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“Good morning, Natasha,” Jarvis’s voice wakes her, as he does every morning. The room slowly lightens, giving her eyes time to adjust from the darkness to day. “And may I say: Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Her breath hitches, but somehow she manages to say, “Thank you, Jarvis.”
She sits up, hugs her knees to her chest, and no—she does not cry. Because the Black Widow does not cry.
And Jarvis would never call her on it anyway.
#
She opens her bedroom door and finds the opposite wall covered with construction paper hearts, of varying workmanship and size. The same cramped handwriting covers them all, each with a silly and different poem on them, but all conveying the same message: Natasha Romanoff is Clint Barton’s Valentine.
Her lips quirk into a small smile and she reaches out and touches one, the first one, with its poem that doesn’t scan and the creases from when Natasha once upon a time folded it. The construction paper has been softened by time, the edges of the heart are torn and frayed, but it’s still there.
“Did you put these up, Jarvis?” Natasha asks the air.
“Yes,” he says, a hint of nervousness in his normally cool voice.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Relief fills the AI’s tone. He still gets nervous that he’s overstepped his bounds, that he’s gone beyond his programming—even after all the lengths Stark went to, after all the legal battles with the Supreme Court to gain Jarvis personhood. It’s why he’s still more comfortable as a disembodied voice than in his LMD.
“I’ve set breakfast out for you in the nook,” Jarvis continues. “Bacon, eggs, scones, and chocolate milk.”
Natasha closes her eyes, laying her hand flat on the valentine.
Bacon was never her favorite, but she still eats it every year.
And thinks of him.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I’m in the cafeteria.
You should be too.
-- Clint Barton, 1998
Nastasha saw it as soon as she awoke. A large red construction paper heart, on which a poem had been penned, stuck to her closet door. The poem didn’t scan. The handwriting was cramped and uneven. Even the shape of the heart was rough—as if it had been cut in a hurry. It was a giant red monstrosity that represented how her life had changed since she’d joined SHIELD only six months earlier.
Or rather, since Clint Barton had dropped into the middle of her life.
Natasha left the valentine there as she performed her morning ablutions, but her eyes rarely wandered from it. When finally she was ready to face the day, she hesitated before exiting the room, turning back to the heart.
She stared at it the offending object, at the blot of red in her otherwise monotonous quarters. The force of that gaze had caused men to cry. The valentine, however, was unmoved.
Inevitably, it was the superspy who broke first. She crossed the room, took ahold of the valentine, and pulled it carefully off the door, making sure not to tear it as she freed it from the tape. She stared at it for another minute, feeling the rough paper in her hand, and then turned it over. On the back was written:
N.R.
+
C.B.
Natasha rolled her eyes, gently folded the heart, and then slid it into her pocket. Had he really doubted she would know who it was from? There was no other person she allowed in her quarters, no other person she shared a bed with nearly every night, and no other person who knew how to get in and out of her quarters unseen via the crawl spaces in the ceiling and walls.
There was no other person who would even think to make her a Valentine.
Natasha made sure everything in her room was in its proper place—from her sleep clothes to the booby traps—and then slipped into the hall.
It wasn’t early for SHIELD, and Natasha wasn’t the only agent leaving her quarters and heading towards the cafeteria. But the other agents gave her a wide berth, unconsciously walking on the other side of the hall from her, or speeding up or slowing down their step so that they would not be keeping pace with her. They didn’t trust her, not these men and women who had been poached directly from college, sent to SHIELD Academy, and then to live at one of SHIELD’s many facilities. They could not comprehend the sort of life Natasha had had, trained from her youth to be their enemy.
Only Barton understood.
Natasha, however, did not understand Barton.
She stepped into the cafeteria and her eyes immediately found him. It was impossible not to see him, even though he was at the table along the far wall. He had covered it with a red tablecloth—which as Natasha got closer saw was real cloth and not paper. Instead of the plain white cafeteria dishes, he had somehow found real china. And in the middle of the table was an honest-to-God candelabrum.
Barton himself stood beside the table, his face split by a wide grin. He wasn’t wearing his usual SHIELD issue sweats and tight t-shirt. Instead he was wearing a pair of dark wash jeans that fit low but snug on his hips and a thick, soft purple sweater.
“Natasha Romanoff,” the archer declared when she was still a few steps away. The entire cafeteria quieted, all eyes turning their direction. Barton’s grin widened as he fell to his knees, one hand going over his heart and the other reaching out to her beseechingly. “Will you be my valentine?”
