A Gift From: celeste9
Type Of Gift: fic
Title: Almost
A Gift For: poppetawoppet
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mild violence, language, innuendo
Summary/Prompt Used: Their relationship is a complicated series of almosts, but never actually is.
Author's Note: You left such fabulous prompts, I’m only sorry I couldn’t write for all of them! I hope you enjoy this and that you’re having a lovely holiday season.


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Sex, Natasha knew, was a commodity. Over the years, she had learned how to use her sexuality as an asset and a tool. She had seduced men and then stolen from them, stolen their secrets or their property. She had seduced men and then killed them. There was a reason the name ‘Black Widow’ had stuck, after all.

Sex was just another weapon in her arsenal. People like Natasha didn’t have the luxury for romance.

When Natasha first met Clint Barton, she tried to sleep with him. Twice.
The first time was to get rid of him, after she’d realized he was tracking her. She would have slipped a knife between his ribs given half the chance, but he hadn’t fallen for her act. He was different.

The second time was after he’d convinced her to come with him back to S.H.I.E.L.D., in handcuffs instead of in a body bag. She’d offered herself to him, like an exchange of services. He’d saved her life so she’d… Well. Natasha didn’t like to be in anyone’s debt and nobody did anything for free. Everyone always wanted something - you just had to figure out what that was.

But Clint had grabbed her wrists from where they’d been settling on his hips and forced her back. “Hey, no, I don’t want that.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Look, I’m not saying I don’t… It would be good, it would be really good, I’m sure, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“We both know that isn’t true.”

“I didn’t do it because…” Clint ran his hand through his short hair. “I didn’t do it for this. Maybe someday, someday you’ll actually want me, and then maybe things are different. But don’t just give yourself away like a piece of meat or something. You deserve better than that, Natasha.”

Clint walked away before Natasha could respond. She was puzzled more than anything. He was attracted to her, she knew he was. He could have had her and it would have been fair. It would only have been what he was due.

But he’d said no. He’d said no like he was a man who did things expecting nothing in return.

Natasha didn’t believe that sort of man existed.

-

Becoming an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. was a long, slow process for Natasha. Actually getting the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. to trust her was even slower. She was the Black Widow, Natalia Romanova, infamous Russian operative, and those were difficult labels to shake. It didn’t matter that she’d been used, that she’d been a little girl stolen and given away to the Red Room, or that being a Russian assassin wasn’t actually all that different from being a S.H.I.E.L.D. assassin, in the scheme of things.

Natasha had been the enemy and there were many agents who couldn’t see her any other way.

Not Clint, though.

So many months later and still Clint had never asked Natasha for anything. He had never tried to get Natasha to make good on her debt. It was as if he didn’t even believe there was anything to repay.

All he did was talk to her, sit by her in the cafeteria when all the other agents kept their distance, bring her coffee or donuts, and just in general be… nice. He was nice.

Natasha couldn’t understand it. If he didn’t want anything, why was he bothering? If he was playing a long game, he didn’t seem to plan on ever ending it.
It took a long time for Natasha to realize that all he wanted was to be her friend. By the time she’d realized that, she’d also realized that she wasn’t sure what she would do without him.

-

They were on assignment in Beijing, sent to take out a crime lord before he could make a weapons deal that S.H.I.E.L.D. very much did not want him to make. It involved infiltrating a fancy party and playing dress-up, which Natasha didn’t mind so much. Free champagne and hors d’oeuvres, Clint in a bespoke tux, and, oh yeah, the look on Clint’s face when he saw her in her dress.

Natasha might be an assassin but that didn’t mean she couldn’t relish visual confirmation of how hot she looked, right?

For the moment they were killing time, waiting in a section of the house they weren’t even supposed to be in. Coulson was their eyes but until they heard back from him they were stuck in a holding pattern. Natasha half-wished they could have hung around the main festivities for just a little bit longer - the champagne had been excellent.

“I can think of a few ways to occupy ourselves,” Clint said, overdoing it just a tad on the suggestiveness. But then, that was probably the point.

