Chapter Text
Natasha had thought that the act of defecting, or even getting the Americans to believe she was defecting, would be the hardest part. She’d painstakingly put together a file to prove she was sincere, but she hadn’t even handed it over before Fury had said “Welcome aboard.” She’d stopped, file halfway on his desk, and even though she’d been taught to keep her face schooled into an impassive expression, she knew that he could see the confusion on her face.
“Agent Coulson will show you to your room,” Fury continued, taking the file from her hands. “There will be cameras, just so you know.”
Natasha opened her mouth, closed it. She wanted to cross her arms, but that would be showing how uncomfortable she was. She would not give them the satisfaction. Instead, she nodded once, sharply, and turned to face Agent Coulson.
Agent Coulson was a mild looking man, balding, with a smile that hid more than the Mona Lisa’s. He was holding a stack of files that probably needed Fury’s attention, but instead he just motioned at the door. “Shall we?”
Natasha nodded again. She was afraid that if she spoke, her voice would give away how scared she was.
Agent Coulson showed her to what, effectively, were dorms, and handed her a key. She quietly marveled. The Red Room had never given them so much space to themselves, and never with such freedom. Even on missions, their accommodations had been considered ‘tiny’ at best. She used the key she’d been given to open the door the agent indicated to her.
“I will be sharing with someone,” she decided as she stepped into the room. That was the only thing that made sense. There was a lot of space.
“No,” Agent Coulson said, the barest hint of amusement in his face. “This is the same basic room that all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents get.”
Natasha couldn’t help but cover her mouth with one hand. The room was pretty spartan, but large enough that she’d assumed another person would move into it with her. There was a small table, two chairs, even a small television facing the bed. There was a tiny kitchenette off to the side with a cupboard that, upon further inspection, held some tableware and glasses. There was definitely enough space for a second bed. She approached the door that she assumed was a closet and opened it, just to make sense of her surroundings. She needed to know every inch of this place.
She couldn’t help a small noise of surprise. “A private bathroom?”
“It’s nothing much,” Agent Coulson said, shrugging. “Some agents don’t like using the communal showers near the gym.”
Natasha couldn’t find the words to explain that she had never imagined having a bathroom to herself. It was small, of course, only able to fit a toilet, a shower, and a tiny sink, but it was all hers, for her private use. She reached out to touch the mirror, reverent, and squeaked quietly when it suddenly popped open. Then she realized it was a medicine cabinet.
“…I can keep my own medicine and first aid supplies?” she asked, unable to stop herself. All medication and first aid supplies in the Red Room were kept under lock and key, so that it wouldn’t be a secret if any of the girls had an injury (and then, of course, that girl became a liability).
“Of course,” Agent Coulson replied, as if that should have been common knowledge.
Natasha had no idea what sort of medicine a person should have.
Agent Coulson motioned her back out into the main room. He walked over to what she’d assumed was a cabinet for weapons underneath the television. “For now you have S.H.I.E.L.D. issued clothes. Once we get you a card with your monthly allowance on it, you can purchase some of your own, and also some groceries.”
Natasha fought the urge to press her hands to her cheeks, almost unable to believe it. She couldn’t stop herself from wringing her hands a couple of times, though.
Agent Coulson looked at her for a few long seconds before he said, “If you like, I can show you to the cafeteria. You must be hungry.”
She mostly felt sick, but she wouldn’t let him know that.
Natasha followed him, memorizing each hallway and turn so she could find her way back to her room. Even if it was bugged, it would be a place to get some privacy to plan her next move. They couldn’t see her thoughts.
Agent Coulson led her into a giant, echoing room. There was a line of people grabbing trays. This, at least, looked familiar. Their diets had been maintained very studiously in the Red Room. She assumed that S.H.I.E.L.D. kept track of their employees’ nutritional intake as well.
“I need to go file some paperwork,” Agent Coulson said after a few moments, and she jumped when she realized she’d been staring, because the lines of food seemed much longer than in the Red Room. “I can escort you back to your room. Or, if you’d like to eat, I can return for you in an hour.”
The idea of going back to her room, bugged as it was, was tempting. However, she had been on the run for quite some time before that blond-haired agent had brought her back here. She needed sustenance.
“I’ll eat,” she told him, and watched him nod and leave the room before she walked over to join the end of the line of people waiting to get food.