The superspy stopped walking, stared at him coolly, and said, “What’s for breakfast?”
Barton jumped to his feet, undeterred. “All your favorites! Bacon…”
“That’s your favorite.”
“...eggs, scones, and chocolate milk!” He lunged forward, grabbed her hand and pulled her to the table. “Sit! Sit!”
Natasha let him herd her into a chair, and then he disappeared back into the kitchen.
The cafeteria was still strangely silent, until Natasha turned her gaze towards other agents. They all ducked down, suddenly very intent on their breakfasts and making small talk with whoever was seated near them.
“Here you go!” Barton reappeared, a china plate laden with food in each hand. He slid one in front of her and then sat down with his food.
“Barton,” Natasha said, looking up from her plate of food to the archer. He already had two pieces of bacon sticking out of his mouth. “What is this?”
“Breakfast,” he said. “Did you get my valentine?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Did you like it?”
“Barton. What are you doing?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day!” he responded, confusion touching his brow. “I’m treating my girl to a day on the town…”
“You know I’m not allowed off of SHIELD property,” Natasha answered. It was part of her probationary status. Though little could keep Natasha from leaving if she actually wanted to, she had to play nice and follow their rules in order to earn SHIELD’s trust.
“Not allowed off without proper supervision and paperwork,” Barton countered. And then he did something she never expected.
He pulled out a carbon copy of a form.
“Barton,” Natasha said, taking it from him. Indeed it was his cramped and messy handwriting imprinted on the yellow page. “Did you do paperwork? For me?”
“I would do anything for you, Nat.”
Natasha didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t. Barton doing paperwork was the nicest gesture anyone had ever done for her.
“There is a whole itinerary here,” Natasha said instead, reading the form. Barton had something for them to do nearly every hour of the day, starting with ice skating in Central Park and ending with the New York ballet. “You’re taking me to the ballet?”
“Yep!” Barton snatched the paper back, folding it up and shoving it in his pocket. “I have the whole day planned, and we have the whole day off. It’s just gonna be you and me, Nat.” He hesitated. “If that’s okay with you.”
Natasha looked up and her eyes were caught by Barton’s earnest, blue-eyed gaze. The superspy prided herself on being able to read a person like an open book, to be able to look into their eyes and discern all of the emotions that drove them.
What she saw in Clint Barton’s eyes…
“Okay,” Natasha said.
A smile bloomed on Barton’s face. “Then eat up! We’ve got a full day ahead of us! You’ll need your strength.”
Natasha takes her private elevator down to the lobby of the Tower, intending to avoid the other residents. The private elevators were one of Tony’s later mods to the Tower. No one ever called him out on the fact that they were added just as the new generation of Avengers began taking over and the elder began retiring. None of the old guard was willing to admit it, but even Clint, who had loved sparring and chatting with the new kids, had needed an escape from all of the young energy of the millennial Avengers.
The elevator doors open in the lobby, and Natasha is greeted by a familiar face.
“Hello, Hawkeye,” she says.
“Hello, Natasha,” Kate Bishop responds.
The other woman is dressed warmly, wearing a pea coat over dark jeans. She has a bag slung over her shoulder, her hand gripping the strap. “I thought I might join you in Central Park this morning. Do some ice skating.”
“Of course,” Natasha says. A Hawkeye has always taken her ice-skating on this day. Even if for the last several years, it was not her Hawkeye.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love the way you cut agents down with only your eyes
And the way you can kill a man with your lovely thighs.
I even love you more than my trusty bow.
Please join me for breakfast XOXO.
-- Clint Barton, 2001
Natasha skated around the rink alone, while Clint argued with his girlfriend. She’d been there when they arrived, waiting for them with a smile and a pair of skates in hand.
“Bobbi! What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d join you…”
“I said I was hanging out with Nat today…”
“It’s Valentine’s Day, Clint! I didn’t think you meant you and Natasha alone…”
Natasha had left them to fight and skated by herself, enjoying the brisk winter wind.
Skating made her feel like she was in the ballet again. It was all strength, elegance, dexterity, and grace. Natasha leaned forward, lifting her leg behind her, her body in a smooth line. A simple move, a basic move, the kind of thing she could do without drawing too much attention to herself, but even so, it felt like dance. It centered her.
Natasha came up out of the move as Clint skated towards her, a gentle smile on his face. “You’re beautiful.”
