1 Once upon a time, he’d made a different call. Clint never quite understood why it still mattered so much to Tasha. He had never been the type to go in for a kill if he didn’t believe it was absolutely necessary. When they sent him on that particular mission, his mind had been half made up before he’d even seen her for the first time: it just wasn’t right to punish someone for choices and actions that were forced upon them. He’d never really intended to kill her, even before he’d seen her tormented eyes, and her defeated frown. She had asked him to end it, pleaded, nearly, except that her pride didn’t quite allow her to do that. But he refused. There were better ways to atone, he had told her. She’d been bent, but not broken. Never broken, this woman; she was a fighter, a survivor, it didn’t take much for Clint to see that: it was written all over her face. It was obvious in the way her shoulders were slumped while her spine refused to give. Her eyes met his in defiance, even without her consciously wishing to do so. When she finally nodded in agreement, it was tentative, doubt clouding her expression. Her stance remained guarded. (Years later she told him that she thought he’d kill her anyways, eventually.) Afterwards, she’d always alluded to some kind of ‘debt’. Which was bullshit, really. Tasha worked hard to redeem herself, and she quickly became a reliable team partner and a valued friend. The idea that there was any kind of debt between them didn’t sit well with Clint; she was his closest friend, after all. He (once again) tried to talk to her about that issue after some newbie junior agent had walked up to him in the headquarters and asked about “the rumours” that were apparently a hot topic among almost all of the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint usually hated it when agents were nosy, but he had to admit that the one who’d asked him definitely had more spine than those who gossiped when they thought he couldn’t hear. (With an amused grin, he’d asked her for her name. After she replied, he said, “Well, Agent Bishop. What do you think I’m hiding?” Not blushing, or stuttering, or looking affected at all, she simply regarded him coldly, “I don’t know, Agent Barton, but you better not make Agent Romanoff’s life miserable just because she owes you shit.” His laughter was so loud and boisterous that passers-by side-eyed the pair, “Tasha doesn’t let people treat her like shit, believe me. She’s way too badass for that.” For a moment, the frown remained deeply etched onto Agent Bishop’s face. However, her expression lightened considerably as she continued to regard him, and she even started to grin a little, “Just making sure. You know, you seem pretty alright, Barton.” “It’s Clint,” He replied, offering his hand. “I know,” She smiled, shaking his hand firmly. “Kate. Pleasure to meet you.”When they parted ways, Clint was pretty sure that they would actually have the potential to be friends – until her loud voice exclaimed, “Have fun with your sweetheart.” She knew full well he was on his way to Tasha. His cheeks were still a faint red, he was pretty sure, as he finally exited the headquarters.) Now, casually resting on Tasha’s couch – “It’s a diwan, Barton.” – with his fingers lazily drumming a soft beat onto his chest, Clint was pretty much the epitome of relaxed. Tasha couldn’t help but smile, though she was not facing him and Clint likely couldn’t see. Not many people managed to relax so thoroughly in her presence. Clint made her feel almost ordinary in the best possible way: just a normal pair of friends hanging out and talking. She found she rather liked it. “Well, you could have killed me,” Was her only reply to his query. Her half-smile dropped from her face easily, lips curling in dismay, as she stared at herself in the mirror.  Without even meaning to, she suddenly found herself frowning at her reflection in what clearly was doubt, maybe even some thinly veiled distaste. She’d gotten extensions for her next undercover mission, and she immediately was reminded why she preferred to wear her hair shorter than this.  To keep an eye on Tony Stark, weapon mogul extraordinaire and recently also self-made superhero, she would become Natalie Rushmore. Natalia Rushmore likes the way she looks, Tasha firmly reminded herself, inner voice almost chiding. There was no need to develop a personal distaste for something she wouldn’t be able to change for months. It didn’t take her much more than one assessing glance to determine that she likely wasn’t going to enjoy being Miss Rushmore. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.  As Clint spoke up again, her gaze shifted from her own reflection to the reflection of Clint, still lazing on her diwan. “Yeah, but I didn’t. I never even wanted anything in return except for you to be okay,” Clint argued while slowly sitting up and rolling his hands until his joints popped a little. He made sure to meet her eyes in the mirror, giving her his best “Listen, Tasha, this is serious” face. “’Sides, everyone at work thinks I’m using you for sex or whatever. It’s weird.”  Despite his best efforts, Tasha didn’t seem to think that his admission was worth much of a response and Clint figured she probably wasn’t bothered by what the other agents thought about her.   She was riding that ‘lonely wolf’ bandwagon with an air of confidence and only ever seemed to make exceptions for Clint. (So far, anyways.)   Clint casually tried to sigh and groan, bemoaning his misery, but Tasha wasn’t bothered by this, either, and he eventually just gave up, and let silence consume them. As always, there silence was companionable rather than awkward, and he used most of the time that neither spoke to stare at Tasha’s hair. (It reminded him of a different version of Tasha; reminded him of a defiant woman who snarled at him, distrusted him, and thought he was out to kill her.)  