Hey, guys! I want to sincerely thank everyone who has read and reviewed thus far-it really does mean alot to me. Two, maybe three more chapters, and then this story is over. I'm already working on an idea for my next story, so stay tuned for that-I may need opinions from y'all! Okay, that's it, so thanks again, and I'll let you all get reading! Please continue to review! Enjoy!

Part 14

It's been three months since she requested the transfer, two months since it was approved, and one month since she actually moved. It took longer than she had expected for her request to go through, although she suspects Clint may have had something to do with that. He's got plenty of pull at SHIELD, and from what Natasha had said, he was using just about all of it to keep her transfer request tied up everywhere he could. Eventually though, Agent Romanoff stepped in—at Rebekah's request—and used her pull to negate Agent Barton's.

Now she's tucked away in the deserts of Southern California, mixing chemicals and testing prototypes and doing everything she can to stay inside the air-conditioned lab. Rebekah hates the desert. Hates the heat. Hates the deadness. Hates how empty it is. Hates herself. She's barely seen Clint since the day she told him they were still married. After the kiss, she had run away, which she's ashamed to admit that she's getting good at, locked herself in her room, and been unable to stop crying for days, practically. The day she'd stopped crying, she'd requested a transfer. Away from the Avengers. Away from Steve. Away from Clint. Away from all of the mistakes she'd made with both of them.

She clocks out and slings her purse over her shoulder as she steps outside and is hit with a blast of heat. It's half past seven and just beginning to cool, which means it's still about eighty-five degrees. She slips on her sunglasses and hustles to her new car, a white Nissan X-Terra that she loves, rolling down the windows as she waits for the AC to kick in. She drives home, stopping only to pick up a quick dinner of mediocre Chinese food—a staple in this part of the country, it seems. She lets herself into her apartment and sinks down onto the couch, but leaps to her feet again when she realizes it's already occupied.

He smirks. "Sorry."

"No, you're not. Jesus," she snaps irritably, running a hand through her hair. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs. "I have a couple of days off. I just thought I'd come see how you were liking sunny Southern California."

She shakes her head, but replies, "Fine. I like it fine."

"Good." He scoots a little closer and motions for her to sit down. "Becks, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry. Have your dinner," he motions to the takeout box on the coffee table. She shakes her head, and he scoots forward again, this time close enough to take her hand, which he does. She allows him to twine his fingers with hers, each scar and callus on his hand every bit as familiar to her as it ever has been, although she can also feel a few new ones. His hands are warm, rough, strong, comforting, gentle, and ultimately, safe. They're everything that's home to her, and it's their security that convinces her to let the contact go on uninterrupted.

Encouraged when she doesn't pull away, he reaches up to softly caress her cheek, then lightly trace the outline of her lips with his finger. Before she can stop herself, her lips press a soft kiss against his finger, and in response, he slips his hand behind her head and pulls her in for a kiss. Their lips only brush against each other at first, the contact feather-light. As he leans in again, she murmurs, "Clint," in a warning tone, but as soon as he slips his arms around her and kisses her again, the rest of what she was going to say fades into a contented sigh. She wraps her arms around him and tangles her fingers in his hair, and he gently presses his tongue against her lips, which part to let him in. Instinct takes over as he pulls her into his lap and she shifts one leg to his other side so that she's straddling him.

As he pulls her down so that she's laying on top of him, a small warning flag goes up in the back of her mind, although she's too immersed in how incredible it is to be kissing him again that she barely notices it. When his hands slip under her shirt and begin to explore every inch of skin they can reach, the flag becomes all but invisible to her as she revels in the familiar feeling of his warm, rough hands on her skin. However, when he slips a hand under her bra, the flag becomes a siren and she jerks away from him, gasping. He sits up, pulling her with him, and brushes her hair out of her eyes with a frown. "Something wrong?"

She takes a few calming breaths and shakes her head. "Clint, we can't—you can't just—you… You seem to think that we can just pick up where we were before everything went wrong, and we can't. Things have changed since then, and I can't just jump right back into this… whatever it is. We spent five years apart, and for me, at least, that's a long time. We don't know if so much has changed that we won't work anymore."

He doesn't say anything at first, but after a minute, he nods decisively. "You're right. I made you get used to me not being around, and I can't expect you to just jump back into being with me again. I'm sorry." He runs his fingers through her hair, then says, "Will you go on a date with me?"

She flashes him a quizzical look. "What?"

"Tomorrow night. We'll get dressed up. We'll have dinner. Just talk. You can get dessert," he teases.

A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, and she nods. "Okay. We'll go on a date. But we do have to clear one thing up."

He watches her expectantly. "And what's that?"

"Just because you buy me dessert doesn't mean you get laid," she grins.

He chuckles. "Well, I can still hope." He stands. "I'll pick you up at seven."

She follows him to the door and, for the first time in a long time, she smiles, really smiles, at him as he heads out into the dark. "Don't be late!" she can't resist calling after him.

He turns and waves. "I wouldn't dare."

She shuts the door and leans against it, unable to rid her face of the smile that adorns it. As she turns to return to her Chinese food, she's startled by a knock on the door. She opens it and finds him standing resolutely on the doormat. "I finally threw away that Star Trek shirt you hate—the seam on the left side came out, and it started to look more like a cape than a t-shirt. I messed up my knee two years ago and now there's a plate and two screws in it. I've also dislocated my right shoulder twice, and every couple of months it gets sore no matter how much Icy Hot I put on it. I grew out my hair, but then I cut it again because it made me look like a serial killer. I finally read Wuthering Heights, and you were right. It sucked. Gone With the Wind, on the other hand, was actually pretty good. For a month and a half right after I left, I tried to teach myself to play the guitar, but the only song I can play is "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown." And then I took up painting and succeeded in filling a lot of canvasses with a lot of meaningless geometric shapes in various colors. I don't do either of those things anymore. I started watching Doctor Who, and I don't care what you think, I still don't like it. I bought "The Wedding Singer" and "Must Love Dogs," and every time I started missing you, I would watch them and imagine you were sitting next to me and trying to get me to like them, and I probably shouldn't admit this to you, but they're not half bad. I haven't eaten sushi since we were together because somehow it never tasted as good when you weren't there with me. And I've done some serious soul searching and realized that besides wishing I could go back in time and not have left you, I don't think my life will ever be complete again if I can't fix things with you, but if you're happy without me, then so be it. I'm the one that messed up, and that's on me."

She gapes at him for a minute, and before she can speak, he quickly adds, "But I'd really prefer it if you'd be willing to give me another chance, despite all my failings."

She takes a deep breath. "Wow. Okay. Well over the last five years, I've… stopped watching Doctor Who. I bought "Pulp Fiction"… and I still hate it. I cut all my hair off into a twenties-looking bob about three years ago, and since then have zealously guarded it against any and all hair stylists who try to cut off more than an inch when I go in to get it trimmed. I've invested hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars in comedy CDs, DVDs, and tickets to shows in a somewhat fruitless bid to cheer myself up on bad days. I finally gave up on trying to finish Anna Karenina, and instead have read every novel by the Brontes I could find. Don't worry, I still can't stand Wuthering Heights. I took singing lessons, and I'm actually pretty damn good. I haven't done any soul searching, but if it's my forgiveness you're looking for, I can tell you right now that you've always had it." She pauses to let that sink in, then allows a mischievous gleam to flicker in her eyes as she finishes with, "And… I bought… one of those Star Trek shirts."

Clint smiles. He can't help it. He lets out a slight chuckle before he grabs her hand and kisses it lightly. "I'm so glad we've got all our catching up out of the way. I'll see you tomorrow at seven."