Natasha picked up a tray and leaned forward a little to see what kind of food was being served. She’d need a lot of protein, some carbs—
She stiffened when she saw some sort of bright orange pasta. That was not food. Food was not that color. She had to cover her mouth when one of the men in front of her took a large scoop of the toxic orange pasta and slopped it on his tray. It made a horrifying ‘glop’ sound. She shuddered. Even the oatmeal they’d had in the Red Room had not made that sound.
She paused, eyes on the bright orange pasta, then leaned forward to look further down the line. She felt her stomach drop.
There was white stuff that she assumed was mashed potatoes, but it was wetter than any mashed potatoes she’d ever seen, almost liquid as it was dropped onto a tray, then covered by a brown gravy that was gelatinous. She looked further to see what might have generously been called a hamburger if you discounted the flat, floppy bun and the fact that there was literally only a patty on it.
Natasha had had better food on missions, and quite frankly, she would have preferred it. She wished there was something that she recognized, like rye bread or borscht, or even pickled herring. None of the things in the food bar looked good. Even the lettuce looked limp.
A hand landed on her shoulder. The only reason she did not grab the wrist of the offender and pitch them into the line of people was because she knew she would not make it out of the cafeteria unscathed. There were too many people.
“I heard they got you settled in!” the blond man crowed. He was loud. Women from the Red Room did not survive if they were loud. “Glad to see you settling in! Whatcha eating?”
Natasha set the tray back down. She didn’t feel very hungry. “I’m not hungry.”
Hawkeye stared at her, eyebrow raised, before looking back at the food. Then he looked back at her with a grin. “I can see why. I bet they didn’t have Kraft macaroni and cheese where you came from.”
She could not even comprehend what those words meant. She had seen no macaroni and cheese. Only toxic waste.
“Have you ever had pizza?” he asked.
Natasha knew she was in no position to be rude, but she couldn’t help giving him her best bitch face. “Of course I have.” What person had never had pizza? It existed everywhere.
“Great! I know a place nearby. Best pizza in the entire state,” Hawkeye continued, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her out of the cafeteria.
Natasha plucked his hand from her shoulder and lifted his arm up and off, dropping it. “I’ll follow you.”
“Breakin’ my heart, Romanov,” Hawkeye drawled, but took point. He kept up an incessant amount of chatter as he led the way out of the building and down the street. She understood one word out of five, but not for lack of trying; he was speaking English, but also like he was reading a fiction novel to her.
She swore she actually heard the word ‘elf’ come from his mouth.
“Tada!” Hawkeye spread his hands toward a tiny storefront with pieces of dancing pizza painted on the windows.
Natasha stared.
The blond’s smile started to fade. He glanced at the windows, then grinned. “I swear that it tastes better than the dancing pizza makes it seem.”
“I want anchovies,” she said, because it wasn’t pickled herring, but it would be close enough.
“Gross,” Hawkeye said, but obediently ordered anchovies on their pizza.
It was pretty good pizza, Natasha decided. Needed more sauce, though.
.-.-.-.-.-.
There was no toilet chain. Natasha searched for an hour. Eventually, she opened the tank and flushed it manually from there, but she still couldn’t figure out why the hell she would be given a toilet without a chain to flush it. At least she’d found a gun taped to the top of the lid. She’d felt rather naked without one, despite all the knives she’d been able to smuggle in.
“Are you okay?” Clint (which was his real name, and she couldn’t believe he’d given it to her) said through the door.
She kept the gun in the toilet lid, just to have as a backup. She could take Clint with her bare hands. “Yes.” She turned and opened the door. “Where do I put in a request for maintenance?”
Clint frowned. “Did you clog the toilet or something? But you had a salad, too.”
“If that had been the case, I would have asked for a plunger.” Natasha motioned behind her. “My toilet is missing the flush chain.”
The blond stared at her. “…I just heard you flush it. By the way, the walls are thin as fuck here.”
Natasha sighed. Loudly. “I flushed it manually. I’m talking about the chain you pull on to flush it.”
Clint stared at her for a very long time. She waited, because she was used to having to wait for the right moment to strike.
“…Why,” the blond began, then held his hands up, sighing. “No, I won’t even ask. The KGB just sounds weirder by the minute. You don’t have to use a chain.”
She pointed at the toilet and made a confused noise, but didn’t have time to get the words out before he pushed her aside to reach the toilet.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Why would they put the handle right next to the wall?” Clint squeezed past her and reached around the side of the toilet. “I hate working for the government.”
