**Disclaimer, Disclaimer! I only wish I were in charge of the MCU.** When I was fifteen I found this prompt listing 15 things girls want guys to do, whatever blah blah blah. Wrote a fic then, reread it recently and it's terrible. Like, bad rom com terrible, and I hate rom coms. So I decided to make a new version, with a new pairing, and make it more my style. And a bit more realistic. It's still a bad rom com :P

15 Things Girls Want Guys to Do

Someone had left a magazine open on the coffee table. Clint was willing to bet it was Maria Hill. Natasha would never be caught reading "women's trash magazines," and Pepper would never leave a magazine lying around. Filling his mug with coffee and putting bread in the toaster, Clint crossed the room to glance at the article.

"Fifteen Things Your Man Should Do." He read the title aloud, unamused. "What utter bullshit." He didn't have a particularly positive attitude about relationships, especially in the wake of Laura leaving. Even still, he glanced down the list and noticed two things immediately: (1) The author clearly hadn't evolved her view of romance since she was fourteen years old, and (2) said author hadn't even a basic mastery of perspectives. The title was in second person but the list was in third.

Shaking his head, Clint dropped the magazine back onto the table, drained his coffee, grabbed his toast, and disappeared into the vents.

Two days later Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Bucky returned from their latest mission, putting down a terrorist cell threatening to militarize Saskatchewan, Canada against the United States. Steve and Sam walked in and immediately called for FRIDAY to alert the medical team. Clint had been in the air vents, but he kicked his way out, landed in front of Sam, and was halfway to the door when Bucky entered, carrying Natasha.

Clint's heart skipped a beat. His best friend was pale and covered in blood; one of her knees was twisted at an unnatural angle. He choked down the sob threatening to escape his throat. "What happened?"

The small group followed Bucky as he quickly strode through the building to the med wing. Steve shook his head, "We're not really sure. She was going to take down the leader of the group, we got word that he was down, then her comms went silent. By the time Falcon got there, she was like this."

A string of colorful curses issued from Clint's mouth, and Steve raised his eyebrows, impressed at Clint's breadth of vocabulary. The archer rubbed a hand over his face. "Let's just get her taken care of, okay?"

"That's the plan."

It was 29 hours and 12 minutes from the time Natasha was checked into medical until the time she woke up. Clint had perched on the chair next to the bed with the diligence, intensity, and absolute stillness that made him such an unparalleled assassin. He didn't hold her hand; he didn't stroke her hair, which had been shaved under the bandages. He also didn't leave her side to eat, or to sleep, or even to go to the bathroom. He thought about how important Natasha was to the team. He considered how important she was to him personally. He thought about how much his kids loved Auntie Nat. He wondered how he could tell them if she never woke up.

But that was ridiculous. She was the strongest, most determined person he'd ever met, so she'd be fine.

She'd lost a lot of blood. She'd seriously injured her knee; she'd fractured her skull, two ribs, her femur, and her right wrist. She'd been stabbed twice, and her lungs and heart had barely escaped the stiletto. The doctors were able to get everything back where it should be. It was only a matter of healing, now.

She'd be fine.

She had to be.

Clint could imagine his life without her, and it was the stuff of nightmares. He never wanted to deal with that in real life.

He stared at her, tiny in that hospital bed, and could hardly reconcile that still, quiet form with the vivacious fighter he knew and loved. It was his job to keep her safe—no, no it wasn't. She was a professional and more competent than he was, and this was one of those things guaranteed to happen in their line of work. Not to mention, he hadn't even been on the mission with her. So why did it feel like her injuries were a sign of his personal ineptitude?

Just like that, he realized. There was no great revelation. It didn't hit him like a ton of bricks. No light suddenly dawned. It was a quiet acceptance of fact.

Clint Barton was in love with Natalia Romanova, Natasha Romanoff, and whoever she would become in the future.

Now that he realized it, he wondered how he hadn't recognized it before. Early in their relationship, Laura had called him on it several times, and she'd brought it up in arguments in the middle and end of their time together, too. He'd never known what she was talking about, had always insisted Laura was the only one with whom he was in love.

Which wasn't really a lie. Laura gave him butterflies and made him feel like a twitter-pated teenager. It was a drastically different "in love" than the all-encompassing love he and Natasha had built over almost two decades.

Clint knew with absolute certainty that he was rubbish with emotions. So how could he tell—how could he show—his best friend how much she meant to him?

It was with great trepidation that he returned to the common area, picked up that stupid magazine and vowed to go down the list item by item until Natasha realized how he felt. It shouldn't take her long; she was too smart for her own good.

Phase 1. Tell her she is beautiful—not hot or sexy, or at least, use in addition.

Natasha was healing quickly, or so the doctors assured him. The first days after she woke up she was mostly sleeping, so it was as if she hadn't woken up at all. Today, though, her eyes were open, and she was sitting up and sipping juice through a purple bendy straw.

FRIDAY alerted him every time Natasha's eyes opened. It took him two minutes to get from the range to Natasha's hospital room. He grinned as he walked through the door. "Good morning, Tasha."

She smiled at him, reached her hand out. "Clint."

Clint took her hand, stroking over her knuckles tenderly. "Glad to see you're awake; you gave me a scare!" His eyes met hers, and he noticed that she was fighting back tears. He transitioned his weight on the bed and wrapped her in a gentle hug. "You're okay, beautiful. Everything's going to be fine. You're safe."

He let go of her a few minutes later, when one of the doctors came in to check her vitals and clean the bandages on her head wound. Her hair was coming back, but she looked drastically different without the fiery mass of curls Clint had always associated with her. She was no less gorgeous.

Clint would have happily stayed there all day, but part of being a SHIELD agent was having a disciplined schedule and having to cope with a bit of red tape. He stayed until the last minute before his meeting, trying to confirm with his own eyes that she was here and alive. She was quiet as they sat, but that was hardly unusual for her—she hated the weakness that came with injury.

As he stood to leave, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Get some rest, Tasha. I'll be back soon, gorgeous."

Natasha's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she finally spoke. "На каком языке вы говорите?"*

Clint's heart clenched as he strode out of the room.

Phase 1—FAILED.

*What language is that you're speaking?

Phase 2. Surprise her with things you know she wants.

As much as she tried to hide it, Natasha was a natural care taker. She loved taking care of people and things she cared about. That being said, she was terrible at taking care of herself.

She'd been out of medical for three weeks, but she had another two weeks before she was allowed to start training again. She was climbing the walls—literally. It was all Clint could do to distract her and get her to sleep, but he couldn't be there all the time. He needed to find a distraction that could keep her occupied when he was away.

So he bought her a kitten.

He'd been proud of himself for thinking of a solution, and the little gray kitten—a furball named Pi—was a lovable former stray who needed tender attention.

Clint presented the pet the next morning, setting up a litter box in the bathroom and filling food and water dishes while Natasha and Pi stared at each other across the expanse of the living room.

"What the hell, Clinton?"

As glad as the archer was that the language issue had been only a temporary glitch as her brain healed, he was sure that her cold fury would have perfectly translated through any of the dozen languages she spoke fluently.

The kitten meowed.

The man gulped. "I thought you'd like him. I mean, you love animals."

"Yes, but not when I am the one responsible for keeping them alive." The kitten hopped onto the couch next to her, and she glared at it. "What were you thinking? We're gone for months at a time! I can barely take care of myself, and Bruce is allergic to cats—"

That was grasping at straws, and they both knew it. "Tony or Pepper will be more than happy to take care of him when we're gone, and I can look after him when you're sent out without me. As for Bruce's allergies, the air filtration in this building is state of the art, so unless you're planning to have him over for an evening of romance, I think you're fine." He was irritated—upset that she didn't appreciate the gift which had been presented with the best of intentions and jealous that she immediately thought of Bruce.

Natasha threw her mug at Clint, hitting him hard in the shoulder. "Maybe that's exactly what I was planning! What's it to you? Now get out."

Phase 2: FAILED.

Phase 3. Kiss her on the forehead.

Of course, Natasha fell in love with Pi. He became the perfect companion for the spy-assassin. She never told Clint that she was glad he'd brought the kitten into her life, but Clint knew.

