Five Times Natasha Romanoff And Clint Barton Pretended To Be Hitched

1.

The night has fallen over the city, engulfing the ancient walls in darkness. The street lamps are barely visible through the thick curtain of mist. The narrow cobbled paths of the old town are deserted, the wet slippery stones glistening in the dark, and the soft sound of the drizzling rain envelops the world in a cotton cocoon. You can barely hear the river waves breaking softly on the buildings two streets away.

Venice in winter sucks.

Now, Clint isn't usually ungrateful – he's been to his fair share of shitty places on earth, and Venice isn't anywhere near the top of that list. But there's something melancholic in this city, as if the walls are still carrying the burden of a dozen centuries' worth of treacheries, greed, and blood. The rain only helps to bring out this sense of misery.

Or maybe it's just his mission.

The woman walks swiftly down the narrow streets, her black cape swirling behind her. He's been trailing her through Europe for the past three months and he knows enough of her moods by now to sense that she's tired. Tired and weary and resigned, but probably still looking forward to killing the Honorable Viscount Launceston, who's walking one street turn in front of her and has been trying to remake his lost fortune by organizing a child pornography ring in East Asia.

The amount of shitty things people are willing to do in order to cling to their privileges will never cease to amaze Clint, and he's a person who kills for a living. The woman's prey for the past three months has been equally upstanding members of society: human traffickers, drug dealers and, his personal favorite, a serial rapist that had evaded the Ukrainian police for two years. Well, no reason not to let her do tonight's job too. He can let her relieve the world from another shitty asshole and fire that arrow afterwards.

Of course, that's what he'd said the previous six times, and that's why tonight he finds himself drowning in the humidity, in Venice, in January, with a very pissed off Nick Fury on the warpath, instead of having drinks with the Strike teams back in DC.

The woman follows the Viscount and Clint follows the woman and two thugs are following both of them, only they don't actually know Clint is here, and he's gonna take a wild guess that they're following the woman and not His sleazy Excellency.

At least the tight clusters of the old town buildings are excellent for stalking people from above. That industrial park in Manchester last month had been a nightmare.

The Viscount stops in front of the iron gate of a dimly lit palazzo and presses the buzzer. Both Clint and the woman know that their only window of opportunity will be the few seconds until he reaches the inside door, so they get in motion simultaneously. As soon as the gate opens and the man takes the first step into the internal yard, Clint nocks an arrow and the woman lunges.

The Viscount turns abruptly and lands his fist to the woman's solar plexus, and Clint realizes in that fraction of a second that he'd been waiting for her. She realizes it too; she shifts and the next punch goes through the air, but the man grabs her by the hair and lands his boot on her ribs, lifting his fist for another punch to the temple.

“Oh no you don't,” Clint hisses. He fires the arrow and pins the Viscount's other boot to the ground – the only safe spot amidst the flurry of motions. There's a muffled scream.

The thugs have turned around the corner by now, startled that someone has taken care of their mission but recovering quickly enough and marching forward to participate. Clint curses. He waits until they reach the iron gate and lets two arrows fly in quick succession. The Viscount, torn between assessing the situation and trying to dislodge the arrow from his grounded foot, gives Clint a marvelous opportunity for a clean shot through the neck.

The whole racket has lasted less than fifteen seconds.

Clint jumps to the ground. She's back on her feet by now, standing motionless before him.

A group of drunken students comes around the corner. They’re met by a sordid tableau: the Black Widow, a black silhouette through the night, wisps of red hair bursting out of her hood; Clint on one knee in front of her, caught mid-motion before standing up, and hiding from view the three dead bodies bowled over the yard.

“Nice night for it, mate,” one of them shouts drunkenly. “I hope she says yes.”

2.

Athens in July is hell.

It's not just the scorching hot temperatures and the freaking humidity. (When did this city get humidity anyway? Clint was there for a mission six years ago and he distinctly remembers sleeping like a baby. Fuck you, climate change deniers). It's the overwhelming masses of tourists, who cross the roads in large herds behind their guides, and the pullmans that are parked in front of every major landmark, blocking off the bus lanes and causing a domino effect of chaos across all central arteries.

