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James’s uniform doesn’t fit right.
It’s just a suit, really, but his inside shirt is a costumey material with a flimsy plastic tag that keeps digging into the back of his neck. The suit jacket is too tight on his arms, stretches uncomfortably when he moves too far forward, and he’s sweating. Always sweating.
Natasha laughs when she sees him the first time, and he turns a little pink around the collar as she adjusts his tie, embarrassed until Clint enters the room and stops dead in his tracks.
"Why is he dressed like that,” Clint asks Natasha, outraged. He’s wearing sweatpants slung low on his waist and a purple t-shirt that's cropped just enough that it rides up as he moves. James wants to ask him the same question.
He blinks, grip tightening on the security belt in his hands. In the kitchen, the coffee machine whooshes and beeps, signifying it’s finished brewing. It’s too late for coffee. “Because you… can’t?” James tries. “It doesn't- I don't think it looks that bad.”
“You look great,” Natasha assures him. Her gaze sweeps over him, lashes fluttering down and then up again, her eyes settling on his face. She smiles and runs her fingers along the scruff that’s growing in nicely. “Very handsome.”
“Yeah, no, he does,” Clint says. “That’s not what I- that’s not why-” He cuts off with a pained noise. “It’s tight. ”
“Yeah,” James grimaces. “I know.” He tugs at the sleeves of his suit jacket, wishing he could just take it off. Stay home. Change into sweatpants and flop on the couch with Lucky, instead of wearing itchy clothes to stand on his feet for seven hours next to a guard who carries on about the best pizza in the area and tries not to fall asleep.
James already knows about the best pizza in the area. Clint made a whole venn diagram about the best places in the area, a little overzealous when he heard that they’d be staying in one place for more than a couple weeks. There’s 20 different spots on that stupid chart, and James will be forever bloated just thinking about it.
Natasha drops her hands from James’s face and he moves away from the mirror to Clint, the arms of his jacket chafing uncomfortably as he walks.
“I hate this,” James mutters. “I can’t believe this was your whole life before the two of us.”
Clint laughs, low and deep, the way he laughs with them and no one else. “You get used to it.” He gives James a once-over too, slow and thorough, before he looks away. “Guy knew what he was doing, giving you the night shift.”
James lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’m just saying, ” Clint drawls, “If you worked the day shift, no one would be looking at the art. Am I right, Nat?”
“Right,” Nat says, shooting a smirk in James’s direction. Told you, she mouths.
James knows that look. It's the same one from yesterday morning, the crinkle of her eyes and the sly tug of her lips, as she’d nudged his calf with her striped-socked ankle, and murmured, “Clint likes you, you know.” James had nearly snorted out all of his cereal, because he was pretty sure Clint had a thing for Natasha, not him. He’d seen Clint's face when Natasha kissed him.
James rolls his eyes at her and reaches for his bag near the door. “Right, well, I better get goin'.”
Natasha steps up to him and stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, soft and fleeting, leaving him smiling in a way someone might mistake it for the first time.
It's not.
They've kissed hundreds of times, in hundreds of cities and hundreds of different ways, but it’ll never get old.
James'd recognize Natasha anywhere, in any disguise, he knows her by heart. Her lips too.
There are college photo albums shoved in Steve’s basement somewhere, before the two of them had dropped out, with those lips. The bleach blonde hair. Things were simpler then, and the thought of it makes James ache like a gut-punch.
The smile fades off of James’s lips, and Natasha bites her cheek, a wrinkle between her brows. She smooths her palms over the oversized t-shirt she’s wearing, like she needs something to do with her hands. There's worry, there. Frustration too. James gives her a short nod and heads for the door, his throat strangled, a lump too big to swallow down.
It’s the beginning of the end for them. His final job. And he knows what it all means.
James will go to his shift and make small talk with the security guard, and then come home with Clint’s coffee (black) and Natasha’s latte (two creams, one sugar), and they’ll argue about whether it is more acceptable to eat straight from a pot or drink juice out of the container. James will laugh and slump down at the breakfast table next to them and act like this is normal and he’s not exceptionally, achingly terrified for what comes after, for life without the sneaking around and the traveling- snickering as the Uber driver fires up a karaoke machine, pink and purple neon lights, and shakes a microphone at Natasha, her hair pulled back in an airplane-rumpled ponytail, until she takes it, surprising Clint and James by belting out Halsey, full-throated and unapologetic; ear-splitting laughter reverberating through the worn leather seats of the car, Lucky wagging his tail at Clint’s feet, James squished between Natasha’s giant purse and Clint’s in-case-of-emergencies backpack- there’s still a lipstick stain on the collar of James’s shirt, where Natasha had buried her face in his shoulder when Clint tried to record her singing.
James doesn’t remember how to be happy without all this, and he is exceptionally, achingly terrified about that.
“Hey, wait,” Clint says, stepping up to him, blocking the path to the door. He runs a jerky hand through his hair, like he had a train of thought that's suddenly lost now. “You good?”