Natasha heard the clink of metal on porcelain and then watched as the toilet flushed. She shoved Clint aside to look at where he’d been touching, fighting the urge to flush with embarrassment when she saw the metal handle there. It was pressed up against the wall, so it was mostly hidden.
But she was a spy. She should have been able to see that.
“Aw, baby-bird,” Clint cooed, reaching out to pat her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, moving away from him.
She should have known that was there. She’d seen toilets with handles before. She shouldn’t have assumed that the US government was just as far behind as the Red Room when it came to plumbing. Just because she hadn’t seen it at first didn’t mean she shouldn’t have checked again.
“Romanov,” Clint began, following her out of the bathroom.
Natasha threw open her door and strode out quickly, trying to look like she wasn’t running.
Even though she was.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Natasha didn’t see Clint for two weeks. By that time, she had gotten her allowance, bought a few necessities, and then gone to a grocery store.
She came back empty-handed and feeling like she might throw up. She went through the cafeteria line and got sandwiches.
“You have nothing to eat,” Clint complained when she came back to her room, not hungry but definitely unsatisfied. “You’ve had your allowance for a few days. Why don’t you have any chips?”
Natasha said nothing. She would not admit that she had been overwhelmed by the abundance of food available to her. She had never seen so many types of bread. She hadn’t been able to find any rye.
“You probably don’t know what my favorite chips are,” Clint decided without her speaking. He popped to his feet and grabbed her wrist. “C’mon, I’ll show you. That way I won’t be bored when I wait for you!”
Natasha smacked his hand off of her wrist but followed him.
Entering the grocery store again made her break out in a cold sweat. She felt sick again. There were so many bright colors. All of the shelves were full of things that she didn’t even understand. What was a ‘Twizzler?’
“I like barbecue Lay’s,” Clint said, grabbing a cart. He reached out for her hand.
Natasha snatched it away from him, but then rested her hand on the cart. She didn’t want to get separated from him. He was liable to get shot. He just had that ‘don’t give a fuck’ air about him.
He led her through the chip aisle, tossing a black bag of chips into the cart. “What’s your favorite chip?”
She didn’t have a favorite. The Red Room discouraged favorite anything. “…Corn,” she said after a few moments, looking at some yellow chips.
“Yeah, and you look pretty fancy. Better get you fancy chips.” Clint reached out for a bag that depicted blue corn. “Okay. What’s your favorite lunch meat?”
“Ham,” she answered promptly. It was the cheapest meat. They’d had it all the time. Sometimes they had chicken. It wasn’t always in the best condition though. “And swiss cheese.”
“Awesome.” Clint began steering the cart down another aisle. “What kind of bread?”
She knew immediately what kind of bread. “Rye.” She would give her eyeteeth for a good rye bread.
“Oh. Then we’ll go to my favorite deli for that. Grocery store rye is shit. But we can’t get ham at the deli. You know, with the owners being Jewish and all.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I am aware.”
“Just making sure, man, because I didn’t know. That was embarrassing, let me tell you,” Clint said, prattling on and on throughout the entire shopping trip.
She did like the blue corn chips, surprisingly.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Natasha glared at the counter, frustrated.
Clint had introduced her to the marvel known as coffee, and she had quickly grown to love the hot liquid. But the cafeteria coffee was found lacking. So Clint had bought her a coffee machine, one that was small enough to fit in her kitchen and she could make a cup whenever she wanted.
That was, if she could get the stupid thing to work!
Natasha knew how to use most appliances, she wasn’t an idiot. But there were just so many buttons! Each of them seemed to do a different thing, and none of them caused coffee to come out.
She was very tempted to destroy it and tell Clint that it was an accident, but she knew that he would just buy her another one.
She didn’t want to have to ask him for help though. She didn’t need anyone’s help.
She finally decided to give up on the coffee machine and poured some of the coffee grounds into a mug along with some water, mixing it with a spoon then shoving the whole thing into the microwave.
See, she could use a microwave, thank you very much.
At that moment, the scent of smoke caught her attention. She gaped at the pan on the stove. She had just barely turned it on! It took way longer than that to begin to heat anything up!
She roughly dropped the pan in the sink, turned the water on, and turned the stove off, staring balefully at the now burnt and water logged eggs. She’d been looking forward to eating something that she’d actually cooked herself.
At least she’d turned it off before the smoke alarm went off though. That wouldn’t have been good for her reputation.
