#acquarantine

When he finally sees a doctor emerge from the clinic, he rises. His thigh still aches where her bullet passed clean through it. It’ll heal. It’s not important.

“Any progress?” he asks.

“Better than last time,” the man says, gruffly. “No one needs stitches.”

Clint sighs, relieved. It’s not much, but it’s an improvement. The doctor shoulders past him to get to the offices down the hall. Clint is used to the hostility, now that it’s been a few weeks. He’s put everyone in a difficult situation, and he’s owning it as best he can. There doesn’t seem to be one person in the entire agency who isn’t furious with him.

Natasha emerges, looking about as happy as anyone might after being poked and prodded for the better part of an hour. She glares at him. He gives an awkward thumbs up accompanied by a questioning smile. She doesn’t laugh. He’s not sure what her laugh sounds like, but he’s determined to hear it one day.

“I can run on the treadmill,” she tells him. “The doctor will email you.”

“Great,” he says. It is. She’ll have an outlet for her anger aside from beating him to a pulp on a sparring mat.

They walk in silence through a maze of halls until they reach the high-security holding suites. For what is essentially a prison cell, the suites are surprisingly pleasant. Large windows face onto the lawns of the facility, and in the early evening light Clint can see the grey figures of cadets jogging around the thin perimeter track. The sound of the lock tumblers clunking into place behind them cuts through the quiet, and he yawns.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces. Natasha ignores him, and goes to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. The boundaries have never been in question, and Clint is tired, so he doesn’t bother asking her what she wants to eat. There’s leftover pasta, she can have some if she gets hungry during the night. He’s heard her sneaking around in the early hours of the morning. It doesn’t come as a surprise that she doesn’t sleep much.

His phone dings, and he pulls it out to find an email from the doctor waiting for him. Natasha has been cleared for light exercise, nothing strenuous that might rip stitches or cause undue injury. The tone is clipped. Clint can’t remember the last time someone ended a message to him with ‘best wishes’, or even ‘regards’. He’s out of favour with the entire agency, not to mention there are probably a few people in Russia who wouldn’t mind putting a bullet through his head. Clint Barton, though, is nothing if not a stubborn idiot, and he’ll wear this decision until he’s dead and buried. Of that, he is certain.

He showers quickly, and changes into comfortable sweats. It’s not late, so he goes through the ridiculous amount of security checks on the laptop that’s been left for him and starts on some of the grunt work Fury’s dumped on him as a small part of a punishment that looks set to last a few years at least. Clint doesn’t know why he has to enter five passcodes and provide his thumb print to get on the computer when Natasha could easily just take his phone, but he’s doing what he’s told these days.

Natasha emerges about an hour later, and goes into the bathroom. None of these doors have locks, and he wishes for her sake that they did. It can’t be fun knowing that someone could barge in on you at any moment. He’s tried to make it clear he’s not the barging type, but it hasn’t made a dent in her attitude towards him.

He listens to the sound of running water for a while, then shuts the laptop and goes to the kitchen. He heats up some pasta, and makes a cup of tea. He eats slowly, but when he’s done the water’s still running, so he gives up on any attempt at conversation and goes to bed. He misses his real apartment. The holding suite is plush, and there’s more than enough space for both of them, but there’s no place like home.

But if he went home, he reminds himself as he plugs in his phone, there would be no one standing between Natasha and the hundreds of people who don’t want her here. Who’s to say who would come knocking if they knew she was by herself? It would be risky, sure, but it could be done. Clint closes his eyes, and tries to stave off the paranoia. No one’s coming for her. He can make this work. People will forgive him eventually.

He wakes in the dark to the sound of quiet knocking. It takes him a few moments of rousing to realise that someone’s knocking on his door, and that the only person who could be knocking on his door right now is Natasha. He rolls out of bed, and opens the door.

Natasha is wearing the standard issue SHIELD pyjamas, and the image of her in sleepwear is so incongruous that he doesn’t hear what she says the first time she says it.

“What?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“I need help,” she says. Her voice has a tightness to it, but she sounds more tired than annoyed, which Clint takes as a win.

“What time is it?” he yawns, shambling after her into the kitchen.

“Three fifteen.” Natasha hands him a dressing and some clean gauze. “Dressing came off in the bath, and I can’t reach that far.”

