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When Steve walks into the conference room, Tony is in the middle of gesturing wildly with his arms, mimicking the very epic explosions that will be caused by the new batch of arrows he’s bribing Clint with. He also has his shoes on the glass table, but Clint reckons there’s not really any point in calling him out, seeing as he’s paying for the table himself—and, of course, the hypothetical arrows.
“Just think of it,” Tony tells Clint. “You could be so cool and awesome. I mean, you’re awesome now, but you could be so awesome. They’re four times lighter than the ones you’re using right now. Practical in the field, supremely cool, and who knows, they might even cement your legacy as the Amazing—”
“Barton,” Steve interrupts, holding up a folder, and oh no, that’s his disappointed in a gentle, paternal way Captain America voice. “I read your report on Denver. I have a few questions.”
“Uh, we’re kind of in the middle of something,” says Tony.
Ignoring him, Steve goes on: “Why’d you let Natasha pilot the jet on the way back?”
Clint and Tony are stunned into silence. Slowly, Tony swivels in his chair to look at Clint, eyebrows raised. “You did what?”
“Cap—” Clint tries to defend.
“I didn’t think I of all people would have to jog your memory on this, but she could barely even walk when you got back, and the blood—”
“Stop.” Clint closes his eyes.
Steve is a good man; he swallows back the rest of his sentence. “I’m just saying—you should know the proper procedures, you should’ve taken care of her. It’s not just about her, too—her head might’ve been fogged up, it could’ve very well been catastrophic. The two of you could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”
“But we didn’t,” Clint insists, sliding forward on the table. “Look, this is how we work, alright? Natasha’s grinned her way through things a hell of a lot worse than a bullet. I let her do it because she needed the control then, and I trusted her to get us home safe. I know her limits, same way she knows mine.”
Steve sighs. “You can’t just keep letting her do all the work. You’re a team for a reason.”
And honestly, what right does Steve have to say that? When has this team of gods and super-soldiers ever come close to what he and Natasha have? They might have been in the Avenging business for a while now, but Steve doesn’t know the first thing about how they function as a package deal, how goddamn good they were together before the Avengers, hell, how they had unlocked their smooth synchronicity before Natasha was even officially SHIELD, like they’d been born with the passkeys to decoding each other and had just been waiting, all that time, to meet.
So Steve doesn’t know Delta, but he also wouldn’t understand how it becomes physically impossible for Clint to say no to Natasha when the adrenaline runs hot and he’s just grateful to the universe that the two of them are still alive. He may weakly protest as she fights her way to the pilot seat, but the fire in Natasha burns as fierce as her hair, and her glare bites when you try to dissuade her from anything she’s set her mind to, and sometimes even he’s afraid to get too close when she’s like that, when the edges of her silhouette are blazing and glorious and he feels like if he touches her he’d melt or burn or—
“Did you just say the edges of her silhouette are blazing and glorious?” Tony stares at him like Clint’s expecting him to laugh, the punchline of a joke he doesn’t have the capacity to appreciate because he’s too busy flushing in embarrassment because fuck, I said that out loud. Even Steve’s stern look has evaporated into something lighter, something akin to pitying.
The silence turns uncomfortable and Clint reaches up to fiddle with his hearing aid. “What?”
Tony tsks. “I mean, I thought it was just a dumb little crush, ‘cause everyone finds her hot, but—Jesus, Barton, how long have you been in love with Natasha?”
All Clint can do is gape, trying to grasp at defences he can’t find and doesn’t have. “What?” he says, even though he heard him perfectly. “I’m not—why would you—”
Steve sighs again, this time with the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. “Just make sure she’s not pushing herself too far next time, okay?” He leaves the room while shaking his head.
“You’re in deep shit,” Tony informs Clint, pointing at him with his index finger, and oh, Clint knows.
——
“We’re in trouble,” Natasha smirks up at Clint as they walk across the moonlit grass back to the quinjet, their path illuminated by the flashlight on his phone, and he thinks this would be a lot easier if she didn’t look so delighted about it.
He only realises what she’s talking about a few steps later, when his comm crackles back to life within the quinjet’s range. “—report back in, we know you’re there—” Steve says into his ear. “Barton. Romanoff.”
Clint flashes Nat a frantic glance, which only serves to widen her smile. Its mischief gleams in the night.
“Uh, hey Cap,” Clint taps into the line, embarrassment painted all over his voice. “We’re, like, two minutes out. If we run. …Do you want us to run?”
“You kids were gone for half an hour,” says Tony emphatically. “Even I was starting to get worried.”
Steve again: “Tony, that’s enough. Where did you go? You can’t just run off right after we get the mission done. This is serious. Natasha, I know you’re smiling.”
“Relax; we weren’t that far,” Natasha placates.
“You could’ve been in danger. I’ve been pacing across the jet for the past twenty minutes.”
