Avengers 1. Moscow

**Empty Promises**

With his back to the bed, sore muscles and bruised skin against the clean sheets, the weight of her body on his is familiar. They move in perfect synchrony, a perfect rhythm that they learned in the quiet moments after missions, in motel rooms and in the shadows of an agency who dealt in espionage and death.

He knows as she moves over and around him, her tongue dancing lazily with his own, that he loves her and the thought is a painful one. People in their line of work can not afford to fall in love, to do so is to tempt the fates to take everything from them. The thought of living when she no longer does the same is agonizing, as if the world is somehow off balance and the planets are no longer aligned.

Afterwards, they lie side by side, her legs tangled with his and their noses almost touching. In the quiet moments between them, he finds peace. She does too, he knows it. They've never needed words to give weight to what they share, words are insignificant when compared with the heavy, vital weight of their bond in his bones. He doesn't need to hear I love you when she tells him a thousand different ways without ever opening her mouth.

It doesn't seem to matter how many times they promise each other that it is the last time. They are empty promises made in daylight moments and then broken in their most vulnerable ones. They are apologies of weakness that are traded between midnight kisses and words of resolve that accompany the breaking of the dawn while their heartbeats slow and their skin remains warmed by their shared body heat and fading lust.

The haunting boldness of her eyes causes his insides to churn as she looks at him and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Looks like we need to make those promises that this will never happen again," she admits with a soft smile, pulling the sheet around herself more tightly.

"No we don't," he replies, pressing a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, a place that he knows is almost guaranteed to draw a shaky breath from her. She doesn't disappoint. He strokes his fingers gently up and down the soft skin of her back, counting the delicate bones of her spine, and relaxes, especially when he turns her hand so that her palm rests against his cheek. "We'd only be lying after all..."


	2. Perugia

"You're really okay?" she asks, holding his face between her palms so that she can look him directly in the eye. She isn't one to fuss, not really, but there was so much blood and he had been so still on the ground that she had seriously thought for a second that he wasn't going to get up again.

"I'm fine," he replies, allowing her the time she needs to realise that he is telling her the truth. He really is okay. He isn't going anywhere. Resting her head against his bare shoulder, she slips one hand inside the loose fabric of his shirt, stroking his chest until her palm comes to rest over the reassuringly strong thud of his heart. "Doc says I'll be just perfect..."

She cuts him off, closing the distance between their mouths, pressing her lips against his own, chaste at first – a reassurance- until the fire inside her takes hold, fear and relief and desire mixing as his heart beats faster against her palm. She doesn't wait for a reaction, or a confirmation that her actions are acceptable, just crushes her mouth to his and takes permission from what she finds there. She tastes the need and desperation that comes off them in waves and she knows from the way that his grip tightens on her that he does too. She kisses him until she tastes blood, her anger and desperation shifting and becoming something equally dangerous to them both, something they are powerless to deny. It's enough to make him move. They move in tandem, working together to shed their clothing with gentle fingers and harnessed impatience, ending in a tangle of limbs atop the bed.

Moonlight paints the walls of the apartment with silver as they work together to forget the horrors of the day in the way that works best for them. The contact and the warmth of his skin make her shiver, chasing away the cold that she didn't even realise she felt. His arm closes around her , his free hand twining his fingers with hers as he covers her body with his own. Natasha rocks her hips in time with his own, desperation replaced by something calmer, something reassuring as their eyes meet. Friction and pressure and the slow glide of his skin against hers, the gentle advance and retreat of his mouth and hips, reassuring her that he is there, he is safe and no matter what the world throws at them they still have each other.

What begins as gentle reassurance soon pushes the limits of their injuries, but there is no room for pain in the bed with them. They can take things slowly, savour the sensations that they are so good at calling from one another. The past has taught them that they can ignore the strain in their muscles because a few aches are worth knowing that they are both alive and breathing. Discomfort from an injury is a reminder that they are alive and she never feels more alive than in these moments with him. In these stolen moments between midnight and morning, every policy that SHIELD has can go to hell, Clint is all she needs.

Skin glistening with every push and pull, their bodies work instinctively to satisfy the need that takes hold in them when they are alone together. There is something beautiful in the way he looks at her, the way that when they are together they can seemingly touch the foundations of one another so easily. She belongs to him, has done since almost the first moment they met she realises, just as he has always belonged to her.

Their affair has been one of secrets and silence and Clint is a quiet man by nature, a man of depths that few can claim to know, so the sound of her name on his lips at that crucial moment is the sweetest sound Natasha can hear. When he murmurs her name like a man who has found his religion, she knows that she is home. It is this moment as stars explode behind her eyelids and he steals her breath away with another kiss, that she finally understands what is happening between them and realises that a time will come when she wants more than this, that one day she will want him to be more than her love in the shadows.

One day, Natasha Romanoff might well want to stand in the light with this man at her side but for today she will take what she can get safe in the knowledge that it is not meaningless after all.


	3. Marrakech

"Clint…" His control shattering at the sound of his name whispered against the sensitive skin beneath his ear, he bucks his hips hard against hers burying himself fully inside her one last time. As she falls over the edge of the cliff he has been holding her on, her eyes lock with his and she cries her release into the dark, his hand tightening in her hair to ensure that they share this moment fully with one-another.

