"Jesus Tasha," he breathes. He cards his hands through his hair before saying, "Yeah I'm just gonna take a seat right here on the floor." He slides down the range's partition then begins to remove his shooting glove. He knows she's still watching him so he takes his time. "You know, for someone who has the perfect skill set for saying exactly the right thing, you are fantastic at saying exactly the wrong thing to a former foster kid," he says bitterly.
"I have always made a conscious effort not to use those skills on you," she sounds angry, "would you prefer I did?"
"No!" He looks up at her from the floor matching her tone, "I would prefer you didn't think you were tied to me against your will but I guess that ship has already sailed."
"You don't listen. You hear things with your heart instead of your brain." If voices could stamp their feet Natasha's voice would have done just that.
"Sucks to be you then, tied to an idiot, against your will."
"Yes that's just what I was saying. You are an idiot. I am held hostage to an idiot child," she says sarcastically. She tilts her head to the side and purses her lips with recognisable frustration.
Clint can't help it, he begins to laugh. It's bordering on hysterical laughter by the time he sees what Natasha's expression is doing faced with his laughter and her blazing eyes send him further over the edge. His eyes stream, his side aches and he isn't sure why he suddenly finds it all so hilarious. It is only when she looks as if she is about to leave that he pulls himself together enough to gasp out "Tash. Tash. Don't go." He wipes away the stray tears and grins up at her. "Come down here and sit with me okay?"
"I don't see how this is funny."
"It's not Nat. It's not funny at all. It's just… ridiculous… ever get the feeling you're talking in circles?"
"No," she says bluntly. "I'm not sitting on the floor Barton it's dirty."
"Agent Romanoff I've seen you sit in worse conditions. I've seen you sleep in worse conditions. Just sit already." He taps the space next to him. She considers it. She does not break eye contact, she does not shift her feet that equally support her light frame, she does not uncross her arms… until she does in a graceful sequence of moves and she is beside him on the floor four inches from his right arm.
He lets his legs splay out on the floor in front of him and watches as she draws her knees up to her chest, the material of her cat suit bending and shifting like a second skin. They sit in comfortable silence for a moment and he doesn't try to think of what to say, how to explain or why she is still here. For a moment he lets himself be happy that he has her beside him.
"There are many phrases for "I don't care" in Russian," she says. "There are differences that don't exist in English like dark blue and light blue."
"We have those in English Tash you just said them."
"боже мой, I honestly don't know why I try. In Russian dark blue and light blue are as distinct as red and purple are in English."
"Right. So my Russian sucks too what else have you got?"
"Do you want me to leave so you can enjoy your self-pity alone?"
"No it's definitely more fun with you helping."
"I am not helping you feel bad. You are choosing to. This is my point."
"There's a point?"
"You remembered what I said before I left the Medical Bay incorrectly. You recalled it with…" She reaches across the space between them and puts her right hand slightly left of his sternum. She must feel the quick intake of breath but she does not mention it. "With your heart," she continues without taking back her hand, "if you remembered it with your head you would know I had said that the outcome was all equal to me not that the question did not matter. It's a slight difference I know but…" She looks sad as she takes her hand away. "I wanted to believe that I would deal with it regardless of the outcome."
"The heart pumps blood around the body Tasha," he chuckles a little but it comes out hoarse and tired.
"Then you listen with your amygdala. See it lacks poetry." There is almost a pout in her voice and he wants so very badly to pull her into him and kiss her forehead.
"Okay, okay I got my Russian translation all dark blue when you said light blue doesn't really change the fact that I'm in love with you and you wish you weren't 'bound'? to me." She nods once and he decides it is at the correct translation rather than the sentiment.
"I wish that being tied to you was not a risk… you hear I wish I was not tied to you. You hear I wish there was no Clint Barton in my life."
"You know that?"
"You know that I do."
"I heard the fuck me and get it out of your system thing pretty loud and clear though Nat." Out of the corner of his eye he can see her place two fingertips to her lips. She looks more lost than he ever would have believed Natasha Romanoff could look. He waits on her hoping she'll correct him; tell him she meant something not quite but completely different from his accusations. She says nothing for the longest time.