He hides his surprise at the fact that she was in the bath. It gives him some satisfaction to know that she feels comfortable enough to relax. Asking him for help - well, that’s another milestone. He knows it’s technically his fault. It was his arrow that struck her in the shoulder, and it’s that injury that means she can’t reach far enough to fix the dressing on another wound that was also probably his fault.

Clint takes the supplies and motions for her to sit in front of him. She shifts a chair and sits down, pulling her top off in one motion. Clint tries to ignore that. She enjoys getting reactions from him.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, frowning. He presses the gauze gently to the wound, and holds her shoulder to apply a little pressure. Natasha says nothing, but she doesn’t pull away from him. In fact, she leans back a little into his hands. Clint brushes it off, and when he’s satisfied that the bleeding has pretty much stopped, he refolds the gauze and tapes it down properly. As he brushes her hair out of the way of the tape, she leans back again.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Mmm.”

She pulls her shirt back on, and turns around to face him. It’s the first time he’s seen her look at him like this. There’s no anger, no distrust. Nervousness, yes. Like she’s trying to summon the courage to say something. Clint waits, not wanting to spook her.

“I haven’t…” she mumbles. Clint hesitantly touches her hand. She bites her lip, and she looks like she’s about to cry. Clint withdraws his fingers, but she catches them. He looks at her, lost.

“I haven’t been close to anyone,” she murmurs. “Not… not in a long time.”

“That sounds lonely,” he says. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to ask him, and he feels stupid for it.

“I…” She hesitates again, and he makes the bold move of squeezing her hand. Her eyes flick down to their hands, almost intertwined.

“No one’s touched me who hasn’t wanted to hurt me,” she says, after a long silence. She seems to be experiencing some sort of emotional catharsis, and Clint isn’t equipped to deal with that, but he knows when someone needs a hug.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” she says, and he feels her squeeze his hand lightly. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“Do… do you want…” Clint cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what he’s offering, only that he’ll give her anything she wants.

“I don’t know,” she says. She sounds so lost, and he can’t help himself. He reaches out, and she flinches, but he opens his arms and before he knows it she’s reaching out for him too, and they’re holding each other in a hug, and it’s awkward, but it’s warm, and he can feel her heart beating against his chest. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, and he keeps holding her. She tightens her grip, and now he’s fairly sure she’s crying. He just strokes her back, and lets her shift herself onto him so she’s straddling his lap. There’s no part of him thinking about anything but comforting this woman he’s dragged into his world. She holds onto him like no one’s ever hugged her, and Clint’s throat starts to ache because he realises that’s probably true.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. Clint blinks. They’ve been sitting here so long that he can feel the stiffness in his neck. She pulls back abruptly, and the spot where she was resting against his shoulder feels suddenly cold.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “None of this is your fault.”

She nods, and pulls away, clambering off him. She says nothing, and he watches her stumble to her room and close the door behind her. He goes back to bed, and sleeps.

In the morning, she’s made coffee for both of them. That’s new, he thinks, and he drinks it while trying to hide a smile. They go to the holding facility’s small gym, and he runs on the treadmill next to hers. He goes with her to her daily round of medical checks, and this time she’s gone for over an hour. They pass the day in silence, and when it comes to the evening, they eat together. Clint thinks the silence is almost amicable.

“If you need any help,” Clint says, while they’re washing the dishes, “you know, with… with bandages, or… anything…”

“I’ll come to you,” she says. He nods, satisfied, and they go their separate ways. Clint reads for a while, and then turns in.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for when he hears his door opening. He barely has time to sit up before Natasha is standing at his bedside, shifting from foot to foot.

“N’tsha?” he mumbles groggily. She doesn’t say anything, and he sits up properly, blinking in the darkness.

“Can I sleep here?” she asks. It’s almost inaudible. He blinks again.

“With me?” he asks. She nods. He knows instinctively what is going on this time, and pulls back the comforter in invitation. She visibly relaxes, and climbs in, pressing herself up against him. Clint shifts so her head is resting on his chest, and she’s half on top of him. He makes sure she’s covered, and starts to stroke her back lightly.