The locals seem resigned to their fate, swerving between the rentals driven by overwhelmed tourists at less than one mile per hour and the taxi drivers who prowl the streets and stop abruptly to take clients in the middle of the road, adding their own touch to the mayhem.

It's taken them more than twenty minutes to reach the Syngrou Avenue from Syntagma Square in their rental car. That's more time than if they'd walked.

The good news is they aren't really in a hurry. Mr and Mrs Jefferson from Dallas, Texas, who checked in at the Hotel Grande Bretagne two nights ago for a bit of sightseeing before flying to the islands, have actually managed to wrap up their mission early and can now take their sweet time. The Travel team has changed their flight to one that leaves earlier, but that's still in six hours and Clint plans to spend those in the airport lounge with a cool drink and his iPod.

They could have stayed at the hotel suite and taken a taxi to the airport in the evening, but they’d figured that Mrs Jefferson had better scram before her mark woke up in the next room and realized what's missing from the safe.

The columns of Olympian Zeus stand tall and unaffected amidst the chaos, like they've been doing for the past 2,500 years. The white marble shimmers under the unrelenting sun.

Natasha turns her head and looks at them for a long minute.

“What must if be like to see this beauty every day?” she asks loudly.

Clint looks at her, startled. In the past three days they've been sharing a room, this is the first time she's addressed him about something other than the mission. She hasn't been exactly rude or hostile – merely keeping her distance and rebuffing all his attempts at small talk. He doesn't really mind letting her find her pace; he just hopes he's made it abundantly clear that he's not expecting any kind of repayment for that night in Venice.

“I don't know,” he responds. “But I imagine that if people here see it so often, they don't really notice it anymore.”

“That's a shame,” she mutters.

“How's that?”

“It's a shame to get so well acquainted with beauty that you reach a point when you don't appreciate it.”

That, Clint can agree with. He changes lanes carefully, swerving past an elderly couple that has decided to cross the road ten feet away from the zebra crossing, apparently under the illusion that the good people of Athens will break to let them pass, like drivers do back in Stockholm or Brisbane or wherever.

“You wanna stop and go see the columns?” he asks.

It's her turn to seem startled. “I think we agreed we should leave as fast as we could.”

“How much of that dendrotoxin did you give him? He's not gonna wake up before noon. We can make a stop for ten minutes.”

She seems to hesitate. “Aren't we expected to go straight to the airport?”

“Says who? Coulson won't give a shit whatever we do, as long as we don't miss our flight and don't draw any attention to ourselves.”

Natasha seems offended at the suggestion that she'd ever draw any attention to herself, but apparently decides to let it go.

Clint presses his advantage. “Com' on, it'll be fun. You know I've been here twice and never even climbed the Acropolis hill? Let's go touch some ancient ruins, say we got something out of our first mission.”

“I'm fairly sure you're not supposed to touch these. And it's not my first mission. Or yours.”

“It's our first mission together, and it went well. Let's celebrate. We can even snap a photo: Strike Team Delta.”

She looks at him for a moment, then offers him a tentative smile. “Alright, then. Let's go.”

As Clint turns right to find a place to park the car in the narrow streets below the Acropolis, he thinks that maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

3.

Natasha pads across the wooden parquet of the open plan living room, yawning.

“Morning,” she calls as she drags herself to the kitchen counter to fix her tea.

Clint is currently sprawled on the huge beige sofa in front of the media center, marveling at just how better Fast and Furious looks on a 55 inch TV instead of the 13 inch screen of his laptop.

“Morning,” he says drowsily.

Spending a month with a bunch of stuck-up Republicans in Martha's Vineyard isn't Clint's idea of a good time, but living like a Wall Street stockbroker has some significant perks. The big vacation house SHIELD has stashed them in, complete with access to a private beach and a lush garden kept in prime shape by the rental company, is the most significant of these perks.

