Shoutouts to Black Betty, Agent Keene, beverlie4055, Rosay Chere Khann, Maite Sanchez, AmeliaSkellig, yornma, CreativeDreamer98, TheNaggingCube, paranoid-mandroid, Jo, Black Widow and Hawkeye OTP, MaddieFayeth96, EpicPackage, pengineer, and clintashainthetardis for reviewing!

I know I'm a day late in my upload, so I'm really sorry about that! This week has been a bit crazy in trying to get things done!

I had a question on what AO3 is. AO3 is a website called Archive of our Own (archiveofourown . org), and it's the other site on which I upload my stuff. It's actually my preferred website of choice, so that's why I have more Clint/Natasha oneshots on there instead of here. I think AO3 is more open to darker content, and sometimes I can write some pretty dark stuff. Speaking of AO3, I published a Matt Murdock/Kirsten McDuffie oneshot there called Leveling Out, so if you read the Daredevil comics and want to look at it, feel free to =)

This chapter has some pain and some light stuff. We have Clint & Palmer bro bonding, and we finally get some insight into what's going on at Tribiani Developing.

For extra emotions, listen to "Hazy" - Rosi Golan ft. William Fitzsimmons. (Thanks for the rec, MaddieFayeth96! Also, FITZSIMMONS OH MY GOD.)

As always, keep reviewing. Some of y'all's reviews have me literally laughing out loud. Oh my God. Ok. You guys are the best. Please, please, please keep it up!

Enjoy! =)

(AndSoIWrite wrote the last line because I butchered it to shreds the first time around.)

Chapter 11

Clint stood still and watched Natasha's retreating back. His tongue felt thick and heavy, and his jaw was locked tight, meaning that if he wanted to shout her name, he couldn't even do it. All he could do was stand there in that damn alley in fucking Italy and watch Natasha run away without looking back at him.

The irony of the whole situation struck him hard just then. Whenever he and Natasha fought, something that was very rare to begin with, he was the one to walk away. He was the one who needed to get to the roof and sit up there with miles and miles of open air for him to breathe. Granted, it was polluted air, but it was air nonetheless. Natasha, on the other hand, was the one who retreated into a room, preferring to stay somewhere enclosed and safe. And yet, Clint noticed, this time Natasha was the one running away because she couldn't cope, and he was the one retreating to their apartment.

The apartment. He should probably get back there, he reasoned to himself. Numbly, he turned over his shoulder and started walking. As ridiculous as he knew it was, part of him wanted to stay there in that same spot in hopes that Natasha might come back to find him, and he wanted to still be there. He wanted to show her that even though he hadn't been there for her on the helicarrier, he was here for her now. But he knew that she wouldn't try to find him in the spot she'd left him, so it didn't make sense to stay there.

He continued to walk through the city, oblivious to everything that was happening in the world around him. Had he done the right thing by telling Natasha he'd tried to kill her? He had no idea. Hell, Natasha was the one with all the answers. Whenever he tried to remember how to spell a word or which city was the capitol of Romania, Natasha was always there at his side, over his shoulder, peering around the corner with an answer.

Clint's mind was working hard on overtime as he walked. He was thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time, and his thoughts were moving at such high speeds that he couldn't really figure each one out and deal with them as they came. All he could do was move forward and get back to the apartment.

Finally, the familiar building was in front of him, and he was climbing the emergency stairs instead of taking the fancy elevator provided in the lobby. He knew it'd be a long hike up, but he didn't care. Clint preferred the stairs, anyway, and he'd kind of missed walking up them—Jason Dantoni wouldn't be caught dead taking the stairs—since he'd been using the elevator so much.

By the time he reached the floor of his apartment, his legs and his lungs burned, but Clint's mind wasn't any less quiet. If anything, the fact that his muscles were on fire made his brain feel even antsier, which wasn't a good thing. He pushed the door to the stairwell open and crossed into the hall of the building, walking until he was in front of the door. With a quick twist of his key, he was inside.

He paused when he stepped over the threshold. This was usually the moment when he felt at home. Home was such a funny concept for both him and Natasha. Spies like them could easily adjust to new places and feel at ease with calling it home after only a couple weeks. However, he had learned a long time ago, just as Natasha had, that home was each other.

