Special Agent Bobbi Morse is incredibly accomplished. She is fluent in five languages and trained in three forms of martial arts. All reports claim that she’s an excellent spy, with successful missions across the globe and intense undercover ops designed and approved by Fury himself. The photo in her file could be straight from a magazine cover: striking profile, sharp blue eyes, and honey blonde hair curled just so around her shoulders. She’s gorgeous, beautiful, and talented.

Natasha hates her.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Sharon asks, shoving Maria’s booted feet off the empty seat at their table.

“My cornflakes are fine,” Natasha snaps.

“She’s jealous,” Maria says, smirking like she’s not sitting next to a woman still wanted on three continents.

“I am not—” Natasha bites out, then realizes her tone conveys exactly that and downshifts. “I’m not jealous.”

Sharon and Maria turn as one to look in the same direction Natasha’s been glaring all lunch. Across the cafeteria, the golden hair of Special Agent Bobbi Morse spills from her ponytail as she offers Clint a taste of her chocolate pudding. They got one of the good tables by the windows, and the sun glints and sparkles off their matching Nordic good looks and broad smiles. Periodically, their shared laughter rings out across the room.

Natasha pointedly ignores the look Sharon and Maria trade as they turn back to the table. It’s not like that, whatever they’re thinking. She’s never had a friend like Clint before, someone who watches her back and expects nothing from her but that she do the same. Clint never makes her feel bad when she says the wrong thing, or admits to a void in her cultural knowledge. Best friends isn’t a concept the Red Room cared to teach her, but she’s found it anyway, and she’d never do anything to compromise that.

Obviously, she’s happy if Clint’s happy with Bobbi. It’s just… she’s not convinced he is? Bobbi, with her flawless hair and obnoxious resume (never mind the fact that Natasha’s is just as ostentatious), feels out of step with Clint’s unpolished charm and humble roots. Does Bobbi understand why Clint wears his sneakers until the soles fall off? Does she care that poverty and necessity are what led him to becoming an incredible chef? Is she even trying to get to know him on a personal level?

Natasha suspects not.

“It’s not going to last,” Maria finally says. Sharon nods in agreement.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Natasha says, and the other two kindly pretend to believe her.




Matthew Murdock, Esquire, is one of the most in-demand lawyers in New York City. He’s some sort of legal genius, working with clients in English, French, or Spanish, and the fact that he mainly works pro bono makes him all the more popular. If that’s not enough, he apparently spends his free time boxing or learning something like twelve different fighting styles, because he’s way more ripped than your average lawyer. He’s handsome, too, with flyaway auburn hair and a devilish smirk below his trademark red sunglasses.

Clint doesn’t trust him.

“You don’t trust anybody,” Kate points out, crunching obnoxiously on the wilted celery stick of her Bloody Mary.

“Is true,” Yelena pronounces, kicking her feet up on Natasha’s vacated chair. “Last week, I ask if I can borrow your bow, and you say no!” She performs an ineffably Russian shrug. “No trust at all.”

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unlike Kate, I am not made of money. If you want to wreck someone’s equipment, ask her.” At this, both Yelena and Kate erupt into squawks of outrage, which he shushes before the waitress comes along and kicks them out for loitering way too long past signing the check. “Could we please refocus,” he hisses, “on the fact that Natasha’s new boyfriend sucks?”

Kate and Yelena exchange a look that he can only define as judgmental youth. “I think he’s great,” Kate says airily, slurping her drink. “Hot, too. I always thought red sunglasses were kinda vampire-y, but he’s honestly making them work.”

“Is good,” Yelena agrees. “Strong. Smart. Good to have lawyer on speed dial, no?”

“Sure,” Clint says, “but—” How do they not see how wrong Matt Murdock is for Natasha? Far be it from him to dictate who someone else dates, especially not someone like Natasha, who’s worked so hard for her independence; still, Murdock just doesn’t fit. He’s supposed to believe that the woman who subverts at least one (usually non-critical) order every mission simply because she can… is going to be happy with a guy whose whole job is rules? That a man whose (admirable) life mission seems to be to provide legal aid to every single person in Manhattan is going to be available after missions, when Natasha needs to decompress and talk through her feelings?

Kate gives him a strange look. “The fact that she staged this ‘run-in’ during our weekly brunch means she actually likes this guy,” she points out, slowly, like she’s trying to solve an upside down puzzle. “Do you have a real reason you don’t like him, or…”

He doesn’t like the look she’s giving him, nor the lift of Yelena’s eyebrow. “Is jealous,” Yelena declares. “I’m always right about this.” Kate nods sagely.

“I’m not jealous,” Clint insists, hating the stripe of heat at the back of his neck.

“Jealous of what?” Natasha asks, dropping gracefully back into her chair. Her tilted green eyes trace the frown denting his forehead.

“Nothing,” Clint says, rising from his seat. “The hostess is staring daggers at us—let’s split.” His hasty exit is waylaid by a dog desperate to tangle him up in its leash, but at least that means everyone is sufficiently distracted by the time they make it to the street.



Not even the cold stillness of near-midnight can keep them off the roof of Clint's apartment.

“This is like the night we met,” Natasha says, remembering a slicing wind that cut through all her layers and into her bones, rendering her vulnerable to the gentle kindness in Clint's eyes.

“At least it's not raining,” Clint agrees. He tips his champagne against hers. “Hey, cheers to no rain?”

“Sure,” Natasha agrees easily. They each have a bottle of champagne to themselves after Kate’s Galentine’s party: Yelena and Kate summarily took off for somewhere loud and hip, conveniently leaving the clean-up for Clint; Sharon's visiting her aunt; Maria, who is boring, has scheduled her Valentine’s Day date tonight to avoid the crowds tomorrow night. “Cheers to having lame friends tonight?”