James blinks. Stares back at him. Clint's eyes are shockingly blue and it makes James want to take everything back, tell them he's not going anywhere, he doesn't need a home, he doesn't need time for his sister and the kids, or stability, or a life outside of the shadows.
He does, though.
So James checks his wrist for a watch that isn’t there, settles on, "Yeah, gonna be late," and knocks Clint's shoulder, playfully, as he exits out the door.
They've done small stuff before. A Cezanne here, a Degas there. James’s been a FedEx driver, a tour guide, and once, Clint’s favorite, a pizza delivery man, ("There are great perks, you are absolutely doing that again.”) but tonight James is plain old security.
“You got someone special back at home?” A guard asks him. John. He’s wearing a beanie, beard growing in dark patches on his chin, like moldy bread.
James looks up from his phone, from where Clint is texting him and Natasha pictures of pug-shaped ice cubes, debating if he should buy the mold for Kate. He puts it down. “No.”
“Come on,” John says, and he’s moved a little too close now. James can smell the overwhelming stench of his Axe deodorant. Jesus. He hasn’t smelled anything that strong since the high school gym locker room. “Handsome guy like you, and you don’t have anyone warming your bed? Damn shame. If I looked like you I’d-”
James tunes him out in favor of picking up his phone again.
James bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud. When he looks up, John is staring at him.
“What?” James asks, fidgeting with his phone. A scorching-hot blush is prickling up his collar, up past the itchy tag and spilling onto his cheeks- which absolutely should not be happening at the world’s most boring museum doing the world's most boring job.
John lifts an eyebrow. “And who,” he asks, pointing to his phone, “is that?”
“Really?” James sighs. “We really doin' this?” He puts his phone back on the table. “It ain’t someone special. It’s someones.”
After weeks of putting on his ridiculously tight and itchy suit, slipping on the night guard uniform starts to become as natural as waking up. Breathing.
Natasha emerges from her room in a long-sleeve, navy blue polyester police uniform, form-fitting, tapered at the waist by a black utility belt, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, Clint’s arm around her shoulders, grinning down at her with a smile so smitten, James doesn’t know how she doesn’t see it.
They’re going to be fine without him.
“Where are the handcuffs?” Clint asks, patting his pockets. His utility belt. He’s unfairly attractive in uniform, all thick, corded muscle, collar unbuttoned enough to show off the long line of his neck. Fuck. James is gonna miss this.
Natasha pulls out the handcuffs with a flourish and hands them to Clint, who grins, and fastens them to his belt. “Saving them for you, James,” he says, and blows him a kiss.
"Why do I have to be the one in the handcuffs?" James complains, ignoring that comment, because if he thinks about it too hard- he won’t be able to string together a coherent sentence. He pushes his hair back from his eyes. "I'm always the one in the handcuffs."
Natasha blows out an impatient breath of air. "You like the handcuffs. Besides, you're the security guard. It's your turn to be locked up."
James groans. "Ain't gettin' paid enough for this,” he mutters. “You're tying me up in the basement with John. John. I'm gonna rot until morning."
Natasha glances at him, a little bemused. "We'll knock him out," she shrugs. "We need him out long enough so you can help us carry all the stuff to the van."
Clint scoffs. "That stuff is worth at least $500 mil," he says. "So you're getting paid enough for it." He breaks eye contact and swallows, a forced smile curling at the ends of his lips. “You’ll be rich. Settle down far, far away from all of this. Just like you wanted.”
There’s a barbed, agonizing beat of silence.
“It doesn't have to be that far away. You two could-” James cuts himself off. It’s not fair of him to ask that of them. It would be great, sure, to have Natasha and Clint quit the business with him, find a house somewhere in the middle of nowhere, get acres and acres of land and two cats and space for Lucky, but maybe that’s not what they want. Maybe they never want to settle. Maybe they want to live life on the edge until they’re caught, until the highs pitter out and crash to shore like tiny little ripples.
But would they leave it all? For James?
James doesn't know if he wants to know the answer to that. He clears his throat. “Alright, well,” he says finally, adjusting his belt. “I’m off.”
Clint and Natasha exchange glances. James sees the quick flash of fingers as Clint signs to Natasha. He only knows unhelpful bits and pieces from the internet and YouTube. The only thing he catches is hug and Clint’s displeased frown.
Natasha presses her lips together and signs something back, slower, more hesitant.
Clint shakes his head and signs back furiously, and this time James reads jail.
“Wha-" but he doesn't get to finish before Clint gets his arms around him and squeezes him around the middle.
James tenses. He knows Clint likes to touch for comfort, likes having someone to hold onto, even if it's just Natasha or Lucky, but James thinks right now he needs this more, if the way his body sags in Clint's arms tells him anything.
Natasha comes over too, wraps her arms around the two of them, and they open up to let her in. There's more space between their bodies now that there's a third, but it doesn't stop the hug from being fucking intimate.