Clint remembered one specific moment in the jungles of South America when he and Natasha had been waiting for an emergency extraction. Natasha had a bullet in her thigh, and Clint had a sprained ankle, but they'd sat still underneath one of those tall beautiful trees in the rainforest and waited. He remembered that he hadn't felt unhappy or regretful or anything—in fact, he remembered thinking that if their extraction team never came, he and Natasha would have been ok by themselves just for a little while. To Clint, home wasn't their apartment in New York, London, Chicago, or wherever else they were. Home was Natasha. Angry Natasha, happy Natasha, pensive Natasha, each and every single kind of Natasha was home.

Slowly, Clint forced himself to move, and he worked his way towards the kitchen. As he neared it, he heard someone rummaging around, and he stopped in his tracks, wondering if he were really all that in the mood to see Palmer. But he didn't have to wait long because just as he started to move to turn around, Palmer walked out into the hall.

"I thought I heard the door open," Palmer said, holding half a loaf of fresh Italian bread in his hand. "Where's Romanoff?"

Clint willed himself to speak, but nothing came out. The only sound between the two former partners was silence, and it was deafening. Palmer lifted his dark eyebrows in confusion and leaned his head forward. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh…" Clint thought of something more intelligent to say, but he couldn't get his brain to work right. What was he even supposed to say? He couldn't figure out what was going on, let alone tell Palmer what was happening. "Well…"

"Barton, where's Romanoff?" Palmer repeated. Clint lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as he did so.

"Uh…she's not here," he said lamely.

"The fuck? The fuck does that mean? Is she ok?" Palmer asked, worry passing over his face. "Jesus, Barton, what the hell's going on?"

"Well…we had a talk, and she, uh, she left," he said. He watched Palmer's eyebrows draw in tight together as he realized something was off. Carefully, his former partner scanned him up and down as if he were looking for something.

"Clint, did you do something to her?" he asked. Instantly, Clint felt something inside himself snap, and the next thing he knew, he had Palmer pinned up against the wall, the heels of his palms pressing into the tech genius's shoulders.

"You piece of shit, you want to say that again? She left, ok? She left. I didn't fucking touch her." Roughly, he released Palmer as if all the energy had drained out of his body, and he stepped away, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Are you fucking kidding me? You just asked me if I—for fuck's sake—"

"Dude, I'm not trying to piss you off," Palmer replied, his voice relatively even, considering it'd been two years or longer since the last time he and Clint had sparred or done anything to train together. He wasn't much of a field agent as it was, generally flinching whenever anyone threw a punch or a dirty look his way, but tonight, he didn't seem all that shaken by it.

"Then why the fuck would you say something so fucking stupid?" Clint snapped. Palmer held his hands up as if he were surrendering.

"Romanoff's not the only one afraid you're going to wig out, ok?" he asked. "You're a mess, man."

"What the fuck—"

"Barton." Palmer's voice was quiet but firm, and he stared evenly at Clint. "You can lie to us all you like, but you're not fucking fooling anyone. I don't know if you forgot, but we've known each other for 10 years. I know you pretty fucking well, ok?"

"Then you'd know I'd never do anything to…" Clint stopped speaking, remembering how easily he'd fallen under Loki's control, how easily it'd been for him to agree to killing Natasha. As soon as Loki had told him he was ordered to kill her, Clint hadn't felt a thing. He'd said ok, and he'd set about to planning how he was going to drain the life out of her. Telling Palmer that he'd never do anything to hurt Natasha was a lie because he'd almost killed her.

"Barton, what happened?" Palmer asked. Clint glowered at Palmer, his jaw taut as his eyes blazed. "Barton?"

"I told her something really fucked up that happened before New York, and she…she needed space." Clint kept his words even and flat, completely devoid of emotion. If he let any ounce of emotion show, he wouldn't be able to hold it back, and he didn't trust anyone other than Natasha to be there to witness it.

"Shit," Palmer said. He took a breath and looked down at the floor. "Shit."

"Yeah," Clint curtly agreed. The two men stood in silence for a long time, the total opposite of each other. Clint was tall and wide, taking up space with his anger and his pain while Felix Palmer was dark and gangly, quietly observing the way he always did. Finally, Palmer ripped off a chunk of bread and handed it to Clint. The archer stared at it in confusion. "What?"

"Bread. Take it," Palmer replied, holding it out further.

"Ok, Jesus," Clint muttered, but he took the bread, anyway. "Why the hell are you giving me this?"