“Does that ever work for you?”

Clint held his arms open in a ‘hey, look at me!’ gesture. “Come on, Nat, if this tux isn’t working all by itself, nothing I say is gonna make a difference.”

“Fair point.” What Natasha didn’t say was that the tux was actually making an incredibly compelling argument.

Moving close enough that Natasha could smell the scent of his aftershave, Clint said, “In the movies spies are always having undercover makeouts. I feel robbed that we haven’t yet had the opportunity.”

“Can’t get a girl to kiss you on her own, huh?” Natasha said in sympathy.
“Harsh, that’s harsh.” Clint couldn’t be too broken up, though, because he was still leaning in.

If Natasha were less in control of herself, she might have shivered. She arched her neck, almost in an invitation. She might have wanted it to be an invitation, actually. She could be tempted.

Sex with Clint would be good, she knew it would be. Natasha had so rarely been with anyone for simple want of it. She could be with Clint and it wouldn’t be merely a trade of services. It would be fun. Fun was becoming less and less a foreign concept, and that was mostly because of Clint.

“Target is on the move, heading towards you,” Coulson’s voice rang out in both their ears.

“To be continued,” Clint said, his breath against Natasha’s skin.

“Yeah, later tonight, in your dreams,” Natasha said, admitting only to herself how much she enjoyed the answering sound of Clint’s chuckle.

-

Natasha fell in love with Clint in an alley in Berlin. Or at least, that’s when she realized it was a possibility. She could fall for him, if she let herself, and if love was for people like her.

“We have the best job in the world,” Clint said, rolling his shoulders after having given S.H.I.E.L.D. their location for extraction.

“What makes you say that?” Natasha asked. “Was it the part where intel screwed us and we got surrounded or the part where you threw yourself off a roof in a hail of gunfire?” She had long suspected that Clint harbored a secret desire to be James Bond. At the very least he operated with a similar reckless abandon.

Clint grinned. “You loved every second of it. Don’t even deny it.”

“I prefer when everything runs smoothly and we don’t almost die.”

“That never happens.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better when it’s quieter. That means no one’s fucked up.” Natasha was at her best when she wasn’t being noticed. It was unsettling when everyone noticed them.

“And now you feel amazing. Right? I’m right.”

Natasha would never admit that Clint was right, and certainly not aloud, but she did feel… alive. There was an exhilaration to missions, both in the moment and after successful completion, that Clint had been instrumental in helping her to appreciate. Being a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. was largely a form of recompense for Natasha, a way to try to do things right and make up for all of her wrongdoing, but sometimes… sometimes it could be fun, too.

She looked at Clint, sweaty and dirty, his cheeks still a bit flushed, a tear in his sleeve, and thought, God, I could love you.

“You know what would have made this go smoother?” Clint asked.

“Better intel?” Natasha suggested.

“Boomerang arrow.”

“Oh my God, you’re a child,” Natasha said, deciding that if her judgment was this bad, it was probably good that she didn’t know how to fall in love.

Love wasn’t for people like her, not even in alleys in Berlin.

-

Injuries were part and parcel of S.H.I.E.L.D. It was simply an inevitable fact that if you went into the field, at some point it wasn’t going to go well for you. Natasha was good, but she’d still spent her fair share of time in the medical wing. She had also spent her fair share of time visiting Clint in the medical wing - or trying to get him to actually go there in the first place.

That didn’t make any of this any easier.

Natasha hadn’t even realized Clint had been shot at first. They were running, trying to make it to the rendezvous point. The mission had been radio silent but S.H.I.E.L.D. was due to pick them up in - Natasha checked her watch - fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to make it but the speed was more to get them outside the danger zone, so to speak, as quickly as possible.

Another mission that could have gone smoother.

When Clint started to struggle, his pace slowing and his breathing getting ragged, Natasha turned to him to make a joke about his fitness. The sight of his pale face and the blood seeping out from underneath the hand he had pressed to his side stopped the words from even forming.

