I know, I know! It's been positively ages. This chapter has been in the works for a while, but I recently took a ten-day long trip to LeakyCon in Portland, then to Southern California, so it was delayed in completion. But here it is now! Please read, review, and enjoy. (I think you'll especially enjoy this one.)


After using the bathroom and brushing her teeth, Natasha returned to find a text notification on her duty phone:

Come out to the roof.

Her stomach swooped, but she forced herself to roll her eyes. This was typical Barton behavior: brooding, mysterious, somewhat romantic, and just a touch domineering.

"I believe you made a mention of a surprise?"

Natasha started. Steve was standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking fixedly at Natasha's left ear.

"Oh—right." Natasha dropped her phone on the bed and slid past Steve. "I know you're a big fan of the ones at the diner, but I thought it might be nice if we made them here for a change." She opened the refrigerator door with a flourish and removed a brimming bowl of batter. "Pancakes!"

Steve's stiff expression relaxed into a broad grin. "Wow. That's real nice of you, Natasha. Thank you." He reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled him into a hug instead. After a long moment, they pulled away and Steve cleared his throat. "I guess we'd better get started."

Clint's text flashed through her mind. "Oh, yes. But, um. I need to run out for a minute. To the roof."

"The…roof?"

"Yeah…Clint finally got in touch with me." She opened the wide kitchen window and stepped out into the fire escape.

"He's here? Now?" Something like anger coiled briefly in Steve's eyes. "Tell him to use the front door next time."

Natasha smiled. "I'll do my best. Five minutes."

It was overcast, but bright. The sky was white as milk.

"Took you long enough. Didn't they teach you to react a bit faster back in the old country?" Clint was leaning casually against the brick, picking his fingernails.

Natasha said nothing—she was sure he had more to say.

"Pancakes, huh?"

"It's not polite to eavesdrop," Natasha said, with more than a touch of irony. They were spies, after all.

Clint smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shrugged. "Very nice set-up you have here. Domestic."

Natasha pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She could let him run himself down; let him talk himself out about whatever ego problem he was having.

"I never pegged you for the domestic type, Tash. You're more of a…career woman." He scratched his head thoughtfully. He studied her for a moment, head tilted. "Tasha. Look at us. Have we ever acted this way with each other?"

He was right—she had never felt this strange distance. For years now, she had always been able share any part of herself with him.

"I apologize," he said suddenly, walking towards her, careful to stop at a respectful distance. "I've been an idiot."

She remained silent, but gave a tiny nod of agreement. She felt her shoulders relax slightly.

"I've been a jealous idiot." He gave her a slightly pleading look, like a child asking forgiveness for stealing a cookie he had already been denied. "It was…harder than I expected, seeing you with another partner. It's stupid, I know. You're a person. Not a toy to be fighting over."

He turned away from her and shielded his eyes from the glare of the bright sky, then turned back. He started a sentence many times over, but couldn't seem to finish it. He approached her, untangled her crossed arms, and took both of her hands in his. "I've just never been close to someone the way I've been close to you. And vice-versa, I think," he added softly, meeting her eyes.

Again, he was right. It was true. There was no comparison. She had lived with Steve for a few short weeks. She and Clint had been partners far longer. She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't seem to find her voice. She coughed awkwardly, but didn't break the gaze.

He just smiled again, and squeezed her hands. It was amazing, the things they didn't have to say. Or the things they avoided saying—Natasha wasn't sure which it was yet. Clint's face hovered closer to hers—

"Is everything all right?"

Darling Steve, with the jaw of stone and the edge of steel in his voice. He'd probably thought he was protecting her. Maybe he was.