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Natasha sat in the hospital room Steve had been most recently assigned to, flipping through some inane puzzle book that had been left by a previous visitor. Steve lay there asleep, the pulse of his steady heartbeat the only sound in the room. Everything was dull. At least while Steve was asleep he couldn't try to argue for the sixth time that he was fine and ready to be released. She stared down at an illustration of a cartoon cat, mustering up enough gratitude from the recesses of her mind to appreciate the moment of calm. She had spent most of the past several days expecting to come out the other end of it all dead. Considering what she did with SHIELD and the data, something of that type did occur. It would feel more dramatic if she wasn't so used to shedding former selves.
She isn't generally one for hospital vigils. She and Wilson had come to an unspoken agreement, though, that Steve wasn't to be left alone in this place. Every time someone else comes into the room, her eyes flick up -- scanning, assessing. The hospital is running a decent security protocol for both visitors and staff, which she observed while Wilson was on watch, but decent wasn't going to protect Steve if some remnant of HYDRA wishes to do him harm. She had wanted to move him to a windowless room, keeping him out of sight, but Steve had insisted the view would help him recover.
That statement had been incomplete, of course.
Steve had surprised her a great deal over since this all began, and was a more clever man than she had given him credit for, but he was still easy to read in many ways. She knew he looked out there, hoping despite all logic to catch a glimpse of the Soldier. Natasha kept a watch out the same window, hoping for the inverse. It would make Steve very sad if, after all of this, she had to end the Soldier's life.
She looked out the window, scanning. Nothing. She kept an ear out for movement around, above, or below her. Nothing different from the usual sounds of hospital activity. She looked around the room again. Nothing.
Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Natasha turned her gaze back to the puzzle book. She'd left it open on a "spot-the-difference" scene with one original and one edited photograph. A vague memory of doing something like this as a child came to her. That version hadn't had a cat mascot, though.
The shape of something in her peripheral vision.
Careful not to exaggerate her movements too much, she placed her book on a nearby table and stood, stretching her arms above her head. There was definitely something outside the window that didn't fit. The only question was if she could identify it before someone else noticed she was looking. She leaned her head against the window as if bored of keeping watch for someone fast asleep, then darted her eyes around. There -- it was someone in a tree. A flash of something metal glinting, caught in a car's passing headlights.
This could be anyone. It could be an overly-zealous member of the paparazzi or some foreign agent trying to get intel on the current state of the mighty Captain America. It wasn't necessarily HYDRA. A flash of metal didn't mean a metal arm. Still, Natasha's hand found its way to the handle of her closest knife. The window was bulletproof. This didn't stop Steve's location from being compromised for anyone trying to enter from any of the building's many weak points. It was possible that whoever this was wasn't working alone.
Right. She wasn't alone, either. Her hand shifted over, ready to radio Wilson for backup.
A light signed in the darkness, right where she expected a person would be perched in the treetops. It was pointed straight towards her. It turned on and off, long then short. Morse code using a simple Caesar cipher.
Natasha let out a huff. Why, why couldn't he have just gone in the hospital visitor entrance instead of making her run the whole threat assessment?
YOU NOTICED ME QUICKLY. I THOUGHT IT WAS DARK, the signals read.
She brought out her own flashlight, custom-made and matching with the one currently directed her way. It had somehow survived every event she had been through recently. Even her no-tracking burner phone had given out fairly early on.
IF I DIDN'T, I WOULD BE DEAD. USE YOUR CODENAME. KOI, OVER, she said.
THIS ISN'T RADIO. ALSO YOU KNOW IT'S ME.
NO, I DON'T. NOT WITHOUT YOUR NAME.
The signal codenames had been part of a bet between her and Clint -- whoever took out the most targets in a mission of theirs would get to choose the other's word. This had been when Natasha's time at SHIELD was still new and Clint had still been Agent Barton, the one man who had vouched for bringing her in. When Natasha won the bet, she had had no idea what to do with it. Doing anything to push Barton away would go poorly, but so would refusing to choose a suitably insulting name to play along with him. She'd frozen, unsure what to do. Clint, in that smooth manner that he occasionally possessed, had chosen a name for himself and insisted that it was embarrassing. The whole dance they did around it was part of the code -- if Clint ever used his codename right away, she would know something was genuinely wrong.
