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“Agent Barton,” Coulson greets when Clint finally walks into the briefing room, already closing up his copy of the dossier. “Thanks for joining us.”
“Save me the sarcasm, Phil,” Clint mutters, brightening for a heart-stopping moment when he slides Natasha her daily cup of coffee across the table.
“You managed to miss everything,” Coulson says, disbelieving more than scolding.
“Really?” Clint challenges. “Drug cartel, intel retrieval, undercover as a couple at a big showy football game,” he lists. Off Coulson’s nonplussed look: “Nat texts me everything under the table whenever I don’t show up.”
Natasha shrugs helplessly and takes a sip as Clint sits, and Coulson shoots her a look both stern and exasperated. “First of all, you’re not supposed to do that, this is classified. Second—one of these days, Romanoff will come to her senses and stop saving your sorry ass, and then don’t come crying for help.”
“She would never,” Clint says easily, sending a cheeky wink her way, freezing her from the outside in, so for a moment she just sits there, unnerved.
It’s frustrating, puzzling, terrifying that someone can claim to know the Black Widow so well and be right about it. It’s even worse that that person is Clint Barton, her partner who never shuts up over comms, who once got his fancy gala cover blown because of mismatched socks, whose rough-around-the-edges charm attracts stares and giggles down the SHIELD corridors.
Bottom line: It’s a bad idea for Natasha to feel Whatever She’s Feeling for this guy, in particular.
She swallows it down with a mouthful of burning coffee. She has a job to do.
“I haven’t told you everything,” she parries, nodding towards the folder Coulson places in front of Clint. “It’s the team, Clint. It’s…”
Clint takes one look inside his folder and wastes no time in throwing it back on the table with a hard smack. “Oh, fuck that.”
Coulson blinks. “Is there a problem, Agent Barton?”
“I hate that guy,” Clint seethes to himself. “Natasha, I hate that guy.”
She closes her eyes. “I know, Clint. You don’t have to remind me—”
He gets up now, pacing the length of the small room. “I dream about punching this motherfucker’s teeth out. Fuck.”
“Deep breaths, Agent Barton,” says a bewildered Coulson, who turns to Natasha for an explanation.
“It’s the quarterback,” she tells him, beleaguered, “Brock Rumlow.”
Clint makes a guttural noise at the name; Natasha meets his eyes in warning.
“I dated him for a while, after I first joined SHIELD,” she continues. “He’s kind of an asshole, that’s all.”
“He is an evil person,” Clint says emphatically. “He is the devil incarnate.”
Coulson walks up to him, examining his face and pondering for a moment. “If you can’t be professional about this, Agent Barton… now would be the time to tell me.”
Clint flounders. “Coulson, what…?”
“I’m trying to determine whether I should swap you out for someone else.”
“What? No,” Clint says without a beat. “It’s the two of us. We’re a package deal. You know that.”
“Then I suggest you put your personal feelings about this aside,” he advises. “Doesn’t seem to be a problem for Romanoff.”
“That’s because she just suppresses all her anger, it’s unnatural,” mutters Clint, but he takes a step back, relenting. “Fine. I’ll do my best not to punch the sucker while I’m on the job.”
Natasha sighs.
“Your effort is appreciated,” Coulson says pointedly. “Besides, the quarterback has nothing to do with the mission; none of the team does. It’s just intel. This changes nothing, so…” He walks to the door, pausing in the doorway. “Start packing, agents.”
Clint groans once Coulson leaves. “Rumlow? Really? Every time I hear his name, my nerves light on fire.”
Natasha turns in her chair. “Is it okay if I ask my best friend to stop reminding me about my ex?”
The anger drains out of Clint, like she knew it would: He’s been her best friend for years, but she can count on one hand the times she’s said it aloud. She tends to save the strategy for bigger favours.
“Sorry.” Clint shakes his head. “You know me.”
She walks up to him until she has to tilt her head up to look at him. “You wouldn’t be my best friend,” she says, “if I didn’t.”
A faint blush colours his face, and Natasha can’t resist stretching up to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
He shakes his head again. “One of these days,” he says, reaching for her empty cup of coffee on the table to throw out with his own, “my soft spot for you will be what kills me.”
“They don’t call me the Red Death for nothing,” she quips in response, but even as she walks away, she can’t blink away the afterimage of his rumpled hair and flustered smile, and maybe she’s the one stupid enough to fall here.
He has one hand on her waist and the other brushes her braids and she’s pressed up against the door and Natasha can’t think and—
“Nat,” he whispers in her ear. “Lock.”
