#clintashashield

The voices and the footsteps passed underneath them. The two of them listened, not moving, not breathing. The men came back, spread out, regrouped and spread out again.

Attention, please, came a tinny announcement. All trains are delayed due to an unexpected emergency. Barton cocked his head at her. His Hungarian was rusty. Natasha mouthed the message at him in English, not sure if there was enough light for him to see. He grimaced, so she figured he got the message.

Down the tunnel, one of the voices called. They’ve gone down the tunnel.

Another voice swore, and then came the crackle of a radio. We’ll get them at the other end. Let’s go.

Then, unbelievably, impossibly, the footsteps receded. Natasha waited, coiled, ready in case this was a trick of some kind. They waited, guns on the hatch, listening to the bustle of people moving up and down the platform.

Natasha wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she exhaled, and relaxed her grip slightly. Barton sank back against the wall of the vent. Neither of them lowered their weapons entirely. Natasha twisted her head slightly to get a glimpse of her partner’s watch. Just gone 5pm.

Attention, please. All trains are delayed due to an unexpected emergency.

People were crowding on the platform. Natasha tensed ever so slightly whenever someone shuffled underneath the hatch, but there were no shouts now, just the voices of disgruntled and confused commuters.

What’s going on? There was an explosion, didn’t you hear? Someone’s on the run, I saw soldiers in the street. They weren’t soldiers, they were cops. No, they were special forces. A whole building came down, did you see it? No, it’s on fire but I don’t think it came down. I don’t know, maybe a gas explosion. I heard gunfire. I think there was a tank. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Normal services resuming from platform B.

It took just under an hour for the trains to empty the platform of people. Natasha finally let herself relax, holstering her weapon. She shifted, stretching her legs, and ever so slowly slid over until she was thigh-to-thigh with her partner.

“Hurt?” Her voice was barely a whisper. There was still a chance that Dreykov’s men or the authorities were somewhere nearby. Hell, even a passerby or a janitor overhearing them could be the end of them.

“Not badly,” he breathed. “You?”

She shook her head. There were various scrapes and bruises she hadn’t even begun to catalogue, but nothing was broken, not as far as she could tell. Footsteps passed underneath them and she froze, feeling Barton do the same beside her. She opened her mouth to say something else, but the fear that someone might hear her stopped her with her lips just parted. A train rattled into the station, opened its doors with a soft hiss, clunked them shut and rumbled away leaving silence behind it. Natasha ducked her head, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“Any word from SHIELD?” her partner whispered, after a while. She shook her head. They would get a signal when an extraction was ready, but there was no knowing how long that would take. It all depended on the political situation, or, more accurately, whether SHIELD could manoeuvre around said situation to retrieve their agents before Dreykov’s cronies could tear their hearts out.

They sat side by side in silence for a long time. There was no change in the light coming through the cracks around the vent hatch. The station would be lit all night. The only way to mark time was with Barton’s watch, and by the fifth hour tense anxiety gave way to lightly worried boredom. Her legs were cramped and she was hungry. The thrill of the chase had long since vanished, and now all she wanted was to be in a jet hurtling back towards the States.

Something poked her thigh. She looked down, and found Barton’s hand, offering her something. She took it, and brought it close to her face to see it in the dim light. It was an arrowhead, one of his less explosive ones. She frowned, confused, and gave it back to him. He smiled, and reached over to touch it to the wall of the vent. As Natasha watched, he began to scratch something. Natasha reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Someone might hear,” she whispered. He looked at his watch pointedly. It was almost eleven at night. There were still people now and then, and an occasional train, but the station was largely silent. There was nothing else to do but wait for extraction. She sighed, and let go of him. He carved three vertical lines into the metal, then three horizontal lines to form a grid. He finished by scratching a circle into the top right square, and handed her the arrowhead. Natasha smiled, and scratched a cross. They paused as a train whooshed past, not stopping at the empty platform below them. It took her four moves to beat him, and he made a big show of shaking her hand. She smiled, and he drew them another grid.