The superspy let him catch her hand, and he matched pace with her.
“Where’s Bobbi?”
“I sent her home,” Clint said. “Today is about you and me, Nat. She gets me every other day of the year. Today is about us. It always has been. Always will be.”
“And Bobbi was okay with that?”
The archer shrugged. “Being okay with me is being okay with you is being okay with us. We’re a two for one deal, Nat. Bobbi knows that.”
Natasha lifted an eyebrow. It sure didn’t seem like Bobbi was okay with that.
“Yes, she’s upset, but she’ll get over it,” Clint rolled his eyes. “Now come on. This isn’t about her. It’s about us.” He leaned in, brushing his chapped lips against her cheek. “You’re my valentine, Nat.”
The archer then skated in front of her, grabbing both of her hands, and whirled her around in a circle. Natasha’s hair fanned out around her, a sea of red curls.
Clint laughed, and Natasha smiled.
She then let go of one of his hands, reached into her coat and pulled out a water pistol. She shot him point blank in the face.
Clint spluttered, dropping her hand, his eyes widening in shock before narrowing. “Just remember, you asked for it, Romanoff.”
But Natasha was half a rink away before he could pull out his own water pistol.
Skating and then the zoo is the tradition. Kate lacks the sheer childlike joy that always had Clint running from cage to cage, but Kate has much of Clint’s humor and is able to coax a smile on occasion from Natasha.
They exit the zoo and walk around the park until they see Bruce Banner sitting at a table with a chess board set up. The scientist looks up at their approach, a soft smile on his face.
“Natasha,” he says, rising to his feet. “Best two out of three?”
“Of course,” she answers.
Natasha allows Kate to hug her, wishes the other woman goodbye, and then sits down for a game. She gets first move—Clint always gave her first move—and then it’s Bruce’s turn.
Bruce doesn’t engage her in conversation. He knows better. There is only the game.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art as unpredictable and scorching hot.
I had Phil make the scones but never fear
Today is just for me and you, my dear.
-- Clint Barton, 2008
It was snowing, but neither Clint nor Natasha had ever let that affect their traditions. They sat at a table in the park, both staring intently at the chess board between them. Occasionally Clint would blow away snowflakes or Natasha would wipe the board clear of them, but it wasn’t snowing hard enough to warrant retreating back to the apartment.
They played three games without talking. Natasha won the first, Clint the second, so it all came down to the third.
“CHECK FUCKING MATE,” Clint shouted, slamming down his bishop and rattling the entire board.
He jumped from his seat, whooped, and did a cartwheel. He collapsed at the end, into the snow, and then immediately began to make a snow angel, singing, “I beat Natasha. I beat Natasha.”
Passer-byers looked at him as if he was insane, but Natasha just smiled. She got up from her chair, walked over to him, and looked down at him seriously. “How do you know I didn’t let you win?”
He froze mid motion, his arms stretched above his head, his legs wide. “You wouldn’t.”
Natasha shrugged primly.
Clint’s arm shot out, grabbing her ankle, and Natasha let him unbalance her. She just chose to unbalance in his direction so that she landed hard across his stomach.
“Oof,” the archer said. “Watch it.”
“I’m not the amazing Hawkeye,” Natasha answered. “I can’t watch things.”
Clint laughed and pushed her off of him. He grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in her face.
Natasha responded with shoving snow down the front of his shirt.
No one from SHIELD would have recognized them, their two most deadly agents playing in the snow like children. And frankly, Natasha didn’t care if anyone did see her.
Not so long as Clint was laughing and looking at her as if she was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
Eventually they both collapsed in the snow, laughing. Clint reached out and took ahold of her hand, entwining their fingers together.
“Is Phil going to join us for lunch?” Natasha asked, studying the clouds above.
“What? Why would he do that?” Clint sat up, staring down at her.
“Well, he is your husband now,” Natasha said. “And it’s Valentine’s Day.”
“Stop doing that,” Clint said. His eyebrows met in a scowl.
Natasha sat up, crossing her legs and facing him, but not letting go of his hand. “Doing what?”
“Worrying about my relationship. Today isn’t about me and Phil or me and anybody else in this whole damn world. It’s about you and me. Phil gets me every other fucking day of the year. He can suffer missing me for a day.” He paused. “Plus he’s still got his usual anti-Valentine’s Day plans with Hill and Fury.”
“They still invited him even though he’s married?”