FINE. IT'S ME. YOU KNOW. ELMO.
Natasha grinned, fully relaxing into the conversation. She kept her flashlight still as Clint wrote something further. She watched the light flicker in and out, piecing sentences together in her mind.
NEXT TIME YOU AVOID ALMOST DYING, TEXT ME. I HAD TO HEAR FROM TONY THAT YOU WEREN'T DEAD. C'MON KOI. RUDE.
Ah. That had been an oversight of hers. It seemed wrong that Clint couldn't just intuitively sense that she was alive.
I'VE BEEN BUSY. ALSO COME INTO THE HOSPITAL. THE NORMAL WAY. DONT GIVE SECURITY THE RUN AROUND.
BORING, Clint said. The light flicked off, and she watched as he effortlessly lowered down and dropped from the tree. She mentally counted the paces that it would take for him to arrive, then added an additional three minutes onto that for the difficulty he'd have getting his gear through security.
Hm. It was just about that time. Silently, she made her way over to the door and listened for the sound of Clint moving through the hallways. She left her hand on the doorknob. One moment passed. Two moments.
Now.
Natasha pulled the door open, revealing a befuddled Clint on the other side, one hand now reaching into empty space.
You got me, Clint signed, two parts amusement and one part irritation. He pushed past her into the room, instantly taking up a spot perched on the backrest of one of the visitor chairs. His feet tapped a quiet rhythm into the cushion of the seat. He was irritated enough that Natasha knew she'd eventually receive a long lecture, but not so upset that he didn't want to be in her personal space. Relieved, and not only from having someone else assist with the lookout, Natasha sat in the chair next to his. It didn't take much time at all for her head to drift sideways and rest against his torso. His heart beat just out of time with the sound of Steve's monitor, steady and strong.
"It's been a long week," she said into the still, sterile air of the hospital room.
This was, of course, partly code for Sorry I didn't call you when I almost died. The other part of it roughly translated to I wasn't expecting to be alive long enough to experience these consequences.
"We really need to get you a better phone. Your service is terrible." Clint reached out to her, pulling her in closer and resting one hand on her shoulder. She tensed for a moment -- near imperceptibly, but still a far more obvious tell than was acceptable -- before relaxing. This kind of setting was more public than she had ever allowed before. If she was stronger at the moment, she would have brushed off the contact. God, though. Things had been so bad. With her move to release the files -- not that she regretted it -- they would be miserable for a while still. She could let herself have this.
"I'm exhausted," she said, letting her senses go dull. This was not related to the words Clint had actually said, but she knew what he had meant. Neither of them were good at typical statements of affection. "Can you keep watch? Don't let the idiot convince the nurses he's fit to leave."
"'Course I'll keep watch. And as far as I'm concerned, you're both idiots." He squeezed her shoulder in a silent check. You're here. You're alive. She felt the exact same way. She hadn't needed to see it to know that Clint's name had been on the Project Insight list. She refused to consider how things would have gone if they had failed their mission. It wasn't worth thinking about.
"Can't argue that." Natasha reached up to cover a yawn with one hand, ignoring Clint's knowing glare. She was eventually going to end up asleep and resting against him, as she had on many prior watch nights. "We survived thanks to one guy that Steve happened to know. He's decent out there in the field. I have no idea what the deal is between them, so don't even ask."
"He's decent, huh? High praise," Clint said, meaning it genuinely.
"Yeah. He's coming in to take watch in the morning. Try not to freak him out too much? Wilson's a combat vet, but he's also... normal. He keeps orange juice in his fridge."
"Hey!" Clint stage-whispered, in deference to Steve being asleep. "I drink orange juice. Sometimes."
"You drink orange juice without pulp. That's just liquid sugar. You know it doesn't count."
"Are you flustered?" Clint said, which was so apropos of nothing that, for a moment, she was lost for words. It was an uncommon experience. She blinked her eyes open, staring up at Clint as if she could make sense of things.
