One second Amora is right next to Erik Selvig, who looks like he might throw up, and the next she's right in front of Natasha, who indulges in all the tells she spent years training herself out of: shock, fear, the visible effort to hold her ground and not flinch back.

"My, my my," the Enchantress says, tracing a finger down the side of Jane's face. "What a pretty girl."

Thor redoubles his efforts to break free and shouts at Amora not to dare lay a hand on her, which either denotes an until now unsuspected penchant for the dramatic arts or a genuine concern for his very human, very breakable teammate, and isn't that just precious?

"Who are you?" Natasha allows a slight tremor into her voice — Jane's voice.

"Let's just say we have some friends in common. Isn't that right, Odinson?"

"If you hurt her, Amora, I will see to it that it's the last thing you do."

"Tut-tut. Aren't men absurd?" Behind the Enchantress, her flunkies — ordinary men in suits, and white coats, and flannel shirts that match their manly beards, armed with handguns and shotguns and knives — spread around the room, forcing people down on the floor. "What use is it to threaten me when you can't so much as move a muscle? I could flay her alive and you would be powerless to stop me." Her eyes are impossibly green as she stares at Natasha, her smile a little vicious, a little feral. "Though I don't think I shall. Perhaps I shall follow your example, Odinson. And your brother's. You're both so taken with these creatures that I find myself wondering whether I am missing out."

"Please…" Natasha says in a strangled voice. She can feel the magic tugging at her, can hear it whispering in her ear, soft and seductive. Her gaze drops to the other woman's lips, and the blush she feels spread across her cheeks isn't just for effect.

"Worry not, sweet girl." Amora's standing close enough for Natasha to feel her breath ghosting over her skin. "It's as easy as falling asleep."

"Amora," Thor growls, "I will tear your heart out."

"You first, princeling."

And perhaps it's Fitz-Simmons's magic dampener, or the fact that Amora is focusing most of her power on keeping Thor trapped, or Coulson's urgent warning over the comm not to let her kiss her, but Natasha's self-preservation instinct kicks in at the last second and she snaps out of it just in time to reach for the concentrated dose of MS450 (the famous magic dampener) hidden in the folds of her skirt and jab it into Amora's neck. The Enchantress's eyes go wide with surprise, and Natasha does not give her any time to react before spinning behind her and hooking an arm around her throat, driving her own knee against the other woman's and throwing her off balance just enough that Natasha can spin them both around and put Amora's body between herself and two of Clint's arrows. Amora manages to stop one of them, but the other buries itself on her side.

"He did tell you I'd find you," Natasha whispers in the woman's ear.

Amora chuckles. "Do you think you're a match for me, little spider?" She grips Natasha's arm and throws her across the room with little effort, rising to her feet and yanking out the arrow poking out of her abdomen. "I will teach you not to meddle in the affairs of your betters."

Natasha crashes on top of one of the tables, to the startled alarm of the civilians in its immediate vicinity. She ignores the sharp pain in her chest and the cutlery and broken china that dig painfully into her skin as she rolls to her feet, closely followed by a trail of arrows. She falls right into the arms of a very obliging evil-doer who does not have the foresight to keep some distance between himself and the Black Widow before trying to shoot her. Natasha quickly avails herself of his weapon, and shoots in Clint's general direction, forcing him to scramble out of the way.

She's surrounded by Amora's flunkies, which would be worrying, except that before any of them has the time to shoot her in the back, one of them — a lanky fellow in a Starbucks apron — howls in pain and falls to the ground, drawing the startled attention of the rest. Mrs Catherine Alexander jumps to her feet and shoots two other men before they have time to retaliate, and suddenly it's chaos. Undercover SHIELD agents spring up all around the room, taking down several of Amora's makeshift soldiers before they have the presence of mind to start shooting back. The agents have surprise on their side, and they certainly have the better aim, but Amora's lackeys — far more numerous — aren't shooting ICERs, and they don't care who they hit. Amora's magic makes them careless and reckless and rash, unconcerned with their own safety and everyone else's.

"Get under the tables," Mrs Alexander shouts in Melinda May's voice, and several of the civilians hurry to comply, but far too many are too terrified to do anything but stay where they are, on the floor, trembling while a war breaks out over their heads.

Natasha jumps on the closest table and runs towards the front of the room, jumping from table to table, trying to keep ahead of Clint's arrows while making sure they don't hit any of the civilians or any of agents. It helps that the tables are reinforced — SHIELD made sure they could withstand anything short of a rocket — and it helps that Clint seems pretty determined to take her down. It's standard operative procedure. Absent any orders to the contrary, the primary directive is to take down the biggest threat.