“They wouldn’t dare not invite him.”
And Natasha laughed, because it was true.
Bruce wins twice. They still play the third game for good measure, and Natasha wins it. They are evenly matched: Bruce with his scientific mind and Natasha with her strategic one.
“Good game,” Bruce says after Natasha announces checkmate.
The superspy smiles in agreement and helps him clean up the game.
“I’ll take your skates back to the tower if you want,” Bruce says, taking Natasha’s bag from her.
“Thank you, Bruce,” Natasha says, brushing a dry kiss against his cheek. The scientist blushes. Natasha rarely shows the other Avengers physical affection, but on this day—Clint’s day—she can.
Natasha takes a cab alone from the park to the restaurant. She walks in and the hostess smiles in recognition. “Ms. Rushman,” she says. “Your table is already set, if you would just follow me.”
The hostess takes her around the corner, and the man seated at Natasha’s usual table stands, a smile bright on his face.
“Sup, Natasha,” he says. He reaches up and brushes his California surfer-style hair out of his eyes. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a mission?” Natasha asks, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed.
“And not make it back for Valentine’s Day?” Chase Stein laughs. It’s a light hearted sound that reminds her of Clint. Chase was one of Clint’s favorites—both sarcastic boys who had run away from abusive fathers to become the non-super members of a super-hero team. Chase and Clint had gotten into so much trouble together, for which Natasha could not forgive him or thank him enough. “Then I’d be risking Clint coming back from the grave just to haunt me. I don’t think so.”
He steps away from the table and pulls out a chair for her. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for lunch?”
“It does seem silly to have two separate tables,” Natasha responds.
My dearest Nat,
I’ve always considered myself a man of actions and not words. Neither of us is good with talking or feelings. But I thought this once, maybe, I should give you some words.
I would not be here today without you. We both know that. And I don’t mean the bajillion times you saved my ass on missions or even you rejiggering my brain after Loki.
I mean Phil.
I’ve only survived this past year because of you, because you were there to remind me to keep eating, to remind me to breathe, to encourage me to live.
I’m not sure I’ve ever actually told you this so here you it is:
Phil was my husband, my lover, my friend, and I will always miss him. But you are so much more. You are a part of me, a part of my very soul, my existence.
I am broken. My father broke me first. Then Barney. Then Trickshot. Then the jobs I did before SHIELD. I came out of all of that less human, less a person. Just a broken, useless piece of shit.
Those first few years at SHIELD, no one knew what to do with me. I fucked up more missions than I completed. I didn’t trust anyone, couldn’t trust anyone.
Then I met you.
You’re broken too. I know we never really talk about it, but I’ve held you while you cried. I’ve read the files on the Red Room. I know that the day we met you were trying to commit suicide via sniper. Via me.
We’re two broken people, incomplete in ourselves because of the pieces people have taken out of us. But it just so happens that our jagged edges line up, like puzzle pieces. We fit together.
You complete me.
I love you.
Yours truly and forever,
Clint Barton, 2013P.S. Let’s never talk about this again. I mean that. Don’t bring it up. Admitting such feelings ruins my whole Hawkeye rep.
P.P.S. I suppose you could bring it up in a doppelganger situation, to check if it’s really me. Since neither of us is ever going to talk about this again, it would be a good way to test one of us is really who we say we are.
P.P.P.S. Breakfast! In the dining room! Join me.
P.P.P.P.S. No scones this year. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.
Natasha easily won all three games of chess. Clint tried his best, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he contemplated the board. Natasha could read the uncertainty in his expression, in the way his hand darted across the board, going to grab one piece and then changing his mind at the last moment.
He didn’t trust himself anymore. He didn’t trust his mind. Not after Loki.
When the last game was over, Clint looked up at her with a smile. It wasn’t his usual carefree smile. It was strained and frail, a reflection of his tired and bloodshot eyes.
Natasha rose from her seat and held out her hand to him. “Let’s walk, my little hawk.”
“That rhymes,” he said, as he got to his feet and took her hand.
It didn’t, but it made him happy, so she didn’t correct him. “What do you want for lunch?”
“No, no, no,” he said, pulling back and frowning at her. “You’re supposed to choose. That’s how this works. I plan dinner. We go wherever you want for lunch.”
“Italian,” Natasha answered. “You know the place.”
A smile tugged at his face. “Yeah, I do.”
