A Gift From: andibeth82 or findthesea
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Synergy (or, 5 Times Clint and Natasha Didn’t Celebrate New Years Eve, And One Time They Did)
A Gift For: quiet_rebel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mild violence and some sexual activity
Summary/Prompt Used: “Clint and Natasha celebrate New Years Eve.” (They’ve always spent it together, but not in the way most people would expect.)
Author's Note: The requests I received with this prompt were some of my own favorites - angst, sexytimes, banter – which, in turn, made this really fun to write. I’d wanted to do a 5+1 fic for Clintasha for awhile but could never settle on a workable idea, so when my muse realized I could turn this prompt into one, I jumped on it. In true "me" fashion, this turned out a lot more epic and intense than I anticipated, but I hope I hit something in here that makes it enjoyable!



I. December, 2000

He comes with an order, a suit, and two arrows tucked stealthily into the back of his shirt, the feeling of them a comfort against his skin and his collapsible bow covered by a long jacket. She comes with an agenda, a gown, and a knife folded into the back of her high-heeled shoe.

He reviews her file on the way over, memorizes her name in his mind, practices saying it out loud until it rolls off his tongue as if it were his own. She doesn’t need to review anything: adapting and blending is her second nature; she’d be able to pick his face and movements out of any type of crowd if it came down to it.

Fancy benefits and black ties aren’t really his thing, and to be honest, they never have been. But he does what his superiors tell him and so here he is: dressed to the nines, feeling slightly uncomfortable and very much out of place in the middle of Nowheresville, Italy, chasing down a woman whose name he’d only heard when attached to a string of expletives.

There’s a few girls that look attractive, Clint has to admit - expensive outfits and diamonds hanging from dainty earlobes; he doesn’t miss their wandering gazes as he moves smoothly through the crowd, making small talk and offering to buy an occasional drink. But there’s only one face he’s interested in finding and for over two hours, he doesn’t see it, begins to think that maybe she won’t come.

And then the crowds part and he looks up at the balcony above the winding staircase of the gala hall and there she is, black dress and high heels and firm posture as she leans over the railing, her eyes scanning the landscape with the quickness of an animal on the verge of a kill. Her red hair is a signal he could have seen a mile away but he knows the game well and so does she, so when they do catch each other’s eye within seconds of sniffing each other out, he does nothing more than offer a half sincere smile. She smiles back, her teeth shining like sharp fangs underneath the pale, yellow light.

The message hidden in her look leaves no room for confusion and it’s so well defined, he’s surprised others don’t pick up on it.

Clint keeps his eye on her face, her arms, the curve of her back as he climbs the stairs slowly, with complete nonchalance, with the knowledge that he can easily fall back into kill mode if he needs to. She doesn’t make a scene though, even lets him get all the way to the top of the stairs - until he’s right up in her face, until he can smell the strong perfume and can see the bruises on her cheekbone hidden underneath a few impressive layers of foundation.

She smiles again, all business, and turns slowly, beckoning with one finger. Clint follows hesitantly, his left thumb inching towards his other arm, and when she keys open the lock pad of a door on the right side of the hallway with brilliantly fast fingers, she doesn’t bother to turn around.

He advances fluidly as the door slams shut behind him, his limbs deftly finding the curve of his bow as he shrugs off his jacket. It takes maybe five, six seconds for him to get an angle on her crouched form. She’s perfectly united with his sightline, a sharp dagger pointed directly at the curve of his throat, her distance from him far enough that he could take her out in a second, though he doesn’t doubt she could fling her knife into his eye in less than a second if she wanted to.

“You first,” he says quietly. She blinks once, her body frozen, and he thinks he’d be more impressed if he weren’t on the verge of possible death.

“Widows don’t make the first kill. They finish them,” her voice returns even and firm, emotionless and tight, and somewhere in the back of his brain Clint can hear the soft spell of orchestral music and gallant laughter of the benefit’s patrons.

He lets his eyes travel over her face and breathes out once, deep and steady, the action barely detectable. Seeing the faintest movement of her hand as she prepares to attack, he makes a split second decision to trust his instincts and takes aim at ninety degrees, letting the arrow nick the center of her shoulder. Blood bursts from the spot where the shaft has pierced her skin and he drops his bow as she lunges forward with nearly impossible strength and speed. As he grabs for the small pocketknife hidden in his shoe, he feels a sharp flash against his cheek, which causes him to grit his teeth in pain. Rolling sideways, he twists her uninjured arm backwards until she lets out a sound that he thinks might be the closest thing he’ll get to an actual scream.

She knees him hard in the pelvis, struggling out of his grip as he doubles back, releasing his hold on her body. His hands scramble towards the discarded arrow just out of his reach and as he closes his fingers around its thin frame, he sees the knife flash again out of the corner of his eye. This time, he anticipates its trajectory, deftly sliding his body out of position and upwards as the blade comes down where his arm would have been positioned.