“You should know better than to worry,” Nat says.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried. I was mad,” Steve responds, without any real malice. “No more messing around; get back to the ship now. I would like to be safe at the Compound and in bed before the goddamn sun comes up.”
“Ooh, language!” Tony scolds, scandalised, and Natasha snorts, shaking her head, her smile brighter than the beam of light Clint’s phone projects, and maybe Steve was right about one thing: he’s in danger. Not the physical kind, nor the mortal kind, rather the kind that turns his knees wobbly in moments like this, when Natasha’s humour and cheekiness and beauty hit him like it’s the first time; or fifteen minutes ago, a mile away, when she’d raced him up a hill and spun in triumph at the top, throwing her arms in the direction of the stars—the dizzying, breathtaking stars.
But even the universe’s grandest constellations had had nothing on Natasha Romanoff.
That much was clear, when they’d sat shoulder to shoulder on the fresh grass, the smell of spring rain lingering in the air. Those pinpricks of white may have made up the vastest tapestry of the world, but they were light years away, eternally untouchable, while Natasha, his partner, best friend, his everything, was right next to him, eyes sparkling with secrets and laughter and unsaid words.
You see, people paint the Black Widow, and consequently Natasha, to be some sort of unfeeling machine, capable of nothing but cruelty and ruthlessness, with enough nerve to do anything but crack a smile. The conception cannot be falser: if there’s one thing Nat knows how to do, it’s having fun, precisely because too much of it has been taken away from her. She can do this: lure Clint astray from the original path back to the team, squeeze his hand atop the grass in a moment he could swallow raw, fill her whisper of the word look with awe and wonder, it’s beautiful and I’m glad you’re here and that was so fun.
The sky had been beautiful. But Natasha didn’t realise that, for him, all that had really been worth looking at was her.
When they’re close enough to see the light that spills out from the quinjet over the boarding ramp onto the ground, Natasha speaks again. “I’m gonna go get changed; the catsuit’s been thoroughly dirtied.”
“Wait, hang on,” Clint stammers, steps faltering before he catches up to her again. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re leaving me to deal with Steve and Tony—throwing me to the wolves!”
“Comparing our teammates to violent wild animals isn’t very nice,” she grins, but she doesn’t deny it.
“Nat—”
“You’ll be fine,” she reassures. “It’s far from the first time. Hey, fellas.”
“Romanoff—” Steve starts when they board the quinjet, but she scoops up her change of clothes from the chair she left it on and walks straight into the tiny bathroom before he can chastise her any further.
Steve and Tony’s gazes turn to Clint.
“Sorry?” he says helplessly.
“Oh, Clint, you sweet, sweet loverboy,” says Tony, getting up and walking to him to rest his hands on each of his shoulders. “We’ve talked about this.”
“But—” Clint defends. “Look, it’s not like that, okay? I didn’t know how to say no to her when she was beaming so brightly, and—and holding my hand like I was her gravity, and you guys never saw how completely broken she was in the immediate aftermath of the Red Room, alright?” It comes out more accusatory than intended. “Just—seeing her this happy means a lot. You just—you have to believe me.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if Steve’s noticed this too,” Tony comments, “but lately, eighty percent of what comes out of your mouth is in my defence, her smile is pretty.”
“Clint,” sighs Steve, “You can’t just keep saying yes to Romanoff.”
“That is not what I’m doing!” he lies so impassionately he almost believes it himself.
“Hey, Clint—” The three men turn to see Natasha poking her head out of the door. “Can you help me with my hair? It’s kind of a mess.”
She’s right; under proper lighting, Clint can see the greenish spots amidst the usual auburn—from, presumably, when they rolled their way down the hill together, when up was down and down was up and suddenly he was lying on his back underneath her and her mouth was closer than it had ever been to his, stretched in a grin so full of excitement that he just froze, couldn’t move until she got off of him a few long seconds later.
He could’ve kissed her. She could’ve kissed him, and it would’ve been splendid, would’ve reconfigured the stars themselves to spell out their names. And now, in the quinjet, she’d be smiling at him and he’d be smiling back, instead of staring despairingly at the clumps of grass in her hair, mourning a moment born only from his piteous dreams.
“Yeah,” Clint eventually responds, ignoring Tony’s smug smirk in his periphery. “I’ll be right there.”
“Okay, hurry up,” Nat frowns suspiciously at the way the men are huddled together before disappearing into the bathroom again.
“Oh, no, he’s far gone,” Steve mutters, bringing his hand up to the bridge of his nose as he walks over to his seat.
“You don’t believe me!” Clint says, reddening. “This is betrayal.”
“You’re a sucker, Barton,” says Tony, looking him in the eye.
“I am not in love with her,” he tells them one last time for good measure before slipping into the bathroom.