There are also significant downsides, like the other night when he had to endure a discussion about how “we” should stick with any candidate who manages to win the nomination in the next elections, since literally anyone and anything would be better than the current nightmare of a Democrat in office – and let's not even start about that Obamacare nonsense. Industrial espionage might seem easy compared to strike missions, but it means having to sweet-talk and make friends with the kind of rich entitled assholes Clint seems to be allergic to.

He’d smiled and laughed and even nodded in agreement, trying not to grit his teeth too much and fantasizing about the moment this supposed vacation would be over and he and Nat could finally get out of here.

He knows that if he fucks this up it'll take them more time to gather their intel and they'll have to stay even longer. Plus they'll miss Hill's birthday party in a couple of weeks and then Natasha will surely kill him.

And, if he's being honest, spending his evenings with the 1% isn't his only hardship during this mission. He also has to spend his nights sleeping next to Natasha, because the mark is paranoid and it's entirely possible that he'll send his underlings for a bit of old-fashioned surveillance. Clint has been managing to meticulously ignore some very specific and unwelcome thoughts that have been crossing his mind lately, but spending three weeks as Natasha's husband has now crashed these thoughts up to the surface. The sooner they wrap up this up, the sooner they'll be able to go back to normal life and then he won't have to spend his days and nights wondering if this sexual tension is real or a product of his frustrated imagination.

“Want some coffee?” Natasha asks from the kitchen.

He's already had two shots, but coffee is never a bad idea. He’d better make it himself though. As talented as Nat is in drawing information from technology magnates, she can't brew a decent mug for shit.

He pauses Vin Diesel on the screen, lifts himself up from the couch, and does a double take.

Natasha's clad in a red silk camisole and shorts; hair shiny, skin radiant, and face relaxed. She really is in her element here. He's seen her in various states of undress before, of course, but there's nothing sexy about putting twelve stitches in your partner's back in a shitty safe house. This ensemble though...

He swallows.

“Thanks, I'll make it myself.”

Her eyes twinkle. “You don't trust my skills, Barton?”

“No offense, Nat, but good coffee is not among your skills.”

“Wanna bet? We've been partners for two years and I've been watching you closely lately. I think it's time to give it a try. I can do it exactly like you want it.”

Clint leans against the back of the couch, arms folded in front of him. Challenge accepted.

“Go on then.”

She smiles triumphantly and switches on the coffee machine, humming softly.

The morning light from the French windows makes her hair seem like a flame. The picture is indolently luxurious, a true Instagram shot, and it's so far away from Clint's everyday life that he wants to go find a torn hoodie to put on as soon as possible.

He also wants a cold shower, before he does something he'll really regret.

Natasha turns around and lifts herself onto the counter, bare feet dangling in front of her, while waiting for the coffee to brew. He shorts have risen up to practically the crease of her legs, revealing a large expanse of skin.

He'd swear she's doing it on purpose.

“What's up, husband?” she purrs.

Clint looks her steadily in the eye. She looks straight back.

There's defiance and challenge in that look, along with something else unspoken. Lately it seems like there are volumes of unspoken things between them. And things newly noticed, too. How could he had missed, all these years, just how nice Natasha smells? Or how smooth her skin is. He doesn't even remember the last time he'd felt electrified when he touched someone's skin by mistake. Probably never?

This —frankly unhelpful— trail of thought is interrupted when Natasha jumps off the counter, coffee forgotten, and prowls languorously towards him. He stiffens as she comes in front of him and places both her hands on his shoulders.

“You know, you can break cover when we're in the house,” he says.

“I can't, because there's a really bad private security guy watching us through the window, pretending to be this week's gardener,” she murmurs, and she leans in to trail her lips down the side of his neck.

His breath catches. Slowly, reluctantly, he moves one hand upwards to rest on the crease of her ass. Natasha seems encouraged by the move, coming even closer and pressing her body flush against his.

Two can play that game.