Clint doesn’t hesitate from his stance above, dropping down on top of her and pinning her body to the ground with one hand on her arm, the other holding the spine of his arrow tight against her neck like a vice.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” She asks in a voice that’s barely audible, strangled and pained. “Go ahead. Kill me.”

He’s only vaguely aware that his fingers are shaking in a way that they normally don’t, and when he meets her eyes again he’s taken aback at how empty they are, cold and bare and so very hollow. Clint Barton has seen a lot of death and Clint Barton has killed a lot of people. But Clint Barton can’t remember the last time he saw someone who looked so defeated, so ready to die, so ready to give up on life the second that someone seemed to get the better of them.

It wasn’t what they had told him at basecamp. It wasn’t what he had read in the files. It wasn’t what he had learned from anyone who told him about Natasha Romanov, Red Room graduate, elusive spy, master assassin and cold-blooded murderer.

In a split second decision, he brings his head down close and knocks into her forehead, hard, causing her to lose control momentarily. It’s just enough time for his fingers to find the syringe hidden in his shirt pocket, and before she can get her bearings again, he stabs the needle into her side and slings her limp body unceremoniously over his back.
The orchestra continues to play and in the celebration that follows, no one notices the hawk that slips silently into the night, a widow caught in his grasp.

-

When Natasha opens her eyes, the first thing she notices is that she’s agonizingly cold; the second is that she can barely move. Her left elbow aches and itches under a patch of gauze, spots of red seeping through the white folds, and she flings her head back against the chair in frustration: it’s a futile struggle, and one that frustrates her more than she’s comfortable showing.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She jerks to the side as her vision continues to focus and she can see him more clearly now, sitting cross-legged with his bow lying across his lap. The room is dark and windowless - barely any light peeking through the shaft of the closed door – the result leaving her absolutely no way to pinpoint an indication of the passage of time.

“Where am I?”

He doesn’t answer, and she fights to tamp down her growing infuriation. She is Natasha Romanov, she is trained for this, and she can stay calm, even when her body is desperate to respond otherwise.

“A little cold for Italy, don’t you think?”

He laughs at that, low and long, the sound ricocheting off hollow walls. “You think I’m gonna tell you where we are?”

Natasha rolls her eyes and decides to try a different tactic entirely, but he speaks again before she can answer.

“What’s your name?”

She scowls. “You know my name.”

“And you know mine, so let’s get the formalities out of the way. Besides, I want to hear you say it.”

She grits her teeth, pushing the words through her mouth in a snarl as if her lips have been sewn shut. “Natasha Romanov.”

“Clint Barton.”

“Should I say it’s good to meet you?”

“You can,” he answers in the same acidic tone. His Russian is broken and barely intelligible, but it’s enough that she can understand his response and she raises an eyebrow.

“So they taught you my language. Smart. You’re better than the last guy.”

“Yeah? What happened to him?” Clint asks mildly, uncrossing his legs to stand.
“You’ll never know,” Natasha replies smugly. He chuckles again, and she feels her eyes go dark.

“Is killing someone funny to you?”

Clint folds his arms, the smile dropping off his face until his lips have formed a thin, straight line. In the renewed angle, she can see the gash on his cheek more clearly, and something inside her swells with pride.

“Not funny at all, Natasha Romanov. That’s what I do. Though, I’d wager to say I’m less intense about it than you are.”

“I highly doubt that.”

He shrugs and moves to her left, fiddling with the faucet of a small, dirty sink. Natasha lets her gaze circle the room, before letting it settle on his form.

“Why am I alive?”

Clint straightens, wiping a hand on his pants in lieu of reaching for or finding a towel.

“You’re alive because I missed.”

“You never miss,” Natasha points out, angling her body as best she can given the constraints and the wound in her shoulder. She thinks she sees him flinch but doesn’t say anything, carefully catalogues the moment and tucks it away in the corner of her mind without really thinking about it.

“So what?”

Natasha hides a grin. “So, I think you missed because you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t kill me, Clint Barton.”

He laughs then for real, a genuine sound (she might have thought) if she knew him, if she cared to know him, but she never wants to know him. She wants to kill him, wants to make sure he doesn’t talk or breathe, much less laugh or smile.

“Yeah, okay.” He crouches to her level. “Thing is, Natasha, I could kill you right now. I even kind of want to. But, I also don’t really want to spend New Year’s Eve dragging a corpse to my boss, so I guess you got lucky.”

“If you wanted fireworks, you could have just shot me in the head,” she mutters dryly. Clint twists his finger around one of the arrowheads.

