When the battle was over and the shawarma tucked away, Stark leaned back in his chair, belched, then offered them all a place to sleep for the night in his tower. Natasha was exhausted and sore all over, her head was fuzzy and there was blood in her hair, but none of that mattered. Clint was there, he was alive and no longer compromised and they could get past whatever horrors came after them next. The only thing she wanted in that moment was to curl up beside him in bed and sleep until Armageddon, but they had both agreed long ago to try to keep whatever it was they had between them quiet. No touching in public. Or, at least no touching beyond gripping his arm when he tripped over a piece of rubble, manhandling him into the car, laughing at one of his stupid jokes and pressing against his leg with her own.
"Seriously, Ruski, Bird-brains, Stark Tower is probably one of the least-destroyed buildings in the city. Gotta sleep sometime, right?" Stark insisted when Natasha tried to get him to take them back to SHIELD. Clint had stiffened at her side, and that was the only reason why she complied with what Stark wanted. Clint wasn't ready to go back to SHIELD and the people he'd attacked.
She met her partner's eye across the back seat before nodding. "Fine."
The moment the car turned en route to Stark Tower apprehension rose in Natasha's gut and made her chest shudder. She had kept good on her promise not to go near the billionaire after the disaster in Malibu months ago, hadn't had any reason to go back to that side of the country, yet was now steadily on her way straight to his home. It was too much to hope that Potts wouldn't be there, either.
Clint's hand brushed against hers. "Tasha?" he asked. "You okay? You're looking a little glassy."
"You're seriously asking me?" retorted Natasha, tangling her fingers in her own hair. She yanked her hand away and curled her knees up. It felt like she was shaking apart at the seams, the adrenaline crash setting in. "I'm just tired."
From the passenger seat, Banner - wrapped in a shock blanket to cover himself - shot her a calculating look. A monster's roar echoed in her ears and she had to stop herself trembling. Even if Banner was fine, if he was a perfectly fine man who would never willingly hurt anyone, the Hulk was a monster of destruction. She turned to look out the window, trying not to think of how similar they were and shutting her eyes against the chaos in her head. The car was so quiet compared to her own internal destruction.
It was no surprise that Pepper was outside the tower, waiting for Tony's safe return after the past few days' mess. "You idiot!" she half-screamed and sobbed, running to Stark and flinging her arms around him.
"Hey, hey, Pep, be ginger, please," replied Tony, hugging her back. He was just barely able to stay upright and so the couple leaned on each other, held each other up, and Natasha turned away so she wouldn't have to watch them. Instead she watched Clint. He was moving gingerly to protect his broken ribs and very reluctantly allowing Banner to prod at him. "Pepper...did you hear about Coulson?"
Clint made a tiny sound of pain from turning around so quickly. "What about Coulson?" he demanded.
At the look on Stark's face, something cold and hard woke itself up in Natasha's gut. "You didn't hear over the comms," Stark said. He looked at Natasha.
"I was taking care of Clint. I didn't..." allow herself to listen, to let it sink in until she knew Clint was alright.
"Tony?" Pepper was looking from Stark to Natasha now, her brows furrowed.
Stark hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and biting his lip, and finally Rogers stepped forward. "Agent Coulson was killed, ma'am," he said. His uniform was torn and burnt and his cowl was gone; he looked like a battlefield.
There was a strange sound to Natasha's right, and suddenly everyone was turning to find Clint fallen on the ground. Banner forgot about decency to rush to his side and Natasha could only watch. Watch, because there was a swarm of bees waking up between her ears, watch, because her stomach was churning, watch, because she couldn't remember the last meaningful thing she'd said to the man who treated her like a wayward daughter instead of an agent under his care. She had forgotten all about Coulson in the chaos of battle.
Clint asked, "How?" in a weak and shaking voice. He was afraid that he was the one to do it.
"Loki. Stabbed him with that spear of his."
Suddenly, Natasha was certain that she was going to vomit. She had touched that spear, used it to close the portal, seen the blood on its handle and hadn't known. She hadn't known that it was Coulson's blood. A frighteningly animalistic sound wrenched its way from her throat but she allowed herself no other outward reaction. Pepper was staring at her. They all were staring at her, all but Clint and Banner, and before she could betray herself further she turned on her heel and left. There was nothing for her there anyway.
"Agent Romanov!"
She broke into a run and vanished among the crowds. Even in her SHIELD uniform she had ways of disappearing when it was what she wanted.
Turning a corner, Natasha was stopped by a wall of rubble. Instead of going another direction she just sank down on top of a large enough piece, holding her head in her hands and trying not to shake right out of her skin. Coulson had barely been half her age, but acted like a father. He hadn't been afraid to tell her she was being an idiot, or to manhandle her into eating or sleeping, or to tell her no when her mind was set on a mission. He was the only person who knew when she and Clint fell together, and he didn't tell a soul.
