Notes: Yes, hi, I'm not dead, and I love all of you. *mwuah*

So as y'all know from my notes on previous chapters, I'd originally intended for this fic to be an origin story for Clint in the movies, but I hate hate hate hate what they did to him in Age of Ultron and beyond so we're ignoring that. But it's still semi-movie-related. Like... my version of what I think the movies shoulda done with Clint and Nat. So yeah. All that to say that this is where my fic starts to pull from the movieverse a smidge, but do not be fooled. this is ABSOLUTELY NOT canon-compliant, and there shall be NO AOU NONSENSE IN THIS THING.

Mission Thirteen: We're Not Dating

"So, that could have gone better."

It was the first thing Coulson said as he sat down next to Clint in the medical wing. Both Clint and Natasha had come off the mission badly injured, so rather than asking them to come to an office to debrief, Coulson had simply arranged for the doctors and nurses to leave and then blacked out all the recording equipment in Clint's room. He'd probably do the same for Natasha, Clint knew, but she was still sleeping.

"Hi, Phil," Clint said, his smile a little more crooked than he meant it to be. He always had a hard time being professional on the good stuff, though he'd been injured often enough that he could more or less keep his head enough to remember the important details. It was part of what made him an effective operative: he had a good eye and a good memory.

The rest, SHIELD was willing to endure.

Coulson smirked as he sat down close by Clint. "How are you feeling, Agent Barton?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Clint said in a completely unconcerned tone, picking his hand up to wave it—though he didn't get far when that hand had an IV in it. The doctors had put the IV in his hand instead of his arm because he'd been so black and blue up they'd had a hard time finding a good vein. Not that Clint remembered that part too well. A lot of it was hazy after the morphine kicked in.

"Yeah, you look fine," Coulson said dryly.

Clint shrugged. "I've had worse," he said—his standard response anytime anyone brought up anything to do with being stuck in medical. He didn't want people to baby him, and he especially didn't want them to think he couldn't hack it.

There were still moments—lots of moments—when Clint felt like that new recruit, fresh out of the Circus of Crime, still trying to prove that he could hack it with the big kids. He didn't think he was ever going to stop feeling like he had to prove himself, so he kept pushing himself harder, keeping up his training, doing everything he could to live up to the trust Coulson had put in him when he took him into SHIELD.

But Coulson had been working with Clint long enough to see through most of that, and he shook his head, reaching around to pull Clint's chart off the end of the bed to calmly look it over. "Multiple lacerations, internal bruising and bleeding, sprains and breaks—yes, you look fine to me."

"See? Told you I'm fine. Just need some coffee—"

"—and a mandatory vacation," Coulson cut in before Clint could get too far ahead of himself.

Clint's entire expression fell, and he tried hard to get past the fog in his head to look more serious. "What? C'mon, Phil, I'm—"

"You were tortured for information and then nearly killed during your escape, Clint," Coulson said, putting the chart back on the end of the bed. "I don't expect you to be fine, and frankly, if you were alright after all that, I'd want you to take a psych eval."

"Fair point," Clint said, though he was watching Coulson with his head tipped to the side. "How'd you know about the—"

"Aside from your medical chart and the fact that the doctors have been reporting you telling them where they can shove their questions—without having asked you any questions?"

"Okay, that's also a fair point," Clint said, "but Phil, these alien guys were shapeshifters. They could copy anybody, and it would have fooled my own brother."

"Not terribly impressive, considering how close I know the two of you are not," Coulson said, though he was losing some of his swagger and looking more concerned the more he heard.

"Okay, yeah, maybe not my best description. But still." Clint shifted, though when he tried to sit up better, he was dizzy enough he fell back without Coulson having to put a hand on his shoulder like it looked like he was about to do. "Oh man. You've got me drugged up to my eyeballs, Phil."

"Believe it or not, I asked them to go easy on the drugs while you and I talked. That would be your concussion you're feeling," Coulson said, shaking his head at Clint.

"Oh yeah. That makes sense," Clint said, closing his eyes to get the world to stop spinning—at least for a few minutes, anyway.

"I'm more than happy to put you back on the good stuff after we've had a little chat," Coulson said, smirking despite himself. "I know you're no good for a full debrief—and we will have one of those once you're both upright and conscious enough that I can be sure you're not drug-addled and concussed and therefore unreliable in your reports—"

"Hey now," Clint said with a crooked grin, "if that's the case, you'll have to throw out half my debriefs."