“Thank you,” she whispers. She presses her nose into the hollow of his neck, and Clint wants to cry for her. She’s so starved of kind touches that she’ll climb into bed with the man who upended her life just to feel him hold her. How long has it been since she’s felt the touch of someone who hasn’t wanted to hurt her?

He falls asleep with Natasha in his arms, and when he wakes she’s still there, curled against him, still holding onto him as she wakes up. She says nothing, just shifts closer. Clint props himself up a little on his pillows, and cradles her gently. He starts to stroke her hair, and she pushes into his touch like a cat. Clint can see the tears gathering in her eyes when she looks up, and it breaks his heart.

“If we were normal, we never would have met. I’d probably be in Russia, doing God knows what. You… I don’t know. Maybe a traveling circus? Or a farmer. One or the other.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She raises her head, looking down at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if we were here, right now, but… normal. Normal people.”

Natasha smiles. “We probably wouldn’t be awake yet.”

Clint lets a hand trail through her loose curls. “Maybe we’d be one of those couples who go running together every morning.”

“Gross.”

“Or we could be brunch people,” he chuckles. “You know, the ones drinking mimosas at eleven by the park.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

Clint yawns, and wraps his arms around her, rolling slightly so she can curl into him. Dawn is still a while away, maybe they can still get back to sleep. He’s just as happy to hold her close, warm under their blankets.

“Imagine being a normal couple,” she says, after a while. “Maybe we’d come home after work and cook dinner together.”

“We do that,” he protests.

“Work that doesn’t involve espionage or assassination,” she says. Even those words sound lovely in this sleepy voice of hers, and Clint can’t help but marvel at that. Everything she does enchants him. He’d never say that out loud, for fear of a swift punch to the throat, but it’s true.

“I’d like that,” he says. He finds her hand, and laces their fingers together. “I like this, but that would be nice.”

She makes a little noise, and snuggles closer. “Maybe we’d be married.”

That’s a surprise. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe we wouldn’t be the type.”

“Maybe normal versions of us would be the type,” she murmurs. “You know, doing all the normal things. Rings and stuff. Kids, even.”

He smiles. It’s fantasy, they know that. Normalcy is not something that’s ever been on the table, and even if it were, they’d be bored in a week.

“We could get married,” he says. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. A piece of paper and a ring doesn’t seem enough to signify what he feels for Natasha. She knows it, and she slithers up to press a warm kiss to his lips.

“We’d drive each other crazy,” she huffs.

“We already do,” he points out.

“Do you want to get married?” she asks.

“Are you proposing?” he counters.

She parries by kissing him, and he luxuriates in it, drinking her in. His hands find the small of her back under the blankets. He loves her so vastly he can’t fathom it in his own mind. How could wedding vows capture it?

“We don’t need to get married,” she says. It’s like she can read his mind.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”

“So,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Gloves?”

“Mmm,” he says. He looks up. “Are they heavy?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. Depends which ones I’m wearing.”

He leans forward, and she can see that he’s genuinely interested. She unclips one gauntlet and tosses it to him. Tony examines it.

“Did you come up with the idea?” he asks.

“Sort of,” she says. “Originally one held a line and compact grappling hook, and the other shot darts. SHIELD kept the look but traded the poison for electricity.”

“Projectiles?” he asks, still turning the bracelet in his fingers.

“Taser discs,” she says. “That one holds six, the other holds four.”

“What’s the charge like?”

She shrugs. “SHIELD got the wear time up to nineteen hours. Had to commandeer a couple of car batteries, but mostly that’s enough time to do what I need to.”

Tony tosses the weapon back to Natasha. She catches it, and clips it back onto her wrist.

A door opens, and an agent steps out, motioning for Tony to enter.

“Gloves,” Tony calls as he walks through the door. “Think about it.”

-

New York, 2012

The dust is still settling as the team eats. The owners of the little restaurant seem happy enough for the superheroes to stay as long as they like.

“How’s the battery working out for you?” Tony asks, through a mouthful of shawarma.

“Great,” Natasha replies. She holds up a gloved hand for him to see. “Still not empty.” Tony doesn’t smile - none of them have the energy for that - but he looks satisfied. Natasha has a lot to process after battling aliens all day, so she adds Tony’s fascination with her gear to the list.

“You know,” he says, after a while, “you could probably make the grappling hook even more compact.”

She leans forward, elbow on the table. “You think so?”