Stadium. Intel. Mission. Natasha snaps to attention, keeping still as her hand creeps into her pocket and retrieves a hairpin. She wiggles it into the lock as Clint breathes into her neck for the benefit of anyone that might pass by this hallway, and just when she thinks she might explode from the proximity, the door clicks and she pulls him in.
Natasha takes a second to lock the door from the inside and properly catch her breath, hoping her cap will hide the red flush she knows is there.
“You good?” Clint hits the light switch.
“Yeah.”
When she turns around, he still hasn’t backed away, looking down at her with eyes that shine with concern. “Tasha, if watching that guy on the Jumbotron bothers you…”
“It doesn’t. I’m fine,” she refutes. That’s not what’s bothering me. But she can’t say that, so she wanders further into the room—away from the painfully compassionate way he looks at her—and scouts out the space they’ve found themselves in.
The office isn’t massive, but it’s generously spacious, enough to fit not just a desk and chair, but also a couch and bookshelves along the walls, filled with bursting binders. The window above the couch boasts a view of the game, with the first quarter coming to an end.
“It’ll be here,” says Natasha, already pulling binders from the shelves and inspecting their contents. “The stadium’s records, trades, transactions, they’re all here—If there’s something dirty, we’ll find it. We can slip out before halftime.”
“Cool,” says Clint, skimming the documents atop the desk, clearly unconvinced by her unbothered act. He squints at a sticky note, but cracks soon enough: “So…”
Natasha raises an eyebrow without looking away from the folders. “So?”
The floodgates open. “Why did you ever date him anyway? He’s rude, impatient, messy…”
She shoots him a look.
“Not my kind of messy, you know what I mean.”
Despite how confusing it sounds, Natasha does know. Clint might kick a few ice cubes under the fridge sometimes, and his desk at SHIELD is no short of abhorrent, but Rumlow made messes that were selfish: littering on the street, refusing to throw out the week-old takeout that was attracting flies, he’d even shoved her face into her birthday cake once, after she’d spent all day on her makeup.
“He doesn’t know how to respect people, let alone women,” Clint continues. “Let alone you. I never understood…” His sentence gets lost. Natasha thinks this is the calmest she’s ever seen him talk about Rumlow. “You deserve someone so much better, Natasha.”
All Natasha can do is shrug. “When you are not fed love off a silver spoon,” she quotes, “you learn to lick it off knives.”
“Well, unlearn it then,” Clint says in response, like it’s easy. “You’re worth more than that, Tasha. You’re…” He shakes his head. “Not only are you an incredibly resourceful spy, you’re also a good friend. You’re selfless and witty and kind under that hardened front. You’re pretty.” He pauses, blushing. “I mean it, Nat. Whoever you choose to date would be goddamn lucky, and they’d better fuckin’ know it.”
She has to look away then, from how truly sad he is for her. And though her heart squeezes, Natasha won’t kid herself: The Black Widow is good at what she does, arguably the best. But Natasha Romanoff will never be good enough for Clint Barton.
Clint turns his attention back to the case and mutters, “I don’t think that son of a bitch knows anything.”
Natasha slides her current binder back onto the shelf—CATERING, 1996—and turns around. “Look, I get it. He sucks. But… you don’t need to be so defensive, okay? I’ve grown, I’m a different person now, I know he was a mistake. You don’t have to protect me from him.”
“I’m not…” Clint trails off, distracted. “Aw, futz.” He rifles through a pile of paper he’d taken out of one of the desk drawers, then looks up. “He’s part of it. Rumlow’s buying from the cartel.”
Natasha tilts her head, unable to tell if he’s being serious. “I feel like you’re throwing around some heavily biased accusations here.”
“No, look.” Clint smooths out a printed spreadsheet as Natasha walks up to the desk, reaching over to show her the sticky note he’d been looking at. “This message? BR Hurry Up? I thought it was nothing until I found—” He gestures at the spreadsheet; Natasha recognises it as a payroll. “They’re chasing a debt.”
Natasha doesn’t have to be a numbers person to spot the glaring difference in Rumlow’s salary compared to the other players’. “That’s no way to compensate your quarterback,” she murmurs. “Shit. I think you’re right.”
“They’re subtracting the drugs from what he’s getting paid,” says Clint.
“And it still isn’t enough.” She shares a look with him. “Good work, Hawkeye. Start sending these over to Coulson.”
Clint groans. “I just realised.”
“What?”
“Now we gotta stay till the game’s over and SHIELD gets here to take the guy away,” he complains. “Y’know, it pains me to breathe the same air as him.”