“Oh, I don’t know…that seems a little messy.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I like having you alive. And I think you like being alive, too.”

Natasha frowns. “That’s not for you to decide.”

“No, it’s for you to decide.” As if on cue, he looks up, the door swinging open to interrupt their conversation. Natasha blinks against the flood of light illuminating the figure blocking the entrance while Clint turns, giving a tight smile.

“And you’re going to decide it right now.”

II. December, 2001

It’s colder than he expects and he definitely hasn’t dressed warmly enough for this venture; he can almost hear Natasha’s voice tonelessly telling him so. He could say that she hadn’t exactly dressed correctly either, but whether it’s her Russian upbringing or years on the streets, she certainly seems more adept, barely shivering and only stopping once to wrap her hands around her shoulders in a show of vulnerability.

It’s technically only their second mission together as partners, their fifth by themselves in general but their nineteenth overall since Clint officially brought her into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s folds. So while he doesn’t bother to chastise himself for the fact that he hasn’t quite figured her out, he is a little proud of the small things he’s managed to pick up along the way of their slow but steady ascent to partnership – the moments where he’s woken up before her, figured out exactly how many hours she needed to sleep in order to not to be hostile. The black boots she likes to wear on the rare occasions when they can choose their own clothes for missions; the way she twirls a red curl around her index finger whenever she gets stressed or becomes distracted. So when they duck into a café to escape the cold and he picks up a tea – black with half a cup of milk and two packets of sugar – he lets himself feel silently okay about the fact that she accepts it with surprise, a modicum of a smile appearing over her face before she falls back into a seemingly emotionless state.

(In Clint’s mind, it’s sometimes hard to believe that it’s been a year since he cornered her in the small back room of that gala hall and pointed an arrow at her throat, but he figures she would be hard-pressed to say the same.)

In one of the markets in Beijing, she picks up a small, leather bound notebook and he furrows his brow as she slips it into the folds of her coat.

“You planning on writing a novel about our adventures?”

Natasha finishes patting down her pockets and raises her eyes to glare, a look he’s come to recognize as her default reaction to his attempts at being conversational.

“I like having something to write in when I travel,” is all she answers, falling into step behind him as they move through the crowded streets.


He had watched her gather her things, surprised at how little she seemed to carry – an assassin’s life was far from established, but Clint usually traveled with at least a backpack full of items and more scattered in his S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters. Natasha looked like she could fit everything she owned into one small purse, and he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s all you have?”

She hadn’t looked up or bothered to acknowledge his presence.

“When you don’t have much, you just keep what you can. This headband, this scrap of paper, this napkin. It all tends to eventually… mean something.”


He doesn’t ask her about the book again, not until they’ve settled in at their location – a rooftop overlooking the lights of the city, her gun and his bow trained on any kind of movement above and below. It’s a familiar position to Clint, sitting high above the world with only the darkness to keep him company and an arrow between his fingers, and as he relaxes into his posture, he notices that it seems less familiar to her. Her attention is sharp and her hands are firm, but there’s a twitch in her body, a tell he picks up that clearly shows she’s used to moving, not waiting.

“Do you buy something from every place you go?”

Natasha looks up, almost startled at the sound of his voice as it penetrates an otherwise soundless night.

“Not every place,” she replies, her eyes not straying from the landscape. “It depends on my mood. Where I am, what I’m doing.” She tips her head slightly. “Who I’m with.”

Clint moves his arm to the left, allowing a slight shift in his body position while keeping one careful eye on the mess of red hair beside him.

“What do I owe you?”

It’s Clint’s turn to look startled, and he turns his head to the side as much as he can without losing his sightline.

“Huh?”

Natasha nods. “This. What do I owe you for this?” Noticing his confused look, she drops her voice slightly. “Look. That day you took me down…decided not to kill me…” She trails off, as if she’s trying to find the right words before continuing. “I know it wasn’t because you felt sorry for me. Or because someone gave you orders. So what was it? Why am I here?”

Clint hesitates, his voice catching in his throat as he searches for a practical answer. “I –”

A resounding blast cuts him off and they both leap to their feet in tandem, training their weapons with practiced response. Clint’s eyes find the target first, and he can tell by the way Natasha has her gun pointed that she hasn’t wasted time following up on her end. In less than five seconds, he’s mentally calculated the distance of the target to his arrow, and the result causes him to curse slightly.

His eyes are sharp enough to figure out that the hooded figure on the ground knows he’s being watched, and that he’s probably spotted where he’s being targeted from. Clint knows that he’s good – he can hit targets without looking and from at least three miles away, but there are always unforeseen limits, and the darkness combined with the mass of people on the streets below make it impossible for him to figure how to get a clear shot.

