Natasha isn't sure what she expected, but the fact that within the fifteen minutes between Clint texting her that he arrived and the end of her training lesson with Wanda, they ended up at the range, is anything but a surprise. They've put their heads together over one of Clint's high tech quivers, arguing animatedly, and really, what did she ever do to deserve being saddled with two of those dorks.

She sneaks up until she's only a few feet away, then loudly clears her throat. “Hey boys.”

Both of them turn simultaneously, and her Clint starts in her direction to wrap her up in a hug. His alternate version stays where he is, glances at her with an awkward, tense smile and refuses to meet her gaze when she glances back.

She doesn't get a chance to think about that further, because Clint is walking back over to the quiver where it's laid out on a counter, hand on the small of her back. He's babbled at her about this countless times and she could probably recite the design of these things in her sleep at this point, but it's good to have him here, beside her, geeking out over his gear; makes this place feel more like home already. So she listens, teases and quips when the opportunity strikes, and ignores the fact that the guy she got off in her apartment after he nearly bled to death just under a week ago can't even look her in the eye.

After they walked the alternate back to his quarters, her Clint fixes her with a look, and yeah, of course he would have noticed something's askew.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

Natasha shrugs her shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” He makes a face at her. “Did something happen on your mission that's got you suspicious again? Because I didn't expect you to be this wary anymore, not after what we talked about on the phone – “

“We had a thing,” she cuts in, because while she didn't plan on disclosing the encounter right away – none of his business who she does or doesn't sleep with, even if it's his alternate self – but she also doesn't want him to worry. And that's what the speech he launched into means; he's worried. And he'll keep worrying if she doesn't set the record straight. “Back at my apartment.”

“A thing?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes; he's not normally this obtuse. “A naked thing.”

His gaze flicks to the closed door of the alternate's quarter. “Oh.”