They packed up their chess board and put them in the bag with their skates. Then Natasha snaked her arm around Clint’s waist, and he put his arm across her shoulders.
What used to be a quick cab ride from the park took nearly twice as long. Like Clint, Manhattan still hadn’t recovered from the battle. Both were putting themselves back together, but it wasn’t easy to rebuild after such devastation.
The hostess at the restaurant recognized them and ushered them to their usual table. Clint perked up once the waitress brought breadsticks. He shoved one whole in his mouth as soon as they were set down. The woman laughed, and Natasha smiled.
“I love this place,” Clint said, managing not to choke on the bread still in his mouth.
“I know,” Natasha said. And she knew why he loved it.
This had always been their place. He had never taken Phil here.
It was probably the only place in all of New York that didn’t remind him of Phil.
Moments later, Clint was juggling plates much to the amusement of the waitresses and other patrons. He had five different plates going, catching them with grace and ease, a huge smile on his face.
“Toss me that salad bowl,” he said to a little girl nearby.
“You sure?” she looked nervously to a waiter, who nodded encouragingly. The girl picked up the empty bowl and threw it at Clint with a wince.
The archer caught it, throwing it into the air without missing a beat.
An elderly woman at a neighboring table leaned over to Natasha with a conspiratorial smile. “Your young man is very talented. And pretty too. You’re a lucky girl.”
Natasha smiled and looked fondly to her archer. “Yes,” she agreed. “I am.”
Chase offers to walk her to her next Valentine’s Day stop, but Natasha declines. Once she would have killed a man for suggesting she might need to be walked somewhere, but Natasha knows that Chase only offers because he honestly cares about her.
It hurts how similar to Clint he is.
The nail salon is only a few blocks away from the restaurant. Natasha walks in silence, hugging herself tight against the cold February air.
A cab pulls up just as Natasha reaches the salon, and Pepper Potts Stark steps out with a smile. “Natasha, dear! Perfect timing, as always.”
“Pepper,” Natasha says with a genuine smile. She hugs the other woman carefully. Pepper has always been thin, and old age has made her frail. She might break in a strong gust of wind.
The two women enter the nail salon and are immediately ushered to the pedicure chairs. Pepper leans back into the seat with a groan. “I miss the days when I could wear heels without a second thought,” she says, kicking off her sensible flats.
“You haven’t had those days since you started working for Tony,” Natasha says, and Pepper laughs.
“He actually didn’t mind me wearing heels, but yes, Tony was many things but a tall man he was not.”
“Neither were Clint and Phil.”
“What is it about super-heroing that attracts short men, do you think?” Pepper asks.
“Steve would probably say it’s because small men know what it’s like for people to be stronger than them, to know what’s it’s like to be defenseless.” Natasha stares down at her nails, as if contemplating what she wants done to them. “Clint would probably make a joke about them compensating for something as if he was six foot six instead of five ten.”
“And then when you pointed out he was five ten, he would insist he was actually five eleven,” Pepper says.
“And then I would tease him because his combat boots have heels and he would say they’re not heels, they’re grips.” Natasha’s voice falls away to a whisper, her throat closing.
Pepper’s hand covers hers, and Natasha breaks, just for a moment, her shoulders slumping forward.
How does Love speak?
In the occasional smile you do sneak,
Just for me; in how we joke and laugh and play,
Even though we are fighters who keep evil at bay.
In our traditions on this Valentine’s Day,
Thus doth Love speak.
-- Clint Barton, 2014
Clint and Natasha walked into the salon, and the girl sitting at the front desk smiled. “Clint! Natalie! How lovely to see you. The usual?”
“Of course!” Clint said. He walked over to the wall of nail polishes and swiped a bright purple. He held it up for Natasha to see. “What do you think Nat? Think Phil will like this one?”
“The darker purple is more your color,” Natasha said.
“True, but you’ve gotta mix things up, you know. Keep the surprise in the relationship.” He handed the polish to the girl, who was suppressing a giggle.
“The usual for you, Natalie? French mani/pedi?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
The girl led them to chairs, and soon they both have their bare feet in hot, bubbling water. Clint groaned in satisfaction, leaning back. “I love this. Why don’t we do this more often?”
“Something about your manly reputation.”
“Fuck my manly rep,” Clint growled. “Any man who doesn’t like this is lying to himself.”
Natasha was inclined to agree. She wondered if they could convince Steve to come with them sometime. No one would be able to question it was once Captain America did it. The man was a paragon of manliness.