He nods. “Just depends what material you use. I’ve been playing around with different cables, and with a smaller hook I think you could reduce the size by half.”

Natasha finds herself oddly touched that Tony has spent time thinking about potential upgrades for her sake. “What kind of cable are we talking about?”

“I had a friend at MIT send some carbon fibre prototypes she’s been working on,” Tony tells her. “I’m thinking maybe a nylon composite.”

She nods. “We could move the garrotte wire into the right gauntlet to make room.”

“How do you guys have the energy for R&D right now?” Clint chuckles. The rest of the team give tired groans in agreement, and Natasha flips her partner off to tired laughter from the others.

“I’ll text you,” Natasha promises Tony.

-

Avengers Tower, 2014

“Hit it again.”

Natasha skips another disc down the gallery. It connects, electricity arcing over every inch of the dummy.

“Nice,” Natasha says.

“The new model holds twelve discs per gauntlet,” Tony says. Natasha knows him well enough now to hear the hint of pride he’s trying to mask with nonchalance.

“Which of the discs do you think we should go with?” she asks. Tony casts his eye over the table, laden with twenty different prototype taser discs.

“I like number seventeen,” he says. “And not just because it looks like an arc reactor. That was a coincidence. Maybe.”

Natasha laughs, and picks up the disc. “Alright. Seventeen it is. How about the power cell problem?”

“Still working on it,” he says. “I keep hitting the wall at the corner of charge time and weight. I’ll get there.”

Natasha goes to answer, but her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads the message. When she looks up, Tony seems to know that fun taser time is over.

“Where to?” he asks.

“D.C.,” she sighs. “STRIKE team needs me. Something to do with a ship.”

“Need a ride?”

She shakes her head. “Rumlow’s already sent one. It’ll be here in half an hour. Thanks, though.”

By the time she’s geared up and ready, Tony has loaded the gauntlets with discs. He hands them to her as they take the elevator to the roof.

“You’ll have to make do with the prototypes until I can get production running on disc seventeen,” he says, and it almost sounds like a genuine apology.

“I’m sure I’ll make it work,” she tells him. On the roof, he waves her off as a SHIELD quinjet lands on the pad. She gets in, and is surprised to find that she feels a little sad to be leaving.

-

Washington D.C., 2014

As Natasha leaves the Senate Office Building, cameras flashing all around her, she sees a sleek black car roll up at the curb. She forces back a smile of relief, and pushes through the reporters. She opens the door and gets in, and the car pulls away from the flashes and shouts.

“You look pretty calm for someone who just dared the government to arrest her.”

She scoffs lightly. “I should have known you’d be listening in.”

Tony shrugs, not apologetic in the slightest. Natasha lapses into silence, watching the road through the window. The gravity of what she’s done in the last twenty four hours is not lost on her, nor is it lost on Tony. She can sense his discomfort, and she knows he won’t be able to summon a comforting word, but that’s never been his style anyway.

“How did the discs go?” he asks, eventually. Natasha has to smile. This has become their routine, and a substitute for any uncomfortable conversation.

“Seventeen’s still my favourite,” she tells him. “And I owe you several drinks for increasing the capacity. I needed every single disc.”

“Saving your life, one tiny taser at a time,” he smiles. “I’ve been thinking about some sort of blasting capability.”

She frowns. “What, like a stun gun?”

Tony nods. “For mid-range combat. I figure it gives you a halfway point between hitting someone directly with the gauntlet or launching a disc.”

“How much more power would that take?” she asks.

“A lot,” he admits. “But I’ve got a new prototype I’m working on. It’s going to take a couple of months at least, but I think I’ve hit on a solution to the power problem.”

“Seriously?”

“I never joke about tasers.”

She laughs, and for a moment she feels all the weight lift off her shoulders. Even with the world turned upside down, Tony is a constant, and she’s grateful.

-

Avengers Tower, 2015

“I’ve got a present for you,” Tony declares in a sing-song voice.

“What did I tell you about calling me before seven in the morning?” she yawns. She’s already up anyway, and it’s always fun to start the day with taser practice in the lab. She dresses, and heads down to the R&D levels, stopping only on the lounge floor to make two cups of coffee. Tony is in the lab he’s dedicated to developing gear for the team. He’s currently at a long bench that has become his permanent work area for Natasha’s weapons.