She stops short when Amora throws a blast of green in her direction, which quickly morphs into a blade, and Natasha can't duck out of the way, because if she does, it will simply hit whatever — or more to the point, whoever — is behind her. She braces herself, but contact never comes, because a shield intercepts the blade just as it is about to hit her, knocking it sideways.

"When this is over," Steve's voice says over the comm, "you and I are going to have some words about lying to your teammates." He jumps up to grab the returning shield and immediately throws it at Amora, who swirls out of the way and lunges at Steve with twin blades she hadn't been holding a second before.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Cap." A man in a suit tries to stab her leg, and Natasha kicks him in the head before jumping to the floor and round-kicking him again for good measure.

"Non-lethal force only, Widow," Coulson says.

"Yeah, wouldn't want any goons getting hurt." Sam dives across the room and knocks three men down in passing, and the Second Mrs Chapman follows it up by putting them to sleep with her ICER. "We were right in the middle of Duck Soup. If you're gonna deceive us with movie marathons, I'd at least like to finish watching the damn movies."

"The Widow giveth, the Widow taketh away." Iron Man barges in through the window closest to the front of the room, showering broken glass all over the floor below, and over Thor, who's still stuck. War Machine flies in right behind Iron Man just as Tony is hit by an electromagnetic arrow, which fries his suit's electronics, causing him to drop like a stone. Rhodey dives after him, while another arrow explodes over the Falcon, dropping a net on him.

"Son of a bitch." Sam rolls on himself, trying to shake it free, but succeeds only in further tangling himself in the thing.

"Someone get Hawkeye down from there," Natasha says, exasperated, shooting what looks to be a Wall Street banker in the leg with the gun she got from another one of Amora's flunkies.

"Short of shooting him down," Barnes says, his voice strained as he fights Amora with Steve, "how exactly do you propose we do that?"

Natasha bites back a curse as someone lunges at her from behind. They keep on coming. No matter how many of them SHIELD takes down, Amora's magic keeps fashioning new soldiers out of waiters and hotel staff and gala attendees. It's clever and devious and maddening, because there's only so many ICERs to go around, and they can't deploy against civilians the sort of force they normally would.

A portal opens up on the stage and out walk Wanda and Stephen Strange.

"Yes!" Thor shouts. "Release me from this infernal spell."

Strange stares at the comm on the palm of his hand with distaste before putting it on with a bored expression.

"Might I point out," he drawls, "that this is what happens when SHIELD does not do a sufficiently adequate job keeping Asgardian sorcerers off world?"

"Duly noted," Coulson says, unfazed. "Doctor Strange, start evacuating civilians. Scarlet Witch, free Thor from that spell and help subdue the Enchantress."

"On it." Wanda shoots a blast of red in Thor's direction as several portals open up under the tables closer to the front, causing them and the people hiding under them to disappear.

"And someone get Hawkeye down from his perch."

"War Machine," Cap says, "get ready to catch him." He throws his shield straight at Clint, hitting the beam he's on with just enough force to make him lose his balance.

Clint falls with a startled yelp, but Rhodey catches him mid-air. It takes no more than two seconds for Hawkeye to swing up and stab an electromagnetic arrow into a joint, frying the amour's circuits and causing them both to fall heavily to the ground. Clint — who's spent many years perfecting the art of falling — manages to avoid being squashed by the armour and rolls safely to his feet, only for Iron Man, whose suit has finished rebooting, to immediately grab him by the back of his shirt.

"Easy there, Legolas," Tony says, holding him off the ground. "I'm going to start thinking you have something against my suits."

Clint grabs another arrow and tries a repeat performance of his suit-frying trick, but Tony is expecting it and knocks the arrow aside.

"No. Bad archer. Will you just— Cut it out! Stop that. No! If you take another one of those stupid arrows— I swear Barton, I'm going to turn your room into a Tweety Bird-themed nightmare. Do not try me."

At the back of the room, Coulson leads a group of EMTs and uniformed SHIELD agents to gather some of the injured, while Cap, the Winter Soldier, Thor and the Scarlet Witch keep Amora busy. Too much of her power is now focused on keeping the four Avengers at bay, and SHIELD is finally starting to gain ground against her shrinking number of lackeys.