"Yes, I'm well-aware. There isn't a competition in SHIELD to see who can have the highest rate of injury, Barton," Coulson said, not hiding his amusement that well when Clint was so drugged he probably wouldn't remember it anyway. "You take more risks than most agents would even think of taking."

"Somebody's gotta," Clint replied with a shrug. "If you didn't want a job done, you wouldn't ask me to do it, so I might as well take the risk to see it through, y'know?"

"You really have no concept of self-preservation, do you, Barton?"

"You're talking nonsense, Phil. If you're going to talk nonsense, at least bring back the morphine."

Coulson chuckled at that. "Clint, focus."

"Right." Clint put a hand over his eyes to shade them and to try to concentrate better. "I dunno, Coulson. There were shapeshifting aliens trying to infiltrate Earth—and how do I know you aren't one of 'em?"

Coulson looked less amused at the question. "Really, Barton?"

"Hey, how do I know what I was saying while I was drugged?" Clint reasoned. "You're here acting like a mother hen telling me you're concerned about what they did, but I know I didn't say anything, so…"

Coulson rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "You're twisting around your own logic to fit your paranoia."

"I'm a spy now. I thought you'd be proud of the paranoia."

"Fair." Coulson tipped his head. "So, what do you propose we do about it?"

"Tell me something only Phil knows," Clint said without hesitating. "Something they wouldn't ask in interrogation, either."

For a long time, Coulson stared at Clint, but Clint held his gaze. He was right on this. He knew he was. He needed to be careful, because he was not about to let some alien go running around using Coulson's face to get information if he could help it. That wasn't fair to Coulson, and more than that, it was dangerous for SHIELD and the rest of the world, too.

Mostly, it wasn't fair to Coulson. The guy was the best agent Clint knew, and it wouldn't be right if some alien used his face and wrecked his reputation in the process.

Finally, Coulson let out a minute sigh and nodded. "The first time we met—not the mission where I brought you in but the first time—you pickpocketed me and used my credit card to buy yourself a ticket to the movies, then when I went to the theater thinking I'd find a very stupid thief there, you used the distraction to empty a bank vault with the rest of the Circus of Crime."

Clint grinned crookedly. "That was a fun one."

"And it got my attention," Coulson said. "Especially since you'd been good enough to buy some popcorn for me and left me a note saying I should enjoy the movie."

Clint grinned a little wider, since he knew Coulson hadn't put the note in his report. "Hey, why waste a perfectly good ticket?"

"That was why I wanted to take you in, Clint," Coulson said, his own smile obvious even in his tone. "You were either incredibly arrogant or hilariously generous, and I was curious to see which way you fell."

"Plus, you wanted to get your wallet back," Clint said with a smirk.

"And giving it to the local Goodwill was to throw me off your trail?"

"Hey, you had already put a trace on the cards, Coulson. I took you for all your cash and your library card, too," Clint said with a crooked smile.

Coulson shook his head. "And that," he said, "is why I wanted to meet you in person."

Clint still couldn't stop smiling at the memory, but he did straighten up enough to try to get serious. "Okay, so that's definitely compelling evidence that you're not a shapeshifting alien."

Coulson nodded at that. "Well then. Now that that's out of the way…"

"Right." Clint took a deep breath before he simply dove into it, relaying everything that he'd learned on the alien ship—not just the fact that these aliens could take the form of just about anyone but the fact that they sounded like they already had their hooks in several important places. By the time he was done telling his story of harrowing escape, torture, and doppelgangers, Coulson looked like his frown was going to pull his entire face down to join the center of the earth, and Clint was starting to feel the lack of morphine.

"Anyway," Clint said, leaning back with his eyes closed and trying not to seem like a baby as he tried to shift to get comfortable, "sounded to me like you're gonna want to get some people you trust to make sure the people you only sort of trust are all on the level."

Coulson looked overly thoughtful—more than usual, which was a sign of just how serious the situation was—before he finally nodded and got up to leave. "Feel better soon, Barton," he said.

"Don't get kidnapped by shapeshifters, Phil," Clint called after him—though a few minutes later, the morphine turned back on, and Clint grateful drifted back into unconsciousness in a cloud of painkiller.

…..

When Clint woke up again, he was pretty sure Natasha was there, because he could see someone with red hair sitting close by—but it took him a second to get his eyes to focus.

And then—yep, Natasha.

"Welcome back," Natasha said with a smirk when she saw him stirring.

"Hey, Nat. You're you?" he asked tiredly.