“Morning,” she says, and hands him his coffee.

“You’re going to love this,” Tony tells her. He grabs a case from under the table and unlatches it, swivelling it around to reveal a full suit. Natasha raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pointing an accusing finger. “I got the measurements from one of your spare suits.”

Natasha pulls the suit from the case, and lays it out on the table. Quietly delighted, she traces a finger over what seems to be black piping. As she touches it, the piping glows a bright blue, and she watches the light spread all over the suit, converging at the wrists.

“What is this?” she asks. Tony is grinning, obviously pleased with himself.

“Power cells,” he says. “Thousands of them, all over the suit. More than enough to equip you with two compact blasters plus a new grappling hook and a backup clip of six discs on each thigh, underneath your holsters.”

“This is amazing,” she says, running her hands over the smooth material.

“That’s not even the best part,” he says. He opens a drawer and produces two gauntlets. He hands them to her, and motions for her to put them on. She does, and he’s practically bouncing with glee.

“Okay,” he says. “Do as I do.” He brings his right hand up to his left shoulder, and then throws his hand back down in a quick movement. Natasha imitates, and in an instant a baton shoots out from her gauntlet. She grabs it out of reflex, but it’s connected to her wrist. She grins, and raises it up to inspect it. It glows the same blue as the piping in the suit.

“Hit the dummy,” Tony says. Natasha acquiesces, and strikes the dummy. Electricity crackles, and the much-abused dummy is blown off balance and crashes to the floor. Tony claps, though she’s not sure if he’s applauding her or himself.

“This is going to be fun,” she grins.

-

Avengers Facility, 2015

Natasha knows it’s not forever, but it still feels strange to be saying goodbye to Tony after everything they’ve been through. The wounds of Sokovia are still fresh for both of them, and she thought he’d at least stay until they can find Bruce. But Tony will do as Tony wants, she knows that. Besides, she and Steve have their work cut out for them here.

“I’ll miss you,” she says, looking around the lab.

“You’ll have plenty to do,” he reassures her. “And our monthly lunch date still stands.”

“Burgers in the R&D labs doesn’t count as lunch.”

“You’re wrong, but I’ll miss you too.”

She can see the guilt in him as clearly as she recognises it in herself. For a moment, she is tempted to ask him to stay. But this facility is not the place for him now. He’s talked about settling down somewhere with Pepper, and she can understand the draw of a life like that.

“Keep me updated,” she says, as she walks him out of the lab. “I’m going to need an upgrade on the baton power.”

“And I’m thinking more cells on the suit,” he says. “We’ve still got work to do, don’t you worry about that.”

Natasha smiles. “If you ever want to blast stuff with tasers, you’ve got my number.” She kisses him on the cheek, which leaves him looking surprised. They hover for a moment, as if they’re about to hug, but that’s never been their style.

“I’ll call you when I’ve got something new for you,” he says.

“Promise?” she asks.

He smiles, and it’s tired, but genuine.

She could run away. It would be so easy. She could refuse to capitulate to Fury. What’s he going to do? Suspend her? Yes, probably. She curses inwardly. She’s not getting out of this.

“Natasha?”

She blinks. “Sorry.”

Doctor Singh just keeps looking at her, not staring, not judging, just an even look. Natasha hates it. She hates feeling like this woman can see right through her.

“What were you thinking just now?” the psychiatrist asks.

“I…”

Natasha falters. She knows better than to lie, but telling the truth runs against every instinct she has.

“This session is mandatory,” Singh reminds her. It’s gentle, but firm. She can’t get out of it. She knows what will happen if she does.

“I know,” she manages, finally. “I’m… sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Singh flips a page in her notebook. “We were talking about Bosnia.”

“Wasn’t much left to tell. We were evacuated and spent the next three weeks recovering.” Natasha doesn’t want to talk about Bosnia. She doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Yes, I saw that in your medical history. It was a little more than three weeks for Clint, though, wasn’t it?”

She grits her teeth. “Yes.”

“I’m not trying to provoke a reaction in you, Natasha. I want you to tell me how you think it affected you in the weeks afterwards.”

“It was bad,” Natasha says, stiffly. Singh nods, but Natasha can tell she wants more. “Really bad.”