With an annoyed sigh, the redhead finished brushing her hair, “It will take a while until I get used to this. Long hair is so impractical.”  “I guess,” Clint nodded in agreement. It didn’t look half bad, really, but it wasn’t very hard to see that the spymaster didn’t feel as comfortable in her own skin as she usually did. Then again, one could never be sure if Tasha wasn’t acting: from what she’d implied so far, her new ‘role’ was actually meant to be more on the submissive side compared to resolute and dominant Agent Romanoff. This might be her already trying to act like a woman who wasn’t comfortable with herself. (Clint wondered how well she would do faced with Tony Stark. Rumour had it that he was some spoiled capitalist whose sanity was ripping at the seams. The way Fury had phrased it, Natasha might even need to go for his assistant Pepper Potts, rather than Stark himself, to get anywhere with the mission. Clint had seen the footage; had read the articles and followed the media in general. He knew what PTSD looked like, and it didn’t seem like Stark (the poor bastard) was in any way capable of doing much currently – neither to aid them nor to damage them.)  “You’re staring, Barton,” Tasha pointed out with a sardonic little smirk. “Should I go ahead and take it as a compliment?” Clint felt his blood rush to his cheeks in the way it usually did when his traitorous body wanted everyone to see that he could blush like a thirteen year old school boy asking out his first crush. He hated it when Tasha did that. Of course he thought that she was stunning, inside and out, and she loved to fluster him whenever he forgot not to stare. Really, though, he didn’t think anyone would have an easy time looking away from someone like Tasha. She just radiated the kind of danger that someone like Clint couldn’t really resist.  Instead of denying or affirming, Clint felt the corners of his mouth lift in the way they usually did around her. He tried desperately to play it as cool as he could when she had her eyes so intently on him and simply stated, “Reminds me of when I first met you.”  Her mouth fell open in a surprised little ‘o’ and she blinked once, twice, until the confusion was replaced by a fondness that Clint was pretty sure was reserved for him only, “Right, I almost forgot. I’ve worn it shorter for so long now…”  As she trailed off, Clint just nodded his agreement. That had actually been the first thing she’d done after he’d gotten her out; cutting off her hair like she’d be able to cut off her terrible past at the same time.  After a moment of silence, he made his way to the vanity mirror she’d used to turn herself into Natalie Rushman. Tentatively, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave her his best grin, “What about some drinks before we don’t see each other for half an eternity?”  At first, she only glanced at his hand silently, then she carefully lowered her cheek to lay it atop of it; Clint turned his palm upwards with a motion so slow and cautious that he might as well have tried to pet a wild panther. Fondly, he caressed her, revelled in the soft look she bestowed upon him.He felt downright honoured by this level of trust, his heart thudding none-too-gently.  “Okay,” She said, breaking their moment as she abruptly stood up, shoved the seat aside and turned towards him. Due to her shoes, they were basically nose to nose, and he could feel her breath on his lips. Oh lord, Clint found himself thinking. There was not much space for any other kind of thought because she was just this close. As she leant even closer, she angled hear head away a little, lips brushing his left cheek for a short second, “But you’re paying.”  Then, she placed her finely manicured index finger on his chest, just the tiniest bit off-centre where he guessed his heart would be. With more strength than any normal person should possibly be able to exact with a mere finger, she pushed. It was playful, of course, and he could have easily remained where he was, could have leant forward to kiss her properly. She was giving him a choice, he knew and he chose to obey (as he always chose to do), stepping one step back to allow her space. Instantly, he was rewarded with her Cheshire cat smile as she got closer, bridging the distance once again, her hands caressing his torso in a way that was so lazily satisfied that she bizarrely reminded Clint of a purring cat. Or maybe a purring tigress, all things considered. With a smirk that he could feel pressed against the lope of his ear, she whispered, “Good boy.”  His face was burning as she stepped around him to fetch a coat and possibly – probably – her purse.  A little too late to fully save his dignity, he turned around to pointedly glare at her, “Don’t be so bossy, Romanoff.”  She rolled her eyes at him, then motioned towards the door with an impatient wave of her hand.  You like it, was what she was obviously thinking, and they both knew it. They both also knew that Clint couldn’t really lie well enough to pretend he didn’t.  As they later walked towards the nearby pub, Tasha’s thumb and index finger wrapped tightly around his wrist in a vice-like grip, he couldn’t help but grin.  What could he say? He’d always liked strong women.(Even when they were low-key terrifying and could literally snap his wrist any second if they felt inclined to.) 2  When they finally freed him – freed his mind – of what Loki had done to him, had done to so many, he felt completely out of it.  