Barton gave her his watch and took the first shift sleeping once midnight rolled around. Logically, Natasha knew that they were not likely to be found now, but she couldn’t quite relax enough to sleep just yet. Her partner had no such concerns, and was out like a light despite the cold metal of the vent. She kicked him whenever he breathed too loudly, but aside from that she just waited, marking time on his watch until it was 4 in the morning. She shook his shoulder, and he slid over and sat up, making room for her to lie down. She slept fitfully, and once the morning rush took over on the platform below her, she could no longer sleep. She opted to lie with her eye to the crack in the hatchway, watching as unsuspecting people passed under her. The scent of coffee and pastries was almost enough to tempt her out. Almost. As if he had read her mind, Barton reached into a pocket and produced a battered protein bar. She snapped it in half and they shared a miserable communion.

They played another few rounds of noughts and crosses. She slept again once the station quietened down, this time sitting up with her head on her partner’s shoulder. She didn't think too deeply about it - they were still very much in mission mode, boring as it might be for the time being. Barton woke her after a couple of hours, in the early afternoon. They made a game of stretching, trying to get out of each other’s way as they did. The early evening found her practising what basic ASL she had picked up. This proved much more engaging than noughts and crosses, and by the time twenty-four hours had passed, she had mastered the alphabet and could sign several rude words. It helped distract the both of them from the hunger, thirst and other bodily functions they couldn’t deal with in a train station vent.

It was his turn to sleep, and he managed - somehow, she wasn’t sure how - to get a few hours’ rest during the evening rush. Announcements rang out on the crackling speakers, trains groaned in and out of the station, hundreds of people went about their lives, and Barton slept right through it. She watched him, in awe of his ability to ignore the noise until she realised he had probably just turned his hearing aids down.

The dawn of the second day found them irritable, sore, starving and ready to drop out of the vents and just make a run for it. There had been no word from SHIELD, despite both of them checking that their various comms devices were still operational. Natasha practiced her ASL swearing and Barton augmented her vocabulary for a while.

“Two days,” she whispered, sometime around midday. “Maybe something’s gone wrong.”

“They’ll come,” he told her, quietly, simply. She hated him for it for an hour or so, until he carved a game of hangman into the wall and she got sucked into the game. He was good at taking her mind off things, she was starting to realise. It wasn’t something anyone had ever done for her before.

Night approached with all the speed of a glacier, but finally, just as Natasha opened her mouth to guess the word for their current round of hangman, Barton’s watch beeped twice. In one fluid motion, she pulled the hatch open and they dropped down onto the platform. There was no one there to see them, which Natasha assumed was part of the plan. She didn’t like flying blind, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She and her partner streaked up the escalator onto the dark streets of Budapest. A black SUV rolled up and Barton’s watch chirped once. The door opened and they threw themselves inside.

“Butterfly,” she said, once she’d caught her breath, revelling in the sound of her voice at normal volume after two days of quiet whispers.

He looks around wildly. She was on the other side of the complex. How close was she to the blast? Was she caught up in it? Where is she?

Clint scrabbles at his ear for his commlink. It’s still there, by some miracle, but he can’t hear anything.

“Nat?” he calls, opening the channel. “Nat, are you there?”

There’s nothing. He swears, looks around, and swears again as he limps towards the centre of the destruction. The building is still burning around him, but he has to find her.

“Nat,” he calls again. “C’mon, Romanoff, talk to me. Tell me you’re okay.”

There is a crackle of static in his ear, but no reply. Could be the batteries giving out. Clint steps over smouldering rubble and catches sight of a black suit. He’s running before he even knows it, the pain in his leg forgotten as he drops down beside her.

“Nat,” he says. “Nat.”

He shakes her shoulder. Her brow furrows, and Clint’s pain comes rushing back as the adrenaline subsides. She’s alive. She opens her eyes, and slowly props herself up on one arm.

