NORAH JONES ~ BROKEN

…

When Natasha finally checked her watch, she could see she'd been sitting on the roof for hours. She sighed, figuring she'd better find where she should stay for the next week; then she could finish the vodka. Only just starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, she got to her feet and stowed the vodka in her bag as she headed for the rooftop stairs.

Her bag started vibrating just as she got back onto the street. She found the sleek, black piece of technology within the first five rings and put it to her ear, not even bothering to read the caller ID. It'd be blocked, as always.

"Romanoff," she answered solemnly.

"Relax, Tash, it's me."

"Hey, Barton." She'd temporarily forgotten about him, what with the missions and the vodka, and she didn't feel all that bad about it.

"You expecting a call from Fury soon?"

"Not unless he's made a mess of things, which doesn't happen too often."

Clint was quiet for a moment. "Are you drunk?" he asked, unbelieving.

Natasha knew she wasn't anywhere close to drunk. But she supposed she did sound a little too happy for midnight. Although, only someone like Clint would be able to tell.

"Don't sound so surprised, Barton," she finally answered.

"Oh, I have the right to be. It takes a lot to get you drunk."

"I guess you have a point," she conceded. "How's your 'vacation' going?" she asked, remembering what Hill had told her a month ago about his leave of absence.

"You see, that's the thing," Clint said. "I don't even remember asking for the days off."

"Strange," Natasha smirked.

"I know. Must've been my good behavior."

"Not likely. Fury hates your behavior."

Clint laughed wordlessly.

Natasha could hear the edge in his voice, the strain to keep talking lightly. Despite her self-induced indifference towards others, she couldn't help being a little worried about his state of mind. Loki had really done a number on him, she knew.

"Keeping busy?" she asked casually.

Reality colored his tone, finally. "To be honest, Tash, I'm going batshit crazy. I've got to get the hell out of Paris."

"Careful, Barton," Natasha said, flipping her lengthening hair out of her face as she checked a street sign with a flick of her eyes. "You just revealed you're location. You sure this line is secure?" You wouldn't be able to tell from her tone that she was teasing.

Clint was silent for a moment. "You're in Paris?"

Natasha smiled to herself. "For now," she answered as she walked through a door, nodding to the security guard on duty.

Clint knew what that meant. "You on duty?" He flicked his dead cigarette into the ashtray across the room with the accuracy akin only to him.

"Not since a few hours ago."

The irritation in his chest flamed. He could've easily been on that mission; Fury was a fucking bastard.

Clint chewed on the inside of his cheek and exhaled roughly through his nose. "How'd it go?"

"Mission accomplished."

He coughed a laugh. "Don't know why I asked." He could barely remember the last time Tasha had failed a task, back when she was the new agent on the American block.

Talking with Natasha was… dare he say it… fun. Even when they were talking about absolutely dead fucking serious shit, with business faces and folded arms, he felt… relaxed. Her deep-yet-feminine voice somehow calmed the riot that was his head better than nicotine.

"You smoking again?" Natasha suddenly asked. She asked like she knew.

Clint shook his head. Natasha's intuition was uncanny. "No."

He'd decided to lie. But he wouldn't admit it was because he feared her reaction to the truth.

"I'll kick your ass if you're lying to me right now," Natasha warned, partially commanding and partially joking. The commanding part was dominant.

Clint laughed.

"I've done it before, Barton." She thought he didn't believe she could. "And this time, I'd go for your throat with my knife."

Clint knew she would. And could. "Yeah, well, I learn from my mistakes," he answered confidently, folding his arm across his chest. "You might not get lucky again."

"Oh, I don't attribute it to luck," Natasha said. "We may train equally as hard, but what it comes down to is talent."

"I've got talent," Clint said, one of his eyebrows raised.

"Not where it counts," Natasha said. He could hear the smile in her voice, the closest she got to laughter… Clint could only remember that happening once since he met her.

Clint grinned but his tone was serious, "You know the only way to settle this is with a rematch, right?"

"Of course."