At first, he hadn’t even remembered anything; and then, the memories had come back, and he’d emptied his stomach, ruining both the bedding and his hospital gown. In apathy, he’d stared straight ahead as a doctor checked his vitals and people came in to clean up his mess. Tasha told him later that she’d been there to check on him; he couldn’t even remember seeing her. He did remember when she dropped by later, after he’d calmed down, taken a shower, talked to Fury. His boss told him what was happening outside – Clint knew then and there that he’d go out and fight and try his hardest to redeem himself. He argued with his doctor until she just shook her head and gave him clearance. She probably wouldn’t have if Fury hadn’t been insistent, as well.   Natasha’d entered, dressed in her trademark suit, and regarded him with a thoughtful expression. Staring right back, his brain still felt somewhat muddled, and it was like all of his mental filters (usually in place to prevent him from being too stupid) were kaput, too. His first sentence had been blurted out without much thought at all: “Your hair looks amazing.” And it did. He loved her hair when it was shoulder length, mainly because she seemed the most comfortable with it, and he loved it when she looked all confident and self-assured and ready to kick some ass.  “Thank you,” Tasha said, slowly approaching. It was obvious that she wasn’t quite happy with his knee-jerk reaction, and he had to admit that it was really out of sorts for him. Usually, he had enough sense left to at least wrap it up in a way that didn’t sound quite that much like he was some star-struck chick meeting… I don’t know, that dude from High School Musical, or some equally famous guy. Efficient and straight to the point as she’d always been, Tasha quickly and smoothly changed the topic, freeing Clint from any embarrassment that might have ensued, “I hear you want to fight.”  “Someone needs to stop Loki,” He hastily agreed, glad that she gave him such an easy out, “He is wielding a power that could lead to horrible things.”  She cocked her head, looked at him attentively. It was very much possible that she was looking for reasons to not let him come along. But he just couldn’t stand the thought of not being with the team, of sitting still and doing nothing. He wanted to help desperately. Since she knew him so well, she picked up on it, of course, and just nodded sharply. (Apparently, she disliked Loki as much as he did himself, and she was rather open about it, too. Usually, she veiled her hate better than that.  When he asked what happened, she looked at him in silence for a moment.  “I’ve been compromised,” She stated, rather simply. Clint knew what she meant, of course he did.  He’d been compromised since the day he’d met her.)   3  Before he had met Tasha, Clint never really bothered to be social. His flat was nice enough, his dog needed lots of attention, and besides, he didn’t even really want to have many friends. People never bothered with him, so why should he with them?  That, however, had changed after he met her. First, he’d felt obliged to take care of her; she had been so confused, maybe even scared (though she’d never admit to that), and she had made it very clear early on that she didn’t trust any of the agents. At all. Well; she did seem to trust one of them. When Fury asked him to take her in for a few weeks, Clint hadn’t really seen why he shouldn’t. He was emotionally invested already, either way. After that, they had developed a tentative kind of friendship; she’d started to go on missions with him and years later, Clint felt like he could safely say that Tasha was his closest friend and confidante. (Even though he’d also managed to befriend Kate Bishop over these past few months; turned out she was really good with arrows, and made a decent sparring partner.)  Then, Budapest had happened. He hadn’t ever really felt secure in defining their relationship afterwards, but he knew by then without a doubt that Tasha was the most important person in his life. (Only if you didn’t count Pizza Dog as a person, of course.)  So what before had been pleasant alone time was only bittersweet now; after all, shit could very well happen to Tasha any time. He wasn’t even sure where she was. Clint had received one postcard that sounded extremely tourist-y and didn’t tell him jackshit about what was up; he wouldn’t even be sure if it was from Tasha if it hadn’t ended with ‘But it is not as beautiful as Budapest in Spring.’ Which had been her way of letting him know that she was, indeed, fine. The gesture was appreciated, of course, be he really would have loved details.  He was hoping, obviously, that Tasha would be on the other side of the door whenever his bell chimed, but it usually just turned out to be delivery people. He always ordered for two people, hoping Tasha might be back, and usually just ate the second portion for breakfast the day after. Pizza Dog, getting older and greyer with the years that passed, lay next to him on the couch as faithfully as always, hoping for some nice scratches that Clint was always happy to give.  There was a heavy knock at the door, and he stood up and almost fell over his own two feet as he sprinted to the door, ever the optimist. Heart thudding and hands twitching nervously in anticipation, he opened the door.  The pizza delivery guy looked at him with worry etched onto his features. Clint must’ve looked as manic as he felt. (He gave a large tip to make up for scaring the poor guy.) Two pizzas in hand, he closed the door with his hip before making his way back to his living room. The new episode of Game of Thrones would air in a few minutes; he was kinda sad that he’d have to watch it alone.  