The two superheroes relaxed as they let themselves be pampered. Clint kept up a constant conversation with both the girl working on his nails and the girl working on Natasha’s, occasionally dragging Natasha in when appropriate. It was relaxing just to listen to him chatter and laugh, and Natasha found herself smiling.
Suddenly Clint’s phone rang. Everyone turned to look at him, appalled that he was disturbing the peace of the spa. Clint muttered an apology and pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Barton, here.”
Pause. “Stark? Can it wait? I’m kinda busy….no, I’m not going to fly the quinjet for—don’t you have a private jet and a private pilot to do these things for you? …No, I’m not with Phil. I’m with Nat….Frankly that’s none of your….”
Natasha snatched the phone out of Clint’s hand, putting it to her ear. “He’s busy, Stark.”
“Natasha, what are you doing?” Stark’s voice was sharp. “I hardly think this is fair. You monopolizing Clint’s time when this is Agent’s first Valentine’s Day back. I thought…”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Natasha’s voice was calm but sharp. “Our phones are only on for emergency purposes, so please don’t call us again unless there are robot mutants attacking and you can’t handle it yourself.”
Natasha then hung up the phone and held it out for Clint.
The archer grinned as he pocketed it. “You know he’s just going to go bother Phil now, right?”
“Phil can handle himself,” Natasha responded. “And Phil understands. You’re mine today.”
Clint preened smugly. “Every day, Nat. I’m yours every day.”
Natasha goes back to Avengers Tower and changes into the most elegant dress she has, for dinner and then the ballet. It is a deep purple, backless number that Clint would have loved.
The knock at her door comes at six o’clock on the dot. Natasha answers it to reveal a man with a receding hair-line and gentle blue eyes. Her heart constricts. He looks so similar to his uncle, especially when he is wearing a well-tailored Dolce and Gabbana suit.
“Aunt Nat,” he says. “You look exquisite.”
“Thank you, Jim,” she says. “You’re the spitting image of Phil.”
“Not quite as trim as he was at this age,” Jim says, softly blushing. “I’m afraid the life of a businessman doesn’t lend itself to staying in shape.”
“You look fine,” Natasha assures him.
“Thanks, but you have to say that, you’re my aunt,” he answers. He then steps forward and offers his arm. “Shall we be off? The ballet waits for no person, not even the Black Widow.”
I will not go gentle into that good night
But please don’t abandon me in Medical for the rest of my days.
I promise to eat healthy, even out of your sight.
I am a wild man, who caught and sang the sun in flight,
But can’t break out of Medical alone on this Valentine’s Day
So please dear, Nat, come save me from the doctor’s spite.
-- Clint Barton, 2043
“I thought we were going to the ballet,” Clint groused as Nat pushed the elevator button for the Avengers’ common floor. He fidgeted in his wheel chair, picking at his purple bowtie.
“We are,” Natasha said.
“You made me get dressed!” Clint complained.
“One should always dress formally for the ballet,” Natasha reminded him. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss into his gray hair. “Plus you look hot in a tux.”
Clint huffed and fell silent.
The elevator doors opened, and Natasha pushed him into the strangely empty common floor of the Tower. Most of the Avengers were out—either with their significant others or on a mission—and those who weren’t made the smart decision to obey Natasha Romanoff’s wishes.
Clint scowled as she wheeled him to the entertainment room. She stopped his wheel chair by his favorite armchair—a gray and purple monstrosity that Phil had given Clint on his sixty-fifth birthday. Nat was convinced Phil had half given it to him to spite Tony, since the genius had viewed the chair’s placement in the common room as a personal affront. Phil had always been multi-faceted like that, buying Clint the perfect gift that suited his tastes and his desire to irritate other people.
Natasha stepped forward, offering her arm, but Clint swatted at her. “I’m not an invalid,” he protested, even though that was exactly what he was.
The former archer set his feet on the ground and scooted forward. He grabbed the arms of the chair, undoubtedly intending to push himself up, but his once strong arms trembled, unable to lift the weight of his body.
He sighed, the tension leaving his arms and his chin dropping to his chest.
“There is no shame,” Natasha said softly, “in needing help.”
He nodded and let Natasha take most of his weight, moving him into the arm chair.
Once Clint was situated and Natasha was sitting in a chair next to him, the lights in the room dimmed. The large entertainment screen turned on unbidden—thanks to Jarvis’ silent monitoring—and displayed the stage of the New York City Ballet.