“Think we can hit him from here?” The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it, before he thinks about what he’s doing, and it takes him a short second to realize it’s the first time he’s actually asked for someone else’s opinion before making an attack.

“I think the question is: can he hit us,” Natasha replies under her breath, her lips barely moving. One booted foot inches forward as she angles her body for a better vantage point.

“Natasha –”

Two guns fire simultaneously, the sound reverberating off the building walls, and he doesn’t think he before he acts, hitting the rooftop facedown while dragging on her coat. To her credit, she doesn’t object when his arms circle around her waist and she follows his lead, falling on top of him and gripping the handle of her gun so tightly that he can see the whites of her fingers, even in the dark.

They stay on top of each other, barely breathing in anticipation of more shots, until a crackling sound in Clint’s ear signals that the agents on the other end of the line have picked up the action and are moving in for reinforcement. He rises slowly, watching as she pushes herself up on her elbows.

“Jesus, that was really stupid. He could’ve taken you out!”

Natasha shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the entire situation. “He didn’t.” She drags a hand across her forehead, rubbing at her skin. “That’s what matters, right?”

Clint lowers his head slightly, looking away. “Yeah.” He moves his gaze to the sky, wiping a trail of blood from his lower lip.

“That’s what matters.”


He wasn’t a total stranger to the look on Fury face, but the intermingling of disappointment and rage was one that Clint had only ever seen when his supervisor was standing on the bridge, telling agents to pack their bags and get the hell out.

“We asked you to neutralize her, Barton. Not throw her a pity party.”

“Sir, I shot her. Incapacitated her. I’d hardly say that’s a pity party.” One eye glared disdainfully in his direction and he tried not to squirm, meeting the gaze head on with his own.

“And then you brought her back here.”

Clint shrugged. “So?”

“So.” Fury’s voice hardened. “The fact remains, Barton: she’s a threat. And in my experience, threats make messes.” He paused to tip his chair forward. “I don’t like messes.”

“She won’t be a problem,” Clint responded just as evenly, one hand closing around a small stack of papers. Fury lets out a sigh that sounds more like a groan.

“I sign off on this, you’re gonna have to do more than assure me that she won’t be a problem. Do you know what the Council is gonna say when they find out we not only failed to take down one of the most dangerous assassins the world has ever seen, but that we also offered her an opportunity for fucking redemption?”

“Oh, come on,” Clint argued back, watching Fury’s eyebrow rise. “She’s good, even you’ll admit that. Besides, why shouldn’t she deserve a second chance? No one has ever bothered to offer her anything.” In a last ditch attempt at persuasion, he found himself pushing his bow across the table without thinking.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll stake my job on it. Just let me take care of her. I promise I know what I’m doing.”


Something hard and firm connects with his shin, and Clint looks up in surprise to see Natasha gathering her things.

“You okay?” She shoves the gun back into her coat pocket and he takes a breath, struggling to find his voice.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Natasha arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Excuse me?”

“You asked me before what I owe you. I’m telling you, you don’t owe me anything.” Clint grabs for his discarded arrows. “We do our jobs, we don’t kill each other, and that’s all that matters, right? Buy me a coffee or something. Hell, buy me a beer – I think it’s New Year’s Eve somewhere, and I’m willing to bet there’s a place in this city that has drink specials that don’t cost a fortune.”

He thinks he sees a ghost of smile appear across her face, but it’s gone before he can blink.

III. December, 2004

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

They’d both been to Berlin before, albeit on different missions, but the city wasn’t new to them by any stretch of imagination and he suspects it’s why they were tasked to go in the first place – he knows the streets, she knows the buildings, they both know the risks. All things considered, the entire situation is pretty dumb when you think about it, and Clint figures he’ll probably be thinking about it for the rest of his life (or at least for the next month, as long as Natasha’s memory holds.)

The thing is, it hadn’t even been his fault – that was his first mistake, saying the words out loud as she helped him off the pavement, shushing him with a curt “later” that sounded like it was meant for someone else entirely. He’d been watching his back like he always did, checking for followers like he always did. The assignment itself wasn’t even remotely dangerous – a task so simple, an agent with minimal training could do it. Cover your tracks, act nonchalant, pick up the goods. He had counted on taking longer than usual due to the winding streets of the city, but he hadn’t counted on the homeless thug with the knife to ruin his plans, nor had he counted on finding himself in a position where he was at risk of being on the receiving end of an attack.

Thankfully, while Clint doesn’t believe in most higher forms of religion, he does believe in small miracles, or at least one miracle by the name of Natasha Romanov. She had arrived seemingly out of nowhere and seemingly in the nick of time, as the attacker had gotten the upper hand by catching Clint off guard, managing to take his feet out from underneath him with a well-placed kick that he had missed blocking by a fraction of a millisecond.