Almost dropping the pizza cartons, Clint let out an undignified high-pitched scream, turned his head and stared at Tasha, who stood a few metres behind him, in a spot that he’d been in like three seconds ago. How? That woman was going to be the death of him, seriously.  “Wow,” She looked at him, face blank. “That was officially the nadir of your career as an agent. You really shouldn’t let your composure slip like that. I could be an assassin. Well, one that was actually out to kill you, anyway.”  Clint stared for a few more seconds, stupefied, and then said, “You did something new with your hair.”  She raised one eyebrow tauntingly. “Is this becoming a new trend, Barton? Didn’t think you were a hair-man. Always pegged you for more of an ass-man. But that could just be my personal preferences clouding my judgement, I suppose.”  He didn’t miss the way her eyes drifted to his backside. She even lingered a few seconds to make sure he really wouldn’t misinterpret it. Man, he thought. There really was too much being implied and he didn’t think he should concentrate on that kinda stuff at the moment.  His best friend/roommate was back, and that was what mattered most, so he ignored her teasing, dropped the pizza onto the couch table, and then turned his full body around. She had come closer, meeting him a few steps beside the couch. “You’re back.”  “I am,” She confirmed, and allowed him to embrace her, “I don’t want to talk about it now, though.”  Clint sighed, but accepted. He wouldn’t force her, he never did, “I’m glad you’re okay.”  “I’m glad you’re okay, as well,” She replied, pressing her nose against his cheek in a moment of rare tenderness. They didn’t say much more, just embraced each other, until they heard the tell-tale melody of the Game of Thrones intro. As the settled down onto the couch, Tasha cuddled up to Clint and laid her head on his shoulder.  I miss you, she seemed to say without really having to say it. In reply, he kissed the top of her head.  “By the way,” He mumbled as the show started. “I love that necklace.”  It might have been a trick of light, but Clint liked to imagine that a soft pink blush dusted her cheeks.  4  It was really fucking weird to pretend to be married and to have children. Never had he thought of himself as the kind of guy that would be a dad, and he never quite thought he’d marry, either. Also, he loved his apartments to pieces and would never ever trade it for some house in the middle of no-fucking-where. (He continuously cursed both Fury and Tasha for making him believe this was a good idea.)  They hadn’t even told him what the reason was. They just said jump, and Clint had learnt to trust Tasha.  He was beginning to regret it; he liked Kate, sure, but having her pretend to be his wife was awkward at best. And he didn’t even want to know where Fury recruited the children. This shit was ludicrous.  And Tasha was off trying to charm a dude that could literally rip her to shreds.  “It’ll bind him to the team,” Director Fury had reasoned. “Bullshit,” Clint had angrily bit out, but Tasha had shaken her head at his outburst and then proceeded to actually agreed with Fury.  (Clint liked to pretend that there was no petty jealousy at play on his side, and that he’d feel better if they just told him what their endgame was.)  As it were, however, he had his closest friends at a house that wasn’t his, and had to lie to them without even knowing why. They were hanging out in the spacious living room that seemed awfully empty without Pizza Dog laying around. For the first time that evening, he could finally approach Tasha without the others looking at them weirdly, so he took his chance.  “God, with how tense everyone is, and the way you did your hair, this feels quite like a throwback to that one time Loki tried to destroy the earth,” He said, conversationally, and delighted in the small smile she sent his way.  “Someone always wants to destroy all of humanity,” She replied, as if their conversation was casual. For them, in a way, it maybe even was. “And yet, you still manage to focus on my hair.”  Grinning warmly, he rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, “I’m glad that that’s what you’re taking from our relation – friendship.”   He’d noticed Tony eavesdropping and settled for a safer word. They didn’t need people to suspect anything.  She just grinned at him, enjoyed seeing him squirm – as per usual, “Well, I’ll leave you to it, I’ve got to go look out for the big guy.”  As she left, he saw a hesitancy to her swagger that the others probably didn’t even register. She might’ve played strong all she wanted but he knew her – she was not okay with manipulating a friend, just as Clint wasn’t.   He honestly just hoped she would be okay after all was over.    5  They were fighting against each other, and he was pulling his punches. She was, as well. He noticed that she’d grown her hair out; it looked good on her, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her, to make her smile at his silliness. He also wanted to tell her that he loved her. He loved her so bad. But he knew they were both emotionally compromised as it were, and that this wouldn’t be any easier on either of them if he didn’t shut his mouth.   Instead, he told her, “I’m a divorced man, in case you’re interested.”, as she straddled him and pulled another one of her punches. He startled a chuckle out of her, and revelled in the sound that he knew he wouldn’t hear for a while.   He wasn’t stupid. He knew what kind of prison would await him once they had to stand down.  The way Tasha looked at him indicated that she was quite aware of it, as well.  

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What I’m worried about now is how the fuck am I gonna watch Steve and Tony fight each other next year.