The familiar sweet rush of hormones tears through her scalding her from the inside out. Squeezing him hard she rides the waves of her pleasure and his expression tightens in surprise. The squeeze is his undoing, a look of soft astonishment crosses his face as he crashes, all of his defences falling away as he cries out and whispers her name like a prayer. The reverence in his voice and the warmth in his eyes is enough to send her falling again, riding the aftershocks until they lie momentarily spent and shuddering atop the sheets.

In the afterglow she collapses onto his chest, contented, and surrenders herself body and soul to his kisses. He strokes her hair and holds her to him kissing her as though it's the most important thing he's ever done while their heartbeats thunder against one another.

"You'll be the death of me y'know," he whispers, his voice husky with desire. Natasha suppresses a shudder at his choice of words knowing that tomorrow he will be more than a thousand miles away and she will be preparing for a solo mission of her own. Neither of them knows what the future holds, that's why every moment, every breath, every kiss means so much.

Eventually, their breathing slows and the coolness of the night envelops them. In these moments of calm, when his expression is unguarded, she commits every detail of his soft face to memory lest she never witness it again.

She presses her lips softly against his and smiles. "Best enjoy every moment we have left then," she breathes against him as his hands trace her spine. His answering grin is all she needs to chase away the thoughts of tomorrow.


	4. Boston

The moonlight on his bare skin paints his scars in shades of silver, each of them a reminder of the kind of life they lead and its dangers. There's a new one, recently added to the collection, tiny though it is, barely noticeable if you don't know where to look. Natasha knows, she knows that this particular scar is the reason she and Clint haven't gone much beyond kissing in the days since he got it, and even that has been a rarity. He is afraid of this scar and of what it might mean because it was left by the man who turned him against her.

Tracing her fingers gently over the mark, she tries not to notice the way he shivers, shoulders tightening, body shifting in his unease. She hears him swallow, feels his heart pick up pace within his chest and she moves to reassure him, wrapping her arms and legs around him where they lie among the nest of covers. She doesn't want his fear but that doesn't mean that she doesn't understand where it comes from.

"It's still in me Tasha," he whispers, trembling in her arms. His voice isn't his own any more, it's empty, dark, and she can hear the echoes inside. "How do I move on from this when I don't know if he's coming back."

Silently, inwardly, Natasha curses Loki for the damage he has done. She hates him for the fissures that she sees in Clint's memory and the doubts he has placed in his mind. Outwardly, she says nothing, just holds him to her, her equal, her partner, lover and friend. When he buries his face in her shoulder and tightens his hold on her, hiding the tears that she is sure are threatening to spill, she gives him the illusion of privacy but she stays. Until he tells her to leave, she will be right at his side.

"I know you're afraid," she tells him softly, "but I'm not. I look into your eyes and I only see you, he isn't there Clint." She isn't sure whether she is saying the right thing until she feels some of the tension ease out of him.

"I'm so tired," he admits, pulling back to look at her. She knows that he hasn't been sleeping well since the events in New York and now she sees the truth that she has been blind to in the weeks that have passed since. She recognises that he isn't pulling away from her, from them, but that he is trying to protect her in the event that the situation wasn't over. She moves on instinct, easing him over onto his side so that he faces away from her, stretching out her body behind his own and spooning him. She doesn't smile, doesn't make light of his exhaustion or the strength he has shown to make it this far, just wraps one arm around his waist.

"Then sleep," she tells him, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. He doesn't argue, doesn't fight, just looks at her in a way that makes her feel dizzy. He appreciates the patience she is showing him, he really does. She isn't patient by nature but for him she will wait, some things are worth waiting for and if he needs to be sure before he resumes their relationship, well, she will give him all the time he needs.

She holds him until he sleeps, and then continues holding him, providing him safety in the circle of her arms. He whispers her name as he shifts against her, such need and affection in the word that she knows she is right to wait. Her boy, her love, is still in there and with every day he's gets a little closer to being himself again. Natasha stays awake for the rest of the night, watching over him while he heals.


	5. Budapest

They barely made it through the door of the apartment before he was on her, hand fisting almost painfully in her hair as he presses her back against the wall. Fuelled by vodka and the tension that has been simmering between them since New York, his lips plunder hers with a tenderness that is almost bruising.

Caught in the moment, the hunger for something real and true brings them together, the whisper of skin against skin brushing aside all worries of what might be. Back in the city where it all began, the desire to chase they shadows from one another's eyes is close to all consuming. It's been too long since she last felt the roaring heat of him against her, too long since he stole her breath and made her heart speed up and slow down all at once.

With skilled fingers they pull at clothing, trading kisses and caresses until he has her exactly where he wants her. Knowing that this is a milestone for him, that his fear of what might happen if he loses control has been holding him back for months, she lets him set the pace and gives herself over to him without reservation. He doesn't disappoint. With lips and teeth and tongue he feeds on her, leaving her shuddering as he draws out every sensation until her knees threaten to buckle and he draws soft purring sounds from deep within her throat.

She arches against him bringing their bodies closer and relishing the friction that the movement creates. "Impatient are we?" he teases as his calloused hands trace up her thighs. He chuckles darkly against the soft skin of her throat, his right hand tangling in her hair as he continues to explore her. Without warning he lifts her pulling her flush against him and she climbs his body with a soft cry, blood warming for him, both legs wrapping tightly around his waist. He manages her weight easily, eating up the distance to the bedroom with long strides and drops her to the mattress where he can devour her with hungry eyes.