“Bad in what way?”

With a monumental effort, Natasha unclenches her jaw. “I blamed myself. Even… even after he recovered. I still dream about it sometimes.”

“Do you think Clint blamed you?”

“Of course not. He’s an idiot.”

Singh takes another infuriating pause to look at her. Natasha wills the second hand of the clock on the wall to move faster.

“You do that a lot, you know,” the doctor says. “You speak about yourself like you’re describing someone you hate, and about anyone who shows you any compassion like they’re worthy of contempt.”

It’s a bold statement. Natasha tries to fall into the rhythm of an interrogation, tries to shut out Singh’s words, but she can’t. This isn’t an interrogation. Singh already has the information, she’s trying to force it into Natasha’s head.

“Do you really believe you’re not worthy of positive relationships with anyone?” Singh asks. That cracks her. Natasha lowers her gaze, and tries not to feel the burning in her throat.

“I don’t want to believe that,” she says, horrified at the wavering in her voice.

“Then that’s something we need to work on,” Singh says. “We can do that next week, though. Let’s call it a little early.”

Natasha nods, and stands. She looks at Singh as if she’s about to thank her, but the psychiatrist just nods. Natasha takes it as permission to leave, and in moments she’s out in the hall, walking away from the office as quickly as she can. She doesn’t need anyone knowing what she’s been up to.

She doesn’t realise where she’s walking until she opens Clint’s door. His quarters are exactly the same as always - chaotically untidy. Clint, sitting on his couch, gets up when he sees her come through the door. She walks straight into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around her. She stays there as long as she can.

“What happened?” he asks, when she finally lets him go.

“Singh,” she mutters. He purses his lips in sympathy. Natasha breathes in through her nose. Singh’s words are still spinning around her head.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Clint asks, with only a shade of hesitation in his voice.

“PTSD,” she mumbles. “Depression. Severe.” The shame of it grips her, twisting her stomach into a painful knot. She doesn’t want him to know. She wants him to think she’s strong, even if it’s not true. He pulls her into another hug, and she wants to push him away, wants him to stop, but at the same time she is desperate to stay like this. If he lets her go now, she might never resurface.

“Meds?” Clint asks.

“Not yet,” she murmurs. “She knows I… have issues with drugs.”

She feels him nod.

“I hate this,” she says, so quietly she barely hears herself say it. Clint doesn’t answer, just holds her to his chest and lets her press her face into the warm fabric of his t-shirt.

“We talked about Bosnia,” she says, pulling back a little. She sees that crease of frustrated worry he gets between his brows when subjects like this come up.

“It was years ago, Nat,” he says. He doesn’t let go of her.

“I know, but…”

“But nothing. It was an accident.”

“That was my fault.”

“We both screwed up,” he says, his voice firmer now, “and then we survived.”

“You-”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here, right now. There’s no what ifs, I survived. It’s done. Just like everything else we’ve survived.”

He disappears back into the kitchen, and Natasha drops her bag in her bedroom and heads straight for the shower. Under the spray of hot water, she feels herself relax at last. She slept on the flight home, sure. But here, with him, she can finally come to a halt.

She stays there until her skin is flushed from the heat. When she’s towelled off, she dresses in the first comfortable clothes she’s been in for a week, and she goes to meet him in her kitchen.

“It’s my first try,” Clint says, turning from the stove. “So… you know, go easy.”

Natasha smiles a tired smile. “I’ll eat anything. I’ve been on rations for a week.”

She looks around the space of her apartment. From the little table by the window, she can see almost all of it. Small compared to a lot of places in the city. Palatial by the standards of a nameless girl from Stalingrad. These four walls are more than she ever could have allowed herself to imagine all those years ago. There’s food in the cupboards, running water, heat- and Clint, in the heart of it all, making sure she never comes home to a cold, dark, empty place. Her home is full of him.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, as he sets two bowls down on the table.

“Nothing, I…”

She stops. The bowl he’s just set in front of her is filled with little dumplings. The scent of pork and herbs reaches her, and the tang of vinegar, and fragrant garlic. The steam drifts up, and as she takes a breath she can hear the thump of her heart.

“-made the dough from scratch, if you can believe it,” Clint is saying. He is opposite her now, already picking up his fork. Natasha feels her throat close, and her eyes start to sting. Clint finally looks up, and his fork freezes midway to his mouth.