Natasha’s gunshot rang out before he could register where the sound had come from, and it took him another second to realize that something in his left shoulder hurt – really fucking hurt. A second after that, the assailant was scrambling to his feet, fleeing into the night with half a limp while Clint lay bleeding on the ground. And he hadn’t exactly been shy about making his feelings about that known as she struggled to get him to stand.

“Jesus, you’re worse than a child. Hold onto my shoulder, we’re almost there.”

He manages to make it to the front door of the small apartment they’re sharing for hideout purposes, mostly by leaning on her for support and letting her drag his weight for a majority of the way. Once inside, she slams the door shut with her heel and guides him towards the bed, where he all but collapses on top of the covers.

“Don’t move.” Natasha’s voice disappears and reappears again, and Clint groans in response, which is about as much as he can manage. He takes a breath, fighting off waves of pain as she rips away the fabric of his shirt with a move that makes him wonder just how many times she’s undressed people, and how many of those times she’d killed her target before they had a chance to get halfway naked.

“I can’t believe you shot me,” he mutters into the pillow, more preoccupied with the events of the evening than with the loss of his shirt. Natasha is pressed against his back, washing out the wound as best she can in the dim light, and he groans again as something wet and burning penetrates his skin.

“If I hadn’t shot you, you’d be dead.”

“Wouldn’t have been a bad way to go,” Clint grumbles and Natasha rolls her eyes, her fingers digging a little harder into his flesh. “Ow. What?”

“Oh, please.” She tips the vodka bottle forward onto a collection of tissues. “We’ve come this far, Barton, and I’m not going to lose you now. Especially not to a mugger.”

“Yeah, doesn’t really have the same ring to it as trained assassin does.” He flinches again as her fingers prod at his injury, biting down on his tongue as the feel of cool metal maneuvers its way into the hole in his shoulder.

“You could’ve shot him.”

Natasha blows out a frustrated breath. “No, I couldn’t have. The way he was positioned, I had no line of sight and it would have been a waste of a bullet. You, on the other hand, I could see.” She slowly lifts the shell casing from his body, dropping it onto the bed next to her, and grabs for a towel, pressing it hard against the open wound. “Plus, this means I finally get to repay you for Italy.” Her voice takes on a tone that he thinks could almost border on teasing and he ignores the last part of her sentence, turning away as discomfort laces through his body.

“How did you find me?”

Natasha shrugs. “When you took longer than the allotted time I had calculated, I figured I’d take a stroll and make sure everything was in order. Honestly, it was just luck that I came across you when I did, or else I’d be telling a very different story right now.”

Clint closes his eyes at her words, internally wincing in a way that has nothing to do with the pain.

“You should have been more careful though,” she continues, a hard edge to her voice. “I mean, if you don’t want to call Coulson, call for back-up, at least. There are other agents around that could’ve come to help.”

“Yes, I intentionally meant to put myself in harm’s way.” He opens his eyes. “You think this is how I want to spend New Years Eve, Natasha?”

“I think it’s exactly how you want to spend it.” She pauses, reaching for a bandage, fingers expertly peeling back the adhesive folds. “No, Clint. What do you think I am, stupid? And by the way, a thank you would be nice.”

“Thanks. I think.” He sits up with a grimace, steadying himself by gripping the headboard of the bed with his good arm, immediately noticing the gentle feel of her hand as it curves around his torso.

“Careful.” She breathes the word out slowly, and something runs down his spine that causes him to shake. If Natasha notices, she doesn’t say anything, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself thankful for the fact they can both wear poker faces better than half the world’s population.

“Still sore.” She brushes a hand over the bandage, her fingers dancing over his skin.
“You’ll probably need some stitches, but this will do until we get back to base for proper medical care.” In the absence of words, Clint rubs a hand over his face, looking down.
“Thanks.” He swallows once, finding his voice, and then her eyes. “I mean it. Thanks.”

Natasha looks up and smiles back, her lips quirking in a way that almost feels genuine, her hand still encircling his waist.

“What are partners for?”

IV. December, 2007

Clint thought he had made it clear to Fury, to Coulson, or to whoever else was in charge of handing out orders that he hated fancy affairs, hated getting dressed up, and hated pretending to be social.

“Just go with it,” Natasha had muttered when she saw his jaw start to clench as the message came over their comms; at the time, Clint had been able to suppress a rather large mouthful of complaints that he would’ve otherwise liked to unleash on his superiors - particularly Coulson, who had been giving a majority of their orders for the past four years. Now, as he struggles into his suit, he finds that he can’t stop himself from mumbling a string of pent-up annoyances.

“Are you really going to mope about this all night?” Natasha asks irritably as she steps into her own dress, tucking a small pistol into her handbag. Clint grunts as he shoves a hand through the sleeve of his jacket.