Just as Natasha knocks out a hipster in a black turtleneck, a heavy clang is accompanied by Tony's exasperated, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Before Clint can do more than grab his bow, she's on him, sweeping his legs from under him. He rolls easily to his feet and strikes at her with the bow, which Natasha easily avoids. She's better than he is, specially at close range — she's faster and stronger, all her movements instinct and muscle memory — but she's also injured, and wearing an evening gown, and pulling her punches.

When two of Amora's goons decide to join the fray, they're enough of a distraction that Clint manages to kick her right in the chest, throwing her to the ground and providing enough of an opening for him to turn his attention to the rescue teams. In one fluid movement, Clint brings his bow up and nocks an arrow, aiming it straight at Coulson, and Natasha does not think. She grabs the gun on the ground next to her and shoots him twice.


SHIELD medical patches her up and Natasha lets them. There's nothing much wrong with her that a band-aid and some Tylenol could not fix — a few cuts, a few bruises, the odd cracked rib — but it's standard protocol and she's a professional. And if the doctors seem somewhat more nervous than usual, the nurses a little more skittish, Natasha does not remark on it, but lets them get on with their work and avoids any sudden movements.

It's not unusual and they aren't the only ones. Natasha has been with the agency a very long time, long enough that people sometimes forget that the Black Widow was once a more feared operative than even the Winter Soldier, but many agents had front row seats to what went down in Manhattan, and many more have heard of it since, and Barton's bloodied body being rushed to the OR is a powerful reminder that Natasha Romanov's pretty smile and soft features hide some very deadly edges. Ruthless, they call her. Ice-cold. There isn't a single person in SHIELD who doesn't know Barton recruited her, who doesn't know they're the closest thing each other has to family. And yet she did not think twice before putting two bullets in him.

Natasha isn't oblivious to the attention or the whispers or the sidelong glances, but she doesn't let it bother her. Amora is in custody, they got Clint back, and there were no casualties. In her book, that's what a successful op looks like.

She walks out of the examination room at the same time Barnes walks out of the one next door, and he falls into step beside her as they leisurely make their way towards the waiting room.

"Nice aim," he says, his fingers briefly knocking against hers in a way that to a casual observer might have seemed accidental.

Natasha smiles, knocking her fingers back against his. "Nice timing."

They hear Tony before they see him, catching the tail end of his rant about modern-day snake oil, and SHIELD's poor excuse for an R&D division, and baby scientists who don't know any better. The waiting room is almost empty apart from Tony, Bruce and Rhodey sitting in a corner. Wanda and Strange are no doubt babysitting Amora until such time as Thor can disentangle himself from Jane for long enough to take her back to Asgard, and there's no sign of Sam and Steve.

"What exactly is in this thing?" Bruce grabs the vial of MS450 from Tony and holds it against the light.

"Nothing of use. It's glorified saline. It was probably just keeping the Enchantress really hydrated while she kicked our ass."

"Don't remember the Enchantress being the one to kick your ass, Stark," Barnes says, taking the seat across from him.

"That's enough out of you, Tin Man. Want to tell us how long you knew about Lady Macbeth's little plan?"

Natasha smirks. "What makes you think he knew anything about it?"

"Don't even give me that. We all know about your little spies club, just like we know he's the Tom Hagen to your Don Corleone. Any time severed horse's heads start appearing in people's beds, odds are good that he put them there and that you told him to."

"Well, that metaphor unravelled quickly," Rhodey says, flinging his magazine on the table. "Any news about Clint?"

"They're still working on him," she says.

Sam walks in just then and drops to the chair next to her, his left arm wrapped in bandages. "I'm going to collect all of Clint's trick arrows and make a bonfire," he announces.

"I'll help you," Tony says. "Whose stupid idea was it to add EMPs to his arrows anyway?"

"Yours," Rhodey, Bucky and Sam all say at the same time.

"Well, I clearly did not think that through, did I?"

"Where's Steve?" Sam asks.

"Yelling at Fury." Tony glances at his phone. "Yep, still yelling. JARVIS is getting all of it. We can make popcorn and watch it when we get home."

None of them go anywhere for several hours, though. Shifts change, and agents come and go, but still they sit and wait for news. Steve joins them before long, dropping a hand on Natasha's head in passing, his fingers warm and gentle and reassuring. There's a lecture in her future, and she has no illusions to the contrary, a speech on honesty and trust and relying on her teammates, but just now he's being sensible of the fact her best friend is open on an operating table somewhere, never mind the fact that she put him there.