"What."
"You are!" Clint spoke his declaration a bit too loudly. For a moment, they froze still -- a peaceful snore from Steve revealed that he was still asleep. (Stupid super soldier healing properties.)
"What are you even talking about," Natasha said, glaring at Clint.
"You never mind if I freak people out, basically ever. You really like this Falcon guy, huh?"
Natasha huffed. Of course Clint already knew all about Wilson -- he was just making her talk to expose her. This was the most basic tactic an agent could use in conversation. She shoved lightly at Clint's shoulder. Rude.
"I don't like people. I like you. You don't count."
In the months after Agent Barton had, for reasons she couldn't understand, brought her into SHIELD (and that stirred up something twisted inside her now, but she would deal with how she felt about SHIELD later), she had stuck to his side as much as possible. He was the one who had vouched for her. That meant he was the one person that had a passing reason to not want her dead. It had taken years for her to learn how he operated: almost fully genuine in how he presented himself to the world, always quick with a joke, carefully speaking around his affection for her. It was an odd personality for someone in this business. When she had told him as such, he had only laughed at her, bright and sharp. There had been something in his smile that had hit her in her chest with a sharp pain -- it was something precious, something that she never wanted to be parted from. Something that she would never let go without a fight.
They'd never been friends in the traditional way. They were agents, then something undefined, then partners. Natasha was aware, in a sense mostly formed by half-watched American media, that people like them would typically be teased for supposed romantic interests in each other. If anyone at SHIELD had tried that, it would not have gone well for them. Come to think of it, that was likely why no one had ever tried it. A smile played on Natasha's lips. A shame. It would have been fun to pull out her intimidation tricks on someone who claimed she was going to become Mrs. Barton.
"Sure," Clint said, so insincere with it that Natasha had no choice but to reach up and gently whack his shoulder. She refused to be teased by her partner like she was a schoolgirl with a crush. It was unbecoming.
(Hah. She wondered what all those politicians and congressmen would think of her, the infamous Black Widow, if they could see her now. She wondered what Steve would think of her like this. He had asked to be friends in that distinctly earnest way of his. Maybe she'd consider it, but that was a topic to think on another time.)
"Tell me about him?" Clint asked.
So Natasha did tell Clint about Wilson -- how brave he was, how steadfast, unafraid to mean exactly what he said, willing to risk his life for no reason other than the greater good, steady with his own emotions in a way that Natasha hadn't realized would be such an asset on the field. She talked until her words started to slowly drop off, and she fell asleep like that, her head resting against her partner and her heartbeat steady to match the two other pulses in the room.
Clint kept watch all through the night. He had been in Sumatra when word of what was happening had come in, which had done nothing but made him feel aggressively useless and sidelined. During the long flight back to D.C., he had come to an understanding of why he had been sidelined. Shockingly, that didn't make him feel any better. Keeping watch, at the least, was something he could do.
Steve woke up in the morning. Just as Natasha had predicted, he had at first insisted that he was fit to be released. Clint had never met anyone who was less suited to rest and recovery than Captain America. For some reason, Natasha's puzzle book thing wasn't seen as an acceptable distraction. Steve's loss -- it seemed pretty fun. Clint solved one of its crosswords while sitting in the windowsill, a cold slice of cafeteria pizza on a paper plate next to him and his tongue sticking out his teeth as he concentrated. Steve had taken a tablet loaded with every relevant global newspaper and political magazine. This, to Clint, seemed like a bad decision. They were already neck-deep in it all. No point in reading opinions about it from people who had never actually put their lives on the line.
"Aw, man, don't tell me you're reading that garbage." The confident yet teasing tone of voice announced the arrival of the Falcon himself, one Sam Wilson. Wilson noticed Tasha sleeping, then Clint with a brief glance to acknowledge that someone was awake, before returning his attention back to Steve. "What did I bother getting you all those books for?"