To Clint's relief, Natasha never approached Bruce about that romantic evening, and he began to wonder if Natasha had only been spiting him when she said it—after all, he'd brought it up first.

Fury and Steve had worked hard to assign missions in a way that would allow Clint to stay with Natasha until she was healed. Eventually, though, there was no more postponing: Clint's special skills were needed in Rome.

Clint, Wanda, and Pietro left one Thursday morning, briefed themselves on the Quinjet, and hit Roman soil running. Recon and recovery of the tech blueprints took them a sleepless six days, and when they finally got home, Clint was exhausted. As in, nearly fell asleep during debrief exhausted.

Although his bed was calling his name, the blond wanted to check up on Natasha before he locked himself into his apartment for the next eighteen hours. His access code opened her door, just as her code opened his, so he let himself in.

Pi greeted him at the door, and he scratched behind the kitten's ears as he entered the living room. Natasha was sleeping on the couch, splayed out in an imitation of a starfish which could not possibly be comfortable for anyone but her.

It could only be the sleep deprivation that made Clint think it would be a good idea to kiss Natasha on the forehead before leaving.

As soon as he was within six inches of her, her eyes flew open and he found himself on his back in the middle of the floor with her thighs locked around his neck and a gun to his forehead.

There was a millisecond pause, then, "Clint! You're back!" The gun slowly relaxed away from his face, and the redhead gracefully shifted to sit next to him. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," Clint sat up, wincing at his shoulder popped. "Was coming to say hello before I went to bed." He threw an arm around her shoulders and joked, "I know you worry about me terribly when I'm gone."

Natasha rolled her eyes before settling to lean against him. "Not at all, but that doesn't mean I'm not glad you're back." She rose to her feet and held out her hands to haul her friend into a standing position as well. "We both need sleep."

The sleepy man nodded, gave his best friend a tired smile, and returned to his own room.

Phase 3: FAILED. Spectacularly.

Phase 4. Leave her messages to wake up to.

Clint and Natasha had gotten back from a simple assassination in Thailand at 22:30 last night. They'd retired to their respective beds at midnight. Four hours later, Clint had gotten a panicked phone call from his ex-wife.

Her new boyfriend had taken the kids.

The archer was taking off down the runway thirty minutes later. With the course set, he let FRIDAY take over while he called for backup. "Tash," he had to leave her a voicemail because she, like everyone else, was still asleep. "The kids are being held hostage. Apparently Laura's new guy is a HYDRA agent. Flying to Albuquerque now; meet me there when you can? Sorry for disturbing your day off."

He drummed his fingers against his thigh. He'd told Laura to keep the farm for this very reason—he couldn't protect them if he didn't know where they were. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to cry. Instead he just stared in front of him and continued to drum his fingers against his leg.

When he landed he was met with a sobbing Laura who threw her arms around him. He caught her, stroking her hair and waiting for an urge to kiss her to surface. It didn't. He pulled away, "I need a status report."

"You mean, what's going on?"

The agent nodded.

Laura wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. "Nate and I put the kids to bed last night and decided to watch a movie. Around 12:30 the movie finished and Nate went upstairs to … get ready for bed." She looked at Clint's face and was surprised to see fury directed towards her. "What?"

"How long were you dating him?"

"What are you, my mother?" Laura folded her arms across her chest, affronted.

Clint took a long inhale and slowly released it. "I don't care about your relationship. You can fuck whoever you damn well please. I care that you know next to nothing about this guy but were still letting him sleep under the same roof as our children."

"I wouldn't say I know nothing—we've been dating six months."

Running a hand over his face and clenching his bow with the other, Clint growled, "New rule: No one sleeps in the same house as my children until I have personally checked them out."

"That's not fair!" She realized that they were getting off topic and took a deep breath. "He went upstairs, and I was washing dishes and folding a load of laundry. A little before 1:00, Nathaniel started wailing—you missed his birthday, you know—"

"I was in Nairobi—it was kinda hard to find a secure line."

"You should have visited for his first day of school. You haven't even seen him since he started walking!"

The blond sighed. He hated that he didn't get to see the kids more. He Skyped when he could and tried to call every day he was in the states, but he wished he could do more. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. "Nathaniel screamed, and then…?"

His ex-wife swallowed thickly. "I ran to the stairs, and Nate was coming down. He had the kids' hands tied and was carrying Nathaniel. He had something around their necks and something in his hand."

The archer cursed and strode toward the house. He couldn't stand there anymore; he needed to be doing something! "So he'd wired explosives to keep you and the kids in check."

"Yes. He said I was to wait twenty minutes then call you. He said he'll call tonight with his terms. Are they dead? Are my babies dead?"

"Probably not," the man assured. "He needs a bargaining chip. He won't hurt them until he realizes I'm not playing ball." He checked his phone. Why hadn't he heard from Natasha yet?

The next hour was spent examining the house for anything that might offer a clue to the HYDRA agent's true identity. Unfortunately the guy was careful.

There was a knock on the front door before it burst open. "Honey, I'm home."

Clint had never been so relieved to hear Natasha's voice in all his life. "Tash!"

The redhead grinned and stepped out of the Ironman suit she'd … appropriated … from Tony. "What can I do?" Even as she directed the question to her best friend, she wrapped Laura in a sympathetic hug.

"Wanna use Tony's tech for me?"

Wordlessly Natasha pulled a StarkTablet from a panel tucked into the inside of the suit. "Thought I should pack this."

"Does Tony know you took one of his babies out for a test run?"

Natasha's only response was a sly smirk. "Hit me with the parameters."

"All HYDRA agents. Narrow to males. Name's probably a derivative of Nate since that's what he was going by here."

The assassin's delicate fingers flew over the holographic keyboard. "18 known matches. 14 deceased. Pulling up the remaining possibilities." She turned the StarkTablet toward Laura. "Is this your card?"

The distressed brunette shook her head.

Scrolling to the next profile with her finger, Natasha started, "What abo—"

"That's him!"

The archer rolled his shoulders then took the tech to read up on the man he was going to be facing. "Tasha, can you—"

"On it." The petite woman tapped the helmet of the suit. "FRIDAY, we need you."

"How is New Mexico treating you and Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff?"

A small smile appeared on Natasha's face—she loved Tony's AIs. "Not so well, at the moment. You're getting the profile from my tablet?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"You're my girl, FRIDAY," Clint chimed in.

Laura sent a disapproving look in her ex-husband's direction.

The redhead wrapped a hand around the back of her best friend's neck and started massaging lightly as she addressed the AI again. "Can you trace that man? He's probably with three children."

"Agent Barton's children, ma'am?"

"Yes," Natasha felt Clint relax under her hand. "And don't call me ma'am. Really, you can call us Natasha and Clint."

"I am programmed to require active consent from Agent Barton before adapting his name in my speech protocols."

This earned a chuckle from the archer, who turned to look at the suit fondly. "FRIDAY, please call me Clint."

Laura walked back into the room with a tray of three kinds of muffins and sweet tea. "Stress baking," she mouthed to Natasha.

"My protocols have been updated, Clint."

The man hummed approval as he tore the paper off a blueberry muffin and poured himself a glass of tea. "I'm starving."

The women rolled their eyes. Natasha started doing ballet stretches to keep herself calm and keep her muscles warm as they waited for results.

"Natasha, Clint, I have located Nathan Goedert—recently Nate Goulding."

The redhead was in a full split, but she regained her feet in an instant as Clint downed the last of his drink and stood up. "Yes?"

FRIDAY continued, "I was able to use facial recognition software to find him at a gas station about 130 miles north of your location. Using traffic cameras I was able to follow the license plate of the car he was driving. His car is now parked at Iron Gate Antiques Mall in Florence, Colorado."

"How many miles?" Clint's voice was terse.

"About 250 as the crow flies. I do not have visual, but I am reading one adult heat signature and three children—all measurements match Nathan Goedert and the most recent updates for the Barton children."

The two assassins exchanged a look and asked in unison, "How fast can you get us there?"

"How fast do you want to get there?" rang the cheeky response.

Clint grinned. "That's my girl."