Then she saw something light up in the corner of her eye. She turned to the microwave, not sure what to expect. She found herself caught off guard for the second time that day,
The spoon she had used to stir the coffee was throwing off sparks. Alarmed, not wanting to start another fire, she stepped forward and yanked the whole thing off the counter, unplugging it and smashing the whole thing on the ground.
The next thing she knew, Clint was there, a gun out, his arm stretched protectively towards her.
He moved with a grace she hadn’t seen from him before, his face was oddly blank, and she suddenly realized just how dangerous he truly was.
She was forced to ponder the implications of that thought later, as he straightened up once he understood what had caused the mess in the kitchenette. She appreciated that he was able to prevent himself from smiling.
“Come on, I think today feels like a ‘let’s eat outside’ kind of day.”
As she followed his lead, half listening to his now-comforting babble about anything and everything, she couldn’t help but feel slightly happy that the man she had let into her life was at least able to defend himself.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Natasha was just unwrapping her hands when a balding man wearing large glasses approached her. He was sweating. He hadn’t even been working out.
“Ma’am,” he began, voice squeaky with terror. “It’s come to our attention that your bill this month exceeded the limit you were given by seventy-three dollars and eighty-nine cents.”
“How the hell,” Clint asked, cheek already beginning to bruise where she’d jabbed him. “I showed you how to use coupons, right? I even proved how awesome it was when I brought my total down by fifty bucks!”
There were no coupons for the artisan rye bread sitting safely in her freezer. Neither was the pastrami. She had discovered a new weakness for delis. Nothing in the Red Room had tasted so good.
Natasha stared at the man impassively. Never give an inch.
The man began sweating a bit more. “…T-try to keep inside your budget this month,” he stuttered, then fled.
“Aw, Dewey,” Clint sighed. “You scared him.”
Natasha did not feel bad for scaring a man named Dewey.
“Be nice to Dewey. He’s the one that will sneak you extra cash at the end of the month.”
Natasha got the feeling that she did not need to be nice to him to get that extra money.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Her first mission with S.H.I.E.L.D. was a shit show. The US had such different rules to play by than the KGB. She managed not to kill her mark, and gathered the evidence needed, but she got stabbed for her troubles.
Natasha did not go to medical, because showing weakness might mean her death. She had stocked her medicine cabinet with bandages and antiseptic. She would be fine.
Clint burst in on her just when she was winding the bandages around her waist. She fumbled for the gun in the toilet tank.
“Holy shit, Natasha!” Clint barked, scowling at her. “You’re bleeding everywhere!”
She pointed the gun at him.
He glared at her. “Don’t shoot me!”
She hesitated. He snatched the gun from her hand deftly. She cursed her moment of weakness.
“Chill out, baby-bird,” he ordered. He took the bandages from her hands. “You’re a mess.” He knelt between her legs and began wrapping her wound, tight but not too tight. “Why didn’t you go to medical?”
Natasha stayed silent. She would have to silence him before he went and snitched on her. The thought saddened her, just a little.
“If you’re going to patch yourself up, at least call me?” Clint sighed. “Someone’s gotta take care of your dumb ass, baby-bird.”
“You keep calling me that,” she said, hand reaching back to grab the knife tucked into her belt. “Why?”
Clint scowled at her. “Because you’re my child.” He glared at her a moment longer before returning his attention to her wound. “Like I said, someone’s gotta take care of your dumb ass. I found you. Might as well be me.”
Natasha sat there stiffly as he tied the bandages and then gently smoothed his hands over them. She let go of the knife and drew her hands back in front of her.
When he called her ‘bird-daughter,’ she threw the knife at him. He screamed like a girl.
Natasha had to fight very hard to keep the smile off of her face.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Clint’s first mission since Natasha arrived was taking longer than expected. It was making her edgy.
Although she was already notorious around SHIELD due to her history, her fighting abilities and her blank stare when she wanted to creep someone out, after she nearly dislocated a man’s arm when he tried to press the elevator button for her, no one dared approach her.
She hated to admit it, but it felt odd without the man.
She had grown used to having him nearby, knowing that if she was confused (not confused, the Black Widow knew everything) he would somehow know without her mentioning it and help her out.
Even though she had grown accustomed to the grocery stores in America, while Clint was gone she had secluded herself in the agency, sticking to what Americans called food.