It's almost four a.m. by the time Coulson shows up, looking nothing like a man who's been up for thirty hours and who's spent the last of those hours coordinating clean-up crews and corralling the press, and organising the transportation of intergalactic criminals, all while his boyfriend underwent surgery. He's cool and collected, his suit immaculate, his appearance relaxed. Natasha might almost buy it, if she didn't know him so well. His movements are a little too stiff, a little too controlled, and there are lines of exhaustion in the corner of his eyes.

"Surgery went well," he says as they sit up straighter. "He's fine; he's awake. Natasha, you can go see him. He's in room 13B. Everyone else, go home. You can see him tomorrow."

Natasha does not need to be given permission twice. The sound of Steve and Tony — but specially Tony and mostly Tony — arguing about the petty tyranny of bureaucrats with handguns ("Come on, Agent, five minutes.") follows her for a few meters and then peters out.

The medical wing is busy even this late at night — Clint wasn't the only agent in need of medical care — but no one bothers Natasha as she makes her way deeper into the building, and if the sight of the Black Widow walking up to the room of the man she just shot makes anyone nervous, they're smart enough not to voice that particular opinion where she can hear them.

The lights above the headboard — the only source of light in the room — make Clint look even paler against the white sheets of the hospital bed, but his eyes flutter open when she walks in, and the corner of his lips curl up slightly.

"How come," he says, his voice low and hoarse, "the first thing you do after getting your opposable thumbs back is shoot me?"

"It wasn't the first thing." She walks to the far side of the bed, away from all the tubes and lines. "First I kicked your ass."

"Not— Not as I remember it. I was totally kicking your ass."

She chuckles, leaning down over him and kissing his forehead. "You had a moment."

"Damn straight." He closes his eyes for a second, and then opens them again. "Thank you," he says, soft and low, almost like a sigh. "For— You know."

"Don't mention it." She'd done no more for him than he would've done for her had the situation been reversed. "Now shush. Get some sleep."

"Bossy." His hand finds hers. "Stay?"

They couldn't drag her away if they tried. Natasha lies down on the bed, careful not to jostle Clint, and curls up next to him, her fingers laced with his. There's barely any space left, just enough that she won't fall as long as she doesn't move, and her bruised ribs object vehemently to the position, but Natasha doesn't mind. She did not think twice before pulling that trigger, and she'd do it again if she had to, but here and now in this quiet room, with Clint solid and warm against her, she can finally allow herself to feel all the things she buried deep enough that she could do the job: fear and doubt and guilt, and the overwhelming relief of him being okay.

The constant, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor is soothing, like a lullaby, and Natasha lets herself relax. Coulson comes in before long, and smiles at the sight of them. Without saying a word, he grabs a blanket from the closet and drapes it over her, before sitting down on the armchair by the bed with his laptop. The last thing she remembers before finally falling asleep is the steady rise and fall of Clint's chest, and the familiar clack clack clack of the keyboard.


The jingling of keys is followed by the soft clink of a key sliding into the lock, is followed by a muttered curse and the loud ringing of the doorbell.

Natasha opens the door and leans against it, her smile a little cocky, a little smug. "Hello, boys."

Coulson looks less than impressed. "Is there a reason why I can't open my own front door?"

"Yeah, I changed the lock."

"Why did you change the lock?"

"Because I'd rather you weren't killed in your sleep by a high-school dropout looking to steal your TV set."

"I'm moved by so much concern," he says, grabbing the key she's holding and walking off towards the kitchen.

"Security system?" Clint asks too low for Coulson to hear.

"Obviously."

"There's food in my fridge," Coulson says, staring at shelves full of vegetables, and dairy products, and things that require assembling in order to produce an actual meal.

"Yeah, how about that?"

He turns towards them, swinging the fridge door shut. "If I have a new lock, does that mean you'll stop breaking in?"

Her face is the very picture of innocence as she turns to Clint. "Does that mean I'll stop breaking in, do you think?"

"I wouldn't count on it, no."

Coulson rolls his eyes. "Fine. But if you're here, you're making yourself useful. Start chopping vegetables; we're making dinner."

"I'd advise against that."

"Dare I ask why?"

Just then someone rings the doorbell, and Natasha really couldn't have timed it better if she tried. The moment Coulson opens the door, a flock of Avengers and their better halves spill into the living room, loud and animated and in high spirits.

"I see you finally changed that lock, man," Sam says appreciatively. "About time."

"Phil, where would you like us to put down all the food?" Pepper asks, holding a casserole. "Darcy, did you bring the chocolate mousse?"