“Tasha?” he asks, hesitantly.

“You made me pelmeni?” she asks.

“I thought you’d like it,” Clint says. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

He trails off, bewildered, as Natasha puts a hand to her mouth. She feels tears on her cheeks, and as she tries to breathe, she feels Clint beside her, kneeling next to her.

“Natasha?” he says, again. He pulls her around in her chair. She looks at him through a haze of tears.

“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,” she says, breathless. Clint still looks confused, so she presses a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you.”

It’s all she can manage. She knows him more intimately than anyone on the planet, and yet he still has the same capacity for surprising her as the day they met.

“I love you too,” he says, finally. He returns her kiss with one on her cheek, and takes his seat again. Natasha spears a dumpling with her fork and raises it to her lips. She eats it, her senses in Russia and her heart in Clint’s hands.

“Good?” he asks. She wipes her eyes and smiles.

It’s been several weeks now, and she’s still no closer to having this conversation with herself, let alone with Clint. How is she supposed to tell him? She can’t even say it out loud. The Red Room didn’t design her with love in mind, and all her life she has been told she’s not fit for it, that relationships serve only as an exchange of things of value - information, loyalty, practically anything except love. She can’t deny that’s what it is, but even thinking it activates a deep resistance encoded by her formative years. She can’t be in love, by design. It’s not possible. And yet…

“What’s up with you?” Clint asks her, over coffee later in the day. They are at a cafe, as far as Clint is willing to move from his apartment to get coffee, and it’s only slightly less bitter than what he brews in his pot at home. Natasha needs neutral ground, though, so she insisted.

“Nothing’s up,” she lies.

“Liar.” God damn him. Clint is the only one who knows her well enough to know when she’s covering something up, and even he gets it wrong around sixty percent of the time.

“Fine,” he says, after a lengthy silence. “Can I at least know if it’s something I’ve done?”

“It’s not something you’ve done,” she says. “I don’t really know what it is myself.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out.”

They fall into easier talk, tactical plans, predictions of future missions, debating what colour rug Clint should buy to cover up the burn mark on the floor from a recent pancake mishap. This easy conversation is one of the reasons she’s in this bind, and after a while she drifts off again and in her mind she’s back in front of the mirror.

“Nat. Nat?”

“Mm?”

Clint is staring at her across the table. “Did you even hear me?” he asks.

“Sorry,” she sighs.

They part ways amicably, and if Clint is annoyed or confused, he doesn’t let it show. He trusts her to come out with information when it’s important, and he’s never begrudged the secrets she’s had to keep from him, whether it was under instruction from Fury or of her own accord. It’s one of the reasons she loves- no, not- shit.

Later, when she’s lying in bed, she closes and opens her fingers on the comforter, scrunching the fabric over and over again as her brain goes through the same cycle it’s been going through for weeks now. She has analysed her emotional and physical responses to Clint from every angle, and everything points the same way. She lies there, awake, until the clock ticks past one in the morning and she suddenly can’t take it for another second. The only person she would want to talk to about this kind of thing is Clint, so that’s who she calls. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he mumbles, and to his credit he doesn’t complain about her waking him up. Then again, maybe he’s too groggy to be mad.

“Hi,” she says. She stops, alarmed by the hammering of her heart. The silence stretches taut over the phone line.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, and she almost laughs. There’s another silence, and she claws at the comforter just to have something to hold on to.

“I love you,” she says.

Clint is silent for a moment. Then-

“I know.”

“Was that a fucking Star Wars reference?” Natasha demands through an already broad smile.

“I love you too.”

She knew that already, she realises. Everything sort of falls into place, and she takes a steadying breath.

“Is that all?” he yawns. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“This is a big moment. Don’t be an asshole.”

He laughs, and then she laughs, and she presses the phone harder to her ear just to hear the sound of him breathing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Night, Tasha.”

Natasha twists around to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, through the layers of her shirt and the hoodie she stole from Clint, a dark patch of blood is spreading.

“Shit,” she sighs. She stands, and suddenly sways. Clint rises immediately, and puts a steadying hand on her back, mindless of the blood.