"Couldn't focus on them," Steve said, with what was at least a rueful smile. Clint listened in on the two of them banter back and forth for a while. It was refreshing to hear someone talk with Steve like he was a real, actual person. From what he'd experienced, most people couldn't seem to wrap their heads around that part. The nurses coming in and out of the room stammered over their words, clearly uncomfortable with dispensing care guidelines to the Captain America. Wilson acted as their translator, telling Steve what the medical professionals had actually meant to say.
After around half an hour of back-and-forth, the four of them were left alone in the room. Tasha had the quiet stillness to her that meant she was mimicking sleep, having woken up at some point in the bustle of it all. Typically, she only did this when she wanted intelligence. There wasn't any benefit to be gained from using the ploy here, unless -- ah. She didn't want to interrupt Steve and Wilson. Clint tapped his chest with his hand, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in his throat. Contrary to what everyone believed about her, Tasha was deeply thoughtful towards the people she cared about. Clint, of course, was the only person who was allowed to know this about her.
"You good?" Wilson asked, pulled away from Steve by the sound of Clint's coughing. "I can take over watch shift whenever you like, let you and Natasha get some proper rest. I'm Sam Wilson. I'm sure you're aware of me by now, but," Wilson shrugged gracefully, "it seems impolite to not introduce myself."
"I still don't need watch, guys," Steve protested, at the same time as Clint said "I'm aware". He was trying to avoid the thing he actually wanted to say, which was that Natasha let Wilson call her by her first name (what), and realized as the words came out of his mouth that they sounded knowing and ominous. Too late, he remembered Natasha asking him to not be weird. Whoops. He watched Wilson for a reaction, but the man just shook his head, quietly smiling to himself.
"Not sure if you were trying for the whole intimidation thing," Wilson said, "but it's a bit hard to be scared by someone you've been watching eat cold hospital pizza -- even if they helped save the world one time. No offense." The slight tilt to his voice indicated that he was just playing around. If that wasn't a dead giveaway for the lack of tension in the room, the way Steve was entirely unconcerned and had simply returned to his tablet would have confirmed it.
"I never turn down free pizza." Clint took another bite, just to prove a point. Somehow, it tasted better after sitting out for an hour. "It's a personal policy of mine. Anyways, I'm pretty sure you've earned the title of world-saver for yourself. Better go update your LinkedIn page."
"Oh, I didn't do that much. I helped when I was asked, did what I could. Anyone in my position would have done the same."
"Right, sure," Clint said, getting the feeling that Wilson genuinely meant what he was saying. Was he real? Where on Earth had Steve found this guy? It wasn't normal to meet people like this in their line of work. Someone pretending to be a good person for the long con of it wouldn't actually place their life in mortal danger like Wilson had. He could see a spark in Wilson -- it was the quality in Steve that either made people want to live up to his expectations for them or, if they were Stark, hit him with a rolled-up newspaper.
(Well. Sometimes that was Clint, too. He could be both if he wanted to be.)
Natasha let out a yawn and stretched up her arms above her, just a touch too graceful for someone supposedly just coming out of sleep. "Morning, Wilson. Hope this guy hasn't been a bother."
"Me? Never," Clint said, a full mischievous grin locked in on his face.
"Agent Barton is a perfect gentleman," Wilson said, so matter-of-fact in his delivery that Clint had to catch himself before he burst out laughing. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to play along with whatever bit the other man was doing. Forget Tasha -- now he was endeared to this guy too. He wished once more, and with renewed purpose, that he had been in D.C. when everything had gone down. He'd missed out on Natasha and Wilson's first days of working together. Here he was now, playing catchup.
"That's right," Clint said, after swallowing down his laughter. "An American hero just said I'm a perfect gentleman. You wouldn't argue with an American hero, would you, Tasha?"
"You know what, maybe I will update my LinkedIn. 'American hero' has a nice ring to it."
"Oh no, Steve," Natasha said, making desperate eye contact with him from across the room. "I shouldn't have let the two of them meet. This was a mistake."
"You're the one who wanted to keep watch." Steve shrugged, completely unhelpful and smiling like the little asshole Clint well knew he could be. The three of them -- Steve, Natasha, and Wilson -- kept bantering for a while more. Clint looked out the window while Natasha and Wilson eventually coordinated whatever it was they needed to, evaluating some members of the press who had gathered below. It all looked normal, though that didn't mean they weren't annoying. Eventually Natasha tapped him on the shoulder and the two of them left for the day, Tasha saying proper goodbyes and Clint giving a lazy wave to Steve and Wilson.
"You were right," Clint said once the two of them were far enough out of earshot. "He is pretty great."
The weeks right after Sam Wilson accidentally -- well, somewhat on purpose -- became a household name were some of the strangest he'd ever lived. He kept watch with Natasha over Steve until the man was ready to leave the hospital, which he oddly ended up missing once Steve was well. It had been a pocket of space where Sam hadn't had to confront what his life had become. He truly hadn't wanted anything other than to help Steve fight when he needed it, but the world didn't seem to care about that. Veterans Affairs had given him paid leave for a full four weeks after he'd returned from hospital watch. It had been presented to him as a gift, although without the option to turn it down, it was clear they were doubting if he was in the right place to hold his usual sessions. Being left with nothing to do in the long, open stretches of day made him feel itchy and useless. Stepping out for his usual run in the morning resulted in him getting ambushed -- most days by regular civilians, though a few times by some bold members of the press and one day by Tony Stark himself. He'd learned from Tony that Dr. Banner mostly stayed inside the research floors of Avengers Tower and wasn't much for meeting new people, although a few days after that a gift basket from the man mysteriously arrived at his house.
He tried to avoid the internet. There was nothing good to see there. Some people were hailing him as the new dawn of what it meant to be American, while others were criticizing if he had the right or the qualification to be an Avenger. Considering the inside truth of the team that he'd heard from Steve -- that the Avengers was a scrapped project and the team as it stood had been brought together by coincidence and luck -- it was hard for him to take the debate too seriously. The part that itched at him more was the question of whether or not he wanted to become an Avenger.
He wasn't sure. He certainly hadn't been planning to get back into the field, nor had he wanted his life to change. It had been fine enough as it was. He had accepted that the life he'd lived with Riley was never coming back. Sam hadn't even considered the idea that there was a meaningful future to his own life besides clocking in at the clinic and helping others.
So his days passed by in this way. He went outside when he could and used his treadmill when he couldn't muster up the energy for outside. He watched the live feed of the congressional hearings when Natasha was called in -- the closing speech she'd made to the committee had been a thing of beauty. He read from his personal library and even dug out the jigsaw puzzles he'd bought a few years ago in his attempt to start a relaxing hobby.
He still didn't actually like jigsaw puzzles.
It was a Thursday around 7 pm, and the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting golden light and shadows around his house. Facing the prospect of another long and too-quiet night, since Steve went to bed early like the old man he was, Sam decided to spend time cooking a proper dinner. It was only a basic beef-and-pepper stir fry, but his brain kept skipping over and around the required steps. His foot tapped up and down.
He could admit it, at least to himself. He wanted to call Natasha. Likely she would give him the same kind of response about being fine that she'd given Steve all week. Likely she wouldn't even be interested in talking. Steve had warned him that she wasn't a touchy-feely kind of person, as if that wasn't the most obvious thing about her.
He pulled out his phone. He opened up his contacts. He scrolled down to "R" for Romanov. He finished cooking. He looked at his phone. He ate dinner. He looked at his phone. He washed all of the dishes and put them back into place. He looked at his phone.
He looked away for a second to consider reorganizing his freezer drawers (Really? That was the best idea he had available?) when his phone suddenly rang. He turned on a dime, picking it up and at once answering. It didn't have a number attached, but that meant there could only be one of a select group of people on the other end of the line.
"Sam Wilson speaking," he said, trying not to sound like he'd been hovering over the phone for the past half hour. He wasn't sure who would be on the other end of the line. Possibly Stark?
"Do I want to know why you've been thinking about calling me for the past half hour? Either do it or don't, Wilson. I thought you were a man of action."
