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Natasha makes a point of knowing everything that goes on around her. Information is power, and though she’s long past the stage where she thought everyone at SHIELD wanted to kill her, she’s still not entirely comfortable with secrets being kept from her. She’s been reprimanded several times and threatened with deportation once for accessing Fury’s private accounts. The latter was a dressing down from the man himself, the only time Phil wasn’t able to cover for her.

But there’s one thing Natasha doesn’t know, and that is that Clint has a workable knowledge of Russian. He started learning in the down days while she was being deprogrammed, when there was nothing else to do except wait in the waiting room. He’s kept it to himself so far. At first he didn’t want her to mock his clumsy accent and terrible phrasing. Then, it was because he found out she sometimes mutters to herself in her native tongue, and it’s useful to be able to decode a language she doesn’t think he speaks.

It feels a little duplicitous, and he often has to remind himself that he is a spy. He’ll tell her eventually, and it’s not like she’s revealed anything sensitive. Usually the things she says are just expletives, and the words match the tone of her voice anyway, so speaking Russian isn’t even necessary for comprehension.

It’s not until things start to settle that he wonders if now is the time to tell her. The dust has well and truly cleared, and they are being sent out into the world as a team. SHIELD no longer views Natasha as a flight risk, but as half of the most successful strike team in the history of the agency.

He doesn’t tell her when they’re in Paris. He has a few opportunities, but it doesn’t strike him as the right time. Besides, he’s learning new conjugations, and he wants to have those down before he reveals himself. He doesn’t tell her when they’re in Montreal. He’s securing his knowledge of alcohol words, which he figures will be useful. In Caracas, she almost discovers his notebook. He thinks for a moment he will have to tell her, but her fingers brush over it while digging for audio equipment misplaced in his bag. Clint feels guilty now, but he still has so much to learn. He needs to do this properly.

In Khartoum, he is sitting on the edge of a bed, watching her move around the tiny kitchen. He decides that now is the time. It’s been a hard day, and they could both use something nice. He opens his mouth, but she turns to him and he snaps it shut again.

“Lock the window,” she says, pointing behind him. He rolls over the bed and slides the bolt home, then pulls the curtains for good measure.

“I think we did well,” he says. “Evac should be here by the morning.”

“You don’t have to fill the silence with talking, you know.”

He clasps his chest. “You don’t wanna talk to me?” he asks, wounded. She smiles, and flips him off. He mimes a shot to the chest, and flops backwards onto the bed. She laughs, and he sits up. Her eyes are sparkling.

“Я люблю тебя,” she mutters, still smiling at him. Clint falters. He thinks he understands, but he can’t have got that right. She wouldn’t have said it. He brushes it off.

A month later, back at HQ, they have finished training for the day, and they’re sprawled on a couch watching TV. Clint is nodding off, his head on his chest, and he feels Natasha get up to leave. He almost rouses himself, but he feels her fingers on his shoulder.

“Я люблю тебя,” she murmurs. It is unmistakeable this time. Clint feigns sleep until the door closes behind her, and then opens his eyes.

I love you. She’s said it twice now, he’s sure. He knows the only reason she’s saying it is she thinks he can’t understand her, which puts him in a difficult spot. He should tell her he speaks Russian. It’s the right thing to do. But if he does, she’ll stop saying it. And he needs to hear it again, he just has to.

She says it twice more before Clint can’t let it go on any longer. They have grown so close, and he knows that even if she doesn’t say it, it’s true. He loves her too - how could he not? They are in perfect balance. They complete each other.

One night over drinks, when he does some stupid trick with a dart and she laughs and he stumbles, they find themselves dancing. It’s clumsy, and slow, but it’s sweet and he wants nothing more than for this to go on forever.

“Я люблю тебя,” she whispers, into his shoulder. I love you.

“Я тоже тебя люблю,” he replies, without thinking. I love you too.

She pulls back instantly. He doesn’t realise what he’s done for a moment, then it clicks.

“You speak Russian?” she demands.

“Not very well,” he says. She seems torn between anger and something else, but he’s not sure what the something else actually is. Clint waits, wondering if this has ruined everything.

“Why?” she asks. They’re standing a foot apart, and Clint is achingly aware of the distance.

“For you,” he says. She takes the step back over to him and before he can wonder if he’s about to get punched, she kisses him. It’s softer than he expected. Tender. Loving. He slides his arms around her and kisses her back.

“Thank you,” she whispers.