"Food makes everything better. Not 100% better. But a little bit." Palmer shrugged as if to apologize for the fact that that was the best he could really do. Clint looked at the chunk of food in his hand and frowned at it. He'd just eaten, and he wasn't all that hungry, but he lifted the bread and took a bite. "Know where she is?"

Clint shook his head. "Nope."

"She say when she's going to be back?"

"Nope."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"No. I am."

Being out in the open air was too vulnerable for Natasha. She needed to be someplace with a roof and walls, someplace that made her feel protected instead of exposed. As soon as she turned the corner and knew that Clint couldn't see her, she pulled her phone out and dialed one of the few numbers she used there in Italy.

"Faith?" Francesca's voice filled her ear after just a few seconds.

"Hey, Francesca. What are you doing tonight?" Natasha asked. She didn't know why she felt nervous making this call; over the past three weeks, she had bonded with Francesca more than she'd bonded with Ariana or Sabrina, but still. Calling someone up to hang out because she couldn't go back to her apartment with Clint was so unlike Natasha she felt like screaming.

"Nothing. Anthony's working late tonight, I think, but other than that, I don't have anything. Do you want to do something?" Francesca asked. Natasha's pace slowed to a stop, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply and quietly. She sure as hell didn't trust Francesca, but she definitely appreciated that the woman had put forth the offer to get together so she didn't have to.

"Yes," she said. "I would love to. Do you mind if we do something like, a quiet night in? Just us and some bottles of wine?"

"You read my mind. I'll let Silvio know you're coming so he can let you in."

"Perfect. I should be there in about 15 minutes. I'm not that far."

"Ok. I'll see you shortly."

"See you soon." Natasha hung up the phone and swallowed hard. Had she really just done that? It seemed like something Faith Dantoni would do, but right just then, she felt that she needed to be Natasha Romanoff. But then again, she felt that she couldn't handle being Natasha. Smoothing a hand over her red hair, she pressed her lips together and made herself take a step forward.

She'd known that Clint had intended to kill her. Well, she hadn't known, but she'd suspected deep, deep down in the darkest places of her heart that she tried to pretend didn't exist. To some degree, she'd known it, but she'd told herself no. If anyone would give into darkness, it would be her, not Clint. Clint had such a good heart, and he meant to do well. But her? Not as much. She wasn't in the same boat as Clint, nor had she ever fooled herself into thinking that she was. So the realization that Clint had fully meant to kill her shook her to her very core.

Quickly, she started to walk. She knew where Francesca's penthouse was, and she'd been running around Venice for three weeks now enough to know how to get there from where she was. Something that she and Clint shared in common was their ease with directions—once they saw how to get somewhere the first time, they never needed to look at a map again. Natasha had always wondered if Clint had been trained in that or if it were just natural; for her, it was training, just like most everything about her was.

Before she knew it, she was being ushered into Francesca's penthouse, smiling and greeting Silvio, one of the Tribianis' security men whom Natasha had had to pretend to not know when she'd first met him. Technically, she didn't know him, but she'd read his file in the mission packet that filled her in on everything to do with the Tribianis and Tribiani Developing.

"Faith?" Francesca appeared in the doorway, dressed more casually than Natasha had ever seen her. The dark-haired woman had her thick dark hair up in a bun and was wearing sweatpants and a loose tank top. For just a second, Natasha felt way overdressed in her blouse, jeans, leather jacket, and heels, but she brushed away the insecurity as she remembered that she could kill someone with a quick twist of her thighs. She always found it funny that that was the consolation she chose to use whenever she felt insecure about something, she thought to herself as she smiled at Francesca.

"Yeah, it's me," she replied.

"I have Marta pulling out a bottle of white wine for us. I figured the way you sounded over the phone, we could go for some champagne. It's a treat yourself night," Francesca said. Natasha felt her smile go thin, realizing that she'd let too much of her emotions slip earlier on the phone.

"Yeah, I can use some of the strong stuff," she said.

"If you ever want any vodka, we have plenty of that, too," Francesca offered with a shrug. "Come on in. We can sit and wait for the wine. If we want, we can always have some food."

Natasha crossed behind Francesca and walked through the large, spacious halls until they reached the living room. Only two days before, Natasha had been there helping Ariana plan an event for next Saturday to help raise money for a local environmental awareness company that worked closely with Tribiani Development. It had been good for Natasha to see the guest list and the names of all the people who were coming; in fact, many of the names she'd recognized as allies of Tribiani Development, and she'd tucked that information away in her head.