Clint bends his head to the left side of her face, hiding his mouth from view. “Is he watching now?” he whispers in her ear.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Would it be time for a free show?”

He moves his hand higher. “How much of a show?”

“Oh, I don't know. What do you have in mind?”

“I can improvise a thing or two,” he says as he tugs down one of her camisole straps.

It's Natasha’s turn to gasp. “I can work with that.”

Her legs come up to circle around his waist and he locks his arms under her ass. Her mouth hovers over his.

“You will?” he asks.

“What do you need?”

“Your consent.”

“You have it,” she breaths.

Clint leans closer, lips almost brushing hers, then changes track and ghosts them over her chin. “Are they still watching?”

She throws her head back, giving him an invitation he accepts by placing open-mouthed kisses along her neck. “Yes.”

He turns them around and lowers her to rest against the back of the couch, catching her with his hands behind her back. The camisole slides up to her waist, and he places more kisses there.

“How far, Nat?”

“Mmm. What?”

His fingers start stroking the soft spot at her lower back. “How far are you prepared to go?”

She moans. “As far as you need.”

He kisses his way up to the fabric that's snuggled to her waist and then trails a path back down. “It's your choice then.”

Her breath hitches. “What’s the choice?”

“Either it's here and it's fake, or it's in the bedroom and it's for real.”

She freezes imperceptibly. He kisses her navel, then stays there. A pause.

“What will it be, then?” he asks softly, his hands still in the small of her back, stopped just above the waistband of her shorts.

Natasha laughs shakily. She reaches behind to catch his hands, removing his support, and gets her feet back under her.

Clint represses a momentary pang of regret. It's probably for the best.

Then she smiles sultrily and takes a step towards the bedroom, still holding his hand. “Are you coming then?”

Later —much later— just before he falls asleep, Clint has an epiphany.

“There was no one in the garden, was there?”

Natasha gives him a sleepy, satisfied smile. “Well. I guess you'll never know.”

4.

“Guess what I found!”

Stark stalks into the kitchen just as Clint is taking a sip of his morning coffee. He looks up from his tablet and almost spits it out.

“What's with the hat?”

The hat is brown, furry, and probably a fox.

“Needed something to cover my head and it was nearby. That's irrelevant. As I was saying: guess what I found.”

Clint shrugs. “Your senses? Your lost conscience? Pepper's winter wardrobe?”

“I think that Pepper would rather freeze to death than wear a dead animal on her head,” Steve offers from the other side of the table.

“For your information, this is synthetic fur. Not that it matters. Clint, where's the missus?”

Clint stares at him.

“Natasha? Su media naranja? The Black-not-Widow?”

Clint sighs. “For the last time, Tony: whatever you've found, it's been for a mission. When we get married —if we get married— we'll be sure to let you know beforehand.”

“I bet they wouldn't want to give you the satisfaction of discovering it on your own and gloating,” Bruce says and Clint gives him a smile.

“Yeah, I know.” Tony rolls his eyes. “Jarvis, is Agent Romanoff in the building?”

“No, sir. I must add that Miss Potts is also absent.”

“They've gone shopping,” Steve supplies. “Left a couple of hours ago.”

“Okay, we don't have much time then,” Tony says. “You, my friend,” he points at Clint, “are about to get ripped off.”

“Huh?”

Tony brings up an electronic file, which floats above the kitchen table.

“What’s this?”

“Don't play dumb to me, Romeo. It's the invoice for the big fat diamond ring you bought yesterday. Which, I have to add, is fake.”

There's a stunned silence in the kitchen.

Clint rubs his temple. “How do you know?”

“I know because I made a check of their supplier and they both make a living ripping off gullible men about to be hanged like you.”

Steve finds his voice. “How did you get a hold of this file, Tony?”

“Birdbrain here used his Stark corporate card. Jarvis scans for all payments above ten thousand and flags them.”

Bruce whistles. “Ten grand! You really went out on a limb here, Clint.”