“Not all night. We have a job to do.”

“Yes.” Natasha gives him a no-nonsense look as she hooks the strap of her shoe around her ankle. “And I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to deal with your frown face over dinner, when there are more important things I need to be worrying about.”

“I do not have a frown face,” Clint protests indignantly and she raises an eyebrow, effectively silencing him as he follows her out of the hotel room.

-

It was, at least, a good beginning to the night, despite his misgivings about the entire situation, and the exchange had been the last thing that they really said to each other before it all went to hell, before they stepped outside and into the street and then into the restaurant where they were supposed to be tailing an Iranian spy with a rather large rap sheet. Before what was supposed to be a leisurely (albeit pretend) New Year’s Eve dinner turned disastrously awry, and before Natasha realized too late that there was a bomb and too many people and too little time.

In his defense, he may have complained too much, but if he was going to be honest about it, she was too calm, especially for someone who, in the early stages of their partnership, had made a habit out of making a scene. It was part of the push and pull of their relationship: Natasha was too cagey and Clint was too trusting, Natasha calculated her every fight move down to the turning of her head, and Clint relied mostly on instinct and luck. They tolerated each other as best they could without really acknowledging the differences, but she was his partner, they were each other’s responsibility, and never let it be said that he wouldn’t walk through fire for her.

(Literally.)

“You should’ve left.” They walk back into the hotel room together and she doesn’t look at him as she beelines to the bathroom. He notices afterwards that she also doesn’t bother to close the door, but keeps his distance because he knows better.

“And leave you in there knowing the building was about to collapse? No way.”

He hears the sound of running water as it turns on and then off, and she emerges without her shirt, the strap of her bra doing little to hide the large black and blue bruise where she had punched her shoulder back into place after its dislocation. Clint grimaces just looking at it; he can do blood just fine but for all his training and all his assignments, he’s never been one to have a strong stomach for broken bones - or for that matter, any injuries that looked more than a little unnatural.

“Christ. You want me to take a look at that?”

Natasha shakes her head as she sinks onto the bed. “It’s fine. It’ll heal. I just need to sleep it off.” She grabs for the half open pill bottle on the table and leans back, closing her eyes.

“Natasha –”

“Clint, I don’t want to hear it.”

He bites down hard on his lower lip, a metallic taste coating the inside of his mouth.
“I wasn’t going to let you die.”

She ignores his comment, turning onto her side slowly until she’s facing the wall.
“Did we get what Fury asked for?”

He lets out a long sigh, fishing into his pocket before holding up a small compact disc, lifting it just high enough for her to see from her position on the bed.

“Yes.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen. Okay? Let’s just forget about it. We have a long drive back tomorrow, and I’d like to get some sleep while I can.”

Clint opens his mouth, and there’s so much he wants to say, like how dare she insinuate he would’ve left her all alone in there, how he felt his stomach drop into his throat when he got outside and realized she wasn’t beside him. But her body language suggests that she’s done talking for the night and so he moves into the bathroom instead, stripping down as he goes. Reaching for the shower knob, he takes note of the gashes along his arms, the blood on his hands and the burn on his stomach, stumbling more than stepping into the tub. The scalding water against the cuts on his skin are more painful than he wants to admit but he welcomes it, welcomes the hurt and the release and the ability to silently scream, to react in a way that being in a room with Natasha doesn’t normally allow him to.

He’s not sure how long he lets himself stand there, dripping and wet and screaming inaudibly, but he figures if he were really in trouble, her sixth sense would figure things out pretty quickly. When he finally emerges with just enough strength left to grab for a towel, an adequate amount of steam has built up to the extent that he can barely see two inches in front of him.

He decides to forgo a shirt on account of his cuts still being sore, and as he walks back into the room, he notices that she’s apparently decided to do the same thing. The intimacy of it surprises him: Natasha is nothing if not guarded, even if he’s gotten her to come out of her shell more than he would have ever expected thanks to a lot of trust and an even greater show of respect.

(Then again, he also figures that maybe she just assumes he’ll sleep on the floor – the one bed situation was less than ideal but neither had complained; they were just happy to have somewhere to escape the aftermath of the night’s activities.)

Clint moves his attention to the pile of clothes on the floor, his eyes drawn downwards by an increasingly annoying beeping, as the numbers and words on his cell click into place. 12:00 AM. January 1.

Happy Fucking New Year, indeed.

Booting the phone across the room and far too tired to care about where it might end up, he climbs into bed, half expecting her to kick him out and fully surprised when she doesn’t. Her dark hair is splayed out against the pillow, and there’s so much of it pooling against the white fabric that he almost misses the still wet traces of blood smeared around her neck and across her hairline.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches up and wipes the red away from her temple with the curve of his thumb, freezing when she turns around, fingers rigid against her skin. Entirely facing him, the unmasked look in her eyes very nearly breaks his heart.