——
“Friday?” Clint pauses at the doors to the bridge connecting the main Compound building to the hangar. He clears his throat. “S’me.”
“Welcome, Mr Barton.” The doors open automatically, allowing Clint to walk through them into the corridor beyond.
“Just Clint,” he corrects for what feels like the millionth time, “Mr Barton is my father. Say, Friday, you wouldn’t happen to know if—there’s already anyone of significance in the hangar?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give out that information, Mr Barton; you’ll just have to see for yourself.”
“Right,” Clint says and shakes his head. “Right.” He swears Tony programs each of his AIs and robots with more cheek than the last one solely to annoy the team.
For a moment, the only sound comes from Clint’s sneakers as he makes his way down the corridor, then Friday’s voice comes through again. “I’ve notified Ms Romanoff of your pending arrival.”
Clint tampers down his grin. “Uh, thanks. You’re funny.”
He rounds the last corner, then a few steps from the doors that open into the hangar, his footsteps stop, betraying his hesitance.
“Mr Barton?”
He stares at the doors, grey and unmoving. Natasha is there beyond them, waiting, and he’s—frozen.
Which makes no sense. It’s just another day, just another party Tony’s throwing. She’s his best friend; they see each other every day and there’s no reason his heart should be beating as quickly as it is. Absolutely none; it’s pathetic.
He’s afraid, and he doesn’t even know of what.
“Mr Barton, if you keep loitering, Ms Romanoff will start worrying,” Friday prompts.
“Right,” Clint says again, fiddling with the sleeve of his suit. He takes another step, then a deep breath.
“Clint?” says Friday. “Good luck.”
With that, Clint pushes the doors open, stepping into the spacious hangar, bright from the afternoon light that flows in from the enormous windows.
Natasha is sitting at the edge of the nearest quinjet’s deck, feet on the boarding ramp. She’s only dressed up slightly for the party: a dark blue sweater that hangs off her shoulders plus black jeans, but it makes his breath catch all the same. God, Clint, rein it in.
She puts away the book in her hands once she sees him, allowing a smirk to settle briefly on her lips. “Did Friday rat me out?”
Before the AI can butt in and defend herself, Clint replies, “No, actually; it was the easiest guess of my life.”
Natasha raises her eyebrows as he climbs the ramp to sit down next to her.
“Okay. You don’t like the smell of lamb, which rules the kitchen out. You like the natural light but not the summer heat, so it’s gotta be somewhere bright but with functional AC. And you usually want me to be able to find you, so you’ll be somewhere with restricted access, but where Friday would still let me in—” Clint realises what he’s saying while the words are still tumbling out of his mouth.
Natasha wants him there.
He feels a little rush of heat—Friday must have cut the air con out, for just a second.
“You’re skipping the party,” she comments after a moment of silence.
“It would seem so.”
“Why?”
“I…” Clint sighs, neck stretching upwards, searching the hangar’s towering ceiling as if it were the sky from the night he and Natasha broke protocol, as if it were filled to its edges with stars and could give him something, anything to say other than I’m in love with you. “It just… wasn’t the same.”
He drops his head back down, turns his gaze on Natasha. The unspoken without you rings clear.
“Hmm,” Natasha hums, gears turning behind her eyes. To—what? To work him out like an equation? There’s no question; there’s no answer. Is this a test, then? It feels like a test. Has he passed?
Every one of these questions is lifted out of his mind like magic when Natasha swiftly and suddenly leans in to kiss him, slower and sweeter than he’d ever imagined. While his hands scramble clumsily, she presses herself closer so he can put them on her face and Clint understands now: he doesn’t need the stars. The whole universe’s frenetic energy hums under Nat’s skin and it’s glorious, it’s thrilling, it’s been a long time coming.
Even after the kiss ends, Clint can’t think straight, not when their foreheads are still touching and Natasha’s eyes are greener than life at this close a distance. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something smart, something that will make her smile. Instead, he only exhales, “Hi…”
Natasha smiles anyway, and it’s blinding. He did that. She kissed him and he kissed her back and now she’s smiling and the moment is theirs only to keep and replay and fall in love with. “Wanna go for a ride?” She nods towards the cockpit of the jet.
“Yes. Definitely.” The adrenaline is making Clint giddy from head to toe; he agrees without even thinking.
Natasha lets a laugh out, then slowly gets up. “You know—you have kind of been so pathetically obvious about your crush lately. It’s the worst it’s ever been.”
“Is that a challenge?” Clint teases. “‘Cause it’s about to get worse.” He heaves himself up from the deck to join her next to the pilot seat. “Hey, it got me where I am, didn’t it?”
Natasha beams, shaking her head and out of retorts. “Can’t argue with that.”
“No, you can’t,” Clint preens, and his laugh is lost in the roar of the jet’s engines as the doors to the hangar, and to the rest of the world, open wide for the two of them.