Clint opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, resigned. “Yeah. I really did.”

Tony's eyes spark with amusement. “I hope for your sake she says yes. Why didn't you come to me first?”

“That, my friend, I really don't know.”

“So what do you propose?” Steve asks Tony.

“I propose that birdie proposes with a real stone and not with a fake. She'll probably be able to realize it's a fake anyway.”

“She wouldn't—” Clint stops abruptly and closes his eyes. He can feel the other three sharing a glance. He opens them again, having arrived at a decision. “You're right. I should propose with a real stone. So what would you have me do?”

“Well, a raid on their shop would be a nice idea.” Steve opens his mouth to protest and Tony adds hastily, “No violence. Poor choice of words there. Not a raid; maybe a little visit to have a nice chat. I think Bruce would better off sitting this one out.”

“I'd say,” Bruce mutters.

Clint gets up. “Well then. No time like now.”

When Natasha comes back early in the afternoon, laden with shopping bags, Clint is sprawled on the couch with a book.

“Jeez Nat, did you leave anything in the stores?”

She kisses him and lowers herself onto the armchair, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “What's this I hear about a raid on a jewelry shop in Greenwich?”

“It wasn't a raid, it was a little visit to have a nice chat.”

She looks at him carefully. Clint tries to look nonchalant.

She smiles. “The diamond was a fake?”

Clint groans. “I told Thor I had no idea about these things. He should’ve gone straight to Tony. Or to you. I'm not the only one around here who can do things discreetly.”

“So did you exchange it?”

“Yes, we did. We also made sure that the guy won't be selling any more fakes for the foreseeable future. The only problem now is that until Thor comes back from Asgard and gives it to Jane, Tony’s gonna keep badgering me until I propose to you and he sees it on your finger.”

“You didn't tell them?” Natasha says, startled.

Clint looks offended. “It's not my secret to tell.”

“Well,” she says. “At least you got a taste.”

“What taste? It was a nightmare. Plus, it was the wrong way to do things. A man must choose these things himself.”

Natasha gets up and gathers her bags. “Well,” she says indifferently as she makes her way to the bedroom, “when your turn comes, just make sure you go straight to Tony.”

The book falls from Clint's hands and lands on his face.

5.

They say that cities look better in the night, because all their ugly parts get hidden by the dark. Clint wouldn't say this applies to all cities. He's seen places that are beautiful at any time and places so ugly than not even darkness can conceal their misery.

New York covered in snow is another matter entirely.

He's sitting on the windowsill, watching the tiny snowflakes falling in a white curtain. They've been getting lighter for the past couple of hours, but the heavy snowfall earlier has already covered everything in a thick fluffy blanket, muffling the usual sounds of the neighborhood. The street below is empty. For once, the city seems to sleep.

How fitting for a Christmas morning.

Natasha stirs under the blankets, opening her eyes with difficulty. Clint gets up from the windowsill and approaches the couch.

“I'm here,” he says softly.

She tries to focus her gaze. “How many hours?”

“Fourteen.”

He sits next to her and moves a curl behind her ear. The movement spikes Liho's interest, who abandons her spot in front of the heater and jumps up onto the back of the couch to look down at the humans.

Natasha tries to get up. “Shit. What time is it?”

“It's four thirty. Lie down, Nat.”

“The kids.”

This year a bunch of kids in the building had wanted to go carol singing early on Christmas morning. Naturally, their parents would hear nothing of letting them wander alone in the neighborhood in the crack of dawn. The whole thing had been about to reach the proportions of a spectacular drama, until Clint had offered to accompany them. The children had been so excited, they’d barely talked about anything else for the past couple of weeks.

He arranges the blanket around her shoulders. “It's okay, Nat. I called Kate. She'll go with them.”

“I'm sorry, Clint.”

“Save your apologies for America. I bet she'll be in a really foul mood. Getting dragged out of bed at four in the morning isn't her cup of tea.”

Natasha laughs hoarsely. Clint takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles.