He kisses his way up her body, all impatience forgotten, beginning at her ankles and stopping when his hips rest between her thighs and he can claim her mouth. Taking his time, drawing out every caress, Clint reminds her somewhat creatively that he knows her better than any man she has ever known. He smiles against her mouth, his fingers lacing with her own as he joins their bodies. This is the moment that she craves the most, the moment when she surrenders herself to his strong embrace, his fierce, possessive hold, the moment that he turns what transpires between them into a communion of body and soul. In moments like this, she is his and he is hers.

In time she loses track of all but the scent of him and the brush of his skin. His fingers are like fire, leaving burning trails wherever he touches, teasing trails across her collar bones, clutching hands at her hips, a gentle touch where he lifts her jaw so that he can claim her mouth. The sensations that he calls from her are too delicious to ignore, so much more precious for having thought she might have lost him forever, instinct guiding their movements and intuition stopping them from pushing one another too far too fast. She breathes him in, letting him claim her and assert his dominance over her, melting beneath him while he does it.

He demands that she share the most intimate of moments with him entirely, without flinching and without looking away. He ensures that nothing can save them from the wildfire in one another's eyes. She arches her back and he captures her mouth, swallowing the sounds that she makes for him, eyes burning into hers as they both shatter apart and come back together in the passing of a moment.

In the wake of the storm they lie together, spent and shuddering atop the mattress, hands still touching, close enough to share every breath. Unwilling to acknowledge the rest of the world, they hover on the edges of reality, wishing that the night and this moment can go on forever.

"I've never told you that I..." he whispers, trailing off with an awkwardness, an insecurity, that rouses something fierce and protective in her. She looks into his eyes and knows exactly what he is trying to say. Heart thundering against his, Natasha guides his face to hers and kisses him in a way that conveys more than any words could. She offers him a soft smile when he rolls away and tucks her into his side, pulling the sheet over them both.

"You don't have to," she replies softly, still looking him directly in the eye, knowing that they can no longer hide from the reality of what they mean to each other. "You tell me a hundred ways every single day."


	6. Odessa

Favouring her with one of his intense iron-grey stares, Barton causes her racing thoughts to still and eases a tightness in her chest that she hadn't even known was there. Somehow just knowing that he is there at her side makes things better. Just knowing that he is close by makes it easier to focus through the near blinding pain that assaults her temples and makes her wish for unconsciousness.

"Shouldn't be here," she manages to grind out, pressing her fingers into her temples and screwing her eyes shut at the soft, yet inexplicably blinding, light that spills into the room through the partially closed bathroom door. She knows that if she is injured SHIELD's medical personnel will be on their way and that if they find him here their relationship will become common knowledge and the subject of water cooler gossip – something they have been actively trying to avoid.

He tuts softly under his breath and adjusts the pillow beneath her head to help her settle more comfortably. "Did you really think that I was just going to leave you alone after that head injury?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Although she is growing used to waking up beneath his gaze, she feels little comfort in the way he looks at her now, a curious blend of sympathy and concern that makes her feel weightless and curiously disconnected from her body. She knows this look, knows all of his looks, this is the one that tells her that she was hurt worse than she realises and that she scared him.

Turning her face into the pillow and trying to focus on her breathing, Natasha gets the distinct impression that she is missing something significant. "My head really hurts," she whimpers, closing her eyes again. He was instantly there, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead and murmuring something soothing. Although she can barely make out the words over the rushing of blood in her ears, the tone is lovely and she appreciates the effort.

"I was starting to worry that you weren't going to wake up," he admits when he has finished recounting the events of the previous day. Strangely, she finds that she doesn't mind being unable to recall the hand to hand combat on a mezzanine walkway that ended in a concussion. The memories of insisting that they return to the hotel rather than staying in the hospital are rather blurry too but she is glad that he did what she asked.

"You stayed with me this whole time?" she asks quietly, afraid that even the sound of her own voice might start a riot in her skull.

He takes her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. "Of course I did," he replies simply. There is so much more meaning in those simple words than she can decipher in her current condition, all that matters is that he is there, has always been there.

A sudden, powerful, wave of nausea rocks her, sending her rolling onto her side where supported by his arms she retches violently into a basin that he has already positioned by the bed. The room swirls around her as he holds her, whispering sweet words. They've both had a few concussions over the years so they know the drill, unfortunately vomiting is part of the process. It doesn't bother her that he sees her in such a vulnerable state, she makes herself vulnerable to him every time they sleep in the same room, every time she lets him treat her injuries after a mission. It doesn't bother him because he's man enough to deal with almost anything she can throw at him and God knows he's seen worse from her over the years.

Gently, Clint eases her back onto the pillows, wiping her face and mouth with the damp cloth he had earlier used to wipe her brow. "Lie back," he soothes, "you need to sleep it off, stop fighting it and let the meds work Tasha."

Natasha closes her eyes, tries to follow his instructions. She hears him clearing away the basin, hears water running in the bathroom and then she is aware of him placing the now clean bowl back by the bed. She knows that he should go, knows that she doesn't ever want him to leave her side. Here, back in her mother country, back where her life as an assassin began, she never sleeps easy, rarely feels safe in her bed, always worries that the ghosts of her past will catch up with her. Only he makes her feel safe here, only he can stop her fears from reaching her when she is unable to protect herself. Exhaustion and pain and the tiniest hint of vulnerability loosen her tongue. "Don't leave me," she whispers, glancing at him where he crouches at her side.

Barton nods once, rises from his knees and moves to the chair that he has positioned so that he can watch over her and gives her a slight smile. "I'm not going anywhere," he says softly.

As lies there with her eyes closed, Natasha hears his chair move and feels his fingers slip into hers. As his thumb strokes gently over the back of her bruised knuckles, she stops fighting. Clint will watch over her, he will protect her. With that knowledge she can sleep.


	7. Kabul

She is there beside him moments after the bomb detonates. Lying on his side on the glass strewn ground, Clint feels like he is dying, every breath a screaming protest in his lungs, every movement making his body howl in an agony more excruciating than any he has ever felt before. Her face swims into focus, jade eyes unflinching as they stare down at him.

"Just breathe," she tells him. He does, instinctively listening to the one voice he trusts not to lead him astray, even when he is reliant on his vision to tell him what she is saying over the ringing in his ears. Her fingers find his own and he feels safer, warmer. He holds onto her with an iron grip, desperately reassuring himself that she is really there.

He hears noise all around him, screaming, sirens. Amid the rubble and the smoke, he clings to Natasha and wishes for the time to tell her all the things he needs her to hear. Thoughts turning inwards, he considers the wealth of memories that surround his time with her, the weight of missed opportunities and unspoken words. If home is where the heart is, then his home is always with the woman who cradles him now.

He turns his head towards her, struggling to form the words he wants. "Please don't leave me," he croaks, aware of the taste of his own blood in the back of his throat and the heavy smell of copper on the air.

She doesn't flinch as she meets his gaze, her eyes haunting, soft and knowing. "Not going anywhere without you," she replies softly, caressing his cheek with her free hand. "Just breathe. Stay with me Barton. Stay calm."


	8. Austin

"You're awake," Clint murmurs, pressing his body tighter into the back of hers until she can feel the reassuringly strong thud of his heart. She loves the feeling of his heart beating against her own, loves the feeling of his skin against hers. One arm slides around her waist, fingers splaying out across the skin of her stomach as if he would stop her from running away from him. There is nothing overtly sexual in his movement, although the feeling of his hands on her is enough to speed her pulse, the contact is all about comfort and a connection that still has the ability to take them by surprise.

They always sleep together now, they haven't spent a night apart since he was released from the hospital after the blast in Kabul, each needing to know that the other is close by in case of trouble. So far it has been relatively easy to maintain their proximity to one another without questions being raised. Everyone knows that when one of them is injured they won't be parted, it's the rule they've had since shortly after they became partners when Natasha was shot during a mission in Bolivia. Fury is footing the bill for this rather nice two bedroom apartment while Clint recuperates and it has given them time to deal with the fact that he could have died. Natasha Romanoff never wants to feel the way she did that day as long as she lives.

"I can't think of a nicer way to wake up," she teases, turning her face towards his and laying a gentle kiss on his mouth. Clint grins at her, eyes flashing with colour as he tightens his arm around her and pulls her back even tighter to his body.

"You can't think of a better wake up call than me lying behind you?" he chuckles. "I'm hurt Nat, I might have to try harder."

Natasha smiles at him. "You might just have to do that," she informs him. It is a result of the closeness they share that she can poke fun at him about such things without hurting his feelings. The man has a healthy ego and she knows that he can take a joke or three without crumbling, especially since she is sure that he can see that she adores him whenever her eyes meet his own. She knows that she can say that about him.

Clint's smile is that of a lover, filled with the dark knowledge of dozens of nights they have spent wrapped around one another in the dark. He turns her chin up to his with his fingertips and kisses her softly. Smiling against his mouth, Natasha arches her body against his own, earning a sharp inhalation of breath from his lips as he pulls away to look down at her in surprise. With any other man she wouldn't play games like this, pushing the buttons of someone who could potentially overpower her if the game gets out of hand, but this is Clint, a man who is as open and giving as a lover as he is a friend. They both know where the boundaries are and she hasn't gone anywhere near them.

He catches her wrist, bringing his face close enough to her own that a breath will press his lips to hers. "Keep on stretching like that and you'll give me other ideas Natasha," he whispers. She shivers with anticipation as she considers the possibilities but then forces herself to fix him with a serious look.

"You're still healing," she reminds him softly, turning in the circle of his arms so that she can trace her fingers over the fresh red scar that follows the line of his ribs. This time when she shivers it is for a different reason entirely. The medics did an amazing job on him after the blast, fixing a punctured lung and removing shrapnel from his chest and abdomen and all that is left of those wounds now is fresh scar tissue and lingering pain. Scars that will always remind her of that terrifying moment when his eyes slipped closed during the journey to the medical base, of the way that his hand had felt so limp in hers. They will always remind her of the moment that she nearly lost him.

He senses the change in her at once, pulling her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her to stop the shaking that she cannot stop herself. Foreheads touching, they wait out the worst of it, Natasha breathing in the scent of him, pulling his essence deep into her lungs and trying to hold him there. He doesn't offer her platitudes or tell her that she should forget what happened and she is grateful because the life that they lead has no room for complacency. They both know that each day could be their last, that knowledge is the weight that they carry everywhere with them.

"I'm going to be just fine, stronger every day." He tells her firmly, offering reassurance that this most recent incident is over. He is still beside her, always beside her. "Dry your eyes," he says quietly, brushing away her tears with his thumbs, "we got nothing to be sad for you and me."

