#flame-haired-avenger

Clint slipped into the darkened apartment silently, closing the door behind him with the softest of clicks. Natasha had seemingly told JARVIS to let him in whenever he pleased. He beamed a little internally at the thought, this was trust on a level he wasn't sure Natasha was capable of sometimes - she probably had a bunch of secrets from him, but giving him access to her space when  she wasn't around was a big thing for both of them.

He flipped the nearest light switch and glanced around. It was sparsely decorated, like most places that Natasha lived in for a while, though there were hints of her presence everywhere, little pieces of her that she left behind almost like a trail of clues for those who knew where to look.

Maybe the most obvious was the bottle of vodka in the top drawer of her freezer, which Clint pulled out, humming the tune to a song he'd long forgotten the words to. 

He grabbed glasses and ice for the both of them, then settled in to wait, perching on her couch in view of the door so he could see when she arrived back.

Okay, you can totally do this.  You can answer phones and man the office.  Nothing terrible is going to happen. With it being her second day on the job, Rogue was naturally nervous about being in the office on her own.  She had some paperwork to type, some emails to answer and what not.  There was enough work while Pepper was at lunch. 

A short while later, she'd kicked off her heels, peeled off her gloves and sat cross legged in her chair, chewing on her bottom lip.  This just wasn't sounding right.  Without looking away from the screen, she grabbed her tea and sipped at her.  Moments later her fingers were flying over the keys, making more progress now that she figured out what wording was sounding off. 

The place was dark and crowded, a throng of people swarmed around him, trying to get served at the bar or making their way across the dance floor, bodies swaying in time to the overwhelmingly loud music. The press of bodies around him was a little close and warm to be comfortable, but he liked it. He liked the noise and the beat and the way everything seemed just a little more vibrant in the strobing green and blue lights. 

And maybe he'd had a few drinks, but who was counting?

He swirled the remains of a beer and surveyed the dance floor. The club was pretty big and he'd managed to lose sight of the others pretty quickly as everyone settled into the VIP area and then slowly filtered onto the dance floor or the bar.

He'd have to be blind not to spot her, though. Even in the dark of the club, the few loose strands of her hair bounced around her face and caught the lights, her hips swayed in time to the beat, covered by that thin, lace dress and she wore a perfectly polished smile for the crowds, all teeth no soul. Sometimes, he figured, she could be a perfect stranger, the best actress he had ever seen.

But she looked like she was having fun, and if she could play pretend; shake her body at some unsuspecting strangers and get a few drinks out of it, then he could play a part as well.

He finished his beer and made his way towards her, weaving through the crowds, ignoring the looks he was getting, some appreciative, some most definitely not. He decided that it didn't matter as he sidled up behind her, not close enough for her to take alarm or offence, but close enough that she would know he was there. He wasn't exactly a fantastic dancer, but he could move to a beat and Natasha had given him a few lessons over the years in spare moments. 

It had been three days since he'd heard from Natasha. They'd gone longer without contact of course, weeks and even months without seeing or hearing from each other. Deep undercover ops in foreign countries where the people spoke in dialects; where they slipped so far under the radar that even SHIELD lost track of them for a while. It was safer that way really. This was different, though. This had his subconscious nagging at him and Fury's stubborn silence on the topic was making him antsy. Not to mention she'd left him a message: a book laid out on her bed, the sheets made like she hadn't ever been there and a single dollar bill slotted inside the well-thumbed pages. She wasn't one for eccentrics or flair except when the situation demanded it and even he could understand what she had meant by it.

I need some time to think, Clint.

He got it. He really did. He got it in ways he suspected he wasn't really supposed to, in ways that no one else could. She needed space like he needed freedom. It's why extended ops with her never ended well for either party. When they were tucked into each other's pockets like that tempers tended to flare. Suddenly he was rubbing her the wrong way and she was snapping at him and he was shouting like he hadn't in years... But this note unsettled him and he couldn't quite pinpoint why.

He was overreacting. He was overreacting. He was-

Fuck it. Fuck radio silence. Fuck her 'space'. Something was wrong and he knew it. If that wasn't reason enough to send her a message then nothing was.