AN I have had this idea banging around my head for forever, and I am so excited to finally publish it (which is hilarious, because it's been gathering dust on my computer for months, ugh). Like, oh my goodness, art and dorky people and casual romances that are NOT super angsty, what am I to do.

Just consider this the second installment in my unofficial project of AUs were Clint and Natasha are broken people shuffling along and meet each other, and become a little less broken after some hard work and tender loving care :'D

When she first met him, he was soaked.

Well, not soaked, but wet enough to make him more than unwelcome in her home. Clint Barton had barreled into Natasha Romanoff's life with a huff of smoke and a few too many drips in her door way, and at first, Natasha would have been more than happy to see him leave it just as quickly.

"I'm here to pick up a painting for Barney Barton," he panted, leaning against the wall. Natasha glanced him over, but refused to open her door beyond the unfriendly inch she had already allowed. He kept wiping his hair out of his face, as the water clinging to the strands kept weighing them down into his eyes. She could smell cigarettes every time he exhaled, which was more often that she'd like, as he was slightly out of breath, presumably to get out of the rainstorm outside.

Natasha didn't like cigarettes. She had tried them when she was fifteen, decided they were for idiots with nothing better to do, and moved on. Plus cigarette smoke ruined paintings, an act she could barely stand.

"I haven't framed anything for someone named 'Barney' all month," she said. In all honesty, she knew who he was talking about (the exact painting was on her desk, about fifteen feet away from her), but in the thirty seconds she had known him, Clint Barton hadn't endeared himself to her. She could be difficult and not feel guilty.

"Right. How 'bout Bernard?"

Natasha hesitated, then opened her door further. She didn't exactly want him dripping in her apartment, as he would then be her problem, but she did want to follow through on her job.

Natasha walked back to her desk, picked up the painting, then returned it to Clint.

"Here," she grunted, holding the painting out to him. He took it absently, craning his neck to see further into her apartment. This, though a little rude, was not wholly unexpected.

"You...frame all of these?" he asked, nodding at the myriad of paintings covering her walls. Natasha glanced back at them, and sighed.

"Only the ones I painted. The rest are originals from other artists, and came pre-framed. Do you have a car?"

"What, you painted some of—sorry?"

"I said, do you have a car?"

"Uhm, no, not here. Why?"

"Because I am not letting that painting out into the rain. Not when it did that to you."

"But it's just a squall, I mean, it could be gone by the time I'm outside." Clint glanced down at himself as he spoke, a small frown on his face as if wondering if he was really that much of a mess.

"And it could also go on for much longer. This painting doesn't leave until the rain stops."

Admittedly, the painting that Bernard Barton had had her frame wasn't the most expensive piece that had passed through her hands (it also was not the most expensive piece she had been asked to frame), but it was the principle that counted. Someone had taken the time to make that piece, and moreover, this Bernard person had spent both time and money in not only picking it out, but also having it framed. She would give it the respect it deserved. Natasha certainly knew that she would have a fit if someone wantonly traipsed through the rain with one of her paintings.

"So...I have to stay, too." Clint had this wrinkle in his brow that wasn't quite displeased or confused, but more along the lines of mapping out the rest of his evening according to this setback. After a short pause, he nodded, and gave her a smile. Natasha had to admit, despite the cigarette breath and wet clothing, his easy manner was growing on her. A little.

"If you want," Natasha said, shrugging and turning back to the main room. "In either event, close the door behind you."

Clint chuckled and gave a soft "Yes, ma'am..." as he shut the door. He set the painting down by her coat rack, then stood still. She didn't really want him there, nosing about and getting her carpet wet, but the weather wasn't his fault. She suppressed yet another sigh, and walked to her linen closet. Natasha returned with a towel, and found that Clint had politely stayed in place to limit the amount of water he spread around. Natasha barely kept herself from cocking an eyebrow as his manners mounted in his favor. Okay. She still didn't want him there, but she would also be able to do more than tolerate him.

"There's a heater around the corner," she said, gesturing. "Take your shoes off if you want to stand in front of it."

Natasha walked back to her work desk, and settled back into place. She ignored the sound of him drying off, then settled into her rhythm of painting.

"You've got a lot of really gorgeous pieces in here," Clint said. He sounded like he was in the living room, and Natasha tried to ignore the intense feeling of discomfort she felt when strangers wandered through her home.

"Thank you. It's difficult to work with such lovely things and not indulge yourself here or there."

"Ha, I know that well enough. Though, I can't really say my indulgences, as you put it, are that innocent. Or cultured." Clint appeared around the wall separating her dining room/acting studio and living room. She watched him, and couldn't help crack a smile. After years of living and interacting with narcissists and megalomaniacs, a little bit of self deprecations was appreciated. She watched him for a moment, then turned back to her work.