“Clint?”
“What?”
“Less talking, more scanning the intel we’re here for.”
“Copy.”
Heads in a frenzy after uncovering more than they’d expected, Clint and Natasha scramble their way out of the backrooms and up the stairs, returning to their seats for the game. Natasha, whose brain is extra fried for reasons totally unrelated to how playing necking newlyweds is doing things to her stomach, is anxious to get back in position as quickly as possible. She’s the Black Widow, for God’s sake—She can finish this op playing a persona flawlessly, and she is going to be spectacularly professional about it.
To prove the point to herself, she guides Clint’s big, warm arms around her shoulders, then leans into him so steeply, she can smell his aftershave from this morning. Even as the scent fogs her head, she’s painfully conscious of their hearts beating in tandem, and she doesn’t realise what’s happening until the people sitting around them start cheering and waving and she looks up and—
Her worst nightmare, colourised.
The Jumbotron frames Clint and Natasha in a flashy red heart, his arms still around her, the two of them frozen in shock—To everyone else, they are the perfect picture of a beautiful couple, who can’t keep their hands off each other even during a break in the game.
Fuck. Natasha overcompensated trying to be professional and they ended up on the kiss cam.
The optics are incredibly bad—Natasha’s ex is on the field; he’s going to see her any second and logically they should be running, covering up their faces and getting out of the frame and whatnot, but she looks up at Clint and what she sees in his eyes stops her in her tracks entirely.
Clint is one of the most accomplished and competent spies of their time. Though his acting skills are nowhere near on par with Natasha’s, he’s usually decent enough at undercover. Now, though, gone is any trace of Teddy Carr, economist. It’s just Clint Barton looking down at her with kindness and concern and a little hesitation, almost as if… he wants to kiss her.
But that would be crazy.
Not to mention, very unprofessional.
Clint leans in, and for a moment Natasha holds her breath, heart going haywire. Then he turns his head slightly and plants a kiss on her cheek, light but lingering. This close, Natasha can feel his breath on her skin and she can’t move, she only watches as he pulls back and the space between them fills up with longing.
God, she is being so embarrassing.
Clint waits until the camera switches to the next couple to clear his throat. “Think he saw us?”
Praying that her blush has dissipated, Natasha peers down at the field, where the quarterback shields the light from his eyes with one hand, staring straight back up at her. “Not good.”
“We’ll just have to hope he’s too busy with the game to blow our covers,” says Clint. “Natasha, none of this will matter in another hour. SHIELD will take care of him and you won’t have to worry about him ever again.”
“I know,” Natasha says, a little too quickly. “I know. Now c’mon… act like we just got married.”
Clint cracks a small smile, and thank God he pulls her back into his side because her face has started heating up again. Trying to shield her face from Rumlow, he even pulls her cap further down, disguising it as a playful tease.
Natasha has to remind herself that it isn’t real.
Coulson takes his sweet time getting here. By the time he sends the message that he’s parked the van, most of the stadium has cleared out and Rumlow’s team is celebrating their win with their coach on the field. Clint and Natasha finally get up, moving down the stairs unhurriedly. Security tries to stop them when they approach, but Rumlow spots them and gestures to let them through with a shit-eating grin on his face.
He throws his arms up smugly as they make their way across the grass, Clint fuming silently. “You can try to hide,” he starts, and God, Natasha hasn’t missed the way his voice grates, nails on a fucking chalkboard, “but I saw you!” He points right at Natasha, and her blood goes cold. “You’re back for more, baby, aren’t you!”
“No, Rumlow,” Natasha starts, resigned.
“Of course you are, you don’t need to pretend,” he scoffs. “Obviously you couldn’t get enough of me, and that’s why you’re here to watch me win. To which I answer…”
“I’m not asking,” says Natasha.
“Yes, sweetheart, of course we can get back together. You weren’t the brightest girlfriend I’ve had, but you were certainly the most beautiful…”
Before Natasha can blink, Clint has snatched Rumlow up by the collar of his jersey, glaring at him like he’s about to burst.
Despite the two’s difference in size, Rumlow recovers quickly and only smirks. “I remember you. Coworker, right? What, are you her new guy? You gonna punch me?”
“No, you dumbass,” says Clint. “I’m holding you still so she can.”
Whack. Natasha moves before she even registers it, and the shock overrides, for a full second, the pain that bursts across her knuckles.
“Jesus Christ,” Rumlow swears, holding his bleeding nose. “You crazy bitch!”
“Fuck me,” Natasha blurts, shaking out her wrist, “that felt good.”