“They’re broadcasting it?” Clint said in surprise, turning to look at Natasha with wide eyes. “What about the sanctity of the theater?”
“Hush and watch,” Natasha responded.
“Don’t see why I had to dress up for this,” Clint mumbled as a man in a tux stepped out onto the stage.
He introduced himself as the theater manager and said, “Tonight is a special performance, and not just because of this day—a celebration of love that goes back to ancient Rome. Due to the generous donation of Tony and Pepper Stark, we are broadcasting this performance live across the world.
“The Starks made this donation in honor of their friend, Clinton Barton, who many of you may know as the former Avenger, Hawkeye. Mr. Barton has been a longtime patron of this institution, and we are happy to be able to bring the ballet to him, since this year he cannot come to us.”
The manager looked directly at the camera with a smile. “We would like to take this moment to thank Mr. Barton not only for his patronage, but for his longtime service to our planet. I am sure we are indebted to him far more than we will ever know, and if there is anything this theater or company can do for him, he need but ask.”
The man then went on to say a few things about the performance and the company. Natasha tuned him out, instead turning to her archer.
Clint Barton met her gaze with tears in his eyes. “It must have taken all of Stark’s charm to pull this off.”
“It didn’t take much convincing. The ballet was happy to do this, Clint. For you.”
The archer shook his head, looking away. “I don’t even like the ballet.”
“I know,” Natasha said. She pretended not to see his tears as she reached out and took his hand, lacing his fingers with hers. His skin was paper thin and soft against her own, and she held him gently, afraid she might bruise him or break the frail bone. “But you do like me.”
He smiled at that. “I suppose I do, most of the time.” He pulled her hand to his lips. “Be my valentine, Nat?”
“Always, Clint. Always.”
The ballet is beautiful. In her over 120 years of life, much has changed in the world, but not the ballet. It is still the same art of elegance, grace, and power.
Jim enjoys the ballet more than Clint ever did, an effect of having Natasha as an aunt. On the trip back to Avengers Tower they talk about the new Prima Ballerina. They both agree she is skilled but perhaps lacks the innate beauty of her predecessor.
Her nephew walks her back to her door and pauses just outside of it. “Thank you, Aunt Nat,” he says. “I had a lovely time.”
“Thank you,” Natasha answers, brushing a kiss across his forehead.
“Say hello to Uncle Phil and Uncle Clint for me,” he says with a sad smile.
“I will.”
He leaves her, and Natasha goes inside. She changes out of her finery, trading the sleek dress for flannel pajamas, a fine up-do for a quick and dirty braid, and her clutch for a small backpack. She only needs a few things for this last part of her day.
There is a car waiting for her at the bottom of Avengers Tower. Jarvis stands beside it—a handsome, never-aging young man with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s freckles. When he sees Natasha, he opens the door, bowing slightly.
Natasha nods at him and slips in. She leans back in the seat and closes her eyes.
When they reach the destination, Jarvis opens the door for her but does not speak. He knows better. Some things are too sacred to be spoken about.
Natasha stops at the gates of the cemetery. Steve is there waiting for her. Normally the cemetery is closed at night, but few people can say no to Captain America when he turns his baby blues on them.
She slips through the gates. Steve closes them behind her and then follows her down the path. Natasha ignores the headstones, her eyes instead on the beautiful mausoleum in the center of the cemetery.
Stark built it when Phil died. “A resting place for the Avengers,” he said. “A place where people can come leave their respects for their heroes. A place for heroes to sleep in peace.”
Someone—some flunky Natasha doesn’t even remember—tried to protest that Phil wasn’t an Avenger. Everyone was shocked when it was Steve Rogers who punched him.
Now others have joined Phil in the mausoleum. Clint was the first, and then two years ago Tony joined him. Natasha often wonders who will be next, which of her aging friends she’ll have to say goodbye to.
Natasha enters the mausoleum, but Steve does not follow. He’ll stand watch at the door—watching her back, making sure no one takes advantage of the Black Widow during her annual pilgrimage to her valentine’s resting place.
Each fallen Avenger has a statue. Tony Stark stands on a pedestal, dressed casually in loose jeans and a t-shirt, his old arc reactor glowing on his chest, and his left arm—covered in the prototype arm of his Iron Man suit—extended. The statue, a mix of art and technology, is so lifelike that it takes Nat’s breath away. She almost expects him to pull a screwdriver out of his back-pocket and begin fiddling with the prototype arm while mumbling to Jarvis.