He had wanted to talk to her about the miscarriage too, but she had brushed him off. She was always brushing off the people that mattered.
"Agent Romanov?"
Rogers' voice was small and tinny, coming from her pocket, and after a moment's fumbling she pulled out her communications earpiece. "I'm fine," she said into it. "Just needed some air."
"Are you sure? You seemed pretty shaken up."
"I'm fine," she repeated. Her voice almost sounded genuine to her own ears.
Rogers released a breath and sounded his age. "If you say so. I think it would be better if you came back, though, Agent. Barton's been asking for you and Stark's...well. I just think it would be a good idea," he said slowly.
There was a tiny pop in her ear as another comm tuned in. "Tasha? Where'd you go?" Clint called over the radio waves.
She sighed. "I'm on my way back, Barton, don't worry," she replied, and switched off her comm. She just needed a few more minutes to gather herself, and then...what? Go back to normal? When had her life ever been normal? When had she ever been anything but someone else's plaything? Someone's puppet? An empty shell meant to be filled with everything her next mark desired?
There was a shifting of rubble and she raised her head. A string bean of a young man in large spectacles was looking at her, an old-fashioned camera in his hands. "Hey, you're one of those superheroes," he called tentatively. "Right?"
"I'm not a superhero," she replied dully, thinking of Agent Carter. "I'm...just human."
The kid's camera clicked a few times. Once with flash. She glared at him, but he was unabashed and stepped even nearer. "Can I get your name? For my school paper? Please?" he asked. There was something so honest and skittish about the boy, like there was more he wanted to say but couldn't get himself to do it, that Natasha took pity on him.
"Black Widow."
She only had so much pity to spare.
"Tell me yours. It's only fair."
Hesitating, the kid looked down at the camera in his long hands before smiling at her in the fading light. "Parker, ma'am. Peter Parker." He clicked another picture and waved goodbye. "Thank you!"
Stark was waiting for her when she stepped out of the elevator, arms crossed and a stern look on his face. Behind him, further in the room, Potts and Rogers were on the sofa, pretending to be absorbed in their conversation even while they cast her concerned looks. "Is Clint okay?" Natasha asked, saying the first thing to come to mind that deflected attention from herself.
"He's fine, Itsy Bitsy," waved Stark. Before Natasha could so much as tell him not to call her one of his ridiculous nicknames there was a pair of thick arms wrapped around her. She stiffened and gasped, but Stark didn't let her go. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you were friends with Coulson. And, you know, thanks for closing the portal and saving all our lives. Whatever."
If he felt her start to tremble he didn't mention it. "Please let go of me," she replied, and he let her go. Before he could say anything else, though, she reached and snatched his wrist. Potts' eyes drilled a warning brand into her but she ignored it. "Stark, I. You know that I..."
He patiently waited. There were bruises around both of his eyes.
"I'm sorry. For spying on you," she finally managed to say. "I'm-"
"Forgiven," nodded Stark, grinning his shit-eating grin and momentarily gripping her shoulders. "Isn't that right, Pepper?"
The pair had an entire wordless conversation in one glance, and Pepper stood with a gracious smile. "Of course. Thank you, Natalie-Natasha. Natasha. Sorry," she corrected, offering her hand to shake without any sign of embarrassment for the slip. "All of the Avengers are welcome in Stark Tower."
Natasha looked between them, pulling her hand from Pepper's. "But I'm not..." she trailed off and shook her head. She wasn't an Avenger, not really. That hadn't been a part of the plan. She and Clint and Coulson were just the handlers, the round-up on the sidelines, never soldiers, never heroes. Especially not Natasha. She wasn't anyone's hero; she was little more use for good than Loki's scepter.
But Rogers was standing up too, smiling at her like Potts but with more genuine warmth and gratitude, like they were really friends on a team, and something small inside of her broke to pieces.
"Where's Clint?" she asked in lieu of finishing what she'd started to say.
The corner of Stark's mouth twitched upwards slightly. Part of his mustache had been burned away. "Thirteen floors down, there are a few apartments to pick from that should be mostly untouched. Go nuts and text JARVIS how you like your eggs in the morning. We're taking Reindeer Games back to Oz tomorrow."
Without acknowledging that she'd even heard, Natasha returned to the elevator at a near run and jabbed the button for the designated floor. Her vision tunneled until there was only one thing in her sights at a time and she had to guide herself along the hall with one hand. A brief look into each apartment was sufficient to tell her which was occupied by whom, and within minutes she'd found where Clint was staying and inserted herself in his bedroom. "Clint?" she called into the gloom.