Natasha sniffs and offers him a smile, locking away her fears by force of will. He has not survived so long by being careless. Clint is careful, plans out every possibility before he walks into any situation, he does everything that he can to make sure that they come back to one another at the end of the day. She can't ask for more than that.

"You okay?" he asks, when she calms herself sufficiently to answer without her voice quivering. "Anything I can do?"

She curls into his arms again, letting his body spoon hers, wrapping her arms around his. "Just stay," she replies, echoing words said to him after the blast, "just hold me for a minute and promise me you'll always find your way back to me."

His tightening arms are response enough for her.


	9. Frankfurt

"Why do you want to do that?" Natasha asks, turning from her position by the window to fix him with a speculative look. Clint takes no offence to the question or her obvious suspicion. From his position on the bed he simply meets her gaze and tries to find the words to explain his reasons.

For too long they have hidden their relationship, and he is under no illusions that is anything less than a relationship, beneath a layer of professional responsibility. They agreed long ago that they would always be partners and friends before lovers, but lately he finds that he wants more. He wants to show her the man he was before he became the agent so that she can own a part of him that so few others do. "I don't know," he admits, "why did you get that tattoo when we were in New York?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow in his direction, as if the answer should be obvious, "to remind me of you."

Clint allows himself to think back to the first time he spotted that tattoo, just a quick glimpse while they were sharing a quick shower after a training session. He hadn't known that she'd gotten it and he was still, truthfully, a little bit surprised at the level of investment it showed in their partnership. She hadn't gone out and had his name tattooed on her or anything, but the small, simple depiction of an archer, drawn in black ink on the soft skin of her right hip was a declaration non the less. She had permanently etched him into her skin, carrying a reminder of him everywhere and it meant more to him than he could express.

"It's just that after everything that's happened, well, it seems important for me to show you where I came from, how I got here." He pauses, throwing the words out there and hoping that she will understand what he is saying. "I want you to know me in a way that no-one else does Tasha."

He watches her turning the words over in her mind, weighing them against whatever scale she uses to assess such things. Finally she nods her assent. She will go with him, back to Iowa and the house he once lived in, travel with him through the events that made him the man he is and try to understand. As she turns and glances back out of the window, taking a last look at the view of the city, Clint drinks in her silhouette, framed so enchantingly against the glass and sky beyond.

"You don't have to reopen old scars to prove that you care," she tells him, still facing away from him. "I don't need to see it unless you're sure..."

"I'm sure," he interrupts, "absolutely sure."

As she moves away from the window and heads back to where he waits on the bed, he watches her, all lithe muscles and predatory grace. Prowling up the mattress like the tigress she is, Natasha positions herself in his lap and leans in for a kiss. Lips brushing with a tenderness that now comes as easily as breathing, Clint considers the many contradictions of the woman in his arms. Cold blooded assassin, fire haired temptress, best friend, compassionate lover, she is all of these and more to him, she already knows him better than most can claim, but he wants to give her more. He wants to give her everything.

He traces his fingertips beneath the hem of her tank top until his fingers rest over the tattoo. He no longer needs his eyes to locate it, having traced it with his fingers, lips and tongue almost every night since he found it. His thoughts move away from their return to the US and toward the woman in his arms. As if she senses the change in him, she repositions herself against him, the bare skin of her thighs brushing against his. "You know I really don't think I told you how much I like this tattoo of yours," he murmurs against her lips. He absorbs the feel of her body against his, supple and pliant, waiting for him to make a move.

"Maybe you should show me how much you appreciate it," she purrs, pulling herself even closer, letting him see the sinful light in her eyes, "we've never needed words to communicate after all."


	10. Waverly

Even with her at his side it's painful, she can tell by the shadows in his eyes when he thinks she isn't looking. Somehow when he suggested this trip down memory lane he must have managed to convince himself it would be easier with her there, it wasn't.

He has walked her through the places that he existed but never truly lived, through the memories that he holds closest or refuses to visit himself, and she has absorbed them, taking in the fragments that he gives her and putting them together to complete the picture in her mind and in her heart that is Clint Barton. With every step, with every place that they visit, she takes a part of him into herself, somehow linking the boy he was with the man he is now. Had she not been there she was sure he would have done what he always did, abandoning this journey half way, locking away the echoes of pain and loneliness that can still hurt him after all these years.

He has seen this journey through only because he promised to show her and that is why she knows what she means to him. She doesn't push when he falls silent, doesn't ask questions that she knows he won't be able to answer. Knowing how much this journey is taking out of him, Natasha grips his hand in hers, allowing him to share what he feels comfortable with, and trying to tell him in word and gesture that she doesn't need to know the rest. Whatever he wants to give her is what she will take, the rest can wait.

Now they look down at the place where his journey began, the one earth-shattering moment that set him on the path to being her partner. The marble stone is simple, elegant, inscribed with only the names and dates that matter, the only difference he tells her is that it seems somehow smaller. Looking down at the burial plot in which his parents have rested since he was a child, she leans closer into him, sharing the warmth of her body with him as the first snow of winter continues to fall. The cold weather and the snow remind her of home, of Russia, and she realises somewhat painfully that she has no good memories of her homeland, no family to mourn or to remember fondly.

"They only ever wanted for us to be happy, Barney and me. Mom in particular only ever wanted us to love wherever our lives took us," he says quietly, eyes still fixed on the stone before them. His expression is so innocent and for a second she is sure that she is seeing a flash of the boy he was in the man who stands beside her, but then his eyes cloud over, politely shutting her out.

