does. From what I got today, he's convinced that Banner has stolen military secrets. He's hunting him like he's possessed."
"Wait, so Banner can turn into a monster sometimes whether he wants to or not," Clint narrows his eyes, "but he's basically a civilian scientist, and he's still managed to keep himself out of Ross' grip for a year? Without any help, while Ross is backed up by a base of soldiers and connections that go all the way up to the White House?"
"Closer to six months," Coulson says, "but yes, essentially."
Clint hums and puts his ankle up on his knee. "I like him. That's pretty good."
"For him," Coulson starts writing, "not good for me, or my inbox."
Clint falls silent and spends most of the flight back looking out of the window and trying to imagine what sort of monster Dr Banner turns into.
x
On a mission in Spain, Natasha walks barefoot through a fountain, holding her stupidly expensive shoes by their straps. Clint laughs and teases her for not being able to handle the heels, which is how he ends up buying and wearing glittery four-inch heels for a week when they get back to the Helicarrier. He gets blisters, but pretends he can't feel a thing as he struts down the corridors and waltzes into the canteen each day. At the end, Natasha and a few of the other female agents make him a tiara out of cardboard, tinsel, and glitter, and crown him 'the prettiest princess ever'. Clint accepts graciously and contemplates burning the shoes for causing him so much pain.
It's because he knows how horrific high heels are that he somehow isn't surprised when Natasha stabs someone in the neck with one of her stilettos in Sydney on New Year's. 2007 finds them hiding on the edge of Garigal National Park, laying low, because SHIELD can't bail them out of such a populous area.
"Did the heels get to you or something?" Clint hisses. They're both tired and pissed off with each other. Natasha still hasn't given him an explanation for stabbing a random guest at the party in the neck, and he's getting angrier by the moment. "Because I wore those glittered monstrosities for a whole week and I still managed to resist losing my head and killing someone with them."
"Later," is all Natasha will say, and Clint wants to shake her he's so hacked off, but he reigns himself in and they work through the mess. Their mission is a complete failure, and they're on the run in very conspicuous outfits – tuxedoed men and women in evening dresses aren't normal in the daytime, especially not in in Australian heat. Clint's already sweating, and he thinks Natasha is going to get sunburn across her bare shoulders soon.
Later for Natasha means when they're both back in a safe environment that she feels familiar with, and Clint comes as close as he ever has to pushing her hard for answers, because they end up being stuck in Sydney for three days before SHIELD can get them out, and no one looks pleased to see them. Coulson's off somewhere else, but Clint knows him well enough to expect a meeting in his office, probably with a lecture attached for good measure. He hates getting lectured.
When they finally land back on the Helicarrier, Clint waits until they're out of medical and alone before he turns on Natasha, ready to break something. "Well?"
"Well?" Natasha raises an eyebrow and he wants to scream.
"Cut the bullshit," he snaps. "You owe me an explanation. What the hell was going through your head, Nat?"
"Can we not do this here?" she asks, looking at the empty corridor very pointedly.
"Fine," he jerks his head in the direction of the nearest flight of stairs. "Coming?"
She follows him as he goes down two floors and opens the door to his room. "Thank you," she says, closing the door behind her.
"You're welcome," he growls, still pissed. "Now would you mind filling me in? I'm lost on the part where you decided that it was a viable course of action to slip off your shoe and stab a random guy in the neck with it. Did I miss that part of the briefing or something?"
"He recognised me."
Clint stops and stares at her. She looks perfectly calm and composed, which is how he knows that she isn't at all. "Recognised you?"
"He wasn't who he said he was. He visited the Red Room several times. He was one of the men who called the shots, at least indirectly. He…" she falters. "I danced for him once," she goes on, frowning unhappily. "I think it must have been a demonstration of how well the facility could plant false memories. He was pleased. I remember him laughing. He saw me with you at the function and he recognised me."
"So you stabbed him?" Clint sits down on his narrow bed and Natasha comes to sit next to him, keeping a space between them.
"I had to kill him." She frowns and clasps her hands lightly on her knees. "I had to. I don't even know what was going on in my mind. I recognised him at once, but as soon as he looked at me and realised who I was, I just…"
"The nearest weapon was your shoe?" Clint's still a bit nonplussed.
"Getting to my knives would've meant hitching up my dress. There wasn't time. The heel was practical."
"But why?" Clint frowns, confused. "Why did you have to kill him? Knocking him out would've been better. Still not great, but better than shoving a four inch stiletto through his throat."
"I had to."
"Why?"
"I don't know," she whispers, and her hands curl around each other and squeeze hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
Clint pauses. "Natasha?"