“Fuck,” she mutters, looking around. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You okay?” he asks. She nods, and grips his arm. He helps her up, and they survey the wreckage.

“We need to get out of here,” she says. “Come on.”

He holds onto her as they hobble out of the wrecked compound. Extraction is the only way out now. They just have to get back to the jet.

Natasha leans on him as they walk, and Clint bears the pain and limps as steadily as he can. It takes them almost half an hour to get back, and the whole way Clint tries to be aware of their surroundings.

The jet is waiting in a clearing, and Clint helps Nat up into the copilot’s seat. As quickly as he can manage, Clint jabs his useless leg with a local anaesthetic and hands the kit over to Natasha to treat herself. He gets them off the ground. It takes almost an hour, but eventually they are back in safe airspace, and he turns on the autopilot and finally turns to Natasha. She’s leaning back in her seat, pale and tired, still covered in ash from the explosion.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs. He doesn’t mean it literally, because of course she’s not. All it means is you’re not going to die, right? Like, not this second? She nods, and he reaches over and squeezes her hand.

“Rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll be home soon.”

-

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.

-

Another day, another mission, another tiny, shitty safehouse. More of an apartment this time, actually, but Clint doesn’t really care. They’ve been on the move for two days, and he desperately needs to sleep. They have the apartment rigged, so neither of them has to keep watch. They’ll be here on observation for at least three days. Just the thought of the impending boredom is enough to exhaust him, and Clint is already in bed, his eyes closed, when he senses a presence nearby. He opens his eyes.

“Move.”

Clint blinks. Natasha is standing over him, in a t-shirt and leggings.

“This is my bed,” he says.

“It’s the only bed, genius,” she tells him.

Clint sits up. “What?”

“One bed,” she says. “It’s not exactly a big place. Where did you think they were hiding the second bedroom? There’s not even room for a couch.”

She pushes back the covers and gets in. Clint obligingly rolls over to the other side of the double. It’s not that they haven’t slept near each other before, but it’s never been for more than a night. They could be here for a week.

Natasha doesn’t seem to be bothered at all, so Clint tries to put it all out of his mind. It’s just a mission. Having to cosy up is an occupational hazard. They’re professionals, they’ll get over it.

He manages to drift off for a while, but wakes with one arm numb from sleeping on his side. He tries to roll onto his back, but runs into an obstacle. Natasha’s leg is extended all the way across the mattress and into what should technically be called his side of the bed. He moves as best he can, gingerly trying to avoid touching her. He doesn’t want her to wake up and think he’s trying something.

He wakes again a couple of hours later, squashed against the wall. Natasha has her back against his side, and she has moved right into the middle of the bed. Clint tries to ease her back over to one side, but she is surprisingly difficult to move. He has to stand up and climb over her to the free side of the bed so he can lie down again. Then comes the problem of the covers. Natasha has cocooned herself in the comforter, so Clint is left with just a corner of it and one ratty blanket. He makes do, and eventually falls into a fitful sleep until dawn breaks.

He is already up and in the kitchen when Natasha gets up. She has a shower, and then joins him. He is surly, not having slept for very long at all, but they don’t need to talk much. Their day is spent setting up equipment, testing, talking to Phil over the phone, and other things that in the lives of spies are almost mundane.

Clint is already dreading the night when the evening comes. Natasha changes into her soft sleeping shirt, and he massages his neck in anticipation.

“Do you want the wall side?” she asks, stretching.

“I don’t mind,” he says. Doesn’t matter anyway.

Natasha slides into the bed, and moves over to the wall. Clint represses a sigh, and takes the other side.

This time, he wakes up right on the edge of the bed. Natasha’s knee is somehow in the small of his back, and he tries to correct his position but he shifts the wrong way, and the shitty mattress gives way. He rolls onto the floor with a thump, and swears.

“You okay?” Natasha, groggy, appears overhead.