She knows where his thoughts have taken him. Barney, another scar on Clint's heart, the brother who took a different path. The Barton brothers don't maintain contact and Natasha understands why, they've been at odds since they emerged from adolescence with very different views on the world. The fact that Clint finds it so painful to talk about his only sibling, is the reason they never mention him, however not talking about something is not the same as not thinking about it.

"She sounds like a wise woman," Natasha smiles, drawing him back. "Everyone should want happiness for their children."

Clint nods, pulling himself back into the present and smiling at her, a slight quirk of his lips. "I think they would have liked you."

Natasha stares at him, wondering what Harold and Edith Barton would really make of her. As a woman they might approve of her, as their son's lover they might accept her but she doubted they would think her career an ideal choice for that of anyone they might consider a potential daughter-in-law. "I'm not so sure about that," she chuckles.

Silently, she thinks of the things he has shown her, of the orphanage where he and his brother spent nearly six years before running away, of the circus in which he found his calling as an archer, and she wonders whether Clint has known the happiness his mother wished for him since he came to SHIELD. She wants to believe that he has found a place that he can call home after so many years without anything meaningful. It would be easy to cry for the boy he was, but she knows first hand that the trauma of losing his parents made him the man he is.

He turns his face fully toward hers, taking her by surprise. Their eyes meet, his free hand rising to cup her chin, fingertips sliding over her cheek and staving off the chill of the air. With his lips only an inch or two from her own, he speaks. "She would have been able to see that loving you is the only thing that has ever made me happy Nat."

His beautiful grey eyes hold hers, so much emotion in them that they steal her breath away. As he watches her, she realises that words are overrated in moments like this. Stepping into the contours of his body, she wraps an arm around the small of his back and tilts her face up to his, feeling a soft smile take form on her own lips. "About time Barton," she whispers, and closes the distance between them.


	11. Aspen

**A.N: **_Apologies for the length of time between uploads, foolishly I find myself with three or four projects on the go at once and I confess I have neglected this one for a while :-( Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I always love to hear what you think. _

_ This idea has been rattling around in my brain for a few days - hope I've done it justice. **  
**_

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He finds her out on the balcony, a cup of coffee clasped between her palms as she stares out across the valley. She has always loved this particular motel in the fall and it's reassuring to know that some things never change. Natasha is not a summer girl but a woman made for the glacial beauty of the winter months and she is most at home here as the days grow shorter and the leaves fall.

"You always did love this view," he says softly from the doorway. If his presence surprises her, she doesn't let it show in her facial expression or body language but merely curls the corners of her lips up into a smile. For the first time he notices that she is wearing one of his shirts over her jeans, a pale check patterned one that he has worn and washed a hundred times. It suits her, all of this suits her. Clint knows in the moment that he likes her in his clothes and in his life, that she belongs there.

"Who wouldn't?" she replies quietly. "What's not to like?" Her eyes sweep across the view that captivates her so and he smiles to see her happy with such simple things. Watching her reaction to this view is what had prompted him to book this room over and over. Even now, six years after their first visit, he can't regret the impulsiveness of his actions where she is involved, not when this view reminds him almost entirely of her. "Sitting here it's like the rest of the world is a million miles away. I can hear myself think here."

He understands the sentiment completely. The motel is not the most attractive, nor the easiest to reach from the road but that is part of its appeal. It has been a relief to him to know that they can both appreciate its rustic charm and relax here. This is their place. No matter where life takes them, or whether they are together or not, he can't imagine ever bringing another woman here. If she was to walk out of his life tomorrow this would always be her place to him.

Slowly she lowers her legs from the railing and turns to face him, tearing her eyes from the view. There is a thunderstorm in her eyes and it captures him almost as soon as her gaze meets his own. Even when she isn't trying to be alluring, just one glance from those emerald eyes is enough to heat his blood. He doesn't know when it happened, only that every day he wakes up with her in his bed he is glad that spared her life all those years ago and made her a part of his life.

"That look on your face," she chuckles, raising an eyebrow in his direction. "Something on your mind lover?" He doesn't miss the flirtatious tone that creeps into her voice as a slight flush creeps through her pale skin. That look tells him that whatever he has in mind she is on board with the plan, especially if it involves them losing some or all of their clothing and replacing it with one another's body heat.

"I've always got something on my mind when you look at me like that," he agrees, sipping his coffee from the chipped stoneware mug that he favours. He likes this good-natured flirtation that exists between them almost as much as he likes the scorching chemistry that they share. There is a lot to be said for chemistry and that they have in spades.

He steps out onto the balcony, setting down his coffee cup on the small bistro table as he approaches her, stopping when he is close enough to wrap his arms around her slender waist. The way she leans into him is the most soothing balm she can give him, her skin warming his own through their clothes. He turns her in the circle of his arms so that she once again has the view that she adores, keeping his body close to the back of hers, chin coming to rest on her shoulder.

For a long moment neither of them speak, just enjoying the tranquillity. Carefully he withdraws one hand from beneath hers and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small jewellery box that he has been concealing there since they arrived two days earlier. Heart pounding, he knows that the moment is right.

"I have something for you," he tells her, planting a soft kiss to her shoulder. Before she can turn he slides his hand back to lie in front of her, turning his palm so that she can see the box he holds. For a moment he's glad that she can't see the expression on his face, worried that she might not like it, that she will think the gesture antiquated and foolish. "It's not a tattoo or anything but I hope you'll like it."