"I'm me," she confirmed, and Clint caught the smile at the corner of her mouth. It was the kind of smile that meant she approved—so she was glad to see his head on straight despite the drugs.

Of course, the drugs also made it hard for him to not want to kiss her when she smiled like that. And he was pretty sure he remembered that happening. Only he wasn't entirely sure if it was a test of his identity or if she was an alien or… well, he didn't know if he could trust that kiss even if he really wanted to go again.

"Prove you're you," he said instead of kissing her. That was good, right? Definitely important to establish before kissing.

Natasha watched him carefully. "I'm me because of Charles Xavier's help," she said simply. It wasn't enough that anyone could use it outside of knowing the name, but it was enough of a personal detail, one that Clint knew she wouldn't tell anyone even under duress, that it had him relaxing.

"Yeah, you're you," Clint said in a breath.

"Your turn." Natasha was smiling at the very corner of her mouth, but she didn't give away any more than that, and when he looked up at her, he could see that she was deadly serious.

Clint took a deep breath and then let it out again. "I didn't shoot you because I know what it feels like to be trapped by people who want to turn you into a weapon."

Natasha held his gaze for what Clint felt like was a painfully long time before she finally nodded and even smiled. "Good. I'd hate to have to take more drastic measures on you."

"Like?"

Natasha looked like she might answer, then paused when she saw the crooked smile at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not kissing you again."

Clint shook his head, letting the smile die a little without even meaning to. "Knew it. I knew it was a play to see if I was real or not."

"Yes, I told you that."

"So there was no other reason for the kiss."

"I didn't say that."

Clint shook his head at her, meeting her gaze fully. "I think you're going to have to give me more than that, Tasha," he said, reaching out to grab her hand while she was still seated and he could easily reach her. "Because that kiss? That last one? That didn't feel like a test."

Natasha let out a long sigh. "Clint…"

"I get it," Clint said, though he was still holding her hand. "What you said about not wanting to date someone when the scales are tilted. I get it. And I'm fine if that's where you want to keep it. But Nat, if you're going to pull something like that every time we get in trouble…"

Clint hadn't thought that Natasha did anything as undignified as blushing, but there she was, doing exactly that. "My guard was down," she said at last.

"No kidding," Clint said. "So was mine."

"Then we should leave it at that."

"Now wait a minute," Clint said, frowning and holding her hand tighter when she started to stand up to leave. "That's it? We're just going to pretend it never happened?"

"No, we acknowledge it happened and then remind ourselves that we're professionals," Natasha said, one eyebrow raised.

"Tasha…" Clint shook his head. "Tell me something straight: if some other agent had been the one to make the call, if the slate was clean between us, would you go out with me?"

"Clint," Natasha said softly, her voice full of an unspoken warning.

"I'm just trying to understand," Clint said. "Yes or no, Tash."

Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's not that simple."

Clint shook his head. "You saved my life back there with those aliens. As far as I'm concerned, the slate's clean."

"That's not… Clint, no," Natasha said, shaking her head. "I came to the defense of my partner. We were on a mission. Anyone else would have done the same."

"Then you're never going to feel like the scales are balanced, are you?" Clint said, not bothering to hide his disappointment—not when there were still enough drugs in his system that his guard was still down.

"I need to know that I can say 'no' to you," Natasha explained, and the tone she was using got him to sit up and pay better attention. She sounded genuinely upset, almost forlorn, and it had him watching her more closely. "I need to know that I can go into a relationship knowing I can leave anytime and not feel trapped."

"I'd never—"

"No, but I would."

Clint let out all his breath and closed his eyes. He hated it, but he knew that she was right. With everything that she'd been through, he could absolutely see why she needed to prioritize her own independence. Heck, half the reason he'd stayed with the Circus of Crime as long as he did was that he felt obligated even long after he was old enough that "we took you in" was no longer an active part of his life. He totally understood feeling trapped like that.

He just hated the idea that she would even think that was a possibility with him. He never wanted anyone to feel that way.

"So where does that leave us?" he asked at last.

"Partners," she said, squeezing his hand a little tighter. "For now."

"You're gonna leave that option open?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I have a hard time saying no to you," Natasha said—and though at first Clint frowned in obvious alarm, when he saw the teasing twinkle in her eye, he couldn't help but smile wider at her.

"Same here," he said. "I'm too caught up in you to even think about doing anything but giving you everything."

