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1.
He’s exhausted by the time he gets home from his afternoon in the gym, frustrated and hurting in a way that he hasn’t felt since his early days as a recruit. Three days into training with Natasha, and he’s starting to regret bringing her in, vouching for her, taking on that sort of responsibility. It isn’t just that she’s great at kicking his ass--and she does that spectacularly--but the fact that she does it over and over again without pause, the fact that she doesn’t seem remotely interested in letting him get to know her, doesn’t want anything but the most utilitarian of partnerships. She doesn’t even crack a hint of a smile at his very best jokes, and somehow that hurts worse than any of the bruises. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to work with someone who has no sense of humor, but he’s also pretty sure that complaint isn’t going to fly with Nick Fury.
He makes it through the door just fine, disables his security system like usual. It hits him halfway through removing his shoes, not so much any specific source of alarm as the gut feeling that something is wrong. Clint glances around the apartment as he kicks off his socks, keeps one hand on the bow that he hasn’t yet unpacked as he quickly walks through the small space. Nothing--no intruders, no apparent traps, no explosions in his face. Still he feels off-balance, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up just a little.
Sighing, Clint lets his hand drop back to his side and opens the fridge, then promptly freezes again. There’s never much in it, save for a few bottles of beer, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a few cartons of dubious leftovers. But today all of the items have been carefully arranged in a circle on the lowest shelf, with the ketchup in the middle like a bullseye. It’s a clear message: someone has been here undetected, and screwed with his things without his knowledge. Making another sweep of the apartment, he sees what he failed to notice on the first trip through, overly preoccupied with his search for immediate threats. His couch cushions have been swapped, so the one that permanently sags is on the left instead of the middle. The books on his shelf are rearranged, and someone’s tied the laces of all the shoes in his closet together.
There are a few possibilities, when he thinks about it--He’s pretty sure Bobbi still has one of his spare keys, though he doubts she’d use it just to mess with him. This kind of prank is right up Jessica’s alley, but as far as he knows, she’s still on assignment somewhere in Europe. Though she could have bribed someone else to do her dirty work for her, someone decidedly less long distance.
“Very funny,” he tells the empty apartment, deciding he’ll look for bugs after he finds something to eat, and at least a fistful of ibuprofen. If his mysterious guest is listening, they’re welcome to spy on his dinner.
He’ll have to question his newest class of Academy recruits in the morning, he decides, as he falls onto the newly lopsided couch with a soft groan. Right after he makes them do an extra fifty push-ups to compensate for his bad mood.
2.
He wakes up, holds class at the Academy, then spends the afternoons getting his ass kicked by Natasha in what he’s pretty sure Fury’s only jokingly referred to as ‘team-building exercises.’ The routine’s almost started to transition from frustrating to boring by the end of the week, and by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, all he wants to do is go home and drown his woes in Chinese takeout and bad television.
He’s silently grateful that there’s nobody else in the locker room when he slips in, nobody he has to exchange pleasantries with. Clint dumps his bag on the bench and strips out of his clothes, cursing when he gets into the shower and the still-cold water hits his skin. It might help with the newest round of bruises, he thinks. Then again, he’s pretty sure his bruises are getting bruises at this point. There may be no help. He finishes the shower quickly, steps out and reaches for his towel--only to find an empty space where it and his bag ought to be.
For a moment he just stands there, dripping on the floor as he gapes in disbelief. He was a mere few feet away the entire time, is certain he would have detected anyone getting that close. It’s like his clothes and towel have evaporated into thin air.
There’s the sound of movement outside the shower stall, and Clint bolts in the direction of the noise without a second thought.
“Hey!” he barks at the retreating figure in the open doorway, about to escape the locker room.
The other man turns, and suddenly Clint finds himself confronted by Sitwell’s incredulous gaze. “You want to put some pants on, Agent?”
“Someone took my clothes,” Clint growls.
Sitwell shrugs, holding up his empty hands. “Don’t look at me.” He aims his gaze at the ceiling, though it looks like he’s struggling not to smile. “As I recall, you pulled a fair number of pranks in your Academy days. Seriously, at least grab a towel.”
Clint ignores the suggestion, the soles of his feet smacking wetly across the floor as he makes his way to his locker and shoves it open. There are clothes in it, at least, but he pauses again when he catches sight of the little mirror built into the door. There’s a bullseye drawn on it in red lipstick, someone taunting him with his own trademark.
It’s impressive, he has to admit, the irritation in the pit of his stomach beginning to shift toward curiosity.
3.
For a moment he’s so preoccupied with the glint in her eyes that he actually misses what she’s wearing: her customary pair of tight black yoga pants, and a hoodie with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on it that’s far too large, falling halfway down her thighs. A beat later he recognizes the tear in the left sleeve, the gray splotches on the shoulder from that time he spilled bleach on the laundry.
“Hey,” he says, by way of greeting. “That’s mine.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, the perfect picture of innocence. “What is?”
“The hoodie.” Clint crosses his arms, considering. “It’s mine. You took it on Friday. Along with the rest of my clothes.” She must have known he would recognize his clothing, must be wearing it to send him a message. Clearly she’s the one responsible for everything--the gym bag, the locker, the cryptic display in his apartment. He isn’t sure what her intentions are, though, whether she’s trying to intimidate him or if it’s something more. Either way, it’s definitely an interesting departure from her apparent indifference toward him so far.
“They give these to everyone,” says Natasha, meeting his gaze levelly. “Which seems like a poor decision, when you think about it. Why would a covert organization want all its agents wearing a logo?”