"What's all this?" Clint asks as Coulson gets over the initial surprise and starts directing all the food towards the kitchen, like the conductor of the world's most dysfunctional orchestra.

"It's a 'We're Really Glad You're Not Dead' party," Rhodey says, handing Coulson two bottles of wine.

"We were going to do it at the Tower," Tony says, "where there's like, you know, space. And professional catering. But Romanov pointed out that the odds of Agent here taking you there instead of kidnapping you for a weekend of wild and rather ill-advised sex, really, considering the time in the not so distant past when you were shot twice — but, you know, no judgement — were really slim to none. So here we are. With booze and baked goods."

Coulson gives Natasha a look, and she shrugs. That isn't exactly what she said, and it's hardly her fault Tony likes to embellish.

"Son of Coul, we bring ale for the feast," Thor says in a booming voice as he walks through the door, followed by Jane and Bruce, who's carrying a cake box.

It's a mad house. There's enough food for a small army, and enough alcohol for a somewhat larger one, and not enough space for any of it, but no one seems to mind as they talk loudly and laugh often and drink to each others' health. Clint leans against Coulson's legs, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even as he looks ready to drop, and Coulson — who's standing by his chair — runs a hand distractedly through his hair as he discusses the use of tax havens by large corporations with Pepper.

Tony and Rhodey are laying bets on who would win in an arm wrestling contest, Bucky or the Hulk, with neither intended participant looking the least interested in putting the matter to the test ("Come on, Bruce. For science."). Thor, for his part, believes the question to be moot, since even if the Winter Soldier were to win, the use of the bionic arm made it unsportsmanlike, which prompts Wanda to offer the view that gamma rays are no different than the bionic arm, which leads to a whole new discussion on the fairness of body-enhancements for arm wrestling purposes.

"You got lucky," Steve says, handing Natasha a beer. Next to them, Jane and Stephen Strange are having an animated discussion on the nature and properties of the mirror dimension.

"It wasn't luck." Not entirely, though some degree of luck had certainly helped. The look Steve gives her is half scepticism and half exasperation, and all fondness. He shakes his head, looking away, and Natasha bumps her shoulder against his. "Stop worrying, Cap. Everything turned out alright."

"Just saying you should trust your friends, is all."

"I trusted you to show up." Four minutes. Four minutes, and too many civilians, and Amora's magic tugging at her brain. Natasha can still feel it. She does not trust very often, and she does not trust very much, but she trusted them to have her back. Despite all the secrets and all the lies, she always trusts them to have her back.

Steve stares at her with serious eyes for a few seconds and then nods, touching the neck of his beer bottle to hers. A sudden burst of activity draws their attention to the corner of the room where Tony is now arm wrestling Bucky's human arm.

"Well, that will end badly," Steve says, getting up.

Natasha pulls her feet up under her on the couch and watches with ill-concealed amusement as Tony inevitably loses. He immediately declares that what they should do — what they should have done from the start — is try the bionic arm against his armour, but before any of them can follow suit, Tony's phone suddenly goes off, followed by everyone else's.

"Incident in New Jersey," Coulson says, already moving to grab his service weapon.

"Where to?" Strange asks, yellow sparks flickering around his wrists.

"Avengers Tower," Steve says. "All our gear is there."

"Don't even think about it." Coulson places a hand on Clint's shoulder as he makes to get up. "You're not going anywhere."

"I'll stay in the quinjet."

"You'll stay right here. Don't make me cuff you to the chair."

"Don't worry, Phil," Pepper says pleasantly. "We'll make sure he behaves."

The last thing Natasha hears before crossing Strange's portal is Clint grumbling about how the already has one redhead running his life; he doesn't need another one.

"How come we never get to have the night off?" Sam asks, reaching for his wings.

"There's no rest for the wicked." Tony's disassembled suit is immediately on him the moment he sets foot in the Tower. The faceplate is the last piece to click into place. "Race you to New Jersey." And he's off, immediately followed by War Machine.

"JARVIS, fire up the quinjet," Natasha says, zipping up her suit, and grabbing her Widow's Bite.

"On it, Agent Romanov."

Static precedes Coulson's voice loud and clear through their comms. "Alright, we seem to be dealing with some sort of giant lizard-human hybrid. Iron Man and War Machine, keep your distance and wait for us to get there. And guys, let's all try to make it to the end of the night without anyone being turned into anything they shouldn't."

The End


AN: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :)