Intention is one thing, reality quite another. In the three months since Clint had 'come to his senses', as he thought of it, he and Natasha had barely seen each other, never mind managed to go on a date.

First, she'd headed out on a mission that kept her in Europe for six weeks. During that time Clint's pneumonia, which had been the result of having his head held under water until he passed out, had proved particularly stubborn. It had finally cleared up just before Natasha returned, but by the time she got back, Clint had been sent to a S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility for testing and reconditioning following his enforced inactivity. From there, he'd gone straight to his next mission.

Finally they were both in New York on leave at the same time, and had embarked on their first 'official' date. It was not going as well as they had anticipated.

This was exactly what Clint had been afraid of when their relationship had moved beyond friendship. When they were just friends, they'd been completely at ease in each others' company, able to talk, or be quiet without awkwardness. Now, however, Clint felt uncomfortable, and he could tell that Natasha felt the same. The silences stretched between them until one of them broke it out of sheer nerves. They'd had dinner and then gone to a movie (god, were they really that cliched?) and were now wandering aimlessly. Clint was wondering if they should just give up and call it a night, but then on impulse he nodded towards a bar. "Drink?" he suggested. Who knows, it might help them both relax.

It was small and dark, nothing fancy, and about half-full. Clint and Natasha settled at the bar, and ordered drinks, then Clint excused himself for a few minutes. When he returned from the men's room, he saw that his seat had been taken by a tall, dark-haired man, in sweat pants and a stained t-shirt. The guy was talking to Natasha, who was keeping her gaze determinedly on her drink. She had a look on her face that was usually the precursor to blood flowing and bones snapping; but she generally tried not to use her special talents on civilians.

The man put his arm around her shoulders, and Natasha spoke, still not looking up. Clint was too far away to hear what she said amid the noise of the bar, but the look on the guy's face darkened, and as Clint came up behind him, he heard the man saying "...teach you not to be so uppity, missy..."

"Take a hike, buddy, the lady's not interested," Clint said, keeping his tone light. The man turned with a sneer, and looked down at Clint – he must be a good six inches taller.

"Who's this loser? He your boyfriend, honey? Time you had a real man..."

Natasha put her glass down on the bar with a sharp rap, as Clint said, "I told you to take a hike."

The man stepped closer and shoved his shoulder. "You gonna make me?" he said mockingly.

"If I have to," Clint replied, resigned now to the outcome.

The other guy spread his arms slightly, grinning. "Take your best shot."

Clint's best shot dropped the man like a stone. Of course, jerks usually travel in packs, and in moments the guy's friends, dressed similarly but not quite as built, came barrelling over from the corner. Seeing trouble about to boil over, the bartender reached under the bar and hauled out a shotgun. "Take it outside, guys," he said, waving the gun warningly.

"With pleasure," Clint muttered. He bulldozed the nearest guy out the door and into the alley beside the bar, where he dealt with him swiftly and efficiently, all the while aware of the ruckus behind him. He grinned as he turned to take on the next guy. Natasha was right in the thick of things, disposing of a couple of guys with her customary skill. Clint took care of the last one, then he and Natasha stood back to admire their work. He looked over at her, and they exchanged grins, and then it seemed perfectly natural to step closer, push her gently back against the wall, and kiss her.

It was as if the fight had broken down some unspoken barrier between them. Natasha's hands were all over him, in his hair, moving over his chest, one hand reaching round to grab his ass. Clint put a hand in the small of her back, pulling her hips tight against his, and as he slid the other hand under her shirt, Natasha groaned softly. Clint broke the kiss long enough to ask, "Your place or mine?"

Around the renewed kiss, Natasha gasped, "Both too far. There' s motel across the street..."

"What are we waiting for?"

"Nothing that I know of."

It actually took them quite a while to get there, because they couldn't keep their hands off each other. They almost got wiped out by a sports car speeding past, because they were paying no attention to the traffic. The near-miss made them focus long enough to cross the street safely, and they made it to the motel reception. It was a small, dingy place, though it was really just old, rather than badly-maintained. The clerk at the desk barely looked up as he took their cash and pushed a key across the counter, and didn't even bother to watch as they headed to their room.

As he drove his sports car through the run-down neighbourhood, Tony Stark frowned. He looked in his rearview mirror, trying to confirm what he'd just seen, then glanced at Pepper. "Was that what I think it was?" he asked.

Pepper looked up from her smart phone. "I don't know, I wasn't looking – what do you think it was?"

"Barton and Romanoff making out in the middle of the road."

"Those two are together?" Pepper looked thoughtful. "Well, it's about time!"