Clint didn't get a chance to say anything else as someone knocked on his door.

Instantly, his 'cabin-fever' kicked him into overdrive. People didn't fucking knock on his door. No one had a reason to visit him.

Clint shut the phone off without a sound and tossed it onto the bed he'd been sitting on.

He stalked to the door, pulling the handgun from his waistband as he went and holding it out in front of him. He grimaced at the aging white door as he made some quick calculations.

His best option was to open the door. He put the gun behind his back and stood at an angle by the wall. It anticipated a forced entry by putting him out of the direct line of fire, and it prepared for the possibility that it was just a civilian.

The knocking came again. Physically, he didn't even twitch, but he felt his stomach jump with anticipation. Inhaling deep through his nose, he rearranged his expression to innocent, questioning surprise, his eyebrows raised and his mouth turned down slightly.

Clint opened the door as casually as he could, his prepared statement flying from his mouth, "Yeah?"

His body froze in shock, but his eyes were scanning every inch of the woman standing at his door, scanning her figure for a flaw to prove this was some kind of ruse. Flaming red hair, just starting to grow past her shoulders, endless curves, pouting lips, wide calculating green eyes, creamy complexion, clean, practical, and wearing black.

It was Natasha alright, and she was exactly the same as when he'd seen her last, right down to the leather jacket.

She held up a bottle of liquor, smirking crookedly as she asked in perfect French, "Tu veux te joindre à moi?"

Clint was different. It was a subtle difference, but Natasha could see the change, even if she didn't know what it was.

She quickly swept her gaze down his figure, trying to pin down what it was. Short-ish, wild, honey-blond hair, sharp blue eyes, expressive forehead, severe mouth, hard cut body under the drab sweater. His appearance wasn't changed, not even his style. But where was the difference?

Natasha lifted the vodka bottle in a friendly gesture, asking, "Care to join me?"

Finally, he cracked a smile and answered in the same language. "Absolument!"

Natasha grinned and pushed passed him into his room.

Though Clint had been living in the single-room apartment for more than a month, it was still as spotless and generic as a hotel room. Not even his bow and quiver were anywhere in sight; if he were ever inclined to be lax, those objects would most definitely be laying out. There were cigarette butts in the ashtray. Natasha's mouth twitched, but she wouldn't point it out just yet.

Natasha turned and watched Clint tuck the handgun back into a drawer. "You really have gone to batshit, haven't you?" she asked, the merest hint of a laugh in her tone. "Were you expecting someone?"

Clint rolled his eyes and smiled but he didn't answer the jibe. "You always knew I was here, didn't you?" he asked as he walked toward her.

Natasha nodded, "Been keeping tabs on everyone since we split up in Manhattan."

Clint's eyebrows tilted in one of his truly Clint-ish expressions, "Should I be flattered or worried?"

Natasha merely pursed her mouth into a chastising smirk and turned away to set her bag on the bed. She thrust the liquor toward Clint and shook it until he took it from her, then she stripped off her jacket, revealing her plain black tank top.

"So," Natasha said, rolling her head and bare shoulders until they cracked, "what's there to do around here?"

Clint gave her another one of his looks. "Tasha. Considering what we do for a living, there's nothing to do around here."

"Except for what you haven't done..." she smiled.

Clint snorted. "So what do you suggest?"

Natasha took the vodka back from him and tilted some down her throat before answering, "When's the last time you got drunk in Paris?"

Clint raised his eyebrows, smiling smugly as she pushed the bottle back into his hand. She knew how adverse he was to drinking alone; he didn't trust bartenders, or himself for that matter. And if she guessed right, he'd been alone for a while.

Clint took a swig of the liquor. Natasha watched with humor as his eyes widened and he swallowed with difficulty. "Jesus, Tash, what are you drinking?" he asked when he'd finally got it down.

Natasha grabbed the bottle and lifted it to her lips. "We are drinking vodka. Or the closest I could find in France. And by the looks of it, you've been lacking alcohol the last couple weeks."

"Hell, yeah," he nodded and held his hand out for the bottle again.