Sam blinked. It was Natasha talking, obviously. Her voice had the pure flat affect that she used in normal conversation. It had registered as uncanny when he'd heard her speak like that in the hospital, after having heard the more typically varied voice she'd used when they had first met. However, it hadn't taken him long to put together that she only used her tonal voice when she was on mission or otherwise performing.
"When did you even have time to bug my house?" he asked, because this was clearly not following the rules of a normal conversation.
"What? No, I haven't bugged the inside of your house yet. I'm obviously hacked into your phone. Keep up."
"The inside implies that you have the exterior bugged--" Sam said, and then-- "my phone, really?" and "What do you mean, 'yet'?"
"Always assume that a building's exterior is bugged. Don't be a rookie."
Sam sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temple. "Let's just move on from that. Please tell me why you were watching my phone tonight."
"Just checking in on your daily habits. Consider it an honor. Now, no dodging the question. What were you thinking about that required so much debate?"
Well. He felt a bit foolish now, as if he had been caught out. "It's late," he finally settled on. "I didn't want to be a bother."
Natasha scoffed at him, the sound distorted coming out of his phone's speakers. "We just spent a week together with me taking night shifts. This isn't late."
What she meant by this, left implied in the negative space created by her words, was that she was aware the first reason he had given was nonsense, leaving the second reason as the only legitimate one. In turn, he felt exposed in the short moment before he remembered that she was the one who had been stalking his phone. Intrusiveness was clearly not a quality that Natasha would mind.
"Fair point," Sam said, though he wasn't quite sure how he was conceding ground to someone who'd bugged his house. "Have you ever done a jigsaw puzzle?"
"That's what you were trying to call me about?" Natasha's voice, though still toneless, managed to carry a touch of deadpan wit. There's a moment, then: "Clint says that if you're struggling, there's no shame in solving a ten piece puzzle. They make those? Why?"
"Those are for kids." Sam heard a likely similar explanation from Clint in the background overlap with his own voice. The next thing he heard was Natasha's voice drifting away from her phone as she started to argue something back and forth with Clint.
The phrases that he managed to pick up from their back-and forth were silly, the kind of debate that doesn't really matter at all. It's nothing that he would have expected from the pair who make up a full third of the humanity-saving Avengers, but before he had become involved in Steve's world, he hadn't thought of the Avengers much beyond a general appreciation and concern for their wellbeing.
Now, though, he noticed a painful and crooked tug lodged somewhere in his chest. It's easy for him to know exactly what Natasha and Clint are to each other. They're mission partners. They're a matched set. Just as Steve and Barnes had been once, which is why Sam said that he would stick with him even though he thought going after the recovering Soldier was a terrible idea.
Just as Sam had been with his Riley.
Sam managed to hit the button to end the the call as he absently partly sat, partly fell backwards into his couch. Abruptly, he could no longer bear to hold witness to Natasha and Clint's connection. He found an odd mix of jealousy and longing swirling inside him, and he couldn't place exactly what he wanted to do with the feelings, or in fact who he was even specifically jealous of. Maybe it's just that he wanted to be back on watch duty. Wanted to not be alone in a house that he'd gotten used to but now felt too big and quiet. Wanted to be part of a set again. Before, this would have felt like too much of a betrayal to what he and Riley had had together. Now, it might be the kind of beginning he could long for.
Of course, none of this was of help to him when it came to how he felt about Natasha and Clint. It's clear to him after observing the natural comfort that exists between the two of them that neither of them will be seeking a change in that relationship dynamic. He couldn't find it in himself to be upset at either of them for that. How could he? He was just glad that someone out there in the lonely, stressful life of protecting the world didn't have to be alone.
"That's what you were trying to call me about?" Natasha asked into the phone, though she knew that puzzles were obviously not what had kept Sam dithering for so long.
"Tell Sam that if the puzzle's too hard, he can always buy a ten piece one," Clint yelled to her from above. He was dangling upside-down thanks to a drop ceiling piece he'd pushed aside and fidgeting with one of the new tech arrows Stark had developed for him.
Natasha passed along the message, then added in response, "They make those? Why?"