"I'm sorry," she says when he is sure the silence is going to make him crawl out of his skin.
"What for this time?"
"I was wrong to think all you wanted from me was sex." He gives a single nod in response; it's all she needs from him they've been partners too long for her to need more than a single quick 'understood'.
"All this time I thought she has to know how I feel about her. She's too smart and too damn sneaky not to know…" he drifts off not entirely certain of what he was saying only the sickly sense that if he stops talking she might be gone again. She touches her lips again. "I'm sorry about that. That was out of line."
"What was?" she asks distractedly.
"Kissing you like that. It wasn't right."
"We've kissed before."
"Yeah but that's ops and I have your permission."
"Like Alexanderplatz?" she asks and he does not blanch or blush because he is a trained soldier and elite marksman.
"Ah, I don't know what I said about that Tasha," he admits.
"Nothing coherent," she answers before her voice gets softer hinting at a past that stains her ledger, "dying men can only be counted on to tell you what you want to hear," she is louder again as she finishes, "I remember it too."
"The op?"
"The kiss. The kiss in Berlin."
"It was an op. Sometimes it's the best way to hide in plain sight. I know that. It's okay Tash. This," he gestures between them, "doesn't change that."
"Things are always less than clear with us."
"Mea Culpa Tasha," he says nudging her with his elbow.
"It isn't. It's not all your fault." He swears she is twisting on something inside herself. Her words are not as perfectly chosen, not as definitively spoken as usual. "I have to go," she snaps back from her winding thoughts.
"No you don't"
"I do. This time I do. They want me in LA in the morning. Natalie Rushman, Legal, Stark Industries." She puts her hand out as if offering him a handshake so he takes it, smiling, holding on for a fraction too long. He then stops dropping her hand abruptly.
"Stark? The guy with the armor?"
"The billionaire with the armor. The reckless billionaire with the armor."
"The man whore billionaire with the armor," he says sourly.
"Clint."
"Yeah, yeah I know," he says taking her tone to mean that he has no right to be jealous.
"I can't do this Clint."
"Do what Nat, do what?" There is the bitter taste of adrenalin in his mouth and the gallop of his heart rate and there is nothing with an eye socket for him to put an arrow through just the prospect of loss.
"I can't be… if it was going to be anyone, it would…be … but… compromised… it wouldn't be Anthony Stark that's for sure… I… love… I wouldn't… I couldn't."
"Oh thank fucking Christ."
"What?"
"I never thought I'd be happy to hear you trying to say you don't love me but I'll take it over losing you all together any day."
"You're happy with that?" she asks perplexed. Natasha perplexed is a wonderful sight. It rarely happens and he love the way her brow creases and one side of her mouth pulls up in a way that makes him want to kiss the corner of her mouth. It is not a helpful thought.
"No, Natasha I love you." He rubs his hands over his face and rests them in his hair for a moment. "But you don't get perfect in this world so…" He shrugs. "You're still my best friend and you're still my partner… if you promise to never offer me sex to get me over it again… I'll live." She examines his face until it begins to get uncomfortable so he gives her a quick smile.
"You better live. I've invested far too much time in keeping you alive," she finally says deadpan and she is once again the Natasha he knows all too well.
"You're the one with the ledger sweetheart," he grumbles.
"I do not answer to sweetheart."
He stands holding his hands out unnecessarily for her to pull herself up on. She raises an eyebrow and pops from the ground with no display of effort whatsoever.
"Stay out of trouble Barton. I want my partner back." She taps him once on the chest. He tries not to think of the warmth of her through his black shirt. "You screw up and they punish me with more narcissist babysitting."
"Yes Ma'am," he says taking another step back from her. She brushes past him as she walks out of the range. His fingers flex briefly before he puts a stop to the stray thought of grabbing her, pulling her closer and letting his lips trail down her neck. "Hey Nat?" he calls watching her spin back to him before she reaches the door.
"Yes Barton."
"You're gonna hack the servers and delete the security footage right?" he asks indicating the security camera in the corner of the range and the four hidden cameras he's tallied since he got here this afternoon.
"Of course," she says smiling.