“Yeah,” he mutters. One saving grace is that she moves back over, so he can at least lie in his own spot until they both fall asleep.

By the time he wakes up on the second morning, he’s woken up three times during the night to extricate himself from some ridiculous sleeping position brought on by Natasha hogging the bed. He just doesn’t understand how she can possibly take up so much space. The bed isn’t tiny, by all logic they should be able to share it without issue, but Clint still has a sore back and is increasingly crabby from lack of sleep. Natasha doesn’t comment on it during the day, but he can tell she notices.

On the third night, Clint gives up completely and sleeps on the floor with just a pillow and one of the shitty blankets. It’s hideously uncomfortable, but he gets a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep. Natasha wakes him up, assuming he’s fallen out of bed again, and instead of telling her it’s because she’s sleeping like a damn starfish, Clint just climbs back into bed to start all over again.

On the fourth night, he’s at breaking point. He falls asleep quickly, thanks to his ongoing sleep deprivation, ready to wake in a couple of hours either on the point of falling out of bed or actually on the floor.

Instead, he wakes to sunlight streaming through the curtains, and a warm weight on his chest. Natasha is draped over him, one leg thrown over his legs, her arm over his torso and her head and shoulder resting on his chest. Her head is nestled in the crook of his neck. Clint doesn’t move, for fear of waking her up. He knows it’s accidental - she’s moved like this in the night, but somehow instead of pushing him out she’s just flopped on top of him. He pretends to be asleep when she wakes up and guiltily crawls off him.

-

“What’s this about?”

Maria stirs sugar into her coffee. She’s never understood the majority of the agency who insist that black coffee is the only way to drink it. Seems unnecessarily macho, but whatever floats their personal boats.

Natasha grips her tea so hard Hill is worried she’s going to shatter the mug. This must be something big. Maybe she’s thinking about defecting. Maybe she already has, and she’s about to launch across the table and attack her.

“Have you ever had feelings for someone you worked with?”

The question is so out of the blue that she almost chokes on her coffee. “What?”

Natasha is silent for a moment, but rephrases. “In the field, did you ever work with someone and develop feelings for them?”

“Once or twice,” Hill says.

“Did you ever act on those feelings?”

“Once or twice.”

Natasha looks surprised, and Maria grins fleetingly before her composed facade returns. “You’re only in trouble if you get caught,” she advises the agent. Natasha still looks troubled, and she softens. “Is this about Clint?” Natasha gauges her tone, and then nods.

“I’m worried that it’ll get in the way of our work.”

“He’s completely in love with you, you know.”

“I know.”

Natasha sips her tea, and Hill considers the problem. “He just thinks you don’t like him. And he doesn’t know that you know.”

“He thinks he’s subtle.”

“About as subtle as a slap in the face.”

Natasha smiles faintly. “So… it would be okay if these feelings… developed?”

Hill nods. “It’s not unusual, or dangerous for this to happen. You just let it flow, and see how things go.”

Natasha nods, and turns her attention back to her tea.

-

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Natasha sits entirely still. It’s odd for Phil, when his charges don’t fidget under his accusatory stare.

“Natasha.”

She raises her eyes to his. It’s like she’s a stubborn child.

“I just wanted to see where he was.”

“Barton’s on a covert mission. Where he is is none of our business.”

“I wanted to know.”

He sighs. “You can’t hack Fury’s computer. You just… you can’t. Okay?”

She shrugs. Phil does not feel like he’s made any impact on her future behaviour. Again, he feels like a bad parent.

“What’s brought this on?” he asks. “Do you not trust Clint? It’s not a dangerous mission, he’ll be back before you know it.”

She looks away, and he gets an idea of exactly what has brought this on. “Okay. Just… try not to get yourself in trouble, Romanoff. I might not be there to cover for you next time.”

-

Natasha can barely hear anything over the thudding of the helicopter blades. She has one hand on the gash in Clint’s side, and her other hand is holding on to something - the edge of a seat maybe - as they veer out of reach of the gunfire. Once they’ve levelled, someone hands her a headset and she scrambles with one hand to put it on.

“-give the rundown,” a voice says through the earpiece. “What happened to him?”

“He got shot,” she shouts, and it’s difficult to roll her eyes given the circumstances, but she still manages. “Clipped his arm. Hit his head on the way down. Stab wound to the thigh that I’m holding closed right now, so would you fucking grab the kit already?”

The copilot tosses a field kit to her and she gets to work. The leg wound is first and deepest, and gushing a lot of blood. She cauterises it, thankful that he’s unconscious.

“Is he going to be okay?” the pilot asks through the headset.

“He doesn’t get to die until I say so,” she answers.

-

Unconscious in a hospital bed, at another time, with another injury, Clint doesn’t hear her pacing. She has no one to talk to, so she talks to him.

“And another thing. Who doesn’t check their magazine before they dive out to shoot? Idiot.”

He doesn’t answer. She’s not expecting him to, but ranting at him helps.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to have your back. If you had, the worst you would have gotten would be a few cuts and scrapes. Now look at you.”

She sighs, and goes back to the chair by his bedside. “When you wake up, we’re going to have a serious talk about forward planning in the field. I’ll write a list of all the ways you were an idiot, and you can read them back to me so I know you understand.”

“Natasha?”

Phil has coffee. He’s the only one who hasn’t tried to convince her to sleep. Mostly because he knows that’s an argument he’ll lose in record time.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the paper cup. “The doc says he’ll be up and about in a couple of days.”

“Good,” Phil says. “I’m sure he’d be glad you’re here.”

“He’d be annoyed,” she grins. “Natasha, you should sleep. Natasha, you don’t have to be here. Natasha, quit watching me sleep, it’s creepy.”

Phil gives a little smile. “Still. He wouldn’t send you away.”

“No,” she says, looking at her partner. “He wouldn’t.”

-

“Tell him.”

“He already knows.”

“He doesn’t. Tell him.”

Natasha glares at Hill from across the training mats. “He’s not an idiot.”

“Yes he is. Tell him.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can. I don’t know how to have that conversation.”

“Clint, I’m in love with you. Let’s do it.”

“God damn it, Hill-”

“Fine. Let’s spar. Winner tells Barton you’re in love with him.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Maria looks at her, and Natasha can see she’s absolutely serious.

“Do you really want him to hear this from me?” the woman asks.

“Fine,” Natasha groans. “I’ll tell him.”

“If you don’t-”

“I know, I know.”

-

Years after she tells him, after their first kiss, and other firsts, she sits by a window in a facility in upstate New York. The world is a different place now.

“I remember how things used to be,” she tells Wanda. “Right back at the start. I guess it’s more complicated now.”

“Some things aren’t complicated,” Wanda says. Natasha has to smile.

“You’re right,” she says. “Some things aren’t. But sometimes it feels like the world has changed faster than I can change to keep up with it.”

“How do you stay grounded?” Wanda asks. “When everything comes apart, what keeps you together?”

“Clint,” she says, and there’s no hesitation. “He’s my constant. Anything could happen, and I know he’d be right there with me, always. Same as the first day I met him.”

“He means a lot to you,” Wanda murmurs.

“He’s everything,” Natasha says. The phrase isn’t heavy. It doesn’t heap any responsibility on that link. It’s just light, and easy. Clint is her whole world, and she knows she’s his.

-

Wanda is used to feeling lonely. Her room at the facility is comfortable, and even has a few home comforts that Vision has brought for her. She loves to walk in the grounds, feel the sun on her face. The team is much more comfortable around her now, but anyone else who comes to visit always looks at her with slightly guarded faces. One man asked her once if she could read his mind.

Her link with Pietro is what she misses most. She always felt him in the back of her mind, a buzz in her skull telling her that he was okay. After Sokovia, after the bullets and the blast, it’s gone. She can’t feel anyone like she felt him, although her link with Vision comes close sometimes. It’s nice to have a romantic connection, and she just knows that her brother would disapprove.

She watches the others around each other. She knows that Tony’s emotions run deep, and he forces them down below the surface when he can, so as to avoid uncomfortable situations. Steve wears his heart on his sleeve, and will speak directly when he has something on his mind. Bruce is something of a mystery. She senses the duality in him, and the constant turmoil. It’s nice to see him just reading, or drinking coffee in the mornings. That is when he is most at peace. Sam and Rhodey are soldiers, tactical but able to relax when they want.

She likes watching Clint and Natasha the most. Wanda goes out of her way to spend time with them, just to watch them together. They orbit each other with the practiced grace that comes from years of partnership. They know each other completely. It is a joy to watch.

In the mornings, she watches them make breakfast. Natasha puts on the toast while Clint starts up the coffee machine. Their eyes meet. Coffee? Yes. Toast? Yes. It’s unspoken, but even the least significant communication is easily understood. Natasha plates their breakfast and Clint hands her a coffee. They move to the table together, and sit. Wanda can almost hear a conversation between them.

Their link is strong, she thinks, because it is only to each other. She and Pietro were similar. When the world was unstable, and everything was falling to pieces, the only solid ground was him. She sees that in Natasha and Clint. The difference is that they don’t yearn for links to anything else. They don’t care that the world is chaos around them. They are each other’s islands in the storm, and content to stay that way.

In the training centre, Wanda watches from above while they spar. It is rare that they can surprise each other. Their style is a language, and they are both fluent, and the only ones who speak it. It’s more like a dance than a fight. When they’re done, neither has to tap out. They both sense that the fight is over, and she passes him a water bottle as he hands her a towel.

She knows they love each other. The team doesn’t seem to see it, but Wanda knows that connections like that are rare. She sees it in meetings, when Natasha nudges him to keep him awake, and smiles so faintly that no one else catches it. She sees it in the lounge, when they drink side by side, barely touching yet inseparable. She sees it on missions, when they lock eyes and have arguments without saying a word, then use the tiniest of touches to convey the most vast and weighty of emotions.

-

It’s not unusual for a safehouse to have one bed. Apartments can be hard to come by in cities, and they are often less conspicuous if they’re smaller. Clint is used to cramped quarters, and he’s shared rooms with people countless times. Natasha is no different, he tells himself.

When they finally make it back to their less than opulent accommodation, they are exhausted. Clint showers, then clears out of the bathroom to let Natasha wash. He makes sure everything is ready for the morning - they can’t be extracted from the city, so they have to catch an early bus out to somewhere a little more remote.

“It’s a single bed,” he says, gesturing to it. “You can take it if you want. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“It’s freezing,” she points out. “It’s okay, I’ll stay up. I can sleep on the bus.”

“You’re exhausted,” he protests.

“So are you.”

He can’t come up with a retort, and she sighs. “It’s okay. We can share. We’ve slept in worse places.”

Even over the short span of their partnership so far, that is true. Clint nods, and climbs into the bed, shuffling as close to the wall as he can manage. Natasha climbs in next to him, and they turn so they are on their sides, backs pressed up against each other. Natasha pulls the blankets over them. The fatigue negates the discomfort, and soon they are asleep.

Clint has never been a restless sleeper, but he’s not used to the weight beside him in the bed. He wakes more than once in the night, and the third time he rouses he feels an arm flopped over his waist. Natasha has rolled over and is pressed against his back, her face in his neck. He shifts, uncomfortable, and ends up on his back. Natasha stirs, and then snuggles up in her sleep, her arm winding around his waist again. Clint drifts off, unsure if he’s dreaming.

When he wakes, the first rays of the sun are filtering through the dirty window. His watch alarm is beeping, and he groggily clicks it off, then realises that Natasha is wrapped around him. Her leg is between his thighs. Her head is on his shoulder. Her lips are brushing his neck. Then he realises something else.

Natasha wakes. She opens her eyes and sees him looking at her, then starts guiltily, moving her leg and retracting her arm.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Must have got cold.”

“S’okay,” Clint replies, his voice strained. “No problem. It’s fine.”

“You okay?” she asks. She rolls out of bed, and grabs her clothes. Clint sits up, tactfully covering his crotch with the blanket.

“Come on,” she says. “Get ready.”

“I just need… a minute,” he says. She looks at him, uncomprehending, then looks at what he’s covering, and her cheeks go faintly red.

“I’ll go get coffee,” she says, biting her lip. Clint is vaguely relieved that this is as embarrassing for her as it is for him. He wasn’t planning on waking up wrapped around her. His body reacts to her in ways he can’t stop. She closes the door, and he swears. The embarrassment is finally enough to relieve him slightly, and he glares accusingly at his own groin for a few moments before heading to the bathroom to step into a cold shower.

When Natasha gets back, she doesn’t speak. Clint doesn’t either. They get on the bus, and make their quiet, awkward way to the extraction point.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, an hour later.

“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “Let’s…”

“Never talk about it again?”

-

The observation deck can be fun, especially when the new recruits are training. The evening is winding on towards dinner, which will be called in just under two hours. Natasha leans on the rail, watching from her unlit spot. It suits her to be invisible.

Below her, they are scattered around the weights, agility courses, and sparring mats. There are almost thirty of them altogether. Though she knows she should focus on a range of things, Natasha finds her eyes invariably drawn back to the sparring mats.

There are four bouts happening at once. Two pairs of boys are fighting, and one pair of girls. The fourth pair is split, one boy on one girl. They are not evenly matched. Natasha watches them closely for a moment. The male rookie has about half a foot on the girl. He is lunging and swinging aggressively, and she is doing her best to dodge his strikes, but every third hit or so is landing hard. Natasha winces as a foot connects with the girls ribs, sending her staggering backwards. She is nimble, but outmatched, and she isn’t using her speed and her size to her advantage.

“I thought I’d find you lurking up here.”

She is so engrossed in the fight that she hasn’t heard Clint appear behind her. Natasha turns her head briefly to acknowledge him, then returns her attention to the losing battle being fought below her.

“Watching someone?” He moves over to the railing beside her.

“Top right mat,” she says, and points. “The girl.”

Clint watches for a few moments, and she feels him tense as another strike lands.

“He should know better,” he mutters. “What’s he fighting a tiny girl like that for?”

Natasha watches in silence as the girl cedes the fight and stumbles off the mats to sit by the wall. The assassin isn’t sure if the girl is wiping sweat or tears from her face, but she wants to run down to the floor and pull her from the fray.

“Nina Orlov,” Clint says. Natasha glances over, and sees that he’s pulled out a tablet. She takes it from him, and reads through the profile on the screen.

“Seventeen,” she murmurs. “They’re starting her at seventeen now?”

“She scored higher than anyone else on every exam, and she’s already fluent in four languages. Guess she was too valuable to keep in training for much longer.”

“She’s so young,” Natasha sighs.

Clint arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?” he mutters. Natasha nods. “Be careful,” he tells her.

“Always am,” she replies.

-

Natasha accesses the system finds a copy of Nina’s timetable. The rookies have dinner for another twenty minutes, and then the girl is scheduled for an evening group session with a weapons specialist. Natasha calls the instructor and swiftly informs him that Nina won’t be there. The man doesn’t argue with her, but he sounds confused. Natasha has neither the time not the patience to explain things to him, so she hangs up.

A group of boys are emerging from the cafeteria as she arrives. They are elbowing each other and laughing about something, but the laughter stops dead as they see the agent come to a halt in front of them. She eyes them coolly, and they scurry off, trying not to glance back over their shoulders. She waits, and soon she spots the person she’s after.