“Fury likes to do things in style,” says Clint, setting his jaw. “And let me guess, yours just happened to get a hole and a stain in exactly the same place as mine?”
She shrugs. “Accidents happen.”
He takes a step toward her. “What are you doing, Natasha?”
The corner of her mouth quirks up ever so slightly at that. “Thought I was here to train with you.”
“Wearing my clothes. That you stole.” Clint sighs.
Natasha stretches gracefully, then falls into a fighting stance. “You want my clothes, you’ll have to take them off of me.”
He doesn’t get a chance to respond; it’s all he can do to step out of the way as she attempts to sweep his legs out from under him.
4.
“Barton,” Natasha’s voice cuts into the haze, and Clint blinks, realizing that the meeting’s finished and Coulson has already left the room. Natasha is leaning across the table toward him, something just a bit disconcerting about her expression, though he can’t quite identify what it is.
“Sorry.” He shakes himself, scrubs a hand over his face. “Did I miss anything important?”
She shakes her head. “More of the same. Apparently we’re doing a good job not killing one another, and should continue doing it for another week.”
Clint snorts softly. “Great.”
Natasha studies his face for a moment. “Sleepy, partner?”
He narrows his eyes, still trying to figure out what he’s seeing in her. “Yeah. Guess my coffee’s not working too well today.”
“Really?” asks Natasha, picking up the half-full cup he has on the table. “Almost like someone switched it for decaf while you were distracted earlier.”
For a moment he just stares at her as the pieces click into place--the general funk he’s been in all morning, the smug little smirk on her face. “You didn’t.”
“What can I say,” she deadpans. “I’m very good at causing suffering.”
Clint snatches the cup out of her hands, decides he is going to go home and replace everything edible in his apartment, which might be a good idea anyway, given his frequent disregard for expiration dates. There’s no telling what Natasha’s done to any of it, though he’s somehow still certain she wouldn’t actually hurt him. She’s had her chance to do that, and so far she’s contented herself with games, with proving she can get the upper hand anytime she wants. It’s equal parts impressive and annoying, and he still can’t decide which of those emotions is going to eventually win out.
“I am going to put a bell on you,” he growls.
Natasha just smiles sweetly, which makes his stomach do an obnoxious little flip. “I would love to see you try.”
5.
He decides to use that information to his advantage, sets a trap for her in the locker room and waits in a dry shower stall, his back to the wall and his legs pulled up under him on the bench. It takes a while before he hears her footsteps, but he’s very good at waiting patiently, good at keeping still and quiet when he needs to.
If she’s smart enough, he thinks, she’ll realize that his bait is a trap and go on about her usual routine. He wonders for a moment if she’s going to do exactly that, if he’ll have to try harder to catch her in the act of messing with his things. But apparently she isn’t that good, because a moment later he hears the satisfying splat of a sticky arrow releasing, followed by her surprised intake of breath.
“Barton?” she says to the locker room, the hard edge of her voice echoing off the walls. “I know you’re here.”
Clint plants his feet on the floor and stands, grinning broadly as he emerges to the sight of Natasha with her hand glued firmly to the decoy quiver he’s left sitting out on the bench. “How’d you guess?”
She gives him a look. “Subtlety is not your strong suit.” She doesn’t seem angry, though, and suddenly Clint has the sneaking suspicion that she wanted to get caught this time.
“And yet you’re the one who just got caught trying to tamper with my stuff. Again.” He crosses his arms and gives her a serious look. “What are you trying to prove, Natasha? That you can make a fool out of me if you want to? I think you’ve made your point.”
She shakes her head, braces her boot against the quiver and wrenches her hand free with a stubborn little grimace. “Not the point, actually.”
Clint sighs. “Then what is it? Because I don’t get you. And the thing is, I want to. I like you. But--you give me the cold shoulder whenever I try to start a conversation, then do this instead?”
Her eyes harden for a moment. “Words are just words. They don’t mean anything. I wanted to see if you’d play my game.”
There’s something in her voice, in the heat of her gaze, that sends a jolt of adrenaline through him. Clint closes the distance between them, until they’re barely a foot apart. “I can do that. You sure it’s what you want, though?”
Natasha spins, uses her good hand to pin his shoulder, his back hitting the wall of lockers. Her breath is hot on his neck as she leans in, so close that for a moment he thinks she is going to kiss him.
“Bring it on,” she hisses against his ear, then turns and disappears out the door before he can react at all.
+ 1
She pauses in the bedroom doorway, confronted by the sight of Clint sitting on the edge of her mattress, one of her pillows cradled in his lap like the spoils of this conquest. Of course it’s him, she thinks. It was only ever going to be him.
She rakes her gaze over him, raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be naked?”
He snorts. “Shouldn’t you be surprised to see me?”
Natasha rests a hand on her hip for a moment and then crosses the room to stand in front of him, close enough to touch. “Maybe I’ve finally got you where I want you.”
“Oh, do you now?” He tips his chin up at her, charming and a little bit dangerous, the most appealing thing she’s seen in a long, long time. “That what your game was really all about? You know, you could have just asked.”
Except she couldn’t have, she thinks, not without testing him, not without being sure. She isn’t going to tell him that, though, so instead she just gives him a little half-smile. “And where’s the fun in that?”
“This,” says Clint, hooking a finger in the hem of her sweatshirt and tugging it up to expose a sliver of her stomach, “is mine.”
Natasha grins, stripping it off and dropping it onto the bed beside him. “You’re right. But it’s just so cozy.”
Clint laughs, and she lets him pull her down into a slightly frantic kiss, the roughness of his hands against her bare back a promise of more.