(Natasha’s always been broken but she’s always held herself together by threads, has never let it show how much she was coming apart at the seams.)

The kiss catches them both off guard, tastes of sticky sweat and smoky ash and exhaustion, but somehow, like their partnership, like their lives, they make it work. When they break apart, he finds himself pressed against her skin and everything hurts a little less, and he thinks from the way she relaxes against his back that maybe she feels the same.

They dress separately in the morning and they don’t talk about it: not on the car ride back to the airport, not even when they’re debriefed in separate rooms with the caveat of “what the hell happened in Austria?”

He won’t tell Fury that he went in to save her.

She won’t tell Coulson that he’s the reason for her survival.

They have their differences, but there’s one thing they agree on, and that’s the fact that some things are better kept secret.

V. December, 2011

It could’ve been better.

There’s a lot running through Clint Barton’s mind when the sun goes down, but that’s all he can think as he re-strings his bow and rests his arm on the ledge of the roof: it could’ve been better. He knew when Coulson called him that New Mexico wasn’t going to be among the most exciting place to visit, and while he’s been an agent long enough to know that the life had its ups and downs – and certainly, there were times he would have gladly traded a high-profile mission for a boring stake-out - he can’t help but think he’s being just slightly underused. He hadn’t complained about the nature of the job and had understood why he was the one tasked for it, but he also figures maybe they could’ve cut him a little slack, let him do more than be a babysitter for a rather large piece of Norse treasure.

Worse, Natasha has been tasked with some undercover detail in Iceland, which means she is, for the most part, largely unavailable to keep him company. He’d be remiss not to admit how much her presence has helped him in the field, and not just in terms of keeping him sane and on his toes. Hell, even Fury had commented on his improved skill - something he later admitted had to be one for the books.

He trains his gaze forward, letting his eyes drift over the landscape as a haze of dust skirts across the otherwise quiet desert. A chill cuts through his thin jacket as stars start to press in, and before he can talk himself out of it, he finds himself hitting a number on his cell phone, waiting for the connection in his earpiece to click.

“What the hell are you doing, Barton? This is an unsecure line.”

“Relax. I called to say hi…”

“Called to check up on me is more like it.”

“…and to say that I hope you’re coming back soon because it’s boring here without you.”

“I can’t wait,” Natasha replies dryly. She pauses and in the quiet he can hear a distinct scraping sound. He’s not exactly sure if the action is because of ice or blood, and decides he’d rather not find out.

“How’s New Mexico?”

“Boring.” Clint glances towards the ground. “Fury’s got me on god-watch, which you’ll be shocked to learn is not as exciting as it sounds. I spend more time looking at my arrows than shooting them.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re keeping everyone very happy.” There’s a distracted edge to her voice, which he tries to tune out as he works out the kinks in his neck.

“How’s Iceland?”

“Beats babysitting Stark, I can tell you that much. Not exactly warm, though. Plus, I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving. I can’t wait to get back to base.”

Clint groans. “Tell me about it. What I wouldn’t give for a Waffle House breakfast right now.”

“Is that the crap you made me eat that one time we were in Oklahoma?” The contempt dripping from her voice is impossible to miss, and he hesitates slightly before responding.

“Yes?”

Natasha makes a disgusted sound in response, one that he figures has nothing to do with whatever she’s currently doing on the other end of the line.

“Gross.”

“It’s called living on the edge, Nat. You should try it sometime.”

“I try it every day. I tried it that one time you dragged me there.”

“Oh, come on.” Clint leans back, staring at the stars, all but abandoning his watch for the time being. “Appreciate America a little bit. It’s New Years Eve, and you can go anywhere. What do you want to see?”

“What I want to see, Clint, is my bed and a large cup of tea. And you’re not helping me accomplish that by keeping me on the phone.”

“Seriously?” He sits up. “You can’t tell me there’s not one place you want to visit.”

Natasha sighs. “Fine. Vegas.” Clint snickers, unable to help himself.

“Vegas? Are you kidding me? Every single city in the United States, and you want to go to the tackiest, most gaudy place outside of L.A.?”

Natasha huffs out a hurt sound. “What the hell’s wrong with Vegas?” He envisions the after-effect of her deflection as she pushes hair behind her ear and shrugs, almost forgetting that she can’t see him.

“I don’t know, it’s not really your…”

“Style?”

“I guess I always thought of you as more of a western girl.”

“Clearly, your knowledge of sharp-shooting far outweighs your knowledge of women,” Natasha replies sardonically. “It’s me, Clint. Is there anything about me that screams western?”