"What's going on?" Francesca asked. She crossed to the couch and sat down, gesturing with her hand for Natasha to sit on the opposite side. Careful not to betray any emotions that were dueling inside herself, Natasha smiled and gave a trite shrug, appearing as cavalier and unbothered as the next person.

"Minor fight with Jason. Just needed some space," she said.

"Oh, no. What's that boy done?" Francesca asked.

Natasha wrinkled her nose and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, it's stupid. Sometimes we get into stupid arguments about little things."

"Has Anthony been keeping him at the office for too long? I can talk to Anthony and have him let Jason go an hour early or so if that's something that concerns you." Francesca's face instantly became concerned, and Natasha listened to the commanding tone in her friend's voice. She tilted her head to the side with interest and decided to play a new angle. Even though she couldn't fully put a lid on everything that had happened with Clint just 20 minutes before, she could channel that energy and restlessness into her work.

"Could you do that?" she asked with a disbelieving laugh. "God, if I ever tried to get Jason to come home early on his own, he'd never do it. Never listens to me, that man."

"Anthony knows better," Francesca said. Her voice didn't betray anything, but Natasha noticed the way Francesca's body language became almost too casual, too disconnected from the conversation as if she were purposefully trying to divert attention from the words themselves.

"Teach me your ways," Natasha murmured. "I need to get Jason to do that."

Francesca smiled and looked away. "Actually, I had a question. I remember you saying that you and Jason met a party, but then you said that you'd met at a fundraiser."

"Same thing," Natasha said dismissively with a mild eye roll. "Bunch of bored people in fancy dresses and overpriced tuxedos."

"Oh, I understand that," Francesca said, softly laughing. "You know, if someone had told me 10 years ago that I would be married to one of the wealthiest men in Italy, I would have laughed in their face."

"How did you and Anthony meet?" Natasha asked, genuinely curious. "You know how Jason and I met, but you never told me your story."

"That's actually a fun story." Francesca smiled as her face grew softer with the memory. "Tribiani Developing was going to do something with the land very close to the town I grew up in, so he and the other men in charge were there a lot. He came to my family's restaurant, and one thing led to another, and here we are today."

"That's so cute," Natasha cooed. "I love listening to stories like that."

"Yeah, I love telling it. It might not be the most romantic story, but it's something. It's definitely the moment when my life turned around," Francesca replied. Before Natasha could answer, her phone started vibrating. Sickness filled her as she thought about Clint, knowing that it was him calling her, but she pulled out her phone to look, anyway. She blinked in surprise when she saw the Caller ID: Aunt Caroline. Technically, Aunt Caroline was code for Maria Hill, and so that meant Maria was calling her.

Natasha glanced up apologetically at Francesca. "This is my aunt. I've got to take it. I'll be right back."

"Oh, take your time! Seriously, you're fine!" Francesca reassured, watching Natasha get up and scramble off to the closest bathroom. As Natasha walked off, she slid her thumb across the screen to answer the call and put the phone up to her ear.

"Aunt Caroline! I know I said I'd call you earlier, but things have just slipped away, and with the time difference here, I totally forgot. I'm so sorry." She turned into the bathroom and shut the door behind her, locking it before turning around and running the faucet to drown out the sound of her conversation.

"You clear?" Maria asked.

"Yeah, now I am," Natasha replied, keeping her voice down low. "What do you want? I'm working."

"You missed your check in," Maria said. Natasha paused. She knew she'd missed her check in. Not calling Maria hadn't been an accidental slip—it'd been a completely on purpose decision she'd made.

"I know," she said calmly.

"What the hell, Natasha?" Maria snapped, instantly angry. "You know you're not supposed to—"

"Look, I'm working, and I can't right now. I'll have to update you when I can." Natasha shot the door a worried glance, paranoid that Francesca or any of the Tribianis' guards might be outside listening.

"Natasha, I have orders from Fury to pull you off this mission the first check in you miss, and you missed one," Maria said. Natasha felt the breath leave her body, and she quickly shook her head, even though she knew Maria couldn't see her.

"Don't pull me off this," she said quickly. "Please don't. I can't talk right this second, but I promise you I'll call you when I can."

"When will that be? I swear to God, Agent Romanoff, if you miss this next one, I will have to assign you back here to the Triskelion, and Fury will have to discipline you himself," Maria said, no longer sounding angry but exhausted.