“You’re fucking insane,” accuses Rumlow. “I’m going to report you! Ow, ow, fuck—”
“No need. She’s already been granted immunity.” Natasha turns to see Coulson walking up to them, pulling out his ID from his jacket.
Rumlow’s gaze flits angrily between the three of them. “By who?”
“Me,” Coulson answers calmly. “Mr Rumlow, the three of us work for SHIELD, and we have the right to bring you in for questioning—In fact, we will be exercising that right, right about now.” Another agent walks out from behind him to cuff Rumlow, who sputters in indignation.
Natasha steps forward, high on the thrill of watching him bleed. “You know, a long time ago, I hoped that you would change,” she tells him, finally able to speak without interruptions. “But it wasn’t you who needed to change. It was me who needed to realise… you’re not worth shit, Rumlow. I was staying on a ship that had already sunken.”
Rumlow starts shaking. “You were nothing without your looks when I found you. I was the guy you needed. I made you valuable.”
“You’re wrong, Brock,” Natasha says. “I have the right people in my life now, and they remind me…” She looks back at Clint and smiles. “Whoever I spend my time with is goddamn lucky.” She regards Rumlow one last time, eager to cement him in her memory as the broken mess he is on the inside. “I’m sorry you didn’t know it.”
Clint whoops as Coulson and the agent lead Rumlow away to the van—This victory, in particular, is deeply satisfying in a personal way. Natasha watches his eyes crinkle in triumph and can’t help the smile that overtakes her own face.
It’s at that moment she makes up her mind: No more dancing around it.
“Hey,” she nudges him out of his celebration. “I think there might have been some stuff we missed in the office. We should go back for the evidence.”
“Uh, sure,” says Clint, a little confused. “Should we tell Coulson, or…?”
“We don’t need to tell Coulson,” Natasha smiles secretively, gently pulling him along behind her.
Natasha closes the door, finding themselves again in the stuffy office overloaded with pieces of sports history no one has revisited in decades.
“Alright,” says Clint in the silence. “How long is this gonna take? What are we looking for?”
Natasha stares at him, then says slowly, “We’re not actually here for evidence.”
His brow creases in confusion. “What do you mean? Why are we here?”
“Why did I pull you away from our boss for a private audience?” she says, stepping closer, and he blushes. “We’re here because…” She shakes her head. “Because you throw out my coffee cup with yours without me having to ask.”
“What?”
“I don’t even think you realise that you’re doing it,” she continues. “It’s a habit for you. But you do it every time.”
She watches Clint compute this, replaying the end of every briefing in his head and realising she’s right, he does do that. “Okay, but what does that—”
“You look at me,” Natasha goes on, “like I’m the only person in the stadium when we’re up on the Jumbotron. You held my ex still just so I could punch him properly.” She breaks off with a laugh. “You do all of these things for me, and it doesn’t take any effort at all. Remember what I said about knives and silver spoons?” Her voice falters, because they’re suddenly very close now— “I think you’re a silver spoon, Clint, and I think I’ve been stupid.”
It’s him who shakes his head now. “It’s no more than what you deserve, Nat, you’re a brilliant woman, and… and even if that weren’t true, you’re still deserving of basic human respect—”
Natasha deflates, disappointed. “So you’re saying I’m just another girl to you.”
“No,” Clint denies urgently. “No. I just… Well, Nat… I’m not stupid, I know what’s going on here. I just…” He swallows, and she tracks the bob of his throat. “I can’t ruin this. You know?”
Natasha brings her hands up to cradle his face. “You won’t ruin anything,” she whispers.
Clint makes a noise that sounds like a laugh, like he’s scared to believe her. “You’re too good to me, Nat.”
“No,” she grins, “I think we’re just right.”
She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him, and after a few seconds he reaches up, taking off her cap and pressing her closer. He knocks backward into the desk and makes a mess of her hair but she doesn’t have it in her to care, their smiles as bright as floodlights on the field.
“So you brought me in here just to make out with me,” says Clint, a teasing glint in his eye.
“You do owe me a proper kiss, from earlier,” Natasha points out. “The whole stadium watched you chicken out.”
“I didn’t chicken out,” he argues. “I was waiting for the right moment,” and soon enough Natasha forgets all about it, letting him wrap his arms around her tightly, like he’s stumbled upon a once-in-a-lifetime miracle. The thrill in her heart climbs higher than the stadium roof, rivalling the roar of a crowd after a touchdown, and his laugh quivers right next to her ear. This time Natasha knows, for certain, she’s made the right choice.