“Don't worry, Nat, Bruce said it's alright. The toxicology report came back clean. You'll be under the weather for a couple of days, but you'll be fine.”

She looks him in the eye. “No side effects?”

“None whatsoever. You know, I think Von Doom is starting to lose his touch. I mean, launching an attack on Christmas Eve was still very shitty, but his concoctions are starting to get surprisingly mild. Remember last time with the laughing gas?”

“There was nothing mild about hearing you laugh for twenty-four hours, Barton.”

Their voices have woken up Lucky, who comes into the living room, wagging his tail. He jumps on the couch and makes himself comfortable on top of Natasha's legs. Liho looks at him with disgust, then turns her back on all three of them and retires back to her kingdom in front of the heater.

Natasha's gaze moves to the window and her eyes widen. “It's snowing?”

“It is. Almost six inches by now. Is that enough reason for you to stay put?”

She closes her eyes, yawning. “You know what? It really is.”

Clint grins. “If you promise to be good, I'll even read some Dickens to you.”

Her voice comes out drowsy. “Just let me sleep, Barton.”

The short silence is broken by hushed voices and footsteps on the stairs. They get progressively louder, until they reach their floor and stop outside their apartment. Lucky's ear pricks up in interest, but he decides to let it go and snuggles a bit closer to Natasha.

“Guys,” Clint hears Kate say on the other side of the door, “are you sure you don't want to come later? Natasha is a little sick. Maybe they're both sleeping. We can start elsewhere and save them for last, what do you say?”

Peter's voice is firm. “No. Clint said that even though he can't come, he still wants to be the first to hear the carols. We start here.”

“Clint totally had it coming, then,” America says. “Knock away, Peter.”

Peter's little cousin asks with a small voice, “Kate, is Natasha Clint's wife?”

“No, she... You know what? Yeah, she totally is.”

Clint looks at Natasha, who suddenly seems very interested in the snow. There's a triumphant knock at the door and he gets up to open.

“Hey, guys! Merry Christmas!”

+ 1.

“Are you sure? She's probably gonna eat you afterwards.”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“There's time to make a run for it, is all I'm saying.”

“Hopeful of you to assume she's not gonna catch me anyway.”

“That is sadly accurate. However this plays out, you're a dead man, buddy.”

“Remind me again why we invited you all to this?”

“Because the missus said so, and we all know she's the one wearing the pants.”

“Now that is really bold, coming from you.”

“Who asked you, Banner?”

“I'm just making an observation.”

“And I'm trying to make sure that birdbrain knows what he's doing.”

“Tony, do you really think that the best moment for this discussion is thirty minutes before the wedding?”

“Yeah, Tony. Why didn't you ask me last night?”

“Because Natasha was there and I like all my parts where they are, thank you.”

“Just say you were afraid of Pepper.”

“Who does a bachelor party together with his bride-to-be anyway? Last night was a shame, I'm telling you.”

“You didn't seem to think so at four o' clock this morning.”

“Yeah, it got a bit out of hand, didn't it? I'm glad the Hulk made an appearance though. Wouldn't be a proper farewell to your freedom without him.”

“Why didn't you make such a big fuss with Thor?”

“Because we learned about that at the very last minute, no thanks to you!”

“And why are you wearing that ridiculous hat?”

“Because that's what I was wearing the morning this ring-buying epidemic started.”

“Wow. You really are sentimental, after all.”

“Don't worry, I'll leave it in the car. Wouldn't want to ruin this three-piece.”

“Oh good, now everything is right with the world again.”

“Just don't come running to me when she decides to go all praying mantis on you.”

“Cork it with the jokes, Sergei.”

“Bold of you to make fun of your wife's cultural heritage.”

“She's not my wife yet.”

“Guys, we're here,” Steve says. The limo comes to a stop in front of the city hall.

Tony takes off the hat and looks at Clint solemnly. The smile in his eyes belies all the bullshitting of the past week. “Are you ready for this?”

Clint smiles too. “You know what? I actually am.”