"I…I don't know. He's not doing well, Maria. He's not doing well at all," Natasha replied. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence on the other end.

"What happened?"

"I can't tell you now, but believe me when I say that I think he went through a lot more than we realize. He's back at the apartment, and I'm at Francesca's. I'm probably going to stay the night here," Natasha said. Maria was quiet, and Natasha didn't know if that meant her handler was thinking or if she were writing down what Natasha had just told her, but in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. "I'll call you whenever I can."

"I'm trusting you to actually do that, Natasha. I covered for you earlier, but I can't do that again. You know we're on your side, right? We're trying to get Clint the help he needs."

Natasha kept her eyes closed, and she leaned against the wall of the bathroom, feeling the cool tiles through the thin fabric of her blouse. She didn't know how to respond to Maria's statement—yes, SHIELD technically did want to help. That was why they were SHIELD. However, asking her to tell them how Clint was doing without his knowledge wasn't something Natasha particularly felt comfortable with, something that really made a statement since there was very little she felt uncomfortable doing.

"I do," she said finally. "I know that."

"Good."

"But sending him on this assignment was the worst possible thing Fury could have done. I don't care if he thought that it would be better for him to clear his mind or to focus on something else. He's a fucking mess, and I'm not entirely sure that he would be this fucked up if he were back in DC getting the right help he needs," Natasha spat. "I've got to go."

"Romano—"

Natasha hung up before she made the decision not to. Breathing deeply, she stayed with her back against the wall for a few more seconds, opening her eyes and forcing herself to come back into the real world. That phone conversation hadn't even felt like her, she thought silently to herself as she studied the designs on the bathroom ceiling. She rarely got angry with her handlers, snapping at them for no apparent reason. Suddenly, she felt a deep, painful swell in her chest as she thought about Coulson.

Coulson had been the best damn handler. He'd been patient and understanding. He'd bent the rules for her and Clint when they'd needed them to, and he'd covered up for them when he'd had to. That being said, he'd also threatened them and sworn at them more times than she could count, but knowing Coulson and knowing both herself and Clint, she could admit that she and Clint had probably deserved it.

She found tears welling up in her eyes, and she quickly lifted her hand to wipe them away. Now wasn't the time to start crying over the memory of her dead handler. She kept trying to tell herself that, but the more she repeated those words to herself, the stronger the urge to cry became. If she were being honest with herself, which she usually was, she'd been pushing her own feelings on hold since New York. Between her problems and Clint's problems, she felt as though his were far more serious than hers and deserved far more time and attention. So for the past month, she'd kept her emotions bottled down.

But now wasn't the time to unbottle them, she told herself. So she pulled herself together with one last breath, she turned off the faucet, and she unlocked the door, walking out into the hallway. From her distance, she could hear people talking out in the living room that she'd left earlier when she'd gotten the call from Maria. Quietly, she began to walk down the narrow passageway to get a better listen.

"—talk to him. It'd be beneficial to have him on our side. You said he's a good businessman."

So they're talking in Italian, Natasha realized, smiling quietly. It was definitely a good thing on her part that so far, everyone here thought that she couldn't speak Italian. Little did they know that she was fluent in Italian and spoke it so beautifully that she'd once convinced the Italian ambassador that she was born and bred in Italian.

"I know I said that, but don't you think it's early to invite him in on the project? He's only been working here for three weeks."

"It's earlier than we've done for everyone else, but he's good, Anthony. You said it yourself. He'll be great for the company and for the plan."

Natasha stopped breathing. All this time she and Clint had thought that Anthony was the one leading all the behind the scenes action behind Tribiani Development, but from what she was able to piece together in these few seconds, it was Francesca. She clenched her hands tightly together and forced herself to start taking in oxygen again.

"What about Faith? You're becoming close with her, aren't you? Are you going to tell her what her husband will be getting into if he says yes?" Anthony asked his wife. There was a pause. A long pause that made Natasha go completely still for fear of even blinking and making some kind of sound to distract them.

"I will tell her at some point. I just told her the story of how we met, but I don't think she knows anything else. There's no way she could know."

"And you're sure she will be able to handle this news?"

"If I tell it to her the way I told it to everyone else, then I think she will understand. It's a way to help people," Francesca said. "Just remember to stress that to Jason."

"I wi—"

Natasha stepped out from around the corner, interrupting the conversation to make it look natural. As if nothing had happened at all, Francesca looked over at her with a bright smile. "There you are. Is everything ok? Did you have a good talk with your aunt?"

