Love is for children, she says, but Natasha was never a child.

The Black Widow jumps and gets her legs around his neck, and this is not how Clint had envisioned their first conversation.

It's hardly the context he'd envision for spending time between her thighs, either, but that's really, extremely beside the point at the moment.

Really, he hadn't expected a conversation at all. It was a clear shot he'd anticipated, but for him, hey, that could mean almost anything.

She flips him easily, and his head hits the concrete with dull, ringing impact. He reaches for an arrow even as it does, thankful she hasn't tried anything with his bow. He suspects she has more respect for his weapon than his life.

He is outmatched and knows it. His hand-to-hand training is extensive, the skills he picked up long before it even more so, but the Black Widow moves in a predatory, unpredictable dance, and she knows her way around a knife. Or two or three. At once.

Why he didn't kill her when he had the perfect chance, he isn't sure. Probably wanted to test himself, knowing she was better. He doesn't encounter that every day.

He gets a grip on her wrist as she's going for a kick and twists her arm till she brings them both rolling to the ground. She springs to her feet within seconds. It's enough time to grab his arrow and aim for the neck, but she's crouching with a gun pressed to his temple before he can shoot.

"Agent Barton," she says, and it sounds like the tinge of an accent is intentional, like she wants to remind him that she's still speaking a language he can't comprehend.

Someone outside their line of work might mistake her look as blank, even bored. Clint sees the harsh focus in her eyes, and it's alive. He feels an admiring chill at her satisfaction. It's something he wishes for, pride in his accomplishments rather than the skill they require. It's hard when your greatest successes keep you awake at night.

"Romanoff." He glances to what he can see of the gun and gambles. "Can I ask you to make it quick?"

She presses the barrel a little harder into his skin. "Why didn't you kill me yesterday?"

He looks her hard in the eyes and shrugs, unflinching as his bare shoulders scrape against the concrete. "Look, I'm sure you get this a lot—"

"If you're about to tell me I'm pretty, your brains are about to see the other side of the street."

"No," he breathes, voice steady. He's terrified of her, but not so much of death. "Not that kind of proposition."

Love is for children means love is for the innocent means love is for people who do not know loss means love is for people without blood on their hands.

Love is for people, is what it means.

It's different at S.H.I.E.L.D. once she's there.

They have their own language, for one thing. Coulson mentions it to him once, something about exceptional awareness of each other's bodies at all times, which, well, yeah, he's pretty sure everyone's exceptionally aware of Natasha's body, but once he starts paying attention, he notices the signals they've developed, movements, shifts, and touches that no one else can read.

A hand on her shoulder means "look" or "wait," but it is also a gesture of trust. He makes his hands, his weapons, vulnerable, and she doesn't let just anyone stand at her back, lets even fewer touch her. He is as close as she comes to unguarded.

It's flattering. It's confusing.

More confusing is the blind, foolish trust he has in her.

She asks him about it once in a hotel room in Vienna, quiet and cleaning a cut on his forehead while their attacker's blood pools around mirror shards and cracks in the bathroom tile. "Why do you think I won't put a bullet in your head the moment you look away?"

It's a Natasha question, always a Why do you think? and never a How do you know?

So he tells her. "I don't know."

She stands over him and touches his face, tilts his head back gently and searches for something in his eyes.

People think Natasha is a machine.

Clint knows better.

Years, kills, and cities later, she calls him in New Mexico.

"How's Coulson?" she asks, and he tells her, "We're fine."

When she mmhms like she doesn't believe him, he goes on. "Can't say as much for some of the guards. It was a weird night."

He doesn't ask her how she knows about the shit that's going down out here. She's Natasha. Of course she knows.

"Get back in one piece," she says. "Two, max. And tell Phil I said hi."

"Take care, Tasha."

The fact remains that Natasha was never a child.

Natasha never learned to love.

"Rather see you shoot him," she whispers in his ear when they see the Asgardians off. He smiles. So would he.

They told him—the others, Fury, Hill—that she'd been worried and hadn't bothered to hide it. That while he'd been…out, she'd checked S.H.I.E.L.D.'s readings on him every time she passed a computer. That she'd been quiet in a way that didn't scream superiority. That it had been frightening.

She told him in short sentences about the Hulk. About going to meet him right after. About fighting to kill and getting lucky instead.

He put his hand in her hair, and she curled her legs up and stared at the wall.

They say goodbye to Stark, Banner, and Rogers and ride off in the same car.

"I asked Fury for an assignment together," she mentions as she drives. "Hope you don't mind."

"I don't."

"Should be a piece of cake. He's not giving us anything huge right after this mess."

"You mean he's not giving me anything huge after Loki," he corrects. "You don't have to stay behind with me, you know."

"I know." He thinks he sees her smile, but it's only a glimpse in the mirror. "But I missed you."

His head snaps up. "Are you about to kill me?"

She definitely smiles this time. "Barton, I'm always about to kill you."

Hey. She's a fast learner.