"I don't know why I did it," she continues, hands almost shaking with the strength of her own grip. "I don't know. I had to kill him. I don't know why."
Clint reaches over and pries her hands apart. She looks at him, frown in place. "It's okay," he tells her. "I think I get it." Her fingers twine with his but don't squeeze harder than necessary. "It could be behavioural conditioning, right? You said they trained you to react in certain ways to certain stimuli – this could be one of those things."
Natasha takes this in, considers it, and seems to accept it as a likely possibility. "It makes sense," she murmurs. "And I wouldn't know. I wouldn't even… they made me into their puppet. Pull a string and I obey."
"You're no one's puppet," Clint snorts.
"I thought I wasn't," she shakes her head, long hair falling forward and hiding her expression. "But how can I consider myself to be a free agent if I still respond to triggers like this? I was created to be the perfect soldier-spy, and I am. I'm better than anyone else. I killed when I was told to, tortured on command, destroyed my competition – I did everything they wanted me to and more."
"But you broke out," Clint strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. "You're not their toy."
"I haven't told you how I broke out, have I?"
Clint shakes his head slowly. "You haven't."
"You've never asked."
"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to. Do you want to?"
"I planned my escape. Since killing Anya…she was the closest thing to a friend I'd ever had, but I hadn't hesitated. I killed her and the commanders praised me. I planned their deaths, even though I knew I would never be able to carry them out." Natasha takes a deep breath, eyes cold and hard like steel. "They thought I was their greatest success. And in a way, I was. I was so good I fooled my handlers. I can make myself sick, you know. I was trained to be able to do that. I threw up, forced myself to sweat and shake, and they got worried. I'd never done anything outside of their orders before, so they didn't even think I would ever act on my own desires. They sedated me and removed me from the facility. I woke up in one of their hospitals. There were certain places that were theirs, you see. Some buildings they would keep under their control – schools, offices that handled sensitive information…and hospitals. I could tell it was one of theirs when I woke up. It's not like they would have taken me anywhere else.
"I pretended to be weak. There were three doctors in the room with me, two nurses, and one of the Room's heavy men. I killed them all. I knew the commanders would have been watching. I killed the cameras and waited, and they came. I killed them as well. Eighteen armed men, and I dispatched them like flies. And then I locked the hospital up and burned it to the ground."
Clint's never heard her like this before. Usually, she tells him of her past in snippets here and there, sometimes lightly, in throw-away remarks. Now her voice is emotionless and empty, and he has to supress a shiver. Natasha's voice is deep, and she can often sound hard, even cruel, but Clint's learned to pick up the currents beneath the surface. Her voice is the way she communicates with him – she's an excellent actress, but at rest her face is schooled. She told him once that she was made to be expressionless unless stated otherwise because it would preserve her natural beauty, which was just another weapon. Her face can be as blank as a piece of paper, but her voice will be passionate and intense.
He wonders if the way she's speaking now is the way she used to sound when she spoke in the Red Room.
"I was almost ready to be moved up into the next level," she says in the same empty voice. "They would have called me sixteen then. But I burned the hospital down and ran away. There were innocent people in there. Children. Babies. But I didn't care. I killed five more people and stole some of their clothes and all of their money. I didn't know that I knew how to drive until I tried, and it was all there in my mind." She moved her head towards his slightly, still not looking at him, and her voice had something in it when she said, "Who knows what else they've put in there?"
Clint moves on instinct, his hand moving up behind Natasha's back to slide fingers gently through her long hair, close to the roots. He slows for a second, ready to retreat, but she says nothing and he keeps running his fingers through the red curls, wondering why he's doing it. "It doesn't matter," he says quietly, other hand still holding hers. "Whatever else is hidden in there, it doesn't matter. You're not theirs anymore. You haven't been theirs for years."
"So what am I?" she asks, suddenly bitter. "SHIELD's?"
"You're your own," Clint says, and realises as he says it that it's obvious. "You're a better survivor than anyone else here, probably even better than Fury. If SHIELD was destroyed, you'd survive, and you'd keep going. You're that good. The Red Room might've given you the skills, but you're the one who uses them. You're more than a weapon, Natasha."
"I know that," she narrows her eyes at the floor. Clint doesn't stop combing her hair with his fingers.
"Does it help that you're not the only one who knows that?"
She thinks for a long moment. "I think so," she says at last, so quiet he almost doesn't hear what she says.
"Good." She shifts, and Clint understands. He withdraws his hand from her hair, and she gets up and leaves without another word, the door closing with a definite click behind her. Clint sighs and gets up to change out of his uniform. His clock says it's ten in the evening and he's exhausted, but he pulls on his comfiest casuals and gets the mission report file up on his laptop to fill in, because hopefully that'll go some of the way to getting him back in Coulson's good books. After this mission, he's pretty sure him and Natasha are in the doghouse.