He fingers shake as she takes the box from him, hesitating before opening it as though she too is afraid of what it might contain. Slowly she lifts the lid, the golden sunlight catching the sparkle of the white gold and diamonds within. Fingers tracing over the contents, she sighs, her body relaxing in his embrace, free hand coming up to cup his cheek at her shoulder. "It's beautiful," she tells him and he knows from the tone of her voice that she means it.

She pulls the necklace from the box, admiring the delicate chain and the small arrow pendant that was suspended between sections of the chain. The arrow-head was set with diamonds, just enough sparkle to catch the light, not enough to draw too much attention. "I know that you won't be able to wear it most of the time but I wanted to get you something for your birthday," he tells her.

She doesn't like her birthday, it's something that he has never understood but he accepts it. Something in her past has closed her off from the concept of celebrating her years on the planet but that doesn't mean he can't mark the day in a way that she will like. Judging by the smile on her face, he has made her happy. That is, and always has been, enough for him.

Handing him the chain, Natasha lifts the heavy weight of her hair to give him access to her neck, allowing him to fasten it in place. As she turns again to face him, she kisses him softly, her lips brushing against his own. "Thank you," she whispers. "You never stop surprising me." The kiss is a promise that they are together and that they will stay that way, freely given in the press of her mouth against his own and acknowledged in the grip of his hands at her waist.

"Happy birthday Natasha," he murmurs. "Now come back inside and cut your cake."


	12. New York

Natasha wakes with a start, the sound of her own voice in her ears, breath laboured and adrenaline flowing as the details of her dream slip away from her. She dreams of all that should be but isn't. She wakes often with nightmares, heart racing and hand reaching out through the sheets, searching for the man who is not currently sleeping at her side. There are nights when she dreams about the buried, half forgotten past that she would rather not remember. It's always the same, her ghosts howl loudest when Clint is away, as if her mind and body cannot find peace without him near.

Restless, she rolls onto her front, thumping the pillows in an attempt to plump them up and make herself more comfortable. Unconsciously her hand rises to finger the necklace that circles her throat, a constant reminder of the man she misses with every breath. He was right when he said that she wouldn't wear it all the time but she always wears it when he's away as if the smooth metal acts as some sort of good luck charm and will help to bring him home safely.

Though she can't put her finger on what it is that makes her feel so uneasy, can't remember the details of the nightmare that roused her from her restless slumber, she finds herself standing at the windows of the apartment she calls home when she is in New York. As she tilts her head to stare discontentedly at the stars her pale skin appears to glow in the moonlight, contrasting sharply with the black silk of her nightgown. Nineteen days with no contact and no knowledge of where her partner is does not help her to rest easy. She can't shake the unease that pulls at her, the sudden feeling of premonition that she hasn't experienced in a lifetime. Something is wrong, she can feel it more strongly with every breath.

The shrill sound of the telephone pierces the night and she is across the bedroom with the receiver in her hand before she can complete the thought that she should answer. Instantly she is alert, understanding the second that she hears Fury's voice on the other end of the line that this is not a social call. The clock reads 3.23am.

"Save my life right now and tell me that he's alive." The words are out of her mouth before she can think about who is on the other end of the line. It doesn't matter. There is only one thing matters and that is Clint.

The pause at the other end is too long. Natasha feels her chest tighten, the breath solidifying in her lungs as dread and abject terror begins to overwhelm her. "He's alive," the words are spoken with too much reserve. Alive but not well. The white noise in her head drowns out Fury's voice as he continues to talk, something about sending a car to collect her. She knows that she isn't tracking the words. Her hand closes again around the arrow pendant at her neck, forgotten prayers to a god she isn't sure that she believes in falling silently from her lips.

"Where is he?" she asks, forcing away the tide of emotion before she drowns in it. She refuses to believe that it's over, that what they share can be cut short by bullets and bad feeling, she would know wouldn't she? She's always been able to feel him, inside, like his being was an extension of hers.

"Bolivia," Fury replies. "I'll fill you in on the rest when we pick you up; thirty minutes, be ready."

When he ends the call, her knees give way beneath her and she finds herself on the carpet, biting her lip to hold back the sob that is trying to force its way up and out of her chest. She won't cry, not now, although there will be time enough for her to deal with her emotions later. He hands shake as she clenches them into fists. He is alive, that it what matters, everything else is just details. If he lives then there is hope and she knows that if anything could pull her back from the brink of death it would be him, she can only hope that it will work both ways. Natasha will not mourn for what might yet be saved.

Already moving, she grabs her ready bag and throws in a selection of clothing which includes her suit and her guns. She splashes water on her face, forces her hands to stop shaking through force of will and exits the bathroom in a whirlwind of motion. She dresses simply in black jeans, high boots and a simple dark coloured shirt, sliding a stiletto blade into the side of her boot and tucking the smallest of her guns into the back of her waistband. She doesn't need weapons to be armed but she isn't taking any chances where Clint's safety is concerned.

She is ready when Fury arrives, waiting on the pavement outside her building with her bag in hand. She says nothing while he informs her of the situation on their way out to the airstrip, not trusting the words that would escape her if she did open her mouth. He talks of serious injuries and how Clint has asked for her during his brief periods of consciousness. He absorbs her silent anger and accepts it without comment.