Natasha laughed lightly at that. "I didn't realize you were a romantic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Clearly." She was still smiling as she watched him—and then, to his surprise, she leaned forward and kissed him.

"Woah, hey." Clint pushed her back at the shoulders, his eyes wide. "Mixed signals there, Nat."

Natasha kept right on smiling, though she didn't push against him. "Not really."

"Um, you were the one putting the brakes on this whole relationship about ten seconds ago…"

"Yes, on a relationship," Natasha said.

Clint blinked, then started to smile. "Oh, so you're just concerned about the labels."

"That's not what I—"

"Didn't take you to be one of those girls, Tasha."

Natasha gave him the driest look yet that had Clint laughing outright before she reached over and shoved him hard in the shoulder. "You're ruining the moment, Hawkeye."

Clint grinned crookedly and then reached up to rest his hand against the side of her face. "Well, I'd be an idiot if I kept that up," he agreed and pulled her into a much longer kiss—this one deeper and more passionate than the other ones they'd shared so far.

He was pretty sure he loved her, but if she wasn't ready to be there too, then hey, he was fine with just kissing too. He wanted to do that anyway.

…

Clint was pretty sure this was the most he'd ever enjoyed being a SHIELD agent.

Ever since he'd been captured by those shapeshifting aliens and he and Natasha had decided to be partners and occasionally lovers, he'd been waking up every day barely able to believe that he was as lucky as he was.

Seriously, he got to wake up every day and go to work with a beautiful woman who was actually interested in him, who laughed at his jokes and who made him work hard to be better so that he could keep up with her assassin-level training. And then he got to go home with her sometimes too.

How was this his life? He'd never been this lucky before.

He was pretty sure they were also breaking about fifty SHIELD rules, but honestly, that made the whole relationship feel even more fun. He'd never really cared about the rules before, and she'd spent enough time in the Red Room being forced into compliance that rebellion felt good for both of them and only added more fuel to the fire.

Oh, there was a non-fraternizing rule? Good to know. Breaking it was more fun.

Seriously, Clint could hardly believe his luck. He couldn't have dreamed up a better girl if he'd tried. Natasha was smart and funny—even if she didn't show her sense of humor to many people. She was pretty and deadly. She was able to take him down before he'd even realized she decided he'd crossed a line.

And yeah, Clint had heard all the jokes about how he was a masochist, how he liked to be dominated, and stuff that was even more questionable than that. But the truth was that it was important to him to know that any woman he dated could take him down, because he never wanted to see himself in his father.

He still remembered, as clearly as if it had just happened yesterday, the look of fear that had always flashed in his mom's eyes when she realized that his dad was about to lose his temper. He remembered trying to stand up for her and feeling helpless and small—but she looked even moreso because she didn't stand up the same way Clint and his brother did.

And sure, Clint knew that he wasn't his dad. He knew that he'd spent his life consciously making the choice never to raise his hand to a girl, making sure that he never had so much to drink that he felt like he was losing control of himself, because he knew that kind of thing ran in families. But that didn't change the fact that there was always a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that told him he was going to end up just like his old man.

So, yeah, knowing that Natasha could absolutely take him down if he ever got out of control? It wasn't just some masochistic turn-on. It was the only thing that made him trust himself to get into a relationship with her.

…Okay, so he was also definitely turned on by how strong and powerful and amazing she was, but that was beside the point.

The point was that Clint had this beautiful partner that he got to work with every day, and every time he got to kiss her or wake up next to her, he knew—he just knew—that she was going to break his heart one of these days. There was no way he deserved this much happiness. No way this was going to last.

So he was going to squeeze every drop of happiness that he could out of every moment with Natasha, because he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And he waited… and waited.

It had been a whole three months before Fury was the one to break up the dream, believe it or not.

Okay, so maybe "breaking it up" was a harsh term—but Clint was absolutely using it in his head when Fury asked to talk to Natasha about a solo mission.

Clint was glaring daggers at the back of Fury's head, and he was sure the director knew it, too. The guy might have only had one front-facing eye, but Clint was sure he had two of them out the back of his head. Not that he gave any indication as he and Natasha headed down the hallway together.

And maybe it was selfish and petty, but Clint kind of wished that Natasha would have given Fury just as much of a glare as Clint was giving the guy, because things had been going really well between them for a while now, and it would be nice to know that she was going to miss him just as much as he'd miss her while she was on her solo mission.

Yeah, he knew as soon as he had that thought that he sounded super needy.

He was definitely in deep.