When Coulson took pity on her and looked the other way while she snuck a peek at his mission records, she felt even worse. Two nights before, they had lost contact with him and hadn’t heard from him since.
That night she spent hours in the gym, after scaring away the other agents.
The same thing happened the next day.
And the next.
The morning of the day after that, after laying the required 5 hours in bed, despite being unable to sleep a wink, she heard someone fumbling at her door.
Instantly, her knife was in her hand and she was prepared for anything that was about to happen.
Except for a figure leaning against the doorframe and a voice drawling “I heard that someone turned this base upside down while I was gone.”
Natasha sat bolt upright, unsure if she could believe her eyes or not. By this time she had been positive that Clint had died.
Clint chuckled and moved into the room, closing the door. Natasha didn’t move, not even when he rummaged in the cupboards and found the bag of chips that Natasha would never admit she had bought specifically for him.
He sprawled out on one of the chairs and started munching contentedly. The room was silent for a long moment, Natasha being sure to keep a blank look on her face. She didn’t want Clint to know how relieved she was that he had made it back safely.
“Sorry for worrying you” At Natasha’s faint scowl he hastily corrected himself. “Yeah, yeah, I know you weren’t worried. Still sorry. Tech malfunction.” He gestured at his ears vaguely. “I’m perfectly fine though.”
Natasha nodded. Clint looked pleased.
“You can sleep if you want. I’ll just be sitting here for a bit.”
This time Natasha couldn’t even look at him. She didn’t think she looked that tired. Plus, she had gone far longer on lesser amounts of sleep than this.
But she had to admit that it would be nice to not have to worry about staying on guard watching her back.
Without saying a word, Natasha laid down and rolled onto her side. She quickly fell asleep to the comforting sound of Clint chewing.
.-.-.-.-.-.
The higher ups quickly realized that while Natasha was an excellent agent who could work with anyone, she was exceptional when she worked with someone she deeply trusted.
Since Clint only worked with people he deeply trusted, they started getting missions together.
The first couple of missions went amazingly, with neither of them being injured, and nothing out of the ordinary happening. It was on the one after that that Natasha freaked out.
The intel had been wrong, they had underestimated the amount of personnel on the base, and the two of them were now having to fight their way out. Natasha had a badly sprained ankle from when she had to jump down 3 stories in order to avoid a bullet, but she was doing a good job hiding that injury.
Although Clint had asked that she tell him about every injury, she didn’t want to worry him while they were still in the middle of the mission. Besides, it wasn’t that bad. She’d had worse.
They were just nearing the outside walls, less than 10 people left to subdue, when Clint grinned at her and stood up, arms outstretched, careless of the incoming fire.
She stared in shock, freezing incrementally, when his torso jerked with the impact of a bullet.
The next few minutes were a haze, and the next thing she knew, all of the enemies were incapacitated, and she was by Clint’s side.
Who, she now noticed, had been watching her, still grinning. She paused during her first aid administration and frowned at him.
“I’m hurt,” he said happily.
Natasha started worrying that he had received a head wound during the battle that she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m hurt and it was my fault.” It was impossible for someone to be that happy about that fact.
She decided to ignore him, clearly he was delirious, and continued checking his wound. It wasn’t as bad as she had first thought, but it was still pretty bad. Much as she loathed to admit it, she was going to have to call it in.
The mission had been accomplished, and it wasn’t worth the risk to stay and take care of his wound.
Of course, that meant that Clint was going to end up in medical. That wouldn’t do, she didn’t want him to be declared a liability.
The decision was taken out of her hands when Clint whipped out his communicator and called S.H.I.E.L.D., reporting mission completion and an injury. She stared at him in disbelief. Clearly something was wrong with his brain at the moment.
Once they were back at S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clint was getting stitches, she started pacing her room. She wouldn’t dare wait in the waiting room; that would be showing everyone that she (gulp) actually cared about someone.
That would be showing weakness.
Finally, Clint showed up, still dressed in his mission clothes, still covered in blood. She stopped pacing and stared at him. “What was the outcome?” she asked stiffly.
“Not a big deal,” he said, flopping on the bed. “ Got a couple more stitches to add to my collection.”
Natasha kept staring at him. “But…” Clint looked up at her, his face oddly serious for once. He wouldn’t judge her. “…What’s your punishment?” she asked softly.
Clint looked at her very understandingly. “Coulson’s mad about the paperwork, so I need to help him fill them out. And I have to teach the junior agents until I recover fully.”