She turns her face to the window and says nothing, allowing his words to wash over her. When he falls silent she finds her voice and makes a simple statement that she knows will shock the man who looks upon her and Clint as his unruly children as well as his best assets. "If he lives," she says quietly, calmly, "then you're going to lose me for a few months." She turns her face, allowing Fury to see the calm determination on her face. " But if he dies I want out. If Barton doesn't make it, I'll never work in the field again."


	13. El Alto

_Okay so I couldn't leave it alone either... hope you enjoy._

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As soon as they land in Bolivia, she feels that old ache that never really left after the gunshot wound she got here. In all the years since that mission she's never been back, until now. Fury leaves her when they reach the clinic, knowing that his presence at Barton's bedside will raise questions and draw unwanted attention to the unknown man in the critical care unit. Nobody questions her when she arrives, believing the cover that she is the girlfriend of Clint Barnett, contacted by his employer and newly arrived to be at his side.

Natasha finds him atop a sterile hospital bed, his body covered from the waist down by crisp white sheets and a lightweight blanket. He is either asleep or unconscious beneath the oxygen mask that covers half of his face when they show her in and it's like Kabul all over again. Clean gauze has been wrapped around his chest and she can see the outline of the padding beneath it that they have placed over his wounds. Bruises and lacerations cover the arms that lie at his sides atop the sheets.

Not knowing quite what to do, she crosses the room and perches on the very edge of the chair that has been placed at the side of the bed for her use. Unable to speak, she allows her fingertips to gently trace the exposed skin of his forearm and the back of his hand, carefully avoiding the needle that was feeding him morphine to kill the pain. Her eyes roam over the cluster of machinery that stands by the bed, recognising most of the monitors to which he is connected.

A few minutes is all it takes for the silence to become oppressive and she moves to lean against the edge of his bed, getting as close to him as she can without interfering with his medical equipment. She leans over him, bringing her face down close to his. "Don't you give up on me, you hear?" she says softly, wrapping her hand carefully around his own. "Fury says that you've been asking for me, well I'm here. You need to come back to me because I'm not going anywhere until you wake up and get out of that bed."

She stays at his side throughout the night, conversing with the nursing staff and his doctors as they came in and out of the room, glad that Spanish is one of the languages in which she is fluent. The doctors are talkative, she learns that Clint has been into surgery twice, once to treat a gunshot wound and the second time because of internal bleeding. His other injuries, she learns, are the result of falling from down a flight of concrete stairs at the time of the shooting. She also learns that her partner was shot by a police officer.

Someone wheels in a low cot for her when they realise that she isn't going anywhere but she has no wish to use it, instead she dozes with her head on the edge of his bed, staying as close to him as possible as if her own proximity will speed his healing. It's more than that though, she needs to be close enough to hear every breath that he takes, to feel the rise and fall of his chest when she reaches out her hand. The man in front of her, bandaged and bloody, pumped up on anaesthetics, is the part of her that has been missing for most of her life. She has no intention of losing him now, not when it suddenly seems so important that she has the chance to say "I love you" to the man who has shown her she is in fact capable of such depth of feeling.

During the day and night that follow Clint sleeps. They reduce the dosage of the anaesthesia when they decide that the signs are good and tell her to talk to him. Natasha waits without knowing exactly what it is that she waits for, going no further than the bathroom that adjoins his room. She keeps her weapons close in case she needs them and she remains at his side, one of his hands in hers. She reads to him, Vonnegut, but it's only so long before her voice becomes hoarse and she has to stop.

It's early morning when she wakes to an unexpected movement in the room. She comes up ready to fight, hand moving for the knife that is still stored in her boot before she opens her eyes. The eyes that look back at her are the most welcome sight she has ever seen, iron grey like storm clouds but flecked with hints of blue and green. His fingers move again against the tips of her hair and for a long moment neither of them moves.

Despite having been unconscious since her arrival, she knows from the look in his eyes that he's exhausted.

She tightens her hold on his hand and raises her head, offering him a smile. Her voice is barely a whisper in the quiet of the room, afraid that if she speaks too loudly the medical staff will rush in and destroy this moment that she has been waiting for. "Welcome back," she tells him, bringing her hand up to his face. Barton turns his face so that his cheek rests against her palm. "You had me worried for a minute there."

"Wasn't going anywhere," he tells her, voice rusty from lack of use and distorted by the mask over his face. She smiles, knowing that she would still recognise it anywhere. "Heard you calling to me, followed your voice all the way back."

A tear slips the leash of her control, rolling over her cheek and dripping onto his chest. Now that she knows that he is going to be okay, she can feel the weight that has settled over her lifting.

"Hey," he lifts his free hand, slowly and brushes away the second tear to roll over her cheek, "no tears, we're okay. We're not done you and me, not by a long shot." Unable to form words, she nods. Seemingly appeased he shuffles over on the mattress, making room for her. "Now get on up here where you can sleep more comfortably and I'll know that you haven't up and left my ass while I'm sleeping."

She follows his instructions, allowing him to boss her around on account of the fact that he has just been shot in the chest, careful of the tubes and monitors that remain hooked up to his body. As soon as she settles against him she can feel the weight of her bones once again, like the world has shifted slightly and now sits correctly on its axis once more. They both sigh as they find a comfortable position, eyes beginning to close almost as soon as they curl around one another. "You know that I love you, right?" she asks as she drifts off.

Clint's fingers tangle in her hair once again, pulling her closer and holding her there. "About damn time Nat," he tells her. "About damn time."


End file.

Avengers, Friendship, Romance