"Those are for kids," Wilson said, as Clint said above "I'm teasing, that's for babies -- ack!"
He then proceeded to fall out of the drop ceiling. On the instinct that came with years of experience, Natasha rolled herself out of the way as Clint twisted and dropped into a safety position, but one of the things Clint had been messing with knocked her phone to the ground, covering it in a bubbly fuss.
"Clint," Natasha warned. He raised his head up, flashing Natasha a teasing smile. "What have you done to the phone."
"Oh, uh. I don't actually know? I was mixing two different components together. It's cool, though!"
"Very." Natasha tried to reach in for her phone, but through some property of the bubbles, every movement she made with it was repelled backwards. "I especially like the part where I can't get my phone back."
"Really?" Clint stuck his hand in as well, seemingly mesmerized. "I don't even know what to call this. Should we ask Sam if he wants naming rights?"
As he spoke, Natasha rigged together an extended small pole and managed to push the phone out of the bubbles. She managed to put it up to her ear just as it beeped off in the universal sound of the other person of the line hanging up. Damn it. She narrowed her eyes in frustration. It was the maximum amount of response she would let herself show. It had taken forever to get Wilson onto a call. She might well have lost him her chance to talk to him for the rest of the day.
"What's wrong?" Clint asked. "Did I actually break it? Sorry, Tasha."
"No, it's not..." She pocketed her phone. "It's Wilson. He was worried about imposing on me--" Clint rolled his eyes at her, causing her to give his shoulder a light punch-- "and now he thinks I abandoned his call to talk with you. There's no way he'll pick up a second time."
"Ah, shit," Clint said, a touch of genuine contrition on his face. "What's the plan?"
Natasha quirked her face at him in a silent question. She didn't exactly have a plan at the ready. Yes, she was an expert at manipulation, using her words and actions to make people respond to her in just the right way. However, she actually cared about Wilson. When it came to genuine social interactions with other people, she had no strategy.
"Rephrasing." Clint started pocketing items he'd left around the room into his bag. "What kind of relationship would you like to have with Sam? I'll handle the plan."
Natasha ran her teeth over her bottom lip, an action she used when she needed to look a touch vulnerable in public. Somehow, it felt natural to do it here. She tried to consider what it was that she did actually want.
"He shouldn't have to be alone in that extremely unsecured house of his if he doesn't want to be. It feels wrong for him not to already be here with us. I want him to know he can call me and it won't be a bother, even if I don't know how to sound anything other than annoyed when I'm talking as my actual self. He makes me feel like I could be ready to let another person see me the way you do."
"You want to call him Sam instead Wilson?" Clint asked. As always, he saw through to the core of her.
Natasha nodded. "Yes. Only if that doesn't jeopardize anything between the two of us."
"How could it?" Clint smiled, light and easy, tossing his bag over one shoulder. "He's amazing, and you've made a connection with him. Anyone who's this important to you will always be important to me."
"Sap." Ignoring the buzzing swarm of emotions in her chest, Natasha picked up her own bag, already packed. They were going to Wilson's house, a fact that was so obvious that it didn't need to be stated aloud. "Should I text first?"
"Already done." Clint bumped his shoulder against Natasha as the two of them left and secured their temporary safe room. They took the temporary car Stark had sent them, Clint driving as Natasha looked out the window. Sunset was slipping away into dusk. The lights of the city flickered on, making it appear alive with its glow. Alive, chaotic, and flawed, but still here.
She tried to consider the mass of emotions tangled inside her during the ride, but that had never been her strength. They arrived at Wilson's house twenty-six minutes after they had left, having had to fight through the evening traffic to get there. Somehow it appeared different from all the other houses lined up on its street, like a beacon in the dark city.
She wasn't nervous. It was a policy of hers never to flinch from anything. She walked up the front steps, looked to Clint at her right, and knocked on the door. Wilson opened it shortly after her knock, looking a touch weary but otherwise well.
"Natasha. Clint." He smiled, but it was more self-effacing than she would have liked. "You didn't have to come out all this way. I wasn't calling about anything actually important."
