III.

The Hawk and the Widow

They head back to the inn side by side - walking, not running, Natasha having declared that an hour's run after the shit they've just been through is really all she needs. Surely S.H.I.E.L.D. training protocols for field assets have been suspended for a few days?

Clint knows she is just trying to protect him from himself, making sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself while suffering from sleep deprivation (he doesn't recall sleeping at all since New Mexico) and a concussion (the med tests did come out positive, thank God for patient confidentiality). All cogent reasons, so he doesn't protest, besides he really does kind of loathe running.

Especially now that he doesn't have anything left to run away from.

There's one more thing he needs to say, though, before he can lapse into silence.

"Just so we're clear, Natasha, I tried to kill you."

"Don't flatter yourself, Clint. I came a lot closer than you did."

He glances at her sideways. As things turned out she's not wrong, but he fails to see the humorous angle she's obviously trying to find.

"You don't seem to get it. I wanted to kill you."

She looks at him intently, but her voice is curiously flat when she makes her response – since he seems to expect one.

"And if you hadn't said my name after you hit your head on that railing, I probably would have had to kill you."

Good. He's got her where he needs her.

"About that …"

"What? You wish I had? Clint …"

He bites back the answer that came to him last night, in that chair on the dock, and shakes his head instead.

"No. But you hesitated. You never hesitate."

He can hear the soft intake of breath that tells him he's right.

"I … wanted to see what happens, whether that hit …"

She's bullshitting him, he knows, but he lets it go. He's made his point.

"Next time a guy who's been taken over by a crazy god tries to kill you, break his neck. Especially if the guy's just killed a good number of your colleagues. Is that clear, Agent Romanoff?"

"Like next time you get ordered by the Boss to put an arrow into a highly efficient Russian serial killer, you let fly – right, Agent Barton?"

Of course. He should have known. I owe him a debt …

"This was different, and you know it," he insists. "And you killing me would have been self-defense."

"Oh, I get it alright. Me killing you would have been perfectly okay, for both of us. No hard feelings, is that it?"

She stops in her tracks, stares at him, sudden understanding dawning in her eyes.

"You really think he's still in your head, don't you? Jesus, Barton. Are you trying to hand me a blank cheque here? A green light and instant absolution, in case you make a wrong move while you're asleep?"

Since that's exactly what he was trying to tell her he doesn't reply, just clenches his jaw a little. For some reason he can't fathom this pisses her off.

"You know, just for the record, I don't think you would have killed me. You got a couple of arrows off on that catwalk. None of them hit me."

"You are the liveliest moving target on the planet, Nat, and I was avoiding your feet, trying not to have my knee caps shattered. Of course I missed."

She snorts her derision. The day before, that same day, she'd seen him hit Chitauri on crazy-flying sleds right in the eye, while standing on a foot-wide ledge on top of a Manhattan skyscraper dodging things far worse than her feet.

"Please, Hawkeye. Think. You missed Fury, too, when you shot him in New Mexico."

"I didn't miss him. I got him in the shoul …"

Oh.

She really is good at this. Why did he fail to kill Fury?

"I think the only person on this beach who requires absolution is you, Clint. But you need to give it to yourself. I'll be here when you're ready to do that."

He doesn't really have an answer to that, at least not yet. Maybe at some point. But in the meantime he's said his piece, feels a bit better for it, and if she still wants to walk beside him, well, Natasha Romanoff has made it clear that she can handle herself.

…..

It's high noon when they get back to the Inn; someone has already pushed the chairs on the dock back into the norm of upscale resort living. A middle-aged couple that looks like cut-outs from a Ralph Lauren ad - he's the one who'd gone on about Manhattan property taxes last night - are taking in the sun, legs wrapped in crested woolen throws against a by now largely imagined chill. The heavily made-up woman turns at the sound of their footsteps. She wreathes her face in a welcoming smile, obviously eager for a conversation that doesn't involve her husband.

"Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Natasha pretends she doesn't hear and puts her arm around Clint, as if to whisper sweet nothings in his ear; what she actually says is, "Keep walking, Barton, or you'll get sucked into a fucking vortex."

He leans into her with practiced ease and pulls a suggestive smirk from somewhere in his reserves.

"Oh, sweetheart. Not in public, surely," he purrs just loud enough for their audience's benefit, hoping she hasn't felt his shoulders stiffen at her touch. "Let's go to our room for that."

They keep walking as the woman turns to her husband and somewhat accusingly informs him what a handsome young couple they are, those Smiths, so obviously in love, and when was the last time he talked to her like that?

Natasha tightens her grip on Clint's shoulder, having ignored both his telltale twitch and the unexpected heat that his breathy comment left on her neck. With a saucy wink to Mrs. Upper East Side, she steers him towards their room with brusque efficiency.

…..

Once behind closed doors, Clint insists on taking a shower before he does anything else, including collapsing with exhaustion. Natasha briefly considers arguing with him – he really does look like shit once he takes those glasses off, like he needs to sleep around the clock - but it's equally hard to miss the fact that he's done three workouts in a t-shirt he's worn since yesterday. And so she tells herself, if he wants a few minutes to indulge his usual fastidious hygiene habits, that's probably a good sign.

More to the point, though, his near-breakdown on the beach, not to mention his direct invitation to her to essentially feel free to kill him have slightly unnerved her. He seems like a live sparking wire right now, dangerous to the touch, if to himself more than to her. (Although she seems to set him off somehow.)

Maybe … maybe they could use a bit of distance for a bit. She watches the door to the bathroom click shut behind her partner with something perilously close to relief.

Out of habit she listens whether he locks the door or not. He always does, out of some misplaced sense of propriety; of course, they both know the lock would only slow her down by seconds if she needed/wanted to get in. In any event, he's gone for the moment and she can breathe, take stock.

Natasha curls up on the unslept-on couch, allowing her mind to flick briefly to the events of the last couple of days – to last night, those too-real nightmares. Magic and gods and monsters …

Your world hangs in the balance, and you bargain for one man?

That voice.

And when he screams, I will split his skull.

You mewling quim …

Just as quickly, her thoughts skitter away and fasten back on her partner, rather than her own memories. How had he been able to hold her - calm her - as he had, through the still-screaming reality of his own nightmare, in which he recoils from her every touch? It doesn't strike her as at all ironic that only seconds after welcoming a break from Clint' presence and some time alone with her own thoughts, she is now spending the duration of his absence thinking about him.

Because she might be forced to admit that it sure beats the alternative.

….

One good thing with staying in five-star accommodations, rather than in places like that roach motel S.H.I.E.L.D. had stuck Clint with in New Mexico, is the walk-in showers. This one has a rain head in the ceiling and two separate shower bars along the side with two heads each, so water is pretty much coming at him from everywhere at once. It feels pretty good, even in his current messed up state, and it has an unexpected side effect: He revives.

He knows it probably won't last long, but he's also conscious that there's still work to be done. He's spent the morning pretty well spilling his guts on that beach, but Natasha …

Leveling out is not a one-way street, shouldn't be. Those nightmares last night were just the beginning, he's convinced of that. Tip of the iceberg. Something she's not telling, and the closest he's come to getting a genuine reaction from her was when he told her she should kill him if Loki came back.

Round and round, looped in his head, he replays her words, from Loki's cell to the recovery room.

Love is for children. I owe him a debt. … It's really quite simple ...

I've been compromised. I've got red in my ledger ...

Something doesn't add up, something she's hiding, and Clint is pretty sure that holding Natasha through another night of shitty dreams (if he can bring himself to do it, if she'll let him, if she doesn't cuff him to the couch like she should) won't square the equation, for him or for her.

Somewhere, there's a variable he doesn't have. Yet.

Again:

Love is for children …

…..

For a while Natasha thinks he might have fallen asleep in the shower, and thinks about cracking the door open to check up on him. But then there are other noises, soap being put in a dish or something, the sound of hair being scrubbed, and it's clear he is awake.

And suddenly the seemingly endless sound of running water stops.

Clint steps out of the shower in a fresh t-shirt and a pair of those grey sweat shorts that he likes to sleep in; at least he seems prepared to go through the motions. His hair is still wet and, as usual, sticks up in several directions. Times like this, Clint Barton does not look much like one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most lethal assets.

What he does look like though, is a great deal more awake than he was just a few minutes ago. He even seems to have his usual intensity back, God knows how. The shower must have poured something into him, some new thought, some resolve, something he needs to deal with immediately – and that concerns her.

Because, she has a sneaking feeling, it does concern her. She had hoped for another day …

He sits down on the couch beside her, staring at his fingernails for a second as if to check whether the shower has done a good enough job on any residual alien grime and concrete dust. Apparently it has, because now he looks up and straight at her, with that determined set to his jaw that he always gets when he's scoped his target and is pulling his bowstring impossibly taut.

He takes her measure carefully before speaking, his voice low, almost gentle.

"So tell me, Tasha."

She is genuinely puzzled. She can't read him at all now, beyond the fact that he evidently has her in his sights.

"Tell you what?"

"Loki. What did he do to you? I know what he did to me. What'd he do to you?"

"Loki?"

Her voice reflexively takes on that calm, neutral tone it assumes when she is being questioned. He knows it, too, she can tell in his eyes. They don't waver. He's a sniper; he'll wait all day. Longer, if that's what it takes.

"I told you in the recovery room."

"No, you didn't."

His own tone is calm, patient, but determined. What is he after?

"You started to tell me you were compromised. That's pretty strong stuff in our profession, and you know it. But then you talked about wiping out ledgers again instead. You'd said the same thing to … him, too, before. That you had 'red in your ledger'. Time to cut the crap, Natasha, and skip the accounting metaphors. Tell me."

Her eyes shift to the wall and she crosses her arms before her chest as she hears the echo of Loki's voice, asking the same thing, and wonders whether his choice of words was an accident. He said Loki made him listen. Is this the god speaking?

Tell me.

"There's nothing to tell. You know what I said to him, so why do you ask?"

"Love is for children," Clint says. "Yeah, I heard that. I get that. I may even agree with it. Irrelevant. What about the bit about the debt?"

She hesitates a fraction, studies his face, looking for cues in his face. Tell me. What does he want to hear?

"The truth, Tasha."

He can read her, too, apparently.

"You said it to him. And then you said it to me."

"You heard what I told Loki."

"Yeah, that was ancient shit, me bringing you in instead of putting an arrow through your throat. Paid and repaid. Quito, Bratislava, São Tomé. Not a debt on my account, nothing you need to wipe out, and you know it. He knew it, too. Don't forget, he could read me, even if he couldn't read you."

Her eyes twitch a little; his own narrow, as he tries to figure whether that was a calculated move on her part, a pseudo-tell to convince him of her veracity. (Body Language 101, look at your mark's eyes. She teaches the course …)

"Do you really think I'd tell the fucking God of Lies anything remotely like the truth? That was an interrogation, Clint. I needed stuff from him, I gave him what he wanted in return."

Clint's bullshit meter dips into the red.

"I know what you told him wasn't the truth, Natasha. Didn't I just say that? But you see, the thing is – you told me the same thing. After I woke up, after you cut me loose. And I don't think you'd lie to me. I just don't know what it means."

His voice grows low, almost a whisper.

"What's the thing – call it a debt, whatever, I don't care - that got you so spooked that you would say you were compromised? And don't tell me it was Banner. Anyone with any brains would be scared of that. Besides, he apologized, and you forgave him. That ledger is clean. So, we're back to Loki, me and the red in your ledger."

She stares at him in bland defiance; she knows she has to give him something. He won't quit otherwise.

"Stark said, 'Loki hit us all where we live,' or something like that."

He thinks about that for the moment. Credit where credit is due.

"Stark's a pretty smart guy. Loki picked you from my brain for his very special attention. So, yeah."

"And based on what you've been telling me, that part is still working."

Clint almost smiles; now she is throwing his own black fears into his face. Dammit, she's good. But he's no slouch, either, even if he lacks her subtlety. As far as he is concerned, they have just reached the stage of the exercise where prodding becomes not only acceptable, but necessary.

"This isn't about me right now, Tasha. We did me, on the beach. It's your turn."

He takes a deep breath, leans back against his end of the couch and gives her a level look.

"You and I have just been through several days and various forms of hell. We agreed to come here to deal with it. I was there last night, so don't tell me there's nothing for you to work through. You were goddamn shaking, and it was all I could do to grab you and hold you down. And dammit, that was about the hardest thing I've had to do since this whole mess started, 'cause all I really wanted to do was run."

Clint is normally not a man of many words, and the length of his speech startles her as much as his admission.

"And then I spilled my guts to you out there on that beach, and that wasn't exactly fun either. So I think I'm entitled to some honesty in return. And the sooner, the better, I think. For both our sakes. Let's get this done."

She stiffens, and everything inside her screams at her to get indignant, to snarl at him, ask him what the hell he means and where the fuck does he get off? Normal leveling out is a few whispered words, a couple shots of vodka - not turning your insides out and screaming out a pain you didn't really want to know you felt ...

But he is sitting there beside her, as real as anything in her life. Battered and bruised and he should be dead from exhaustion – but he's still fighting. For what?

"Natasha."

It's a plea, an entreaty and absolution all at once, and she feels the shards starting to fall around her.

"Why did you say you were compromised? What's the red in that ledger of yours that Loki put there, that thing that made you want to go to war?"

She owes him an answer. When she finally gives it, her voice is tinged with fear, as she replays in her head the days that he was gone – when she saw his face on every monitor, every screen she passed on the carrier.

"You want to know what Loki did to me, Clint? You. That's what he did. He's the fucking God of Thieves and Lies, and he took you, he turned you into a walking lie."

And then she says one more thing that he didn't expect, although he should have known because it is true for both of them.

"You're the black in my ledger, Clint. And Loki made you red."

…..

Over the years since they have done this, gone to ground after a particularly difficult mission, they've developed a bit of a routine. She has endured his stony silence for days, handed him arrow after arrow to drill into imaginary targets, or silently packed their bags when they got thrown out of a cheap hotel because he kicked the wall until it dented.

He's held her through nightmares and nights when sleep just wouldn't come, he's let her scream at him in all the languages she knows and allowed her to lay a drumbeat on his chest (and man, she can hit hard).

Time and again, they've done this, brought themselves back to a place where they can function in their jobs, do them efficiently and effectively. Maybe she's succeeded in salvaging some pieces of herself the Red Room didn't reach; and maybe he's managed to prove that the endless string of betrayals that was his life before S.H.I.E.L.D. did not define him. Whatever they have done and however they have done it, it has been enough.

In all those years that they've spent as partners, there are lines they've never crossed, not even after the carnage of Sao Paolo, or the unholy mess that was Abidjan. It's ironic that it would take gods and monsters and portals into other worlds to make you see what's right in front of you.

He brushes a strand of red hair out of her face, almost as if he needs to see her more clearly just then. She hesitates a fraction at the familiar gesture, her breath catching in sudden recognition.

So that's what it means …

And then it's really obvious what they need to do, and suddenly, there are no lines to be crossed anymore; there's only them, claiming back what was taken from them. There's nothing particularly gentle about it when he pulls her close, or when her hand reaches around to bend his head so she can crush her mouth to his.

It's a gift of sorts, this first kiss, and it's staking a claim - it is closure and affirmation and benediction all in one. There's a hunger and a need that are very, very mutual, and damn it, it's good and right and true and what have they been waiting for all these years?

She runs her hands first over his back, then under his shirt, up and across his abdomen, feeling that incongruously soft skin over hard, solid muscle. Now that she is where she is and he is there with her, she wants to be as close as possible – no more barriers. She hikes the shirt up and he takes the hint, removing it quickly and throwing it across the room before reaching for her again.

No more lines.

He breathes her in and lowers his mouth to hers again, savoring the moment, the taste of her - here, solid, with him. A small, insistent voice in his head tries to tell him that this isn't happening, that this can't be happening, that Loki might make him strike at her from the recesses of his mind, and even if he doesn't, the last thing he needs right now is a pity fuck and all the complications that would bring.

But this is his partner, the woman he trusts with his life, who instead of killing him on that catwalk when she had the chance (and every right) cut him loose - just as he'd given her a chance and cut her loose, back then. Maybe that's their pattern, watch each other break and reassemble, and how is what they are doing now any different, really?

Natasha feels that moment of hesitation, the vibration in his touch, the small catch in his breath. But then it's over, and with an expert move on his part (one she barely feels and cannot but admire) her shirt is gone, followed by her brassiere; she sighs her desire and her relief in one and reaches for what she wants, for what she suddenly knows she needs.

His lips caress her breast and his tongue starts brushing her nipple, a little roughly, and she responds by running her fingers through his still-damp hair with one hand, raking her nails slightly over his back with the other. He shudders a little at a sensation that she knows to be poised between pleasure and pain - the window he went through left its marks, despite the leather - but it's the message he needs to receive, just as much as she needs to give it just then. He gasps his appreciation, and she smiles into his hair.

Their minds and their bodies are tools, finely honed instruments they inhabit and control with precision, and always to calculated effect. But maybe there are moments that aren't about control, when it's just about the feeling of skin on warm skin; lips running over callouses and spots that are surprisingly soft; tongues, dipping and tasting; small, involuntary sounds, gradually increasing as they become lost in each other.

In the end, it really is about trust and letting go, and when she finally opens to him and he enters, it's about pleasure and pain and completion and all that was taken restored.

No more lies.

…..

Thanks to years of training and necessity, Clint can fit more rest and recuperation into a ten-minute catnap than most people can into a weeklong coma, so when he wakes up three hours later with his arm draped around Natasha's waist he feels like a million bucks. Okay, maybe a hundred grand, adjusted for inflation. (His back and head still hurt.)

He knows bloody well that what they've just gone through isn't the end of it. But it's a start. Natasha talks about 'ledgers' and 'debts'; when it comes to certain events in his life he tends to work more with concepts like 'guilt,' 'anger,' and 'regret,' and those can be pretty resilient, not so easily shelved. And Clint just knows that there are things in his memory – things he sees through a blue-tinged lens, but very clearly - that will haunt him for a long time, regardless of any explanations he or anyone could make on his behalf. But in the meantime, because he is a professional and the kind of man who gets on with whatever needs to be done, Clint will work on his powers of compartmentalization, and he has no doubt that Natasha, the trained expert, will be there to help.

As for their partnership, maybe the evolution it has just undergone had been inevitable; he'd like to think so, because otherwise he'd have to ask Thor next time he sees him to pass his little brother a thank-you note. Suffice it to say, his and Natasha's diligent professionalism had been a hard nut to crack, but here they are now, and nothing Clint has ever done has felt this right.

Natasha wakes to the sensation of his tongue tracing a line along her neck before she feels his lips on her ear, her name a breath in the air. She opens her eyes to his, and any residual doubts either of them might have harboured about their new partnership evaporate in the face of the enthusiasm with which they both embrace its operationalization.

Over dinner (he orders the lamb, pink, just to confuse her) they decide to stay on Long Island for as long as they can get away with. They know they both need the break, plus it'll piss off Fury who has it coming.

They spend the next few days sleeping, walking on the beach, hanging out in the jaccuzzi or getting massages, and entertaining each other with papers, blogs and magazine specials about "the battle for New York."

There are a few more nightmares on her part and he goes silent on her at odd moments, but whenever that happens the other is there and they get through it.

The do-not-disturb sign dangles from their door a fair bit.

On Day Four, Clint actually tries the frittata at breakfast (he picks out the green peppers and fastidiously parks them on the side of his plate) and Natasha orders the steak frites for dinner (she makes him finish her meat).

On the morning of Day Six, Fury calls Natasha's smartphone. Why, he doesn't really say. Maybe accounting has noticed the damage to the S.H.I.E.L.D. corporate AmEx card (the Inn has an extensive and exclusive wine list and the spa treatments add up), or maybe he just misses them, although that's unlikely. Perhaps he wants Clint to come and explain to internal security just how he almost brought the helicarrier down with a simple plan and a couple of well-placed arrows.

Most likely, though, the Director just remembered that two of the Avengers are actually on his payroll and therefore can be called in to save the world, make it a better place. Not all at once, of course - that requires the whole team - but incrementally, one target at a time.

They're still in bed when he calls; It's seven a.m., but he doesn't apologize. To save time and an inevitable second phone call, Natasha puts the boss on the speakerphone while Clint rolls his eyes at her. Of course Fury notices the change in the acoustics. He just asks, his tone a little pointed, "Barton there, too?"

"Yep," says Clint, and proceeds to do something with his left hand that forces Natasha to gasp a little. She frowns pointedly at the phone in her hand, but all she gets back is an insolent smirk.

Fury doesn't explain what he actually wants, but he also doesn't say the magic words, I need you to come in. So maybe all he wants is to check up on them, to see if they've killed each other yet working through the shit they've just been through. What he does say is, "You planning on coming back to work anytime?"

Clint takes it upon himself to respond, even though Natasha is the one Fury actually called.

"We were thinking of a week Thursday, sir."

Natasha suppresses a snort. Clint lowers his head and brushes her lips with the tip of his tongue, and applies a little more pressure with his fingers … there. Her eyes flash a heavy-lidded bastard! at him, but he just grins again as she squirms under his touch. Good thing her phone isn't video enabled.

Maybe Fury knows something is up, or maybe he's just softened a little in the wake of recent events (doubtful). At the very least, his temporal vocabulary has expanded beyond the only word he used to know, which was "Now!"

"Monday, agents. I expect you to report back in on Monday."

"Tuesday. Around tea time," Clint responds. "There's a vacation entitlement in our contracts, sir. Look it up."

And just in case Fury wants to come back with a counter-offer or a veiled threat, he turns off the phone and removes the battery. Natasha swats both out of his hand and pulls him down on top of her with a growl, before flipping him on his back, straddling him and pinning both his wrists to the mattress.

"You'll pay for that, Barton," she growls in her best Black Widow voice, giving a squeeze with her lethal thighs just to reinforce the message.

"By all means," he says with a lazy grin.

…..

On the drive back they finally have the inevitable discussion about how their colleagues at S.H.I.E.L.D. will deal with what they have become, and whether it even matters? Most of the support staff (including Hill, who's a serious gossip) think they've been sleeping together for years anyway.

Fury, they figure, won't give a shit, as long as his assets stay sharp and fully deployable. Fraternization rules are for people who can't handle themselves, and they're not children. The Director may actually be pleased – think of the realism they can now inject into cover stories - not to mention he won't have to shell out for separate rooms anymore while they're on mission.

Coulson would have been happy for them, in his own quiet way. And so Clint floats the idea of coming out at Phil's memorial service: "Like, let's hold hands or something?"

To his surprise Natasha agrees, not because she thinks it's necessary but because, well … having two of the Avengers be an item would have appealed to Phil's not-so-inner geek. It'd be like a gift.

As it turns out, though, the memorial service for Coulson never happens. Clint thinks it's because Fury is in denial, or else just because he's a ruthless and unsentimental prick (Hill told everybody about that stunt with the Captain America cards, Clint heard about it in the med lab that first night).

Natasha, who knows something about deaths that aren't, theorizes that maybe Coulson has just gone to ground somewhere in a rehab facility, to recover from a major chest wound. And that he'll show up again at some point, to make snippy remarks about how they routinely leave stuff out of their mission reports and to kick up a fuss about his no longer mint-condition cards. Clint likes Natasha's idea a lot better than his, and decides to go with it – for now, anyway.

And so, basically, they just go on as they always have. They're partners, always have been (well, it seems like always). They share stakeouts, battle strategies, hideous food and worse accommodations; they train and throw each other around on the mat (okay, she mostly throws him, but he does hold his own); and they dress each other's wounds or curse Fury when things go pear shaped in the field.

Natasha accuses Clint of wallowing when she finds him pouring over the casualty lists again, but when she sees he's trying to compose a letter of condolence to the families she asks Pepper, who's good at comms, for a few discrete suggestions. For a while Clint finds excellent reasons for being in the same room with Natasha whenever Banner turns up on the carrier, but the good Doctor really is a big pussycat when he's not going green, and so after a while it just seems ridiculous and he stops.

She continues to snark at him when he drinks too much coffee or refuses to even consider a vegetable that isn't an olive or a potato, while he gets cross when she won't see the medics even when she's bleeding profusely. She cuffs him in the arm when he makes smartass remarks in meetings just because "someone needed to cut through the bullshit," and he tells her to look at the Big Picture once in a while. "You know, the view from a thousand feet up." They practice the t'ai chi for their groupies from accounting (who will stop bugging them about that AmEx bill); she whispers private jokes into his ear when he's being too intense and yes, he does smile.

And no one notices a damn thing, because really, not that much has changed.

But there are two new truths in their own private canon: One, they will never use the names "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" for cover again; and Two, they will both remember Long Island pretty much exactly the same.