“Educated guess. Don’t worry. I’ll show you Vegas one day, Natasha. We’ll go on the roller coaster in New York, play the craps table at The Mirage, and then I’ll teach you how to win at the penny slots.”

“I challenge you to outdrink me.”

“Now that I definitely won’t show you,” Clint responds with dismay. “I don’t need another reason for S.H.I.E.L.D. to get on my ass; this detail’s bad enough.”

Natasha barks out a laugh, the response intermingled with the sharp sound of a gunshot and Clint jumps without thinking, almost losing grip on his bow.

“Jesus – what – did you just shoot someone?”

There’s a short pause and the sound of a scuffle, and then her out-of-breath voice comes back on the line.

“What did you expect me to do? Let my target get away while you’re asking me about breakfast and gambling?”

Clint smiles into the sky, leaning an elbow on the ledge of the roof. “Natasha Romanov, I knew I liked you.”

“Do not go on to tell me this is why you keep me around, or I’ll shoot you again.”

“Let the record show that I value my life.”

He can almost hear her smile over the phone. “Get back to god-watch, Barton, before Coulson makes an example out of you. I’ll be back in time to share your shitty breakfast.”
She clicks out of the conversation before he can respond.

VI. December, 2012

The bed is harder than he’s used to, which is saying a lot considering the amount of time they’ve spent on the road together. Still, Clint can’t imagine that Natasha minds, especially as she slams his body back onto the mattress, her legs wrapping around his thighs. The quality of the establishment hadn’t been the issue as much as a half an hour ago (she definitely doesn’t mind, he realizes) and as her lips find his stomach, he silently gives up a prayer for the random roadside motel that popped up almost out of nowhere, with vacancy to boot.

He grabs for her shirt, lifting it over her head in one smooth motion, unhooking her bra in the process. As he goes to find the spot on her neck that he’s been thinking about since she nudged his toe with her foot back in the car (and God, how had that only been an hour ago; it feels like days), he vaguely registers the shrill cry of his cell phone.

“Dammit…”

“Leave it,” Natasha growls, shoving him back down, her tongue trailing across his chest. He groans, one arm reaching out in the direction of the sound.

“Natasha!”

She sits up and pushes off him, still straddling his hips, regarding him with a look that speaks volumes. It’s the one he’s seen her give to operatives and captives, the one that’s unmistakable when it comes to what she wants and what she’s willing to do to get it.

“Clint, do you want to answer the phone, or do you want to me to continue?” She leans over his body, her mouth hovering just below his earlobe as her breath tickles its way across his skin. He steals a glance towards the table, his eyes traveling over her naked form, trying with minimal success to ignore the ache in his groin before finally letting his head fall back against the pillow, his breathing heavy, until the ringing starts to subside.

“On a scale of one to that time in Peru, how much trouble do you think we’re going to get in for this?”

Natasha rolls over, pulling him on top of her, one hand slipping under the waistband of his pants. “I think Fury’s gonna have our asses on a silver platter, and right now, I don’t really care.” She moves her hand further down, noting the strangled moan as her fingers find their target. “It’s New Years Eve.”

“And we’re…not on a mission.” Clint sounds like he’s straining his voice to answer and she feels his body tighten, smiling to herself as she yanks his boxers off, shoving them down to his ankles.

“And we’re not in a dark alley.” She angles her hips upwards as he enters, pulling his face towards her head, directing his eyes to her face.

“Or on a roof.” He punctuates the end of the sentence by thrusting, hard, and she digs her fingers into his side. “And we’re not trying to kill each other…”

“Well.” Natasha shifts underneath him, using the pause in conversation to catch him unawares. She pushes back into him a sly grin. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

His hands are tangled in her hair and her hands are scraping the back of his neck, and the end of her words are lost in a rush of air as he starts to move faster, until her body screams for release, until she can’t hold herself in any longer, and she emits a sound almost visceral in nature. He lets out a string of unintelligible words, flattening out on top of her as two fingers curl into the small of her back, grasping for purchase at her skin.

“Better than India?” Struggling to even his breathing, his words are a wheeze of a question and Natasha reaches up, dragging a hand through short, spiky hair. She grins wickedly.
“Better than Lisbon.”

The celebrations have long stopped by the time they’re curled up into each other’s side, bodies wet and warm and, for the moment, satisfied. Natasha closes her eyes as Clint moves a strand of hair off her forehead, watching her lips jerk ever so slightly into a hint of a smile.

“Hey.”

She opens one eye, and he traces a hand down her face, his finger landing on the curve of her bottom lip. “Happy New Year.”

Her fingers bend into his palm and she smiles, her skin hot against his own, a blanket of security and warmth against a world rooted in danger and uncertainty.

“Happy New Year, Clint.”