"Now wait a minute!" Laura spoke up. She was holding a muffin so tightly it was crumbling in her hand. "He said he'd call tonight, so why aren't we waiting for that?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Clint opened his mouth to answer but was silenced by Natasha, who raised a hand. "Laura," the redhead began calmly, "this guy wants to be in control, and we can't give him that. He doesn't know our tech is good enough to find him so easily. If we leave now we can attack with the sunrise. Your kids could be home by breakfast today instead of breakfast tomorrow."

The archer rolled his neck and shook out his limbs. "Let's do this, Widow."

The dancer grinned and stepped into the suit. "Better take your hearing aids out—it's about to get mighty windy."

Clint pulled his hearing aids out and thrust them into a cubby that opened up on the side of the suit, then—recalling the last time he got a lift from Ironman—clenched his muscles in preparation for take off.

They landed about half a mile from the back room where Goedert was holding the children. Clint put his hearing aids back in, and they approached an additional quarter mile on foot. Natasha stepped out of the suit, instructing, "FRIDAY, block all transmissions in this area. If he has got a wireless detonator, that will be enough to stop it."

"I can do so for seven minutes and still have enough power to bring everyone safely back to Albuquerque."

The archer flicked his bow open in preparation and grumbled, "More than enough time." He scurried into position, pleased to see that Goedert was visible through the thin sheet which had been hung in front of the window. Got him. He signed to Natasha.

Wait until I'm inside. Natasha signed back. While Clint was in uniform, she was dressed more casually, so she didn't attract attention from those few early morning antiquers browsing already. She slipped behind the counter and ducked into the hallway leading to the backroom. It was safe to assume that there was a connection between the owner of this shop and Goedert, so her guard was up.

A quiet thunk signaled that Goedert had fallen, and Black Widow slipped inside. She first checked the man's nonexistent pulse then glanced around for the children. All three were bound and gagged in the corner with detonation cord around their necks.

"What is this? Amateur hour?" In no time at all, the children were free. "Hey, sweetie," she stroked Lila's cheek softly and ruffled Cooper's hair. "You guys okay?" She pulled her gun from the holster hidden under her sweatshirt. "I need you to carry Nathaniel for me, okay? And if anyone but me gets within three feet of you, scream!"

Sure enough, the spy's assumption was proven correct when the owner of the store blocked them from leaving by aiming a gun at Nathaniel's head. "I don't think you're going anywhere."

"Don't bullshit me," Natasha grumbled, "the safety's on." And she shot him in the hand then the knee. He fell to the floor, gun several feet away. Natasha scooped it up as she and the children strode out of the store.

Clint met them twenty yards away, wrapping each of his children in a hug. The group returned to Tony's suit to find a helicopter waiting for them. "Welcome back," FRIDAY spoke, "I called in Colonel Rhodes for transport."

"That's my girl!" Clint and Natasha praised in unison before ushering the children and the suit inside.

That evening, with the children tucked into bed and Tony's suit on stand-by guard duty until Laura and the kids could move to a new house, Clint and Natasha boarded the Quinjet. Natasha programmed the destination then turned to her best friend. "I'm glad I got to you in time."

"I'm glad you got my message."

"Next time you leave me something to wake up to, make it fresh bagels and fruit."

Clint chuckled. "I'll try my best."

Mission: SUCCESS.

Phase 4: FAILED.

Phase 5. When she's upset, hold her tight and tell her how much she means to you.

Four months passed deliciously drama free. Missions succeeded, no one came away seriously injured, a good time was had by all.

Of course, it couldn't last.

Natasha loved doing undercover recon in Russia. Despite everything in her past that had taken place there, it was still home. So when she and Bucky were offered the chance to live there for three months gathering intel, they jumped at the chance.

Steve and Clint silently resigned themselves to living without the people they loved for the next quarter year. At least it gave the two the opportunity to get to know each other better—up to now Steve had definitely been closer to Natasha than Clint.

So when the Quinjet landed after only 42 days, everyone ran outside to see what was going on.

Bucky stepped onto the runway carrying Natasha in his arms and, just like last time, Clint's heart skipped a beat. As Bucky strode closer, it was obvious that he was crying.

"Shit!" Steve gasped and took off running.

Clint was right at his heels, and if the adrenaline helped him almost keep up pace with the super soldier, well, every thunder cloud has its silver lining. He reached Bucky and took the petite agent from his grasp while the metal-armed assassin collapsed into Steve's embrace.

The four of them sat crumpled together on the tarmac for long minutes while everyone else watched from a distance.

Natasha was shaking and blinking rapidly. She stared at Bucky but seemed unresponsive, even when Clint stroked her hair and asked in Russian if she could hear him.

"What happened?" Clint asked when Steve had finally gotten Bucky to calm down a little.

"I knew her," Bucky spoke finally, and had he not been curling around Steve like a koala Clint would have been scared that the Winter Soldier was back. "We were watching one of the old ballet studios where I—where he—where I helped find recruits to the Red Room. One of the instructors, Denisa…. She was the class above Natalia's—Natasha's. She was trying to bring it back. She was taking girls. We had to step in. She got at Natali—tasha from behind. She is dead now, and my mind is jumbled. Stevie, I barely got us back."

Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky's temple. "I got you, Buck. It's okay now."

A glance at the shivering woman in his arms made Clint want to argue that point, but he didn't. "Is Natasha physically okay?"

"Emotional shock," Bucky explained simply. "She's programmed to bounce back." Here he hit his forehead with his metal fist. "Stupid! Not programmed. But I think she will be fine."

The two supersoldiers stood a few minutes later and disappeared inside so Steve could take care of Bucky. Several long moments passed before Natasha stopped shaking and leaned into Clint's chest. The man kissed her forehead reassuringly. "Let's get you warmed up and comfy, okay, sweetheart?"

They reached Natasha's room and Pi greeted them with nuzzles and scratchy licks. Clint carried the redhead into the bathroom and ran a bath. "Tasha, I need you to take off your clothes and get in the tub, then I'll come back in and keep you company. Sound good?"

There was the faintest of nods, and Clint smiled. "I'm giving you two minutes."

He fed the cat, folded back the blanket on the bed, and poured one of Natasha's favorite chocolate protein shakes into a glass. He knocked on the door then walked in.

Natasha was standing naked, staring at the mirror with wide, unseeing eyes. The shaking had returned.

Clint plunked the glass in his head down on the counter, approached Natasha slowly, and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"DON'T!"

A mighty shove and a kick sent Clint careening into the bathtub, where he slammed his head against the soap dish.

The petite assassin stood above him breathing hard, shallow breaths and pointing a knife at him. She slipped to the floor, still white-knuckling the knife.

"Fuck," Clint groaned, partly from the pain in his head but mostly because he remembered that the other Red Room operative had grabbed Natasha from behind and been killed for her efforts. He sloshed around in the tub, trying to straighten his body so he could look Natasha in the eye. "Tasha, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. You know me; you know I would never hurt you. You're my best friend. I love you so much."

The knife clattered to the tile. Several heaving breaths, then Natasha spoke. Her voice sounded very small as she asked, "Hug?"

The blond nodded. "You come to me. I don't want to fuck up again."

Phase 5: FAILED.

Phase 6. Sing to her—no matter how terrible your voice is.

By the end of the week, Natasha and Bucky were back to their normal selves. Even still, everyone was incredibly tense—it was always hard seeing two of the strongest and most capable people fall apart.

It was Tony's idea for them to have karaoke night, unsurprisingly. More surprising was everyone's quick agreement to the plan.

The timing was perfect for Clint, who'd reached the sixth item on the list. It had been what felt like forever since he started this project, and it seemed to be backfiring at every turn. Yet each backfire seemed to bring him a little closer to his end goal anyway, so it was still worth trying. Now all he had to do was find the perfect song.

When Friday night rolled around, Tony implemented two rules: One, every song was followed by a shot. Two, everyone had to sing at least once.

Bruce promptly protested that they were all going to get alcohol poisoning drinking that much that quickly, and it was decided that he would be in charge of cutting people off before they got sick.

It was only fair that Tony started the night off right. He did so with shots of fireball then a skillful rendition of AC/DC's "Hell's Bells."

Another shot and Pepper decided to get her participation out of the way early so she could sit back and enjoy the mortification of her friends as the night progressed.

She sang "We Didn't Start the Fire" because she knew Tony had an irrational hatred for the lyrics.

Sam surprised everyone with his excellent voice when he sang "Come Fly with Me" in the style of Frank Sinatra.

Sam's voice, however, was not nearly as surprising as Bruce's song selection: Scar's villain song "Be Prepared" from The Lion King. He prowled the little stage Tony had set up, laughing as he sang and making claw gestures at Tony, Pepper, and Natasha.

Pietro was the next victim; his sister pushed him onto the stage as he growled and folded his arms across his chest. Despite his resistance he seemed to enjoy dancing and belting out "Can't Touch This" at about one and a half times its intended speed.

Clint squared his shoulders and stepped onto the stage. He needed to sing Natasha his song before he lost the ability to form words correctly. He took a deep breath and started singing Nickelback's "Far Away." When he was done, Tony booed.

Sam, Bucky, Steve, Wanda, Pietro, and Natasha were laughing their asses off as they all but rolled on the ground.

Only Pepper seemed to understand what had happened. She slung an arm around his shoulders and stage whispered, "I think you missed the memo that this was supposed to be fun and light-hearted."

Slumping into his chair, Clint tried not to let self-loathing and frustration ruin the rest of the evening. He sulked through Wanda's "Hot Blooded" and Rhodey's "That's Not My Name" but was feeling better by the time Bucky performed "Get Down, Make Love."

Maria's rendition of "One Way or Another" got everyone singing and dancing along. Natasha threw her arms around Clint's neck as they danced.

Even though not everyone had taken their turn yet, Tony decided to sing another song. He was the only one still taking shots after every single song, but he had enough of a tolerance that he was still able to flail around during "Turn Down for What?" without injuring himself or others.

Steve and Natasha flipped a coin to see which of them would go next. Steve won—or lost—and earned guffaws and slaps on the back when he decided to perform "Remember the Name."

Tony, now in one of his suits, dragged Clint, Sam, and Rhodey up with him before Steve was even done because "Eye of the Tiger" had to happen now, damn it.

Pepper rebutted by dragging all the women up to belt out Katy Perry's "Roar."

Everyone but Natasha left the stage. She smirked as FRIDAY cued the music. Despite her high alcohol intake, she didn't miss a beat as she performed "I Just had Sex." She danced around to every person in the room, breaking out all the sexy hip rolls and winks left over from her days as a Red Room Seductress.

The last person she reached was Clint, and as she playfully rubbed against him, his arms locked around her. He crushed her against his body, rocking with her to the music. Had he been more sober, he would have been uncomfortable knowing she could feel how hard his dick was from watching her dance—as it was, he couldn't care less.

The music ended and Natasha grinned up at the archer before threading her fingers through his hair and pressing their lips together. She pulled away, sauntered over to Steve, then Tony, then Bucky, and even Pepper, and kissed each of them briefly as well.

Clint collapsed onto the sofa with a frustrated groan, only to find himself with a lap full of redheaded Russian a few minutes later. She curled her arms around him. "I love you, Мое самое дорогое одно."* She kissed him again before dropping her head to his shoulder.

"Love you, too, Tasha."

Phase 6: FAILED.

*My dearest one

Phase 7. Introduce her to family and friends as your girlfriend—woman of my dreams, love of my life is optional but encouraged.

Clint stared at the stupid, torn out magazine page. Why was he paying attention to this insufferable list? It was never going to work out. However, he was a determined man, and once he started something it always got finished. He folded the list and shoved it into his pocket.

The problem was that neither of them had family—Laura and the kids didn't count because they already knew and loved Natasha—and all their friends were mutual.

He'd have to brainstorm another way.

The opportunity arose rather sooner than expected.

Maria Hill, as great a handler as she was, could be a truly sadistic bitch. That was the only explanation for her decision that the entire team should attend a charity gala raising money to promote equal rights awareness.

The archer had no objections in terms of the cause or the company he'd be keeping, but he had rather strenuous objections to dressing up and being put on display for every so-called reporter and fangirl in the Tri-State area.

He voiced his objections loudly and frequently in the days and hours leading up to the event.

His protests died in his throat the moment Natasha slid into the limo. Clint knew his best friend happened to be a phenomenally attractive woman. In jeans or her uniform or frumpy disguises, she was never anything less than beautiful. She'd been stunning with her hair sheared off when all this began; she'd been gorgeous as the defeated-yet-proud Red Room operative he'd been sent to kill.

All that fell short.

Natasha was absolutely awe-inspiring tonight. Maybe they should go to PR events more frequently. She wore an elegant floor length gown in a jewel-tone purple. It had a high neckline and left her shoulders bare. Her hair fell down her shoulders. Clint's mind seemed to have completely shut off.

The spy's glossy lips twitched into a smirk. "Earth to Clinton?"

"How many weapons do you have on you?" It was the first thing that popped into his mind after he managed to convince himself that he couldn't stare at her all night whilst imagining the pleasurable effort required to get that dress off of her.

The way the smirk grew, Natasha was by no means fooled. "Nine, and about three feet of det cord, just in case."

Clint looked the petite woman up and down. "Where?"

"A lady never tells," the Russian laughed. "But I will warn you not to get too close to this necklace. It's programmed to spray chloroform if I press a certain pattern of stones in my bracelet."

"I'm so glad we're on the same side."

"Hey, if I have to pick sides you know I'll always choose to fight at your side." She turned her head so he was watching her in profile. "Speaking of sides, do these earrings make me look fat?" She joked.

The gala was going surprisingly well. Clint and Thor were catching up on the latest Asgardian battle strategies as they made the rounds of influential socialites. Thor was universally adored, and he was good at maintaining a public image, having grown up as a prince. This meant Clint didn't have to say much and could people watch. He enjoyed lip reading conversations, and if anyone accused him of being nosy he could call it security surveillance.

So-called surveillance was the reason he immediately noticed the change in Natasha's body language.

Politely excusing himself, Clint crossed the room. Some dot-com millionaire was getting handsy, and it was clear that Natasha was trying to extricate herself from the situation without resorting to either violence or chloroform. He slid his arm around his best friend's waist and pressed a kiss to her temple, "Sorry for keeping you waiting, love. Thor and I were catching up." He met the other man's eyes in a silent challenge before smiling and holding out his hand. "Clint; I see you're already friends with my girlfriend. Tasha," he turned back to the gorgeous woman now wrapping her fingers around his where his hand rested on her hip, "you look like you could use some air."

The lithe agent smiled at the millionaire, mumbled something polite, then all but dragged Clint to the gallery down the hall. "Clint," she growled. Her eyes were flashing dangerously and the blond immediately knew he'd done something wrong.

"Shsh, sweetheart," Clint murmured, still in character. He could see the shadow of a reporter behind the large pedestal supporting a series of sculptures carefully listening to every word. He tilted his head and knew the redhead caught on when she nodded. "I just wanted a moment alone with my beautiful woman." He signed, Calm down. I don't know what I did wrong.

Natasha's lips pursed. I could have handled that loser, or did you forget that I'm a master assassin? Aloud, she purred, "Why don't you just take me home then?"

Clint pressed a gentle kiss to Natasha's lips, nipping the bottom one playfully. "Где это приключение в этом?"* He teased as he signed, You know I didn't forget how capable you are. I was just trying to help—

Just trying to undermine me! Natasha interrupted furiously. She let out a sexy chuckle as her hands flew furiously, I am going to gut you like an animal, Clinton Barton. But because you're my best friend, I'll let you pick the blade I kill you with, so pick a number between one and six.

Clint lowered his lips to Natasha's ear and moaned, "I want you," before signing back, Are there any options that don't involve blades?

Chloroform. Natasha suggested dryly. Or I could wrap you in det cord. Or I could shoot you. How do you feel about induced heart attack via EMP grenade? She wrapped her arms around Clint and nuzzled, making an aroused noise in the back of her throat.

The archer jerked away. Where the fuck are you hiding an EMP grenade?

The redhead laughed out loud and smirked, signaling that Clint was forgiven. They always forgave each other quickly, and because of that they were never afraid to argue when they were pissed off at each other. "Take me home?" She requested lightly as she signed, Sometimes a hair clip is just a hair clip—but not in this case.

The two walked back out of the gallery arm-in-arm. "You are terrifying," he grumbled with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. I really was only trying to help."

Natasha grinned. "It's fine, Мое самое дорогое одно**, really. Forgiven and forgotten."

Phase 7: FAILED.

*Where's the adventure in that?
**My dearest one.

Phase 8. Throw pebbles at her window in the middle of the night, just because you miss her—but don't break the window!

Clint missed his best friend. He and Natasha were in Beijing undercover trying to take down a major weapons smuggler. Clint was, to his great irritation, acting as a prop manager with a traveling circus. Natasha was installing herself as a business strategist in the lower levels of the targeted organization. It rankled the archer that he was there only to support Natasha—he'd much rather go in bow at the ready and massacre the lot than watch his best friend cozy up to a group of low life thugs for months.

It had been three months since he'd spoken to his redheaded counterpart. He wanted to hear her voice—encrypted communications posted on internet message boards just weren't the same.

And it was her birthday.

From his position on the roof of an old building two miles away, Clint watched Natasha fix dinner. She kept glancing out the window; after working together so long, of course she could predict where he'd positioned himself. She sat on the floor and pulled out her burn phone. She stared at it hard then tucked it back into the secret drawer under the table.

So she was missing him as much as he was missing her. The thought brought satisfaction as well as heartbreak. If he could get a mile closer, he might be able to send her a signal—let her know he wished they could celebrate her birthday together.

When he positioned himself a mile away, he thought he might move a quarter mile closer, and after that just another rooftop or two. So it continued until he was sitting across the street, level with her window, with little recollection of how he'd gotten here.

He pulled a handful of dried peas out of his pocket. They'd been stowed there no doubt as some sort of prank by the circus children. He now tossed one at Natasha's window. He saw her shift at the noise, but she didn't get up. He tossed another, but she still ignored him. A third pea followed, and she glared in his direction without really looking at him. As the fourth pea connected with her window, a bullet whizzed by his ribs.

The gun shot propelled Natasha to the window, and she threw it open. She fired two shots, taking down the shooter in the next building, then glared directly at Clint, "Get your ass inside. Now!"

Clint didn't think twice about leaping into his partner's apartment. He slammed the window shut and blocked it with the tallest piece of furniture he could find.

"You love blowing our covers to share birthday cake, don't you?"

"Don't say it like this has happened before!" He pursed his lips as he prepared his bow for battle.

Natasha crossed to her closet and pulled down a suitcase full of sweaters. From a false bottom compartment, she retrieved a dozen arrows. "Budapest ring any bells?"

"That was my birthday, not yours." Clint checked his StarkTablet for any mysterious activity in the area.

"And you almost died," Natasha reminded him, stripping out of her pajamas and pulling on her catsuit unashamedly. She counted bullets as she strapped on the few weapons she'd managed to squirrel away in her small living space. "You must have realized there was a chance that they had me under surveillance."

The blond shrugged. "I missed you. Life in the circus is just as terrible as I remember."

"And you decided to remedy that by making our covers?" Her words were harsh but her hand tugged his hair affectionately. "I was getting bored, too."

Clint wished he'd put on his gear before heading out of his room earlier in the evening; he hated fighting in jeans. "How long?"

The spy piled all her belongings in front of the door, dousing them with liquor. "Probably thirty seconds for word to get back to the head honcho. Two minutes for the orders to pass down; another five minutes for them to get into position." She searched through the kitchen until she found what she was looking for, "Which leaves us about three minutes to mount our counterattack."

"You smuggled C4 into your apartment?"

"Don't be absurd. I made it in house." She hooked up the detonator and pushed the furniture into the middle of the room. "Get in the vents."

Hawkeye smiled, "You know normally those are my favorite words, but—"

"We're getting out of here. I'll wait 'til they close in on the apartment and blow them to smithereens, should buy you enough time to get across town and take out the upper tiers. You remember the address?" Black Widow checked the Tablet. "We've got to move."

The vents were easy to navigate, and in no time at all the two agents were standing on the street several blocks away. The Black Widow was intent on the screen, waiting for the last possible moment.

"Meet you there?" Clint bid the dancer farewell. Without waiting for her reply, he took off in the other direction.

Phase 8: FAILED.

Phase 9. Let her fall asleep in your arms.

Assassinations were his favorite, Clint decided. He'd felt the explosion from Natasha's apartment as he moved into position, and he'd waited for all the leaders of the smuggling ring to gather around the comms before sending arrows into the back of each skull. He'd covered his tracks with an exploding arrow, and then his bow collapsed into his pocket and he was casually strolling down the street.

The safehouse where he and Natasha would be meeting was about 105 miles away. The first 90 miles could be covered easily using public transportation; with any luck he and Natasha would find each other on the train.

Of course, as it turns out, luck was not on his side. By the time he'd transferred from train to bus to stolen bicycle and walked the last five miles, he was ready to sleep until their ride showed up. On top of that, his hearing aids had frizzled after the explosion.

His exhaustion vanished when he entered the safehouse and found Natasha in a pool of her own blood….

Pool wasn't the right word, he quickly corrected himself. She was looking at him, so clearly she hadn't lost that much blood. What happened?

The explosion missed a guy…. He got the jump on me—knocked me out for longer than I care to admit…. It was taking her longer than usual to sign her words. While I was out he shot me in the thigh. I guess he figured I was a goner, but, well, you know me…. Stole a car. Ditched it about three miles away.

Clint knelt next to her injured leg. "Through and through?" He asked aloud, hoping the answer was yes.

The Russian shook her head, "No such luck, Мое самое дорогое одно.*" I brought the med kit from the bathroom, but my hands are too shaky. You're going to have to patch me up. Even without trying to sign, her hands were jittering in her lap.

The blond shook his head and wrapped his arms around his partner, propping her against his chest. "Not happening, Nat." He stroked her hair back, frowning when his fingers came away bloody. With a sigh he tugged the kit towards him and also grabbed a water bottle off the table where the redhead had already gathered supplies. He rinsed her hair, not caring that the carpet beneath them was turning into a sodden pink mess. He tied her hair into pigtails parted on either side of the gash at the back of her head. "Next time you're concussed, lead with that information, would you?"

Sir, yes, sir! the spy sassed. Should have checked my head the moment I mentioned my hands were shaky.

"You're a terrible patient," the archer complained teasingly as he bandaged her head. He looked once more at her leg. I'll clean it, but—

I want the bullet out, Clinton.

Knowing he was rubbish at denying his best friend anything, he hastened to explain, jumbling verbal and sign language in his anxiety. "I'm not trained. The bullet could be against the femoral artery. You might bleed to death the moment I go near your leg. I can't do this. I can't lose you. You could bleed out in seconds. What if I do something wrong and you end up losing your leg? You'd never forgive me and-"

Natasha grabbed his hands in hers. She waited until his eyes fastened on her lips, then demanded, "Stop worrying."

His hands flew free. You could die; I'm not a doctor!

With shaking hands the dancer signed back, You've patched me up more times than I can count. But if I die, there's no one I'd rather kill me than the guy who made a different call sixteen years ago.

Clint's lips found her forehead before pressing against hers desperately. "I love you."

The bleeding woman flashed him the I-love-you sign and then handed him the tweezers and rubbing alcohol.

Hawkeye's hands had never shaken in his life. He would never have tolerated that sign of weakness, and his job relied on his ability to be completely still for hours on end. If ever nerves were going to make an appearance, it was now, as the life of the woman he loved rested in his control.

There was not a single tremor as he sterilized the scalpel and tweezers, fished the bullet out, cleaned the wound, or stitched it up. The bleeding had gotten worse when the bullet was pulled out, but it was under control again now. He smiled, "Do you remember the ETA on our ride out of here?"

The redhead gave a knowing smile that spoke volumes. She knew he was trying to take her mind off her injuries as well as keeping her awake in her concussed state. Tablet's on the table, asshole she retorted.

Heaving an overdramatic sigh, Clint grabbed the tech and rested it on his lap. Natasha had clearly reported her injuries when she checked in because Bucky had volunteered to pick them up; the Quinjet would be landing at 04:35. Setting the tablet aside, the archer shifted Natasha into his arms. "I want you to be comfortable, but if you fall asleep on me, so help me I will tear you limb from limb."

The hardened operative currently snuggling into his embrace flipped him the bird.

Phase 9: FAILED.

*My dearest one

Phase 10. Carve your names into a tree.

Months later, Clint still felt overwhelmingly guilty about his part in Natasha's injury. She was off crutches now and training again; Cap had even mentioned her involvement in an upcoming mission, but as far as Clint was concerned, it was all his fault.

There was, obviously, nothing he could do to take back the pain and months of healing necessary after their Russian operation, but he wanted to make it up to her by doing something sweet. And the brush with death had convinced him that even rejection was better than not telling her how he felt. They'd been through so much together that the idea of ruining and losing their friendship barely crossed his mind—their bond was unshakable.

"Let's go for a walk," he grinned one morning shortly after breakfast.

The redheaded assassin arched an eyebrow, "Any particular reason why?"

Clint gave her a dull, irritated glance. "Because we can? It's autumn and those woods are made to be walked through." Like most of the Avengers, Clint and Natasha split their time between New SHIELD and Avengers Tower. They were in the SHIELD facility full time training new recruits until the holidays. "Please, Tash."

With an affected grunt, the dancer rose from the couch where she'd been cuddling with Pi. In less than forty seconds, she stood in front of her best friend with boots and jacket on.

The two wandered the woods for well over an hour just enjoying the clean, crisp air and the crunch of leaves under their feet. Clint finally stopped next to a magnificent tree. He flicked out his knife. "I thought we should do something to celebrate our anniversary."

"Our first mission together," the Russian smiled. "Everyone thought you were crazy, volunteering to babysit me on my first mission."

The archer shrugged. "You were a flight risk; I figured if you tried to kill me I could at least take you down with me. I wanted to be there since I was the one who brought you in. Phil understood."

Wind rustled through the leaves as Natasha took a deep breath. "So how do you want to commemorate?" She knew exactly what he was planning, but she'd learned that it was better to let Clint explain things in his own time.

"This tree would look a hell of a lot better with our initials carved into it, don't you think?"

Natasha smiled and kissed Clint's cheek. "I completely agree." She had no idea where he'd gotten this idea—he seemed to be a walking cliché at moments lately, but because she loved her best friend, she was going to humor him.

As soon as Clint's knife penetrated the bark, stun nets dropped down on them, taking them to the ground instantly. Clint clawed at his ears as the electric pulses from the net interfered with his hearing aids. Natasha gritted her teeth as she pushed the metal net upwards—electrical shocks wracked her body every ten seconds or so, but without the net touching his face, Clint's hearing aids started working properly again.

"What the fuck?" The blond grimaced, using one rubber-soled boot to help Natasha keep the net away from them.

"You didn't see that coming?" a voice sneered. Pietro had appeared, apparently sent by the others to see what had set off the alarm. He was laughing at them as he leaned up against a tree. "You breeched the outer defense of one of the digital fence pillars."

Vaguely Clint recalled Tony's explanation that incognito pillars around the perimeter of SHIELD's property boosted a signal to form a digital fence that would keep out all unwanted threats—digital or physical. He didn't understand how it worked, but apparently that tree was actually one of the pillars and he'd set off an alarm by 'tampering' with it.

"Вы можете получить нас из здесь или нет?"* Natasha snapped, her discomfort making her revert back to her native tongue.

Pietro chuckled. "К сожалению, не может это сделать.?** The net is magnetized to a plate under ground. Security has to input override on site. They're on their way."

With a groan, Clint dropped his head into the dirt.

Phase 10: FAILED.

*Can you get us out of here or not?
**Sorry, can't do it.

Phase 11. If you love her, never miss a chance to tell her.

The two agents had never been stingy with words of love. Clint knew Natasha vastly preferred actions over words. So did he, but there was always an unspoken agreement that they would offer both to each other. So Natasha, of course, would think nothing of him saying the words now.

It had been 18 months since he discovered the list and undertook this project, and though he and Natasha were closer than ever, it seemed their relationship would never gain a romantic connotation.

Still, Hawkeye was nothing if not patient.

Before this quest began, vows of love were exchanged in times of imminent death or despair and at the close of weekly movie nights. During the last 18 months, that had increased, both because they were finding themselves in an ever-increasing number of life-or-death situations and because each year of friendship meant the words came that much more naturally.

Now Clint was telling Natasha every day.

There were other circumstances at play.

Clint, Sam, Pietro, and Wanda had gone down to Bolivia to take down a drug kingpin who happened to dabble in child abduction and human trafficking. The kill had been clean and the entire organization dismantled.

Sam was helping Wanda reunite the rescued children with their families while Pietro and Clint did a final sweep of the organization's home base. The two men had split up, both eager to return home, and somehow Clint had triggered a poisonous mist.

He'd been checked into medical the moment they returned and hadn't left since. For 13 days, the doctors had watched his vital organs incrementally deteriorate. For 13 days Bruce, Tony, and Jane Foster had been brainstorming every experimental concept the three geniuses could dream of in search of a cure. For 13 days, Clint had told Natasha he loved her and fallen asleep wondering if he'd wake up to see her again.

The petite agent was strong—the strongest person Clint had ever met—and it broke his heart to see her actually worried. Sometimes when he woke, he could tell she'd just been crying.

The blond despised hospitals. He hated the sounds and smells; he hated the sympathetic looks the doctors gave him; he hated being trapped in one place. Most of all he hated being alone with his thoughts.

Natasha distracted him with books and movies and jokes. She brought Pi in for mental health visits. She baked him brownies and muffins, made him French toast, snuck in hard cider and cigarettes. She did anything and everything to make sure they enjoyed their last days together.

Then the countdown stopped.

Tony had isolated the composition of the poison attacking Clint's system, and Bruce was able to create an inverse which, he hoped, would absorb the original compound and allow Clint to start healing.

The two men presented the solution to Natasha and Clint on the evening of Day 15. "It's not a sure thing," Tony had explained, "we're flying by the seat of our pants here."

"There's a 40% chance it will actually make you worse," Bruce had frowned. "But if you want to go through with it, you can. We think it needs to be inhaled since that's how you were originally dosed."

Clint had wet his lips and dragged a shaking hand over his face. He was weak—he'd die soon either way.

His best friend was having the exact same thoughts and without warning she snatched the bottle out of Tony's hands and sprayed it directly in Clint's face. Tony and Bruce stared at her in equal mixes of admiration, confusion, and horror. Clint choked on the mist and reached blindly for a glass of water. Natasha sat back down on the bed next to Clint and took his hand. "Let's see if you die."

Of course, he didn't. His condition improved rapidly, until he was back on his feet in the peak of health.

It was strange: Clint and Natasha had supported each other through hundreds of injuries, but none had ever affected them the way this experience had. It boiled down to the slow decline. It was one thing to be shot or blown up; it was quite another to wither away for weeks. Their love-yous were holding steady at twice a day, even a month after he was released from the med wing.

The archer was at the range when Natasha strode in. He immediately noticed she was suited up. "Mission?"

"Take off in 30. Can't give you details yet. Shouldn't take more than a week. Steve and two new Agents are with me." She headed back to the door and Clint walked with her. "Keep an eye on Bucky for us while we're gone?"

An unamused expression crossed Clint's face. "You don't have to ask; you know I will."

They had entered the hallway now, and that meant emotions were off limits. Their spy training was too firmly embedded to be vulnerable in front of anyone who wasn't considered family.

Natasha caught Clint's eye and signed, You're the best.

The blond shook his head and rolled his eyes as they exited onto the tarmac. The two gazed at each other. Don't do anything stupid.

You're the stupid one, the Russian retaliated. She pressed a kiss to Clint's cheek. "Love you." She turned and strode to Steve's side, eager to get more details on the task before her.

"You too!" Clint called after her, but she didn't seem to hear him.

Phase 11: FAILED.

Phase 12. Bring her breakfast in bed.

The mission lasted six days, and everyone returned home uninjured. Natasha had stopped in to chat with Clint for a few minutes before heading back to her suite for a bath and bed.

At 05:30 the next morning, Clint let himself into Natasha's suite. He fed Pi then mixed the eggs, milk, and cinnamon for French toast. He buttered the countertop griddle Tony had ensured when designing the kitchen, placed six slices of bread down, then poured orange juice, brewed coffee, and sliced strawberries.

"I take it you missed me then."

Clint flinched, nicking the tip of his finger with the knife. "Why are you awake?" He ran his finger under cold water as he flipped the French toast over with his other hand.

The redhead wrapped her arms around Clint and let her forehead rest between his shoulder blades. "Apparently I'm more hungry than tired." She released him to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

Mildly irritated that once again his efforts had been foiled, the blond passed Natasha her coffee and juice. He layered strawberries, powdered sugar, and French toast on two plates and carried them over with his own glass of juice.

They ate in silence for a moment before the petite agent spoke. "You should cook for me more often."

"I cook dinner for everyone at least once a week."

"Yeah," Natasha finished off her breakfast, "but I was thinking just us. Dinner for two? Followed by breakfast? Definitely more shared breakfasts."

Clint wondered if his hearing aids were playing tricks on him. Her words seemed to be delivered like a romantic proposition, which couldn't possibly be her intention, right? He drained the last of his juice and took away their dishes. "Sounds perfect, Tasha."

The woman's eyes lit up in a way only her best friend could have noticed. "You sure? It's more work for you."

The archer smiled and wrapped his arms around Natasha. "I'm positive; it's a labor of love, right? And neither of us likes cooking for only ourselves." This must be a dream; they couldn't be having this conversation. Assuming this conversation was headed where he was pretty sure it was headed. With his luck and terrible timing, you could never tell.

Natasha leaned up and pressed her lips to Clint's. She sucked his bottom lip lightly as she pulled away. "Thank God that's over with."

Blinking, the blond decided his ears definitely couldn't be trusted. He quickly signed, What do you mean?

I was going to get gray hairs waiting for you to ask me out, so I figured I'd better initiate, the dancer responded with a playful roll of her eyes.

You knew?

The redhead laughed brightly. You're an idiot. I've known for over a year. Suddenly she was swept off her stool and was spinning around the kitchen in Clint's arms. He set her down on the counter and sealed their lips together again. "I love you," they spoke at the same time.

As Clint carried Natasha back to bed, he was ecstatic. His plan had worked! The woman he loved returned the sentiment in the same way, and he had many breakfasts to which he could look forward. Even still….

Phase 12: FAILED. Technically.

Phase 13. Don't tell her you respect her—show her.

Clint rolled his eyes as he shoved the list back into the drawer of his bedside table. Honestly, what utter bullshit.

How could he not respect Natasha? They'd been best friends for the better part of two decades. They were partners. The fact that she could kill him with a roll of Scotch tape and a soggy French fry helped, too.

He could skip this one, he realized. He showed her that he respected her every day, and given his track record, an attempt to prove it would probably end with Natasha offended and on a homicidal rampage.

He was determined to finish this list, just to know he had, but he was wise enough not to tempt fate with this particular suggestion.

"Clint?" A rumpled redhead appeared from beneath his forest green and pale purple comforter. Natasha yawned and blinked the sleep from her eyes.

Smiling affectionately, the archer lay back down and pulled Natasha into his arms. "What do you want for breakfast?"

The groan that came out of the dancer's mouth was muffled in the pillow. "S'already time to get up?"

This earned her a chuckle and a kiss to the back of her bare shoulder. "We can stay in bed as long as you want, sweetheart," he assured. He nuzzled at the side of her throat, "Think being awake in bed might be more fun than sleeping, though."

"Вы рывок, но я люблю тебя."* Natasha grumbled as she effortlessly straddled her companion.

Smirking, Clint assured, "I know. I love you, too."

Phase 13: FORFEIT.

*You're an asshole, but I love you.

Phase 14. Dance with her, even if there's no music and whether or not the rain is pouring down on you.

Ever since Clint had met her, Natasha self-identified as a dancer. It might seem strange, given that ballet had been the Red Room's way of pushing perfection, diligence, and strength of mind and body, but it was also the one pure gift by which she could remember Russia. She loved dancing, and she was good at it.

Because she was so passionate about ballet, she wanted to share it with her best friend. About once a year Clint succumbed to the pleads and puppy eyes and would embarrass himself by putting on men's ballet slippers and running through a series of stretches at the barre before attempting to follow the redhead's lead as she gracefully poured through a sequence of moves that looked far easier than they were.

Such days always ended with tears of laughter streaming down Natasha's face and Clint swearing never to put himself through this torture again.

Clint had just finished the swearing portion of the ritual and had moved on to moaning and groaning as his muscles stiffened and protested the strange movement. "Never again, Tash," he reiterated for good measure. "I think I pulled my groin."

"I'm sure it will feel better soon," the Russian retorted dryly. She sank onto the floor in front of the blond and started massaging up his thighs while watching his face from beneath her lashes.

"Minx," the archer growled. He fiddled idly with the volume of his hearing aid and flopped backwards onto the floor. "Let me take a nap and try to recover from this torture you call dance."

Natasha shook her head. "Not on your life."

So ballet was a failure. Still, because dance was so important to his partner, Clint was determined to repeat Phase 14 until he came away with a successful result. It was obvious, however, that no success would ever derive from a session in the ballet studio.

A gala, on the other hand….

Maria Hill had arranged for the entire team to attend a Smithsonian gala hosted to celebrate the success of the Captain America exhibit. This time around, everyone was looking forward to it. Especially Clint.

Once again, Natasha looked ravishing, this time in a beautiful bronze strapless gown. There were no men trying to hit on her because the media had caught wind of their relationship about seven months prior. She was content to wander with him and Wanda through the crowd collecting 'thanks' and compliments from the masses.

A band had been playing World War II era tunes all evening. Steve and Bucky, Tony and Pepper, and Bruce and Maria had been dancing off and on. The two supersoldiers were singing every song together.

"Dance?" Clint asked, squeezing Natasha's hand.

"Sure, Мое самое дорогое одно."* The two made their way to where the others were dancing just as the song changed.

As the first lines of 'Has Anybody Seen My Gal' filled the room, Bucky laughed. "It's your song, Stevie!"

The national icon's cheeks flamed brightly. "Shut it, Buck."

"You gonna make me, punk?" Bucky placed a smacking kiss on his boyfriend's cheek, then started singing the words he'd written decades ago:

~Five foot two, eyes of blue
But oh! What those five foot could do,
You bet he's got 'em on the ropes!

Torn up clothes, bloody nose
Fighter, yes, sir, one of those,
You bet he's got 'em on the ropes!

Now if you run into a five-foot-two
Can't barely breathe,
Heart beat's wrong, stumbles along
Yeah that's my Steve!

But can he love, can he woo
Can he, can he, can he coo!
Yes, sir, surely that's my Steve!~

All the Avengers were holding each other up from laughing so hard by the time a triumphant looking Bucky finished singing and dipped his lover dramatically.

"You're a real jerk," Steve grumbled, though there was no bite in it.

Natasha and Clint were about to finally have their dance when the metal-armed assassin dropped to the ground in front of Steve. "Yeah, but I'm your jerk, and it ain't illegal now. So whaddaya say, Stevie? Make it official?" A ring slid into place on Steve's finger.

The assassin was grabbed by the collar and dragged to his feet so Steve could kiss him thoroughly. The general crowd began milling about, trying to give the heroes some semblance of privacy. After thirty seconds, Tony coughed.

Natasha giggled at the horrifically embarrassed look on Steve's face when he remembered they were in public; Clint tugged his partner into his side and grinned at the sound of her giggles.

"Party at the Tower! Let's celebrate this the right way!" The team started for the doors.

It was Clint's turn to chuckle. "Tony, the right way to celebrate an engagement is with marathon sex, so unless you're suggesting an orgy—"

The billionaire's eyes lit up, and Pepper swatted his arm. "Champagne toast. Pizza and beer. Riffing a movie. We don't need a party; we're a family, so let's just hang out and be happy for Steve and Bucky. We'll just go to New SHIELD, then people can go back to their rooms when they're ready to start their sexathons."

Glossy, smirking lips pressed a kiss to Clint's cheek, then murmured, "Think they'll get through the whole movie before they leave? Better yet, how long will we stay, do you think?"

