"Stupid," Barton growled, and pulled her up another few inches. She tried to plant her boots against the side of the building and push herself up, but the concrete facade was slick with rain and she only succeeded in making the line jerk in his grasp as her boots slipped.

"You can't-" a pause, while he readjusted his grip on the line, "fucking-" heavy panting, "throw yourself off buildings."

"You caught me," she replied, desensitized to Barton's lectures by now. He was always lecturing her. Don't turn off your comm, and keep the body count under ten this time, and I can't cover you if you get into the mark's car.

"You jumped! I didn't have a choice!"

He grabbed the back of her catsuit and hauled her over the edge of the roof. She sprawled on her back and relished the release of tension in her arms, closed her eyes as the burn of exertion faded. Her hands stung where the cord from Barton's grappling arrow had sliced her palms.

"Fucking idiot. I could've shot you," Barton spat. The rain began again, little icy splashes across her cheeks and forehead. "I prayed, Natasha. Do you know how long it's been since I've actually honest-to-God prayed?"

"Two nights ago, while I went down on you in the safe house?"

"Fuck you."

She sat up to watch him pace along the edge of the roof. The rain picked up and she held her palms open, letting the water wash away the blood.

"Clint," she said softly. He froze and turned, fists clenched and shoulders set, but he didn't start railing at her again. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd called him Clint instead of Barton. It usually happened without her meaning it to. It accompanied the vulnerable feeling she sometimes got around him and seemed to always be a precursor to her admitting some childish emotional weakness.

He had learned to snap to attention when she did it.

"I trusted you."

He blinked, mouth hanging open as he searched for a reply. The fight went out of him. She watched his shoulders sag and his expression crumple with guilt and maybe a tiny bit of pity. He sighed and his breath rose in a cloud of mist.

He sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, the gesture somehow more intimate than the sex they'd gotten in the habit of having when they found themselves alone.

He squeezed her arm, fingers tightening against leather.

I'm sorry.

She leaned into him.

Still trust you.