cancel, v.

definition: to abolish or make void

rating: k+

A/N: Thank you to MultiFandomRandomWriter for the prompt!

Natasha entered the exotic hotel room, which was courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D. during Strike Team Delta's undercover mission, and shut the door behind her. She paused and took deep breaths. An image replayed in her mind: Clint lying motionless, heavy booted feet kicking into his sides and his head. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase it as a knot of guilt twisted her insides. Natasha drew a slow breath to calm herself, then tossed her clutch onto the floor. It was quickly followed by a pair of Jimmy Choos and a varied assortment of weapons.

Natasha's shoulders seized up when she went to remove her necklace, but she gritted her teeth and kept working at the tiny clasp until the jewelry was lying on a table.

Wanting to relieve some of the tension in her back, Natasha headed for the master bathroom and turned the water on in the walk-in shower. Without bothering to take off her evening gown, Natasha stepped straight into the shower, leaving the large glass door open. She shut her eyes, feeling the water drum across her face and shoulders and soak into her skin. Maybe if she stood like this long enough, the water would wash away all the blood on her hands, all the red in her ledger.

But there was so much red.

She saw Clint again, covered in his own blood, and it was her fault. Suddenly, her knees felt weak and she sunk to the shower floor, breathing heavily, and leaned her back against the wall.

Natasha wasn't entirely sure how long she sat just like that, thinking, but after a while she heard the door to the hotel room open and knew Clint had been released from the med center. He would see her guns and shoes on the floor and know she was there.

"Natasha?"

Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't face him. She had failed her duty as a partner – which was to protect him just like he protected her. She had failed.

Natasha didn't respond to Clint, but she knew it wouldn't take long for him to find her, so she clasped her hands in her lap and studied them anxiously, waiting.

"Hey, you." His voice mingled with the rushing water.

Natasha didn't look up and continued to fiddle with her fingers. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so frustrated with herself.

Clint stepped into the shower and took a seat beside her. Natasha glanced at him. He was still wearing his dress pants, but a purple t-shirt replaced his dinner jacket. Any other time she might have said something sarcastic. But not this time.

"Soaking wet is probably not the best condition for that dress," Clint commented. "I mean, just a thought."

Natasha shrugged lightly and picked at the fabric of her skirt.

"Hey," Clint said gently. "Look at me. Are you ok?"

"Fine," Natasha mumbled without looking up. She wasn't quite ready to make eye contact with Clint. Surely he would blame her for what had happened to him.

Clint sighed. "I think I know what this is about, and it's not your fault."

Natasha laughed bitterly. "Not my fault. Of course you would think that. You think no one ever does anything wrong."

"I don't think it's not your fault; I know it's not your fault," Clint said a little sharply. Natasha frowned into her lap. She knew he was only trying to alleviate her guilt, but it wouldn't work because what had happened to Clint was unmistakably a direct cause of her own stupidity.

"I lost my sense of direction in a château that I had memorized the blueprints of while you were getting kicked to bits on a different floor," Natasha recited monotonously.

"Sometimes these things happen. Everyone makes mistakes—" Clint began, but Natasha cut him off.

"'Everyone makes mistakes' is just a polite way of saying that I screwed up."

"That's not true," Clint disagreed. "It could have happened to anyone, Natasha, don't beat yourself up about it."

"But I'm not 'anyone'," Natasha muttered, bunching the cloth of her skirt into a ball in her fists. "I'm a professionally trained assassin and it's my job to not screw up. But I did, so it's my fault."

"Back up," said Clint. "Were you the one beating me up?" Natasha glared at her lap, blinking when water dripped into her eye. Clint took her silence as a disaffirmation. "If you weren't physically injuring me, I fail to see how my injuries are your fault."

"Don't be stupid," Natasha grumbled. "I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not being stupid, I'm being logical and honest," Clint argued. "Strike Team Delta has gone way better than anyone expected so far. It's irrational to think that there would never be any slip-ups. And it's not like you completely deserted me. You came eventually. It's not like I died."

Natasha's gut knotted. "You could have."

Clint didn't respond.

Natasha squeezed her hands into fists. "See? That's why it's my fault. A partnership means mutual trust, mutual assistance and defense. I'm to blame for what happened to you, just like I would be to blame if…" she trailed off, but knew Clint understood.

"It was a mistake," Natasha conceded, "but a mistake that was my fault. I'm going to make sure I never slip up again, not until I've repaid you."

"Repaid—" Clint turned sharply. "Natasha, what do you mean, repaid?"

The dangerous quality of his tone caused Natasha to look up at him for the first time. His brows were knitted tightly, and he looked like he might explode, regardless of her answer. His hair was flattened on top, and by this time, his t-shirt was drenched completely.

Natasha stared at him wide-eyed, trying to figure out what he was so upset about. "I mean that you saved my life, so I owe you—"

"No," Clint interrupted, his face contorted into an expression that she couldn't read. "Stop. You don't owe me anything, understand? I don't want you to repay me or ever believe that you have to."

Natasha frowned quizzically. "Repaying you is my job."

Clint's jaw tightened. "No, it's not. We're looking out for each other. We're equal partners."

Natasha searched his stormy eyes. He believed what he was saying. "We're not equals," she disagreed. "Not yet. I have a debt to pay. I have a ledger, and there's still red in it."

Clint laughed, a disbelieving sound. "Natasha, you need to stop looking at the world like it's a business transaction. I don't expect any type of reimbursement for saving you, I never have. I saved your life because your life is worth saving."

A shiver travelled the length of Natasha's spine. She had never heard anyone talk that way before. Until now, everyone had expected some form of payment for their good deeds, usually in to form of her skills or her body.

"But I-I'm indebted to you," she stammered, still trying to understand. "You saved my life. That's a huge debt."

"That I'm cancelling," Clint said simply.

"I'm an asset."

"You're more than that," Clint told her. "You're not only an asset, and you're not here just because I'm waiting for a good time to cash in a favor. You're more than all that. You're more than just the Black Widow."

Their gazes held for a few ponderous moments as Natasha struggled to process her partner's words.

Then Clint stood, and a small waterfall spilled out of his clothing. "Come on, let's get changed and get some sleep." He turned off the shower and stepped out.

"Wait." Natasha rose quickly and stepped down next to him. And they stood, motionless; rivers tumbling from their clothing, trailing off their skin; drowning in a shared moment.

"If…" Natasha hesitated, trying to form coherent thoughts. "If I'm not any of that, then what am I?"

Clint smiled halfway. "You're Natasha Romanoff, and you're my friend."