He took a deep breath and redirected, heading down to the shooting range. He always felt better after he'd torn through a few targets, especially because archery required mastery over his whole body. He had to relax if he wanted to make his shots, because tension in the wrong places would make him pull to the left and up—usually. So it was a good way to force himself out of being upset.

And he really had no reason to be upset. Natasha had made it abundantly clear that they weren't dating. They weren't exclusive. They weren't in love. (At least she wasn't.) But they were attracted to each other, and they both cared about each other, and they were acting on those feelings so that they didn't end up resenting themselves and each other for not acting on those feelings.

That was the score. Clint knew that.

And he'd gone ahead and fallen in love with her anyway.

He was an idiot.

Clint shook his head as he filled his quiver and headed out to the range. The longer he was with SHIELD, the fewer sideways glances he got whenever he came down to the range—or at least, the fewer glances he got over his bow. People were still looking at him strangely, but this time, he was sure, they were more interested in wondering how the heck a guy like him had managed to snag a girl like Natasha.

I don't have any answers for you guys. I'm just as lost as you are, he thought to himself, almost grimly, as he strung his first arrow.

He took a deep breath and held it and then let it out slowly, letting the relaxation move from his shoulders down to his toes before he even thought about taking his stance. He raised his bow and let his body fall naturally into the position that had been beaten into him by years of practice—and actual beatings—before he finally let the arrow fly.

A few more like that, and he was already starting to feel better about life.

He didn't have a claim to Natasha, not really—and he knew it. And there were going to be missions that they had to do apart regardless of Fury's approval or disapproval of their dating status. They'd had a great honeymoon period for their partnership, but now that Clint thought about it, this was actually a huge step for Natasha, a way for Fury to show that he trusted her. If he was asking her to do something without Clint tagging along as her own personal SHIELD oversight, then that meant she'd proven herself.

Clint nodded to himself the more he thought about it. Yeah, this was a big deal for her, and he needed to make sure that she knew he was proud of her for it. Not because he felt like he'd had anything to do with it—but because she meant the world to him, and he wanted to celebrate her accomplishments with her.

See? A little archery practice really did make everything better.

Clint was smiling to himself as he put his gear away, though he didn't quite get finished before Natasha came to join him, looking thoughtful herself. "Scored a perfect three hundred, I'm sure," she said.

"Always." Clint spared her a grin before he went back to what he was doing. "So, am I allowed to know about your super secret spy mission?"

Natasha smiled and nodded. "You're welcome to come with me for the groundwork, if you like. I need to do a few photoshoots, and it's more fun when I have someone with me that can make the disgusted expressions I'd like to make when you know the photographers are going to be lewd."

"Emotional stand-in, got it," Clint said with a smirk, though he paused. "Photoshoots?"

Natasha nodded, still looking thoughtful. "Like I said: we're laying the groundwork. I'll fly around to a few places worldwide, get some modeling work done, do a show in Tokyo, and then Coulson already has my credentials in place so I can get into the legal department at Stark Industries."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. Like most of the country, he'd seen the weird press conference that Tony Stark had pulled when he was rescued from Afghanistan, but he figured that was a massive case of PTSD that needed a psychiatrist, not a… Natasha. "What, is SHIELD worried about losing their weapons deals?"

"Possibly," Natasha admitted. "For now, all I know is that Fury wants me to get involved with the company so that I can keep an eye on him. I'm sure he'll tell me more once I'm inside."

Clint bit his lip. "Sounds long-term."

"It is," she said, then let out a breath, leaned forward, and stole a long kiss.

He always liked when she did that in public places. It felt a little more like she was comfortable with him than when they were playing it like it was a secret.

He kissed her back for a long time before she stepped back, and he forced his mind back to the present to concentrate on what she was telling him. There were a few stops to make, and she'd like him to come along undercover as an agent, things were already cleared with Fury so she could check in, and Clint was her point of contact for the worst emergencies….

Clint heard all of it. He did. He logged it all away. But mostly, what he was getting out of this conversation was that they'd only be able to talk through encrypted codes and messages once he was done playing her modeling agent. And that thing that had taken him over when Fury asked to talk to him alone started to surface again until, before he knew it, he'd pulled Natasha into another long kiss, this one a lot more passionate than before until they were both nearly out of breath.

"Let me buy you a drink before you turn into a whole new person and fall for the rich and powerful Tony Stark?" he breathed against her lips.

"Alright," she said, just as softly, and then kissed him again until Coulson had to tell them to take it out of the hallway.