Natasha knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. That, that wasn’t punishment. That was make up work, something you gave to a child to keep them busy.
“But… It was your fault. You got hurt, but you could have prevented it.”
“Yep. But, it happens. Coulson ranted a bit, but that was really just because he cares. It happens to everyone.”
Something about the look on Clint’s face made Natasha suspicious. She forced herself to take a step back from the situation and evaluate it. None of Clint’s reactions made sense. Not unless…
She gasped and slapped Clint.
“You let yourself get shot just so you could prove to me that it was OK to get hurt on a mission?!?”
Clint’s sheepish grin was enough confirmation for Natasha. She slapped him again and left the room.
Once she was in the hallway, she paused. That was her room, not Clint’s.
She didn’t particularly feel like forcing the injured man to leave the bed he was on, though.
Collecting herself, and holding back a sigh, she strode down the hallway, heading to the gym. She’d let Clint rest for a bit before she challenged him to a spar, making him realize what an idiotic idea that was.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Months later, once Clint had apologized for worrying her (no, she doesn’t worry) and he had completely healed, they were on another mission together.
This time it was very simple, just sneak into the enemies’ lab and get some information. There shouldn’t be anyone shooting at them, as long as they were careful.
The two of them were crawling down a vent. Natasha was focused on the mission, but Clint seemed slightly distracted. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but he was ahead of her and was slowing her down.
She shoved her impatience aside. She was capable of being patient, she was very good at it. She just didn’t like it when people around her didn’t do their best.
She stopped when Clint did, suddenly on the alert. But all he did was reach out and stroke the side of the vent. “Vents are great, aren’t they? I love it when I get to go in them for a mission.”
Natasha stared at him, nonplussed, then pushed him forward. She saw a slight smile on his face, but he made no comment.
He seemed to gain focus after that, and gathering the information went as planned. No one suspected a thing.
They were on their way out, heading back through the vents, when they came to an intersection. Due to the way it was designed, it was slightly larger than the rest of it. Natasha hadn’t paid any attention to that fact, other than noting it as a possible tactical advantage.
Clint twisted and flopped down onto his back. Natasha lunged forward, in mission mode, keeping an eye and ear open. Had he been hurt? Did someone see them? Was there booby traps?
Her concerns were allayed when Clint grinned up at her lazily. “Isn’t this great? Vents are great. You could make an awesome home base right here.”
Natasha stared at him in horror. Although it was an easy mission, it was still a mission. It was no time to be stopping to think about the benefits of an air delivery system.
She slapped him, and he got up, grinning and grumbling under his breath. She ignored him and focused on getting out of the building.
Later, when they were back at S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint popped into her room.
Literally popped into her room, dropping down from a grate in the wall.
He was fortunate that she only nicked his ear with her knife. She could have chosen to hit him somewhere else.
“Aw, come on, don’t be like that. I want to show you my nest.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Your nest.”
“Yeah, it fits. Hawkeye, you know?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, before his beaming face and patience made her give in. Besides, it would be a good idea to have an unobtrusive route around the building in case things went south.
And it wasn’t like she was going to spend a lot of time in there.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Natasha thought she might feel jealous when she heard Clint call Tony his bird-son. She might have been, if she hadn’t seen firsthand what a mess he was during the palladium poisoning. He needed someone to take care of him, especially now that he and Pepper had broken up.
She placed a package of shortbread cookies in the nest and stroked Tony’s hair. Clint and Tony would be good for each other. Clint liked having someone to take care of, and Tony liked being taken care of as long as it seemed like he wasn’t. Clint was very good at making people think that they were doing him a favor by letting him take care of them.
“Sleep tight,” she whispered, giving the brunette one last pat on the head, before turning to leave.
“You know you can join the bird nest,” Clint mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Tony won’t say no to someone else to snuggle.”
“Hard pass,” Natasha replied, smiling, and reached out to pat his head as well. “You know how I feel about the nest, but thanks for the offer. If you guys want to cuddle in the common room, though, I might not say no.”
The blond gave her a grin that was probably supposed to be a smirk, but he was too tired. “Now who’s the softy?”
She reached out to poke his forehead. “It’s still you.” She smiled, then turned to leave. “Sleep tight, idiots.”
“You’re just calling us idiots because you like us. You call the people you don’t like even worse!”
“I’ll stab you, Clint. Don’t think I won’t.”
She wouldn’t, though. She kind of liked these idiots.