“Easy,” he murmurs. All eyes are on them now. Clint guides her through the lounge towards the door, focusing on her as the team make various noises of alarm. He walks her out of sight down a corridor before he speaks again.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles. He swears quietly, but doesn’t press the issue. She is leaning more heavily on him now, and he can’t believe he didn’t notice how pale she was.

The first room they come to is his, so Clint diverts them inside, and into the bathroom. There, he helps her pull off the hoodie. The back of her shirt is soaked through with blood. He strips that off too, and is confronted by a soaked gauze patch, which in turn reveals a bullet wound below her left shoulder.

“Fuck’s sake, Nat,” he mutters. She hangs her head, but he doesn’t know if that’s shame or blood loss and exhaustion. The wound has been clumsily stapled, and she obviously thought that would do it, but performing a wound closure on herself while reaching over an already injured shoulder has punched the staples half into the wound and half into untouched skin. She must be in agony. Clint knows where she stands on painkillers.

He cleans his hands and makes quick work of the first staple, but as he pulls the second out, covering his fingers in blood, he hears an intake of breath from behind him. He and Natasha turn, and find Steve holding a first aid kit loosely in one hand. His mouth is half open, but he is frozen, staring at the ragged hole in Natasha’s skin, and the blood dripping down onto the bathroom floor.

“I’m fine,” Natasha manages, but it’s less than convincing coming from her pale lips.

“You’re not fine,” Clint snaps. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Clint,” Steve protests.

“If you’re not going to help, get out,” Clint snaps. That seems to hit Steve where it needs to, and he kneels down, opening the kit.

“Don’t,” Natasha mumbles, swiping at Steve. She leaves a streak of red down his clean shirt.

“Stop it,” Clint says, firmly. She responds to his tone, and lets him work. Clint ignores the glare from Steve. He cleans the wound and grabs the suture kit.

“Wait,” Steve says, his voice panicked. “She needs-”

“She won’t take anything,” Clint interrupts. “Right, Nat?”

“No drugs,” Natasha says faintly.

“But-”

“She won’t, Rogers.” Clint pushes him gently but firmly out of the way, leaving more blood on his shirt. Steve watches in detached horror as Clint sews Natasha’s wound closed. Natasha doesn’t make a sound. When he’s done, he wipes her skin with antiseptic, and helps her up. Steve watches them walk unsteadily to Clint’s dresser, where he finds her a new shirt.

“You okay to stay here?” he asks her, and she nods. He helps her into bed, and Clint rests his hand on her shoulder for a long moment. Then he strips off his shirt, grabs a clean one for himself, and washes his hands.

“Come on,” he says to a stunned Steve as he goes for the door. Steve, shirt still bloodied, follows him.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, when they’re out of earshot.

“Pretty standard,” Clint answers. They enter the living area, and Clint ignores the sudden wave of alarmed questions from the team, who have instantly spotted Steve’s bloodied shirt. He waves them all off, and gets himself a beer.

“She’s fine,” he says, finally. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Is she seriously so proud that she’d rather bleed out than ask for help?” Tony asks sharply. Bruce elbows him, far too late.

“It’s not pride,” Clint yawns. “It’s just how she is.”

“How is it not pride?” Steve asks. “Clint, she wouldn’t let you give her painkillers before you sutured her.”

“What?” Bruce gasps. Even Thor looks horrified. Clint looks around at them, and remembers that these men have only known Natasha a few years at most. They still have a lot to learn.

“She was trained to be like this,” he says. “You can look it up in the files SHIELD has on the Red Room program. They desensitised the girls to the point where they would fight until they dropped.”

A heavy silence settles on the group as they process this.

“It’s been so long,” Steve says, finally. “Hasn’t she… you know, broken the programming?”

Clint shrugs. “Most of it. But there are parts that are so ingrained that no one could undo them. There are some things she’s always going to do, or believe, no matter how insane they are.”

“Pain is weakness,” Thor says, musingly. The others look at him, surprised. He chuckles, but it’s not a warm sound. “My father taught me the same thing,” the god says. “I was lucky. My mother did not think that way.”

Clint nods. “She lived a whole life before I met her,” he says. “All those years, she never had anyone she could trust enough to ask for help. Sometimes she still won’t let me help her. There’s nothing I can do about it, except be there when she’s ready to need me again.”