Natasha knocked on the door to Clint's quarters for what felt like the thousandth time in the last few days. Sure she could've had Thor or Tony open it by force, but at the very least there would probably be an arrow already notched and waiting on the other side of the door. At the worst she would've have broken his trust, again, and she would rather die than do that.
She tried to keep her knock, steady, with no emotion to it. Maybe he would assume it was someone sent by Fury, and actually open the door. Five minutes later she realized it didn't matter, he wasn't opening up. Typical. It took so much for Clint to let anyone in just a little bit and now that fucking Loki had to go and screw that up. Part of her wanted to march down to the detention cell and kick him in his Asgardian jewels for doing that. Maybe she should piss off Bruce and throw him in the cell with Loki; let the big green rage monster bouncing him off the walls for a few hours...
A small smile spread across Natasha's face at that thought. That hadn't happened in days. Not since eating shwarma with the rest of the guys a few days ago. She sitting next to Clint, one leg outstretched, foot nestled comfortably in his lap. The good guys won, she was fed, she could relax, and everything was right in the world. She thought he looked tired, hell they all were, and maybe a little distant, but what was important is that she had her teammate, her protector, her lo... well there was really never time for that, but Clint/Agent Barton/Hawkeye was part of the team again.
She was wrong, of course. The moment they had all gone their separate ways Clint came back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, to his new room, locked the door and hadn't come out. By the second day Fury had wanted to bust in, he had had enough with "Pretty Boy temper tantrums". Natasha had to stifle a laugh when she heard it. First Fury will never sound right saying words like pretty unless they were immediately followed by "fucking" or "stupid" or both. Secondly Clint would have never thought the words would apply to him. If he had been there he would've pointed out his scars, his calloused hands, his little crinkling of wrinkles around his eyes, caused by focusing on his targets all these years. He would point them out then point to Steve and say "Now he's pretty. Not that I'm into guys or anything."
Natasha then would've pretended to pout, "I'm not pretty?" After looking at her in what is clearly a few moments past casual glance Clint would respond, "He said pretty boy. You, Romanoff are most certainly not a boy."
"Well," she thought to herself, "you are certainly not a pretty boy. Pretty boys are like butterflies, all bright and look-at-me but fragile like tissue paper. You are Hawk. Strong, powerful, piercing, mysterious, and ..." Her thoughts are interrupted by someone walking down the hall. Steve approaches, stops momentarily, glancing from Natasha's face to her knuckles still pounding a steady rhythm on the door. He looks down at the floor, shakes his head, and then continues down the hallway.
"And apparently fragile as well," Natasha finishes her thought.
Fifteen minutes later, knuckles sore and red on both hands despite switching back and forth, Natasha is still on one side of the door knocking; Clint is still on the other. "Maybe he's asleep" she thinks as she starts pounding on the door with her fist. After a few dozen pounds she starts kicking at the door, and then hurling her body at it. Once, twice, then a small sob escapes her throat and stops her in her tracks.
She's losing control. "I must not lose control. For him I must not lose control," she repeats to herself over and over again in her head. A mantra, a prayer, she must not let him down. After all they have gone through she couldn't let him down. "He needs me ...well he needs anyone but me," she thought. But all there was was Fury and the team and they didn't know him like she did. They hadn't been in Budapest... "I'm all he's got."
She knocked a few more times, much more gently, fading as her resolve was, that the team, that she would ever have him back. The last knock is her forehead gently thudding against the door, her hands on either side of her head, her fingers gently touching the cold hard surface as she wishes she could touch him.
Turning away she thought "Don't shut me out forever..." the last word came out not as a thought but a strangled whisper, "Clint."
Lost in her head and turned away she never heard the small snick of the lock and the gentle change in air as the door opened a crack. But she did hear a whisper, much like her own, but deeper. "Natasha."