Coming to an abrupt halt, Natasha immediately wrapped an arm around Clint’s waist to offer her support and pressed her other hand over the top of Clint’s. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”

“Didn’t think it was so bad. Don’t think it hit anything important. Anyway it doesn’t change anything; we still need to get to the evac.”

Clint’s shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat. Natasha didn’t say any of the things she was thinking because none of it was productive. All she did was help Clint lumber along and try to keep his blood from leaking out.

It took them longer to reach their destination because of Clint’s injury, but they still had time to spare. Natasha helped Clint sit down, propping his back against the low, crumbling wall on the outskirts of the town. They’d picked this spot because it was mostly vacant and had room for the quinjet to land.

Clint had closed his eyes. Natasha was kneeling beside him, both of her hands putting pressure on the gunshot wound. “Stay with me, Clint. Not long now.”

“Not dying yet,” Clint insisted, but he looked as bad as Natasha had ever seen him.

She chose not to think about that.

The evac was on time but the flight easily felt like the longest of Natasha’s life. She did what she could for Clint but mostly that amounted to keeping him comfortable until they got home.

When they landed and the medical staff rushed in to put Clint on a gurney, Natasha watched numbly until a nurse forcibly pulled her aside and said, “Agent Romanoff, are you injured? You’re going to have to come with me.”

“What?” Natasha looked down at herself and finally noticed the blood. “None of it’s mine.”

The nurse nodded. “We’ll update you as soon as possible.” Then she was gone.

Natasha filed her mission report while she waited because otherwise she would have gone crazy, not knowing, not being able to do anything. At least the precise laying out of details kept her mind focused on something concrete, something that wasn’t what if he doesn’t make it what will I do how will I…

The affirmation that Clint was going to be fine was so much of a relief that Natasha could have kissed the doctor who gave her the news. She didn’t, of course. It was some time until Natasha was allowed in to see him but that was fine; that gave her time to ensure her emotions were under control. Clint was the only one who would notice when they weren’t.

He still looked too pale as he sat up in the hospital bed, an IV running out of his arm, but he was smiling as Natasha walked in. “No flowers?”

“I thought you’d prefer vodka but they confiscated it.”

Clint closed his eyes briefly as if in regret. “They never let me have anything good in here.”

“Unless you count the drugs.”

“There is that.”

Natasha pulled the cheap chair out from the corner and moved it next to the bed, sitting close. She hesitated, and then Clint turned his hand over in offering. Natasha took it, holding tightly.

This would be the moment in a movie or in a book where Natasha would confess her feelings, where she would profess her love for Clint, driven to it out of a fear of losing him. She would probably cry a single tear and Clint would be strong and kind and tell her that he’d always loved her, too. Their near tragedy would turn into a life-long romance.

But real life didn’t work like that.

Instead Natasha held Clint’s hand in an assurance that he was still there, that this was real, that he was okay. That he wouldn’t leave her. He couldn’t leave her.

“Hey, Nat, I--”

A nurse walked into the room and Natasha pulled her hand from Clint’s, offering him a small, tight smile but moving away all the same. From the doorway she watched the nurse make an adjustment to his IV while he smiled and laughed and even made an attempt at flirting, but his eyes kept drifting back to Natasha.

It was too late, though, and the moment was gone. Maybe it was for the best. Natasha walked down the hallway and got herself another terrible cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

-

Clint and Natasha partnered up with each other on missions more often than with anyone else in S.H.I.E.L.D. That meant that the number of times they’d shared a bed was disproportionately high for two people who weren’t in a physical relationship.

Sometimes the beds were big and sometimes they were small, sometimes the mattresses were brand new and sometimes they were closer to disgustingly old and ratty. Clint liked to snuggle and Natasha didn’t, but they always managed to work it out, more or less.

This time it was a small bed, in a room with no heat because the electricity was down. Just their luck.

They’d found candles in the safehouse kitchen. The flickering light cast Clint in a warm glow. “Cuddle for warmth?” he suggested.