“Orlov,” she calls. The girl jump, and flushes when she sees who has called her name.

“I’m Romanoff,” Natasha says.

“I… I know,” Nina manages. “I… have I done something wrong?”

Natasha shakes her head. “You’re not in trouble. I want to talk to you about your training session today.”

Nina blushes. “You saw that?” Natasha nods, and her blush deepens. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll work harder.”

“Come with me,” Natasha says. She turns and walks away. She has a reputation to maintain, after all, and it won’t do to let any protectiveness show in public. She doesn’t have to wonder if the recruit is following her. They make their way through several restricted doors, and she can feel the poor girl getting more and more nervous the further they go. Eventually, Natasha opens the door to her own quarters, and ushers Nina inside. The girl looks around in awe, clearly aware of where she is. Natasha closes the door, and finally lets her expression soften a little.

“I’m making tea,” she says. “Do you want some?”

Nina looks bewildered, and Natasha gestures for her to sit on one of the couches. Nina does, and Natasha goes into her kitchen and makes two mugs of tea, which she brings back to the lounge. Nina accepts a mug from the assassin, and now she is as confused as she is awestruck.

“How are you feeling?” Natasha asks, as she sits opposite the girl.

“Tired,” Nina answers, carefully. Natasha sighs, and wraps her hands around her hot mug.

“This isn’t a test,” she tells the girl. “I saw your session today, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. It can be hard, being somewhere new. Especially for someone as young as you.”

Nina bristles. “I’m only two years younger than most of them.”

Natasha laughs, but softly, gently. “Don’t take it as an insult. We both know it’s impressive for you to have been brought up from training so young. I just know that it can be hard.”

“I’m sorry,” Nina says. “I’m used to having to defend myself.”

“The others will be jealous,” Natasha says. “They’ll use your age as an excuse to single you out.”

“You singled me out,” Nina observes.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.” Natasha pauses for a moment. “I’m going to request that you be removed from the cadet program.”

Nina gapes at her, horrified. “No!” she exclaims, looking panicked. “You can’t! I know… I know I’m young, and I’m not as strong as some of the others, but I’m trying, I’ll get better-”

“Nina,” Natasha interrupts, laying a hand on the girls arm. “Calm down. I want to remove you from the program so I can take on your training myself.”

Nina glances around her, as if trying to work out whether she’s being set up for some joke.

“Why?” she asks softly, after a long silence. “I’m… I’m just… and you’re…”

“SHIELD needs more agents like you,” Natasha says. “You’re wasting your time with people like that boy in the training centre.”

“He’s not that bad,” Nina protests. “He’s just insecure. He wanted an easy win after being dropped about six times in a row.”

Natasha eyes her approvingly. “You’re good with people, aren’t you?”

Nina blushes again, and shrugs. Natasha smiles.

“Think it over,” she says. “I’ll come and find you in a few days, and you can let me know what you decide then.”

Nina finishes her tea, and Natasha takes the mug for her. She walks the girl to the door, and pauses for a moment, keying a few things into the access panel.

“This will give you access through the way you came if you want to come and see me,” she says. Nina looks astonished, and Natasha resists the strong temptation to give her a hug.

“Thank you,” Nina says. Natasha nods, and opens the door for her. She watches the girl go, and then flops onto the couch.

Clint arrives ten minutes after she messages him.

“How did you go?” he asks. “Adopted her yet?”

“Almost,” she sighs. “I think she has real potential. She’s smart. Intuitive.”

“Plus, her name starts with the same letter as yours.”

She laughs. “Shut up.”

“I’m just preparing you. That’s the first thing that Tony’s going to make fun of.”

She thinks for a moment. “Maybe she should meet the team.”

Clint frowns. “You really think she’s this good?”

Natasha nods, and her partner sighs. “Fine. I know if you like her I’ll like her. Let’s take her upstate the next time we go. Call it work experience.”

Natasha smiles at him. “Steve’s gonna love her.”