"You mentioned that you've painted some of these...could you point out some of them?"

Clint had wandered over to her left, though he was still a good ways back. Natasha shrugged, and gestured over to the wall to the side.

"Some of those hanging on the wall, and all but the front few on the ground."

Clint moved towards the paintings, and after a moment, gave a soft "Huh".

Natasha couldn't help herself. She had to turn.

"Do you not believe me?" she asked, cracking the tiniest of smiles. Clint shrugged and shook his head, and said "No, I totally believe you, I just...well, I didn't know what to expect when I saw that painting, there." Clint pointed at one of the front paintings on the ground. It was stacked up in a neat row, waiting to be framed with the rest of the canvasses. There were a couple of smaller pieces in front of it, but delicate mounds of snow set against a flat blue sky were unmistakable.

Natasha paused, feeling a shriek of shock spring up her spine. All the beginnings of amiable feelings that had sprouted inside her immediately withered as suspicion took over. Natasha set down her brush and gave him a blank look. It was The Road of the War Prisoners by Vasily Vereshchagin, a beautiful thing full of ice and death.

"You know Russian realists?"

"Not really. I took my brother's kid over to the Brooklyn Museum on a field trip last week, and I could have sworn I saw this picture."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. I only noticed it because right beside it, there was this painting commissioned by the government with a happy family and tons of symbolism about how great the place was, y'know. And then there was this..." he tailed off, gesturing vaguely at the painting. She completely understood. The starkness of the painting was part of her attraction to it. The Road of War Prisoners depicted the Turkish prisoners of war taken by the Russians during the Russo-Turkish War. The picture was fairly simple, with frozen bodies idly scattered around the bottom of the canvas, as if an afterthought in the painting. The death in it was stark and unimpressive, showing the true gracelessness that people held when their lives had fled.

Natasha took a breath, and tried to stuff away all of the wanton panic inside of her. Clint Barton, as far as she could tell, was just a person. There was no reason for her to lose her head and jump to atrocious conclusions, like maybe he had been sent to find her and he had finally done it and now she was either going to end up in prison for a very long time or cut up into ruthless little pieces and sprinkled over the Hudson for an even longer time. If this was some perverse, unexpected game of cat and mouse, he wouldn't be wearing such a pleasant expression of mild surprise.

"Well, Mr. Barton, I'm afraid that I don't have anywhere near enough to tempt a museum to give up one of their pieces."

She gave him a frosty smile, making it clear that she did not appreciate the veiled accusation of art theft. Clint's still warm smile was unfazed, and he tipped his head at the window.

"Rain's stopped. Am I allowed to leave with the picture, now?"

"Of course," she said breezily, sliding off her stool.

"Oh, and could I get one of your business cards? My brother said he lost his, and he wanted one for his friend."

"Absolutely," Natasha grit out, stalking over to her desk. This was so stupid. One man, one stupid, drenched, art illiterate man had stumbled into her home, and rattled her cage with a few throw away comments. She still didn't like turning her back on him now, though. Even though she was fairly sure that he wasn't going to yank out a knife and drive it between her ribs, she hated feeling so exposed.

She grabbed the card, and turned around to face him. He thanked her, picked up the painting, and turned to the door.

"Thank you for allowing me into your home," he said.

"Not at all," she said, in way of go away and never come back.

Of course, he tossed a cheery wave over his shoulder, which she promptly slammed the door on.

What an asshole, she thought, leaning against the door. She listened to him walk away, then she pushed herself up. He wasn't with the police, and he wasn't looking for vengeance for her uncle, else he would have jumped the moment he saw the painting. Unless either party were removed. Or both-

No. No. Natasha's paranoia was running away with her, there was no way her uncle would work with anyone with a badge, at least, not a legal or authentic one. But she still had to think of what to do next. Did she pack her bags and disappear before it became dark, or did she wait and see what turned up? Natasha had already vanished herself once, and she didn't exactly want to do it again.

She sighed, then walked over to the towel to wipe up whatever remnants of water Clint had left behind. She worked her way back to the door, then straightened.

There was something scrawled on the notepad on the decorative shelf, the handwriting not her own. She blinked, then felt a sudden wave of anger as she realized that Clint had distracted her with the business card to write down his number. What an asshole.

She tore off the page and threw it down on her counter as she passed. Natasha stalked back to her laundry basket, sullenly thinking that water hadn't been the only thing dripping off of Clint Barton. Clint's charisma had been almost as apparent as his good manners or terrible habit of smoking. Hopefully, when he eventually butted back into her life (because he would and with absolutely no shame, she could tell), Natasha just hoped that it wouldn't be accompanied with the swift hands of vengeance or the law.