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “What is this, a trashy romance novel?”

“As long as I get to be the spunky heroine.”

“If that makes me the bad boy who’s ready to be reformed, you’ve got a deal.”

“I’ll save you with the power of my love, don’t worry, sweetheart.”

“The power of your vagina, you mean.”

Clint gasped and covered his mouth with his hand. “You’ve lured me here to deflower me!”

“Bad boy, remember?” Natasha placed the candle she’d been carrying onto the stand by the bed. “I brought candles, baby. It will be completely romantic. You’re so special to me.”

Clint threw himself dramatically onto the bed. “Oh, take me now, Nat, I’m ready!”

Natasha pretended to appraise him. “Nah, changed my mind. Maybe next time.”

“You’re so cruel, I think I love you even more! Tell me what to do so you’ll want me again!”

Pushing Clint’s legs out of the way so she could sit next to him on the bed, Natasha said, “Now I remember why I hate romance novels.”

“Aw, they’re not all bad.”

Natasha glanced askance at him. “I won’t ask.”

Clint reached over to pat her knee. “I appreciate that.” He took off his shoes and jostled Natasha while maneuvering himself under the covers.

She leaned across him and blew out the candle before joining Clint beneath the blankets. It felt almost cozy.

“Ah!” Clint yelped. “Watch the feet!”

Natasha purposely tucked her feet between Clint’s again, more because it aggravated him than for any personal desire. “But skin-to-skin contact warms them up so much faster.”

“Your feet never warm up; they’re like little chunks of ice. Get them away from me!”

“They feel warmer already,” Natasha insisted.

Clint grumbled a bit more but gave in, if only because Natasha was letting him spoon with her. There was something about the lingering scent of the candle blowing out and the darkness in the room, the silence and the comforting closeness of their bodies that made Natasha feel eager to compromise. It somehow seemed easy, like this, and Clint seemed to be holding her tighter than he usually dared, like maybe -

The lights came on, a sudden steady gleam of bright whiteness that made Natasha’s eyes ache. Clint pulled back and Natasha got up, saying, “I’ll turn them off.”

Even when the room was dark again and Natasha was back in bed, it wasn’t the same.

-

Love was too simple a word to apply to how Natasha felt about Clint, she decided. Their relationship was too complicated, her feelings were too intense. Love brought to mind childish notions of soulmates and romance, candlelit dinners and walks on the beach, teenagers holding hands and adults living in the same house. Natasha might never have any of those things with Clint, but there was no single person in the entire world whom she held more dear, or who was more important to her.

Natasha owed Clint her life and he had never asked for anything in return. Over the years they had saved each other so many times and in so many different ways that it would have been impossible to keep track. She owed him her sanity and her (relative, perhaps ) emotional well-being, and he owed her his.

How could you put a label on emotion? On a person who felt as much a part of you as yourself, as though he was woven into the fabric of your soul? Attachment was dangerous, as Natasha well knew, and what she felt for Clint was the sort of thing that could get a person killed.

But what she felt for Clint was also what kept her moving forward, what gave her strength and focus. It made her better. Knowing Clint had made her a better person. Knowing him had helped her to discover what was good about herself, all those traits that she thought the Red Room had destroyed.

How could a four letter word ever even begin to express that?

Sometimes at night or in quiet moments Natasha thought about what it would be like to be with Clint. His skin against hers, moving together, in sync in a way so different from being partners. She wondered if it would change nothing or everything, and she wondered if it would ruin what they already had.

Most of the time it didn’t seem worth the risk.

-

After New York, Natasha didn’t want to be alone.

Clint was staying at S.H.I.E.L.D., under observation like they were afraid he might pull a knife on them, like Loki’s hold on him might not be completely broken. Natasha supposed she could understand the practicality of it but it bothered her, seeing them force him to stay on the premises like he hadn’t just helped save the world.