At half eleven, someone knocks on his door, and Clint's not surprised when he opens it and Natasha walks in, somehow pushing past him without ever touching him. She seems more together now, and he gets that – after telling him things about her, Natasha usually retreats for a while and he's careful to leave her alone. He trusts that she'll come back, and so far, she always has.
"Done your report yet?" he asks, closing the door. She sits on his rumpled bed and he does the same, smiling slightly when she shakes her head.
"I've been in the gym."
"You should get on it."
"What've you written?"
"Everything apart from your reason for attacking the guy. I didn't know what to put, so it's not finished yet. What do you want to say about it?"
She frowns. "How do you feel about lying in your mission reports?"
"It wouldn't be the first time." She looks at him in something like surprise, and he smiles crookedly. "Nothing big. I just sometimes feel that not everyone needs to know all the details, especially when they're concerning my state of mind at the time, y'know?" She nods slowly, and he grins. "What're we saying then?"
"He was a former employer of mine," she says decisively. "He hired me to kill off someone in his business who was getting too close to his involvement in certain covert projects. He recognised me. I panicked."
"You sure?" Clint tilts his head. Natasha's become something of a legend at SHIELD for her excellent poker face and deadpan reactions to surprising news.
"You can say I panicked. I'll say I reacted without thinking the course of action through."
"You were emotionally involved?" Clint suggests. She purses her lips, but nods.
"I already disliked the man. Will that do?"
"Yeah. Coulson'll know it's bullshit."
She casts him a knowing look. "And you'll confirm it for him. You can't lie to him."
Clint shrugs, pretending he doesn't care. "He won't tell anyone."
She nods, and glances at his hand, resting on the bed between them. He lifts it uncertainly, and when she doesn't look at him or move away, he raises it to her head and starts carding it through her hair as he had before. It's nice – Clint's always had a bit of a thing for textures, and Natasha's hair is soft and clean. She closes her eyes and shifts a fraction closer on the bed, and he pushes his fingers gently against her scalp. It's not a massage, but he wouldn't know what else to call it. Whatever it is, it's pleasant. The room is warm, they're both comfortable, and they're both feeling safe.
His fingers move down to rub her neck as he strokes through her hair, and they both angle their bodies to face each other as much as they can. Something's building in the room between them, Clint can feel it. Possibility. Natasha's hand comes to rest on his knee, and when he doesn't move away, she moves it up to his thigh. He can feel it through the material of his trousers, firm and warm. They've both got blood on their hands, but it doesn't matter at all because it's both of them. They're in this together, as guilty as each other. Clint's eyelids fall closed for a lazy moment, and he feels Natasha move closer. The hand buried in her hair cups the back of her skull as she kisses him, and it's not romantic exactly, but it's more than friendship – a deeper connection.
When she pulls away, they look at each other and smile. It's a quiet moment that Clint feels they've carved out for themselves. He knows suddenly, with a sort of pull in his chest, that he can rely on Natasha for anything. He wants her to know that she can rely on him too – he's always liked it when people around him knew that they could trust him – so he hooks his foot over her ankle and dips in for another kiss. They're both gentle, and that's precious because they both know how strong the other is.
They kiss for a while, getting closer on the bed until they're almost in each other's laps, arms tangled and legs entwined, but in a way it's almost chaste. It's more about comfort and reassurance than anything else, and Clint likes it. When they do pull away and lean their foreheads together, mouths dry and eyes half-closed, he swallows before speaking. "This is okay, right? This isn't gonna blow up into something we can't handle?"
"You mean a committed romantic relationship?" Natasha smirks slightly, and he grins.
"Kinda. I mean, I'm up for trying if you are, but –"
"No," she shakes her head. "This is good."
"Good," he smiles and closes his eyes for a moment. "We should have, I don't know, guidelines or something."
"Guidelines?"
"Yeah. We're not dating, right?"
"Right."
"So no exclusive rights to the other person or anything, right?"
"Clint, shut up."
He pulls back to argue and she kisses him gently on the lips. "We're fine," she tells him quietly. "Don't try and overthink anything. You'll only give yourself a headache."
"The way you hold my intelligence in high regard has always charmed me."
"I'm glad you noticed."
"I've always had excellent observational skills."
She snorts, and he chuckles, and she lifts a hand and runs it slowly through his hair. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says. He nods, they kiss once more, and she leaves. He strips to his boxers and falls asleep so easily it's like falling backwards into a pile of feathers. He sleeps better than he has for weeks, and it's wonderful.