The archer gulped and dug his fingertips into Natasha's hip in warning. He tried to ignore the way she was pressing against him. They were supposed to be celebrating someone else's engagement.

Which had interrupted their intended dance.

Oh well, third time's a charm…?

"You're all expected to be at our wedding tomorrow," Steve announced, striding into the team lounge two weeks later.

Natasha looked up sharply from where she and Pietro were putting together a jigsaw puzzle. "Isn't tomorrow your birthday, Yasha?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Да. Это панк решил, что мы должны выйти замуж на мой день рождения, так что я бы не забыть его. Как если бы я мог."*

Clearly the two supersoldiers had already had this discussion several times, because Steve interjected, "Yes, yes, I know. I'm the one likely to forget it, but we couldn't get married on my birthday because I don't want to wait that long. And this way, when I forget your birthday and our anniversary, you only get to be mad at me once."

"But he gets to be twice as mad," Pepper joked, sending a mock glare at Tony, who always forgot important dates.

Bucky smiled gratefully at the CEO, then patted the space next to him on the couch. "Last chance, punk. It's bad luck for me to see ya tomorrow before the wedding."

Steve flipped his fiancé the bird but sat down anyway.

"Tasha," Clint, who was making dinner at the other end of the room, tossed an orange at the Russian's head to get her attention.

The spy caught it without even looking. "Barton, you better be damn glad that didn't hit me."

"I am, believe me," he grinned. Now that she was looking at him, he signed, I expect you to save me at least three dances.

My dance card is all yours, handsome, came the snarky retort. The two exchanged affectionate smiles.

*Yes, this punk decided we should get married on my birthday so I wouldn't forget it. As if I could.

The wedding was a low key affair. It was held in a discreet and comfortably rustic Brooklyn restaurant in a building which had housed the newspaper Steve worked for before the war.

The band from the Smithsonian gala had made the trek to play again.

Natasha cried as her friends exchanged vows, and after the kiss she was the first one to reach them and give them a congratulatory hug.

Dinner was served, Tony made jokes about bouquets and garters, Steve and Bucky shared a dozen kisses, and finally the band began to play.

Clint was across the room stuck in a conversation with Jane Foster, Darcy, and Bruce. He sent Natasha a begging glance to come ask him to dance, but she laughed and allowed Thor to sweep her onto the floor. By the time Clint could excuse himself, the band had stopped for the cake cutting.

As soon as the next song began, Clint dragged Natasha onto the floor. All was going well until the heel of Natasha's shoe broke. The redhead laughed "I'm going to take that as a sign."

"Nope, you're not getting out of this that easily," Clint half-joked. He paused long enough to kick off his shoes and let the redhead remove hers, then pulled her back into his arms.

Thirty seconds later, Steve cut in so he could thank Natasha for all her support, blah blah blah.

It was a mildly irritated Clint who gobbled down a second piece of cake and waited impatiently for his turn to share a whole dance with his girlfriend. But, of course, as Natasha crept back over to him in her stocking feet, his phone rang. Nathaniel was sick and wanted Daddy to tell him a bedtime story.

And then a band member's wife went into labor, and he had to leave so he could get there as soon as possible. Of course, being the kind and generous guys they were, Bucky and Steve sent the band on its way with Tony's check and a Quinjet to get the husband to the hospital in time.

When Natasha and Clint got back to their floor of Avengers Tower, the blond pulled her into his arms and started dancing.

"You're adorable when you're being stubborn," Natasha smiled, running her fingers through his hair.

Clint shrugged. "I'm going to dance with you, come hell or high water."

The two swayed gently as they kissed for several minutes, when they broke apart, it was only far enough for Natasha to purr, "If you feel like dancing, may I suggest the horizontal tango?"

Phase 14: FAILED-FAILED-FAILED

Phase 15. Don't make her ask for your jacket; offer it.

"Fuck's sake, Clinton," Natasha grumbled from her position behind a snow-topped bush, "stop carrying on."

Next to her, the archer had been shaking for the past hour. It was -9° F, and he had never felt this cold in his life. "Do a recon vacation in Verkhoyansk, they said. It will be fun, they said," he sneered through chattering teeth.

The redhead rolled her eyes. "This is fun. It's really not particularly cold."

Clint knew winter survival training had been standard in the Red Room, so no doubt Natasha really was perfectly comfortable in this weather. He tugged his hat lower and tugged his scarf and jacket collar higher, so his whole face was covered but for a sliver. "Any movement?" He was supposed to be helping her look for suspicious activity to report to Bucky, Pietro, and Wanda; instead he was completely focused on survival.

Natasha sent him a sympathetic glance as she shook her head. "Nothing yet. Do you want my scarf?"

"No, I don't need your scarf," he grumbled. Although he knew his partner was only trying to be nice, he felt like taking her scarf was admitting defeat. If he let the cold beat him into submission, he was officially weak. Feeling the cold was mind over matter. If he could just show a little more mental discipline….

The redhead beside him stood abruptly, radioing in to their hidden counterparts. "Clint and I are done for the day. I'll set up surveillance to alert us if there's any movement, but I'm thinking this is a bust."

"Agreed," Wanda's voice crackled through their comms. "I think tomorrow we move to the next location."

The archer stood and followed Natasha back across the field, through the drainage pipes, and into the streets that would lead to the rent-by-the-week room where they were staying. "Do you think the heater is fixed yet?"

"Probably not," the assassin responded as she twined her fingers between Clint's. "There might be hot water, though. We'll be out of the wind and under the blankets," she assured gently.

It was only another few minutes before they were hustling up the stairs to their room. The temperature was only a few degrees off from the outside, and Clint tossed his coat at Natasha, grabbed a towel, and disappeared down the hall to the communal bathroom.

Shaking her head fondly, Natasha hung the soggy outerwear up, digging through the pockets to remove his gloves and scarf so they'd have time to dry before they went out again. She was just stepping away toward the bed when a beep issued from the phone they were keeping for this mission. She unzipped the inside pocket and grabbed the contents, surprised to find more than just the phone in her hand.

Dropping the drawstring bag and the crumpled paper on the bed, Natasha answered the phone. "Yasha?"

"Found some familiar faces. Moving in for the takedown. Meet me there?"

"Where?"

"Alternative F." Bucky's clipped voice was reminiscent of the version Natalia had known.

The redhead hummed an affirmative. "Wait for me." Without a backwards glance, she was gone.

Clint felt much better after his shower. He strolled back to the room, locked the door behind him, then froze. "Tash?" He knew she wasn't there, but he needed to confirm it. He spotted the crumpled paper on the bed and groaned. She'd seen the stupid magazine list. What if she thought their relationship stemmed from some sort of game?

No.

No, she was too smart for that. And the platinum band with the inset champagne diamonds would certainly prove otherwise if she cared to look inside the little velvet pouch.

He wasn't worried about her running off, despite her absence. They were on a mission, and she could take care of herself. There was no reason to believe her disappearance had anything to do with his plans to propose before they left Russia.

Though logically he knew this, there was still an anxious flutter in his heart. He crawled into bed, warding off the cold and waiting for his partner to walk back through the door.

It was a few hours before the dancer reentered the room. "Sorry for taking off," she apologized breezily, wiping blood off her hands and face with the towel still damp from Clint's shower. "Bucky and I met up with a couple … old contacts."

The older agent nodded from the bed. "Nothing to do with these then?" He held up the other items from his jacket pocket.

Natasha shrugged. "I don't know what those are. I was just trying to answer the phone." She ran her fingers through her hair and kicked off her boots.

"Come look, then."

The assassin obeyed the gentle command. She took the list first, read it over curiously, then laughed. She chucked the paper toward the waste paper basket. "Congratulations on finishing the project, you dork."

The archer joined her laughter. "As you might recall, it wasn't very successful."

"What's in the bag?"

Clint emptied the ring into his palm and held it out to her. "SHIELD offers all sorts of marital benefits."

"Maybe with Steve and Bucky and us married, Tony will finally propose to Pepper."

"Is that a yes?"

Natasha rolled her eye. "You never asked a question."

Will you marry me, you gorgeous smartass?

Put the ring on my damn finger before I do it myself. I want to get to the marathon sex.

Phase 15: FAILED.

Project overall: SUCCESS.

*My only one.