He was sitting up, staring at the wall with slackened features. "Phil's dead."
"I know." She crept into the room and sat beside him, not looking at him.
"How long did you know?"
Their hands brushed on top of the covers. "Since Fury called it. You were still unconscious, and...I didn't have time to really think about it. Didn't give myself the time. Not until Stark mentioned it." Her fingers laced through his and squeezed.
When Clint next spoke his breath was hot against her ear. "I'm surprised you're here. After the past few months, I thought that maybe you changed your mind about me. And then this whole mind-control thing happened, and...I dunno," he muttered with a little shrug. "Why'd you leave like that, Tasha? Did I do something? Was I not good enough for you? Because if you want out, you don't have to take it easy on the guy with the concussion. I'll let you go right now, and-"
"Clint, we lost a baby," she interrupted him, her voice sounding too loud in her own ears, and Clint went still. The air in the room thickened and curdled and Natasha's eyes found the tasteful painting of a rose on the wall. She stared it down as if it had done her a personal offense. "We lost a baby that we didn't know existed, and even if we weren't planning or trying for it, it was still a loss. One that I felt too strongly. I should have talked to you, but I just-I just couldn't bring myself to do it. And I'm sorry, but we're spies and assassins and maybe that life just wasn't meant for us."
There was a beat, two, three, and Clint's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her in against him even though it had to have irritated his ribs. "I'm sorry I pushed you like that, Tasha. You were just so distant and I worried that I was losing you," he admitted. "I just wish you would've come to me sooner. You can't hide this stuff from me, Tash, and you...that night, you said...that you wanted it."
Still staring at the rose painting, Natasha gave a curt nod. "I did say that," she agreed.
"Did you mean it?"
"I..." She shook her head, voice caught in her throat.
"Tasha."
When his arm tightened around her, she nodded. "I think so," she told the painting. "I think so."
After that night, whether they liked it or not, Natasha and Clint were part of the strangest family on earth. They all went their separate ways once Loki was back on Asgard, but separating came with promises to reunite, whether it be in a week, a month, or the next time the Earth was threatened. A mission took Clint and Natasha to a village outside Volgograd, Banner flew away to help some crisis or another in Africa, Rogers took off on his motorcycle to familiarize himself with the new America he'd woken up to, and Stark returned to play in his tower. And piece it back together, but that was hardly the point.
"Where was it you said you were born? St. Petersburg?" Clint asked when the mission was through and they had a few hours to kill before catching their ride.
Stalingrad danced on the tip of her tongue, but she reigned herself in. "Volgograd," she replied lightly. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Well, you've seen where I was raised. I thought maybe you could return the favor, if you wanted."
She didn't want. Not in the least. But Natasha had opened herself up for this the moment she'd allowed herself to talk - hell, the moment she'd dropped her gun and gave in to the pain of an arrow pinning her to the ground. The moment she looked into Clint's eyes and dared him to kill her, but received only the agony of him wrenching his arrow from her shoulder and the warmth of his arms picking her up in return.
"Okay," she agreed.
Of course the actual place where she'd been born was gone, burned down in the thirties by Germans, but there was a newer apartment building - still abandoned, but newer - in its place that she claimed as her own. With Clint's hand grasped in hers she pointed with both of their index fingers. "That window, up there? That's the one by mother threw me from, into the arms of a man in the street. He was KGB, and he thought the Red Room was a ballet school," she explained, "until they recruited him, too."
Ivan Petrovitch. Long dead now, of course, even after the Red Room gave over the serum that saved his life. Both of their lives. She remembered him fondly and Clint held her hand a little tighter.
"Let's go in."
There was a conspiratorial glint in his eyes that had Natasha on edge, and she shook her head. "No. No, that's definitely not a good-"
But he was already pulling her toward the boarded-up door, grinning to himself like a little boy as they broke and entered and crept up the creaking stairs to her falsified childhood home. It either looked nothing like the place she'd lived or exactly like it, for as well as she remembered. A bathroom and a main room. A tiny fireplace in the corner. Paint fading and peeling on the rocking chair in the corner. Rag dolls lying forgotten under layers of dust. For a moment Natasha allowed herself to imagine this as her home, where her mother and father died, even though it couldn't have been the same place. Clint probably knew it too but pretended for both their sakes. They looked around and sighed in the quietude.
"It's sad, seeing a home go untouched," Clint said after a few minutes.
She nodded, inspecting a bouquet of artfully dried roses on the wall with arms crossed over her middle. They looked too fresh for the decay of the place.
There was a creak of floorboards, a whisper of a breeze, and in the next breath Natasha had grabbed Clint and dragged him to the floor before a peppering of bullets buried itself in the drywall.