Author's Note:

Slightly fluffy. Apologies. More angst next chapter, promise!

Manhattan smouldered on softly for the next few days while firemen and rescue workers salvaged shaking humans from the rubble, and some less shaking humans from the rubble; immobile things that moved no-more, and made the news presenters grim and grey as they counted out the growing death toll. Precisely, and seriously, as they had done all their lives they read out the numbers. Scrolling banners in red, and lives turned into numerical figures. Less important things like, 'alien invasion' and 'superheroes' didn't have numbers though, so the news channel's all over the world hung onto them, plastered up huge pictures of cheering crowds, dusty Avengers with cocky or stunned smiles, then maybe, just to remind the viewers what the numbers really meant, occasionally pictures of flowers, mourners, and candles.

Natasha turned the television off, then dropped the remote onto the kitchen table where Clint sat, his chin in his hands, thoughtful. He looked at her with calm eyes. Calm hawk-eyes. He was always calm, and steady. Natasha smiled, slightly at him. He grinned, just a little, dropping his hands.

Are you okay? It was unspoken. Natasha nodded.

"It's a bit like coming down off this 'saving the world' high. I can't remember the last time I sat in a kitchen or had a cup of coffee."

"It was good coffee."

"Yeah, you make good coffee." Their voices were both low and soft.

The room wasn't huge, in fact Barton's house was tiny, at least by Tony Stark standards, and plainly furnished. Wood, light colours, windows with bulletproof glass. A small TV in a clean and practical kitchen, cupboards with the normal kind of food. A room with books, a sofa. A bedroom. A spare room. A bathroom that didn't speak to you and ask you what kind of water pressure you wanted. It was civilian. But he was civilian, and so was Natasha- albeit very skilled civilians. With a very specific skill set.

Natasha leant back against a work surface and stretched her arms out in front of her. The light coming through the windows behind her was soft, morning light, but bright and blue in the way that light high up buildings can be.

Clint pushed his empty coffee cup away from in the companionable silence, "Didn't you go home?" He meant after the battle. Everything in conversation was in relation to it these days. Who knew even people who had seem everything could still be so shocked by saving the world?

Natasha shook her head, "Stark's idea of- resting involves lots of alcohol and- Ms. Potts. But I stayed at his and so did Steve, just for two nights. I didn't want to travel back here just yet. Just travel at all." She paused. "I heard this phrase in Russian once. Let your soul catch up with your body." She smiled sardonically, "That sounds so stupid. Considering this is only by a fraction the weirdest thing that's happened to us."

Clint shrugged. "Personally I couldn't wait to be home. Coffee. Rest."

"If I'd realised you were leaving I'd have come too."

"It's okay. All I did was sleep and count my bruises."

"We'll have to compare notes. Dam those immortals, and Stark's suit. He has 'major injuries' which include two scratches, and a bruise the size of a pea."

Out of their tight black suits and with the TV off, Clint's small kitchen seemed a world away from S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha wore a soft cotton T-shirt, wide necked and long sleeved, and narrow jeans. Barefeet. Clint was in a band Tee, and jeans too. An American uniform. For off-duty American superheroes.

Clint raised his eyebrows. "It feels like days ago we saved the world, years."

"It was 48 hours ago."

"Shall we talk about something else?" Clint rubbed his eye.

"What else happens to us anyway? S.H.I.E.L.D is basically our life."

Clint smiled slightly, almost sadly, in agreement.

Natasha stretched her shoulders back then moved away from the cupboards and came behind Clint's chair with silent bare-foot steps. She gently rested her hands on his firm warm shoulders. Clint dipped his head, and she bent down and wound her arms around his neck and held him from behind. He turned his face into her arm and closed his eyes. She smelt of soap.

The kitchen clock ticked for a few long seconds, then Natasha slowly unwound her arms and stepped back, then poked a point on Clint's neck just above the neckline of his top.

"Ow?"

"There's one bruise."

Clint laughed silently and stood up, a hand automatically touching the back of his neck where Natasha had prodded him, not just because everyone has an urge to rub a bruise, but to warm away the ghost of Natasha's fingertips. He turned round the face her and she smiled lazily up into his weather-beaten face.

Natasha's eyes always had a hard edge to them, distrusting maybe, but she was relaxed now for once, and gently took Clint's face in her hands. He leant down to her, smiling, and she smiled back into his mouth before they kissed, chastely.

Natasha spoke low into his lips, "Well I hope you rested up well while I was away, 'coz I can think of many better things to be doing in your bed about now."

Clint laughed, and wound his hands around her waist pulling her closer, and tipped his head to kiss Natasha's smile properly.

"I missed you."

Natasha leant back and cuffed the side of his head lightly with her hand, "You sentimental moron! Don't miss me…"

"Sleep with me instead?"

"I wasn't going to put it so delicately, but yes."

She smiled coyly, and ducked out of his hold, only to grab his hand. Clint held his arm outstretched as Natasha paused and ran a finger over his fingertips, calloused from the bow, even with his specially designed finger guards.

"I'm glad to see you didn't break any of these. I missed your fingers." She laughed, as she couldn't help it and kissed his finger tips, and Clint grabbed her waist and kissed her neck, before she could spin away and drag him towards his bedroom.

Two highly skilled assassins giggled like teenagers. Well, they had to make the most of the few days off. S.H.I.E.L.D wasn't generous with staff leave.