"It's going to be okay," Natasha whispers. "We spent months on this. We’ll be set for life."
James doesn't want to be set for life. He doesn't know any other life besides this one, Natasha slumping on the couch, rattling off new features of a motion detection security system, and teasing Clint that he's got coffee on his shirt, before James interrupts to talk shit about John, and also tell Clint he's got coffee on his shirt.
James swallows and releases them both. This is not their usual routine. They're usually ribbing on each other until it's time to leave, nerves simmering silently beneath their skin in all the words they're not saying.
"Where will you go next?" He asks them, chewing on his bottom lip. He's worried his tone is too earnest, giving too much away.
They both avert their eyes. They haven't talked about it.
James has so many questions and he doesn’t know where to put them all. Where to start. There’s not enough time to ask. Will they find someone to replace him? Keep with the heists? Will they hit another gallery across the country? Another private collection across the world?
“Where will you go?” Natasha asks instead.
“New York,” James answers, more certain than he feels. The city’s all he’s got. Steve and Becca. The world shrunken down to 700 square feet of apartment. It’s what he wanted, right? To settle down. Have a home base.
Or it least was all he wanted, before Clint came into the picture. Before Natasha started sleeping next to him. Before their relationship became a lot more like partners than best friends with benefits.
The idea of living alone in the city makes James’s throat clench, his heart seize up. Because while he’ll be around family and have a chance to start life outside of crime, he’ll never get to meet Kate in California, Yelena in Ohio, or lurk his way around Iowa to break into Clint’s home, sit at the kitchen table with a stolen wallet and his best friend, drinking gritty-ass coffee from borrowed purple mugs.
The thing is, as much as he and Natasha and Clint stick together, he knows the truth about their team. The truth about their trade.
Sticking together ain't the same thing as sticking around.
The footsteps are getting louder.
Things weren’t supposed to happen like this. The three of them were supposed to get out, to be out of sight and in the van in twenty-five minutes, but the paintings don’t come off the walls fast enough, the security systems have been updated since last week, and for once, it's not thrilling to be this fucking close to getting caught.
“There’s a problem,” Clint says, shoving a rolled-up painting down the leg of his pants. “We need to get out of here.”
“Problem?” Natasha repeats, her voice rising. “What do you mean problem?”
“There’s another security guard,” Clint runs a hand through his hair. “He’s tipped off the police. I saw him on the phone on my way back here.”
“That’s impossible,” James snaps. “John and I were the only ones on the schedule.”
“If it’s so impossible,” Clint says, and he gestures to the window, the shrill screeching of sirens in the distance, “explain that. ”
James clenches his jaw, his pulse hammering. They all stare at each other like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. They’ve tripped alarms and ziplined and lied and disguised their way out of every precarious situation, but now there’s no way out, nowhere to run.
Unless.
“Give me the handcuffs,” James says, holding out a hand.
Natasha’s expression falters, her eyes widening and her brow softening, as it dawns on her what his plan is, and she nods her head at him once, chin trembling.
Clint rears back. “What? No, you’re coming with us, come on.”
“There’s a cellar door that leads out of the basement,” James says calmly. “Go out that way and cross through the woods to get back to the van.”
Natasha unclips the handcuffs from Clint’s waist and hands it to James. It clinks in his hand, metal against metal. She presses her palm to his and squeezes. Warm. Brief. James swallows hard as she turns on her heel, starts walking towards the door.
“Clint,” Natasha calls. Clint’s still standing in front of James, lingering behind, his posture stiff, like there’s something here he’s haunted by, something he can’t look away from. “Clint,” Natasha says again. “We have to go.”
James leaves first, because if Clint doesn’t move away, he'll move away for him. He fastens one handcuff to his wrist, makes his way towards the office where they’ve secured John.
“We can’t just leave him here. He’s our partner,” James hears Clint say, and fuck, James has gotta get out of there before he changes his mind about staying behind.
“He’ll be fine,” Natasha responds, in a voice so confident, so sure of herself, that James loves her for it. There’s the rustling sound of fabric as she tugs on Clint’s sleeve. “Come on, they’re coming.”
James is at the office door, but he looks over his shoulder one more time, just in case it’s the last time he ever gets to do it.
Maybe it’s a fucking cliche, because James has handled works by Van Gogh, Monet, Rembrandt, Picasso, da Vinci , but the two of them are still the most beautiful piece of art he’s ever laid his hands on. Fucking surreal. Natasha, hard-edged and polished, shaking her head furiously, fiery hair escaping her ponytail, and Clint, whispering urgently back, all unevenness and light, a goddamn beam of sunshine juxtaposed against the gallery darkness.
In another lifetime, in another universe, they’d get away with all of this. They’d walk free, and James would finally, finally get to have Clint and Natasha in his space. His rooms. Making the walls look bigger and brighter.
Purple mugs. Clint slurping his coffee, black. Natasha sipping her latte, iced. Two creams. One sugar.
In another life, he’d get to have them home.
His someones.