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A beat up and exhausted Clint stepped out from the elevator onto the floor he and Natasha shared, glad for the dim lights and quiet atmosphere.
This particular mission had been more stressful than most, a solo job he had picked up while most of the Avengers were out of town.
Stark had shut off most of the non essentials to the other floors, leaving bare minimum lights, heat and water.
Natasha was the only one in the tower, having a rare weekend off and she preferred the quiet and the dark just like her partner. Clint suspected her to be in her rooms, reading or cleaning her weapons, relaxing for a rare moment.
As he walked passed her rooms, his hearing aid picked up the low upbeat tempo of an orchestra coming from behind the doors.
He paused, perplexed. He had never known her to listen to classical music outside of when the job required it, he had thought she enjoyed more contemporary pieces.
Reaching out, he pressed his hand to the keypad, pushing in as it unlocked. Just as she had access to his rooms, he was coded into hers as well.
Following the music, he entered the back room where Nat normally had her training dummies, floor mats and other assassin paraphernalia, but was shocked to see it complete clear.
The hard wood floors were gleaming from the reflection of the mirrors circling the room.
A row of metal bars stood in the center of the room and Nat was balanced on pointe, staring at her pose in the mirror, adjusting ever so slightly.
JARVIS was playing the music through the overheard speakers, not too loud as to spoil Nat’s concentration.
Clint’s lungs started to burn and he realized he was holding his breath. She never failed to amazing him at the most inconspicuous times.
Nat was dressed in a tank top and sweatpants tucked into high socks, her red hair tied back off her face and her limbs gracefully arched.
Clint had seen many dancers in his time, most of them doing it with few to no clothes, but not a single one came close the Nat.
She swept her hand front to side, while raising her leg high over her head in time to the music. Her back was to him and Clint suddenly felt like a peeping Tom.
This was private. He shouldn’t be here. But he couldn’t move away.
“I didn’t know you could actually dance. I thought that was just a lie the Red Room told you.” He spoke softly, adopting the same tone he used on the horses in the circus; not too loud and not too short so as not to spook them.
Nat dropped her feet to the floor with a loud thunk and spun, eyes filled with anger until she saw him.
If it had been anyone else, they would hae never left the room alive. Clint could tell she was seriously considering how to keep him from talking.
He could see her picking her words, the slight flick of her fingers against the bar, told him that she wasn’t pleased with the interruption.
“It started that way. But it’s the only thing I really enjoyed.” her jaw was set in a hard line, challenging him to laugh or demean it.
“You’re a beautiful dancer.” Clint said softly, shoving his hands in his pockets but keeping his eyes on her face.
If he had made fun of her, her face would be hard and unyielding. His compliment startled her far more than she would ever want to admit.
She let out a fast breath, the anger rushing out and her anger deflating.
She nodded and returned to the bar, starting her practice again.
Clint smiled slightly to himself, knowing that her nod was as closed to a thank you as he was ever likely to get.
He turned to the door, one foot half way out when she spoke again.
“You can stay if you’d like.” She wasn’t looking at him but he could hear the slight hesitation. “I’ve never had an actual audience.”
Removing his foot from the door, he turned with a happy smile.
“I’d be honored to be your audience.”
Nat flashed him a smile of her own, not as bright, but still as genuine.
Clint sat heavily in the chair by the door, kicking his feet out and letting the sight of a Dancing Natasha and the music surround him. She moved differently than when she was being a master assassin. On the job she was determined. No movement was without reason.
Here in this room she was...open. Free. Her limbs were flowing and graceful, acting out emotions Clint wasn't sure she had ever felt or gave voice to.
She played Giselle, a story as far from hers as was universally possible. A heart broken girl, whose actions caused another person torment...
Okay maybe not as far from her story as he thought.
He sat in the chair, completely sweapt up in her movements, watching the story portrayed through twirls and leaps. He had forgotten how tired he was and how much his muscles hurt, he was so completely enamored of the dancer before him.
And as the sun set over the city scape behind them, Clint came to a not-so-startling conclusion;
He couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be.