CHAPTER FIVE

Christmas at Stark Tower was not as over the top as Clint had expected it to be.

Clint hadn't even expected to be at Stark Tower when he woke up. After passing out in the passenger seat of Natasha's car last night, he only woke up briefly in a hospital room. The doctor told him he would want to go back to sleep again, because this next part would hurt. He had gone back to sleep. He had expected to see the same room, or maybe a different one, but still the hospital, when he woke up again.

Instead, he woke up in one of Tony's ridiculously comfortable chairs, his arm in a complicated sling and cast, his head still muzzy from Propofol. Pepper was there. She was futzing with twinkly lights strung along the edge of the bar, and Tony was leaning over from the other side, bothering her and making her laugh.

Tony glanced up. "Hey, Icarus is awake."

Pepper slapped him on the shoulder. "How are you feeling, Clint?"

"Pretty good," he lied. (Although truthfully, he wasn't feeling much of anything. Thank you, drugs.) "Where is everybody? I thought a Tony Stark Christmas Special would be in full swing by now."

Pepper laughed and pulled herself up to sit on the bar. Tony leaned forward, an arm around her waist.

"Actually," he said, "we are currently having the dullest Christmas ever. And it's all your fault."

"It is not your fault, Clint," Pepper said reassuringly. "I simply said that maybe we should keep it quiet, and let you rest. We figured you'd be more comfortable here than in sick bay at headquarters."

"Thanks." He sat up, testing the level of wooziness. Not bad. "Really, thanks guys."

"And let's see," Pepper counted off on her fingers. "Steve is at a children's hospital tonight, dressed up as Santa Claus, and Bruce is making potato pancakes in the kitchen downstairs—"

"They are delicious," Tony confirmed.

"And Nat is—"

Natasha walked into the room. Pepper broke off.

"If it isn't the birthday girl herself," said Tony. "You know, I never imagined you having a birthday. More like you sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus—ow." Pepper smacked him again, harder. "Kidding. Kidding. Happy birthday, really. Drink?"

Natasha shook her head. "No. Thanks."

She hadn't looked at Clint yet. He couldn't stop himself from looking at her. She looked tired, her arms crossed around her waist, her hair flatter and messier. She lingered for a minute, and no one knew what to say, and it felt strange and awkward. She nodded, walked away across the room and out onto the balcony, pulling the door firmly closed behind her.

"Let's go get more of those potato pancakes from Bruce," suggested Pepper, sliding off the bar and pulling Tony along by the hand. "Maybe we can convince him to come join us, we could all watch a movie or something. Sound good, Clint?"

Clint produced a smile for Pepper."Yeah, sounds great."

He knew what she was doing. She already had Tony halfway to the door. Another minute and they were gone, affectionately bickering about classic Christmas movies was as the elevator doors slid shut.

It was spitting snow outside. Natasha leaned against the balcony railing, her sweater wrapped around her.

"You shouldn't be out here," she said, without turning around.

"Natasha Romanoff, always telling me where to go." He crossed to her, standing slightly away from the railing.

"I meant it's too cold, and it's icy, and—"She turned around.

"I know." He fumbled in his pocket. "Got you something."

"I don't want a gift." She shook her head, once.

"Then it's a reminder of a debt. I owe you. You kicked all those guys' asses and basically rescued mine."

"You're my partner." She took a step closer. "You don't owe me anything."

"Then it's a gift." He pushed the sweater sleeve off her hand and dropped the gift from his hand into hers, curling her fingers around it. "Accept it."

She lifted it up. The gold chain glinted once in the balcony lights; it was the arrow necklace he'd bought as a cover, standing in line at the Forever21 store.

Slowly, Natasha unclasped it and fastened it around her neck. It disappeared beneath the collar of her sweater.

"Spasibo," she said. Thank you, in Russian.

"You're welcome."

"I'm sorry."

They spoke at the same time. Clint stepped to her, reaching up with his good hand to trace the outline of the chain beneath her sweater. She ducked her head, resting it against his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Stop."

"No. No, I'm—"

He kissed the corner of her mouth, enough to make her stop talking. "Shhh. I'll be ok. We're good. Stop."

She nodded.

"Happy birthday, Tasha."

She smiled. "Spasibo."

THE END