The situation with Clint Barton was that she didn't know the situation with Clint. Natasha had given Loki some hard-boiled patter about red in her ledger. It was the truth, but like so many things with Natasha, that was just a facet. Clint hadn't just saved her life, spared her life… he'd given her a new one. A good one. A life she could be proud of, when she'd long ago given up on feeling that emotion again.

She could never make up that debt. So why try? She was the Black Widow. She didn't have a code of honor. Her word was not her bond. Why not give up on him and make herself a liar one more time?

Loki was right about one thing. Her ledger wouldn't get any blacker. So why was she sitting at his bedside like a lovesick puppy?

Clint wasn't her lover. She'd had enough of those and men who wanted to be. Alexi, Ivan, even James. They didn't always want her body, but they always wanted something. Validation, forgiveness, redemption. She didn't know why they thought she could give them such. She'd never had those things herself.

Clint was different. If he'd wanted her, it was the same way a sniper wanted a clear shot. Whatever was going to happen he'd let happen. He wouldn't run from it or towards it. He'd watch it come, let it roll over him, and wave when it went on its way. How far his feelings for her went were a secret, buried deep.

Maybe that's what it was. Most people's only hidden depths were just how shallow they were. With a glance she knew just how to manipulate them. Clint she'd never been able to. She never could tell whether he wanted her to bat her eyelashes at him or stay professional. It was a constant choice. Maybe that's what a normal life was like. Not that she wanted one. But she was curious.

She couldn't manipulate him, so she didn't try. They were an even match, so they didn't worry about a fight. And they'd seen each other at their worst, so they didn't have to pretend.

Natasha quirked her lips, glad it wasn't anything as silly as a crush. It was far simpler, far less terrifying than that. They were two people without a home, only safe around each other, so they'd each become the other's home.

She put her hand on Clint's brow. Fingerless gloves let her know he was burning up. His eyes were still closed. His breathing was still shallow. She hated it. Knowing what he was to her didn't change the feeling, it just made it more acute. She wanted to tell him her theory. She wanted to know how he felt. She wanted to come home.

She was still touching him. Natasha realized it and didn't do anything about it. "Back when I had a mother, she told me stories that seemed to imply handsome princes could wake up comatose princesses with a kiss. I thought it was stupid too. Maybe that's why they chose me. Less fairy tales meant less to unmake. But they were wrong about a lot of things. Maybe they were wrong about this. Maybe it works the other way around. I'm no Snow White, but you could be Prince Charming. I'm not telling you that when you wake up."

She turned his head toward hers and kissed him. It was different when you weren't trying to manipulate someone. You felt more.

Closed eyes and a hot sweat. That's all he gave back.

Natasha sat down to continue her vigil. No more fairy tale kisses. She would sit in a room and wait to see if her friend lived. That was her story.