Phil Coulson stands not that far away, clad in a well fitted Dolce and Gabbana suit, his face that mask of pleasantness with just a hint of humor hidden in the quirk of his lips. Clint only visited the statue once and broke down, refusing to come back and see it again. This is Phil Coulson as best remembered—the Phil Coulson who stopped crimes with a bag of flour and charged after gods without backup.
But Natasha only has eyes for Clint. His statue stands with a bow taught, his sleeveless tac suit showing off the strength of his arms, his eyes hidden by those purple sunglasses he loved so much. His cocky grin juxtaposes the threat inherent in his pose, but that was Clint, dangerous and laughing.
At the foot of his statue is a large pillow chair, undoubtedly put there by Steve or one of the other Avengers in preparation for Natasha’s visit.
Natasha curls up on it, her back to the statue, and then she pulls her StarkPad out of her backpack. “Hope you’re ready to learn to sing, Clint,” she says.
She places the Stark Pad on the ground, commands, “Start movie,” and then leans back as The Sound of Music is projected in the air.
She can almost hear Clint laughing and saying, “Run, Maria! The hills are alive! And they’re hungry!”
And Natasha Romanoff does not cry.
After all, if the Black Widow cries and no one is there to see it, does she really cry?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
-- Sonnet 43
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Read by Natasha Romanoff at the funeral of Clint Barton, 2043
Natasha Romanoff did not understand Clint Barton.
He had planned this entire day, an incredibly romantic Valentine’s Day. He had done paperwork, something he had convinced most handlers he was allergic to. All for her. And instead of coming back to her quarters and wanting to rip her clothes off, he had pulled out a tape of her favorite movie. “Next item on the agenda: nuns, Nazis, and singing children.”
Natasha stood in the middle of her quarters, still dressed in the black gown she wore to the ballet. Barton was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking out of place and debonair in his slick black tux with purple bowtie.
“What?”
“The Sound of the Music,” Barton said, waving the tape in front of her face. “Go change into those fuzzy pajamas I got you for Christmas and then we’ll watch it. The perfect end to the perfect day.”
Natasha did as he asked, too stunned to do anything else.
It wasn’t what she expected. Life had taught her the only reason men paid attention to women was to get something from them: secrets, assistance, or sex. Barton never asked for her secrets. He already had her assistance. That left sex.
But they had stopped sleeping together for no particular reason three months ago. And she didn’t remember Barton having any sort of flannel pajamas kink.
When she came back from the bathroom, Barton was on her bed, wearing a pair of sweats and a purple hoodie. He patted the mattress beside him.
Once Natasha was by his side, he put his arm around her shoulders and pressed the play button on the remote control.
Natasha looked from her tiny eight-inch screen to Barton, whose entire attention was on the movie. He didn’t seem to intend to have sex with her.
A tension Natasha didn’t know she was holding left her body, and she melted into his side, leaning her head against his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her and gently leaned his head against hers.
Halfway through the movie he fell asleep. Natasha didn’t wake him. She watched in silence, as Maria realized she loved Captain von Trappe.
Natasha Romanoff did not believe in love. It was a thing of fairy-tales, told to children to give them hope in the world. But at heart Clint Barton was a child. He still believed in love—a love so pure it did not need sex or oaths to bind it.
And maybe, when she was with him, Natasha Romanoff could believe in it too.
The movie ends, but Natasha doesn’t leave. Instead she pulls an old, worn purple hoodie out of her backpack. She curls back up, closing her eyes and hugging the hoodie tight. It’s long lost the scent of Clint, but it still feels like him. For a moment it almost feels like Clint is there with her.
“I miss you, Clint,” she says. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
Clint doesn’t respond. Of course, he doesn’t.
He’s dead.
Steve gently clears his throat, alerting Natasha to his presence. She opens her eyes and sits up. The supersoldier stands in the doorway of the mausoleum, still as young and fit as ever. “It’s after midnight. Let me take you home.”
“Just give me a few more minutes.”
The man nods and goes back out.
Natasha stands and turns to the statue of her best friend. She pulls the last item out of her backpack. It’s a red construction paper heart. She reaches up and sticks it gently to the chest of his statue.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Clint.”
My hair is red.
Your eyes are blue.
You’re still my valentine.
I will always love you.
-- Natasha Romanoff, 2050