Clint laughs. “Except you.”

“Naturally,” Natasha agrees, shifting so he can't see the flush that spreads over her cheeks. Lately, every time Clint talks about how wonderful their friendship is, how much he trusts and admires her, Natasha finds herself getting flustered. Isn't the beauty of friendship supposed to be that these things remain unsaid, so that she doesn't have to ever confront how her feelings have begun to take startling new shapes?

“How's Bobbi?” she throws out, bracing for the now-familiar way her heart deflates a bit every time she brings her up. Better this, though, than to listen to that soft animal inside her. “What are you guys doing tomorrow night?”

Clint blinks, clearly surprised. “Bobbi? Oh, we broke up a month ago.” He drinks his champagne with a wry twist to his smile. “Said I needed to find someone more like me, whatever that means.” He snorts. “She’s right, though. I went to her apartment and all her books were organized by barcode number.” He glances at her. “That’s crazy, right?”

“Sociopathic,” Natasha agrees, pushing down hard on the instinct to smile and dance across the Brooklyn rooftop. Obviously, she doesn’t want Clint to date someone who doesn’t understand him, but that doesn’t mean a celebration would be in good taste. (She’ll do that later, in the privacy of her own home.) But. “Honestly,” she can’t resist saying, “I never thought she was right for you, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Clint sighs, leaning back on his hands to look at the stars. “I know.” They’re quiet together for a few minutes as the clock ticks closer to midnight, until Clint says, “Hey, on the subject of break ups, I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you and Matt.” Who’s Matt? Natasha almost asks, thinking instead about how easily she could close the gap between their fingers, lay her cold hand upon his in search of warmth. Clint misreads her silence. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up something hard—”

“No!” Now she does touch his hand, grateful for the excuse. “It’s fine. Matt’s lovely; he’s just too busy do-gooding to be in any kind of real relationship.”

Clint hums sympathetically. “Lawyer stuff?”

Natasha hesitates, but… it’s Clint. “More like… Daredevil stuff?”

“Daredevil?” Clint’s head whips around with a crack as he draws back. Natasha shrugs, and Clint’s entire face drops into a scowl. “I knew he was hiding something.”

That’s… not quite the reaction she was expecting. “I thought you liked Matt,” she carefully puts forth, watching the frown carve itself more deeply into his forehead.

At this, Clint wrinkles his nose. “Like? For you? No.” He drops his voice until it’s not far from the raspy low tenor Matt speaks in. “‘I’m Matt and I speak one thousand languages. I’m Matt and I’m ridiculously good looking. I’m Matt and I have way more muscles than a normal lawyer—”

Her first instinct is to bristle: what’s wrong, exactly, with dating a devastatingly handsome polyglot with a legitimate job and muscles for days? When she pushes through that, though, there’s something else in the way Clint now glares off into the distance, something verdantly distempered, something bitter and soft.

“You’re not… jealous, are you?” Natasha carefully pries. Clint still won’t look at her, but his jaw clenches in confirmation. Natasha pauses, heart taking flight, but then immediately sinking. Of course he’s jealous: she certainly was when Clint had to cancel on their monthly movie night to take Bobbi to dinner or when he started sitting with her instead of Natasha on baklava days at the canteen. It was a while before Natasha was able to work out that her jealousy was not only for Clint’s time, but also for the easy way he let Bobbi slide her hand into his.

But—but just because Clint is the reason her heart wakes up in the morning, just because Clint’s smile sinks deep below her skin in a way Matt’s never could… None of that means Clint has to feel the same way back. And if she mentions this and he rejects her—however kindly, however gently—she’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.

So instead, Natasha takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says, watching Clint’s perfect, scarred hands tighten around each other. “I never intended to shortchange our friendship—”

“This is not about our friendship,” Clint practically snarls. When he finally turns to her, the moonlight illuminates the tortured misery in his eyes. “Our friendship is great! It’s perfect! I’d never change a thing about it!”

His hands slash through the air between them as aggravated punctuation, waking his watch face and revealing they’re only a minute away from midnight. “I’m not sure what you mean, then,” she says into the lull. It’s a lie (and Clint makes a face like he knows it) but sue her if it’s a crime to want to hear him say the words himself.

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” he sighs, tucking away the edges of a smile. “But fine. Cards on the table: I’m jealous because Matt knows what your hair feels like between his fingers, and I don’t. I’m jealous because I watched you smile at him in a way you’ve never smiled at me. I’m jealous because you are the best friend I’ve ever had, and that should be enough, but—”

There can be no mistake in the way he leans closer, or in the hand he very deliberately tangles into hers. “But what,” Natasha presses anyway, letting mischief twist her lips into a smirk.

His breath ghosts over her cheek, sweet from the champagne. “But I’ve wanted to kiss that smirk off your face for years, Romanoff,” he confesses. “I just never thought you’d give me the chance.”

Their shadows come together and merge into one, the hour and minute hands aligning as the clock strikes midnight. The city doesn’t set off fireworks on Valentine’s Day, but privately, Natasha’s heart bursts into a technicolor explosion when Clint’s lips meet hers. Clint kisses like he shoots—confident, calculated, and a little bit reckless—and Natasha revels in being the bullseye. He shivers when she runs her fingers through the back of his hair like she’s always wanted to, and when his teeth scrape gently over the tender skin of her neck, she melts entirely.

“Let’s go inside where it’s warmer,” Natasha suggests, breathless. She doesn’t add so that we don’t get charged with public indecency; but then, that’s the beauty of friendship: the ability to communicate without words. She looks up at Clint in the light of the door and, from the way her smirk has transferred from her lips to his, it’s clear he understands exactly what she means.