He had his own room, though, and Fury hadn’t gone so far as to order him kept under guard. When Natasha found him he was sitting up in his bed, laptop in front of him and the TV on, though he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to either.

Natasha switched off the TV with the news anchor in mid-sentence. “You don’t need to be watching that,” she said.

“Why not? Part of it was me.”

“Yes, the part where you helped stop an alien invasion.”

“And the part where I helped Loki start that invasion?”

“Not you.”

Clint sighed. “I know you’re just trying to help, but I can’t… That isn’t what I need to hear, not right now. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen and I don’t want you to, either.”

Natasha sat on the bed, one leg folded up beneath her. “What do you need?”

“To see Loki in that Asgardian prison myself, probably. Or else to shoot him in the face. Probably more that last one.”

“Want me to help you break in?”

Clint’s smile was weak, but still real. “I’d take you up on that if I didn’t think another round with an Asgardian would put me in the ground.”

“We could bring Bruce, let the Hulk keep Thor busy. Easy peasy.”

“Have I ever told you that you are completely awesome?”

Natasha shrugged. “Maybe once or twice, but I’m always open to compliments.” She scooted over on the bed, leaning back against the wall next to Clint, their shoulders touching.

They sat in an easy silence, Natasha feeling comforted by Clint’s rhythmic breathing. It would have been so easy to lean in and brush her mouth against his, and she wanted to, she wanted to. Maybe Clint even wanted her to.

Nothing was stopping her but herself. It didn’t seem like the right time, but then, it never had.

Natasha was thinking it never would.

-

“Are you okay?”

When her burner phone rang, number unknown, Natasha had known it would be Clint even before she picked up. “I’m with Steve,” she told him. “We have a plan. Sort of.”

Clint chuckled. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”

“As long as you’re in one piece, I’m good.”

“I’m in one piece.” He paused. “Mostly.”

“Barton.”

“No, honestly, Nat, I’m fine. Safer for us both if I don’t say where, but don’t worry, okay?”

Clint didn’t say everything would be fine. The organization that Natasha had turned to in an effort to become better had turned out to be HYDRA; half their friends were either dead or the enemy and they didn’t know who to trust. Everything was far from fine.

Natasha wanted to say, Come find me. She wanted to say, I need you here.

But of course she didn’t say either of those things. She said, “Don’t die.”

“Same goes for you,” Clint said, and the line went dead.

-

It was late, but the fact that Steve was up brooding by the communal couches in the Tower rather than in his own room meant that he wouldn’t mind if Natasha came and sat with him. She brought an extra mug of hot chocolate with her and offered it to him.

“Before you thank me,” she said, “it’s non-alcoholic.”

Steve quirked a smile at her and then took a sip. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

“Sam’s lead didn’t pan out?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be disappointed.”

“Hey,” Natasha said, making sure he was meeting her eyes before she continued. “I may not be the Winter Soldier’s biggest fan, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to find what you’re looking for.”

“You think it’s a terrible idea to even try.”

“Maybe, but you probably need to figure that out for yourself. Everybody needs closure. You’ll be happier when you get some, no matter what sort of closure it turns out to be, and a happy Steve is much more enjoyable to be around.”

Steve laughed faintly, self-deprecatingly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Everyone needs to have a good angst and sulk now and then.”

“I guess I just… I know he’s the Winter Soldier to you, and I know he’s done terrible things. But to me he’s still just Bucky.”

“I understand, Steve, believe me. I know what best friends are like.” Natasha would have done anything to save Clint when Loki had had him, no matter what he’d done. Maybe the situations were different but the sentiment was certainly the same. Sometimes the bond you had with a person was more important than anything else, no matter how many people told you that you were being stupid.

“Best friend?” Steve asked. “So, you and Clint, you never…”

Natasha shook her head. “No. Almost, but never quite… I guess you could say our story is one big ‘might have been’.”

And somehow… that was okay. It was okay.

“I know how that goes.”

Natasha glanced sideways and looked at Steve looking at her. “To our might have beens,” she said, and clinked her mug against his.

End