"Yes, I did." Natasha nodded happily, smiling through the shock of everything. "She was worried about me since she hasn't heard from me, but I've just been forgetting to call her."

"Hello, Faith." Anthony greeted her with a warm smile, crossing over towards her to kiss her once on each cheek. "What a pleasant surprise to come home and have Francesca tell me that you came for a visit. Where's Jason?"

"He's at home," Natasha replied in a casual voice. "We went out and had date night, and he decided to go to bed early."

"Faith and I had some things to discuss about the fundraiser next weekend. Just last minute details," Francesca interjected. Natasha wondered if Francesca were trying to make it look like she was covering for Natasha's benefit or if she really was covering the fact that Jason and Faith had had a fight. Whatever the reason, however, Anthony didn't appear suspicious; instead, he just smiled and nodded.

"That actually works out well because I was planning on going to Tony's to meet everyone else for some last minute things, too," he said. "I just came home to quickly change out of this."

"Everything worked out beautifully," Natasha said, beaming brightly until her face felt as though it were going to fall off. She knew she was going to eat her words later.

Two hours and seven beers later, Clint was drunk and sitting on the balcony with Palmer, who was on sixth beer and almost as drunk as Clint. "Dude, we haven't done this in so long. So long."

"Right?" Clint slurred. He looked up at the sky and squinted his eyes at the stars. "Fuck the stars."

"Fuck 'em," Palmer agreed. Clint glanced at his former partner and saw Palmer knock the bottle back before guzzling a few more swallows. Natasha drank her beer that way. She didn't drink beer very often, but when she did, she did it quick, preferring to dive in headfirst so that it would be over quicker.

Natasha. She'd been in the back of his mind since the time Palmer had suggested some beers, but now she was back to the very front of his brain, reminding him that he could never really and truly forget her. Unless he was being mind-controlled by Loki. He could definitely forget about her then.

"What?" Palmer asked, squinting his entire face together in confusion. Clint realized he must have said something out loud, but he waved his hand to dismiss it instead of address it.

"Dumb shit," he mumbled. "This was a good idea."

"Yeah, it was," Palmer agreed. He looked over at Clint's face and saw the tightness there, the unyielding, unhappy emotions that Clint was trying to keep buried down but was failing at doing in his drunken state. "Barton, you all right?"

"I may have lost her, man," Clint said suddenly. The 4% of him that was sober started screaming at him to stop, but he found that the 96% of him that was under the influence of alcohol didn't want him to. "I fucked up bad."

"I don't think you did," Palmer argued, looking very upset by the fact that Clint blamed himself for something he didn't even know the reasons behind yet.

"I did," Clint insisted. "I was going to kill her, and I told her tonight, and she left. I should have—I should've pretended to be dead when he was walking around. Then he wouldn't have fucked me up."

"Who?" Palmer asked, but Clint didn't stop talking.

"Should've gotten the hell out of there. Fought harder. Done everything different. I didn't do enough, and I nearly—Jesus, Palmer, I nearly killed her." Clint leaned his forehead against the railing of the balcony. "I was going to kill her."

"But you didn't." Palmers snapped his fingers and grinned as if he'd come up with the greatest solution in the world. "You didn't, and that's good."

"But I love her," Clint said out loud. He looked down at the city around him, and he thought about her being out somewhere in it while he was here. They were two separate people in two separate places, and sometimes he could live with that. He really could. But tonight he wanted nothing more than to have her near so he could tell her everything if it meant she'd be ok.

"I know you do," Palmer murmured.

"I love her," Clint repeated. "'Member the Voloshin mission?"

"Yeah." Palmer swayed a little bit in his spot on the floor, but he managed to focus his eyes on Clint.

"That's how I was going to kill her. The way those guys were. I saw them torture her, and I guess I never forgot it in the back of my—my mind." Clint's tongue felt numb in his mouth, the way his heart felt in his chest. "But I love her. I really fucking in love with her."

"I know you're in love with her," Palmer repeated. "And she's in love with you."

Clint looked over at Palmer and narrowed his eyes to focus them. Then he spoke the most honest words he'd uttered since New York. "That's the problem."

"What?" Palmer asked, easily getting lost in the conversation as he became more intoxicated. Clint thought about repeating himself, but he decided against it. He didn't exactly want to admit that the whole being in love thing was a problem because the being in love part might be what someday killed her.