You're important, Natasha thought, but the words got stuck somewhere inside her. She stepped past Wilson into his entryway and spotted a newly started puzzle spread out onto a low coffee table. The initial outer frame was completed, and there were a few piles of color-sorted pieces stacked together.
"I needed a distraction," Wilson provided as justification, closing the door after Clint came inside. He made his way to the table, sitting down at the nearby couch with his eyes flitting over the mixed-up pieces. She knew that Clint was internally itching to solve it, and was likely putting together the pieces mentally. Instead, he politely leaned back against the couch, hands fidgeting with a zipper on his bag.
"So, what did you two come out here for?" Wilson asked, seeming bemused. "Is it because you needed to sweep the inside of my house? Complete your invasion of my privacy?"
"No," Natasha admitted. (She did want to fully secure his house, but now wasn't the time.) "We actually wanted to talk with you. Properly, in person. Without the chance for Clint to accidentally separate me from my phone."
"Oh." Wilson's eyebrows went up, and she got the feeling she'd already conveyed herself wrong, somehow. He was a touch guarded. "I get it. This is the 'we want you to join the Avengers' talk, right? I was kind of waiting for this, though I thought you'd bring Steve in on it, too."
"Uh, no." Natasha looked back to Clint, but he just shrugged at her. Unhelpful. "I mean, it's not that we don't want that. You can be one, if you want to be. There isn't really an audition process. Thor just kind of... showed up."
"Stark said Thor should be back on-planet soon. Astrophysics readings," Clint added, which was utterly and completely besides the point.
"Right. Anyways." She tried to center herself again. She could perfectly handle a hearing full of career politicians who wanted to see nothing more than her fall from grace. Here, though, in this room with just Clint and Wilson, she was stumbling over her words.
She didn't know what words she could say to get Wilson to like her. She didn't know what she could to to help him see her. Most of all, she didn't know if he would like the version of her that he saw.
Wilson looked at her. Even Clint put down his clicker. The room was still. She could pick up small sounds. The hum from his fridge. The rustle of trees outside. The rumble of cars passing by on the road.
"Clint and I are partners, and not only on missions. He is, or has been, the only person in the world that's allowed to know me for who I actually am. The state of the world is changing, though, and I've been changing as well." She shook her head, her hair swishing back and forth as she did, then falling back into place. She waited for the last strand to settle before speaking again. "What I mean by all of this is that... I want you to see me, Sam."
She stood there for a moment, painful not-quite silence rushing through her ears. Sam looked at her. She kept her ground, not turning inwards, not looking away.
Then he stepped forward with that sure steadiness of his and took her into a careful hug. She took in a slow, deep breath, then let herself relax into it. She was seen. She was held. She was known.
Sam pulled backwards, though he kept one hand on her shoulder. "You called me Sam," he said, a soft and real smile on his face.
"And you noticed," Clint said with obvious approval. He stood up and came over towards them. They were an odd triangular assortment of people. Somehow, it felt exactly right.
"I won't be intruding on anything between the two of you, will I?" Sam asked, looking between the two of them with careful concern.
"What? Never!" Clint said. "We -- and I do mean both of us -- are interested in you coming along with us. A package deal kind of thing. Whatever a group of three people who all want to be in each other's lives is."
"This isn't about the Falcon or the Avengers," Natasha said. She needed desperately for Sam to know that. "You never have to join the fight again if you choose not to. It's because... you're Sam. You're important."
Sam looked up and took a moment to wipe away what had to be light tears. She took a moment to admire how open he was with feeling his emotions. She admired everything about him.
"I can't let you go out in the field without me," Sam said, but he was smiling. "So. Three-person mission partners. What do we do now? Do we need a group name?"
"Now I'm going to finish the puzzle." Clint, irreverent as always, dashed over to it. "Time me. Four minutes!"
"Has he just been waiting for us to finish talking about emotions?" Sam asked, and Natasha let herself lean into him.
"I think so, Sam."
In that moment, with the three of them together, she let herself feel like, no matter the challenges they would face in the future, everything would be okay.