Avengers 1. Chapter 1

**That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)  
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**A Word**: Because it doesn't matter what you got going through your head. You would stare at that ass if it was in front of you, even if you weren't really conscious of doing it. By request; this will end up being Steve/Natasha and Clint/Bucky. Eventually.

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Steve Rogers has a studio apartment in Brooklyn. It's something he's fought hard for, both with SHIELD and Tony to rent. The neighborhood isn't the greatest, but Clint's seen worse. Hell, Clint's lived in worse himself. Would still be living in worse if his block hadn't been flattened in the invasion leaving him with the tricky dilemma of choosing between the sterile shoebox of SHIELD barracks or the private-less opulence of Stark's tower.

He couch surfs for a while while debating the two different kinds of hell, but the number of couches he can crash on has drastically decreased in ways that Clint doesn't like to think about too hard. The fact that he ends up at Steve's place within a week isn't a surprise to him.

Natasha has a small place tucked away in the basement of a building no one but Clint knows she owns. The only reason he knows she has a place outside of the barracks is a combination of his paranoia and the fact that she _let_ him find it. Nat's place is hers though, and Clint respects her silent request to leave it that way. There are few enough things that she actually _wants_ that he goes out of his way to respect her space. Even now he won't go to her.

Coulson has an apartment too. A nice place near a well maintained park and the most ridiculously yuppie string of two table bistros that could be found in the city. The situation with Coulson was still complicated though. Fury was carrying on like the reports of the man's death weren't wildly exaggerated, and that some of his top agents hadn't been around the day he came in a little puffier -swollen actually- around his good eye than usual and started using SHIELD resources to find very specific Captain America trading cards. Clint would have crashed Coulson's totally unoccupied wink-wink-nudge apartment except the _Look_ he'd gotten the one time Nat and him had strolled in to see that he was in fact breathing promised unholy things if either of them messed up whatever new op he and Fury had cooked up.

Sitwell had cheerfully kicked Clint to the curb after four days of constant bickering that'd been fun for them both, but threatened to turn too violent when they started debating whether or not Severus Snape was bad or good guy. He stayed with Hill for one night only. Not because of any conflict with either of them, but because she was a deep sleeper who lived under what sounded like a punk mariachi band made of vampires who only practiced from midnight to 5 AM. Clint had shown up on Fury's doorstep, not expecting to sleep there, but just to see that one vein in his head pulse.

Going to Steve hadn't even been a thought until Nat saw him eying one of the homeless shelters and gave him the man's address.

"I don't mind the couch, really," Steve says, even as Clint spreads out what is probably half of the man's own bedding on the couch, and normally he'd be all for taking advantage until the other person wises up and starts saying no. But that couch!

It's an insanely ugly grandma couch that still smells a little like powder but is hands down the most comfortable thing Clint has ever had the pleasure to sit on. He's not giving that thing up without a down and dirty fight. Not even to Captain America, or his kinda dorky alter-ego whom Clint found himself liking more and more off the field. "Nah, you wouldn't even fit, Cap. Let me have it tonight."

"Alright," Steve hovers uncertainly for a while as Clint plops a thin pillow down. Clint watches the man for a moment as he snaps a blanket over the couch.

Steve Rogers looks lost for what to do next, and that only reminds Clint that the man has only been in this new age for a few months. Clint can almost see him trying to figure out if what he's done is actually good enough or acceptable in this time as opposed to what he _thinks_ is good enough and acceptable.

"Seriously, I'm fine," Clint falls onto the couch feeling the cushions mold around him just perfectly as he gives Steve a grin. "Thanks for letting me stay the night."

"It's not a problem. I'm not really used to being on my own like this. I always- well, it was nice having company?" Steve grins back and Clint nearly swears out loud. Would if it wouldn't make Steve think something's wrong. Because Clint can read in that smile how much he means those words.

Steve Rogers is _lonely_ and lost in a world that probably wouldn't make much sense to him even if the city wasn't recovering from the devastation of the invasion. SHIELD has minimal contact with the man outside of briefings and the few missions that they'd managed to talk him into. Tony is Tony, and could go from smothering to MIA on the drop of a dime. Banner is holed up in the depths of Tony's tower and only the occasional report of sightings at a nearby tea shop keeps SHIELD informed of the man's continued presence in New York. Clint doesn't see the scientist wandering too far from his new cage willingly. Nat-

Well, Nat has her own problems with socializing, but Clint takes it as a good sign that she gave him Steve's address.

"I get you," Clint says as he stretches out on the couch. Folding his hands over his stomach and enjoying the fact that it's just long enough to hold him. He's nowhere near tired, but things are heading towards awkward and he really doesn't want that right now. "I'll get dinner tomorrow,"

"Sure," Steve accepts gracefully and turns into his own bed. Flicking off the few lamps until the only light is coming through the windows. More than enough for both of them to see by. Clint closes his eyes and just listens as Steve settles into the bed in the corner. It creaks and groans under his weight. The sheets rustle until he finds an acceptable position to sleep in. Then, the only sound is the ever present sound of the city and their soft breathing.

It's 10 PM and Clint is wide awake. Clint opens his eyes and studies the shadows cast by the light outside on the ceiling. He doesn't move because the noise might jolt Steve out of sleep, and, despite any evidence to the contrary, Clint knows how to be a good house guest. He kinda wishes there were a wall between them, or even a screen. Something that'd make him feel less guilty about moving around. Clint stretches his fingers, one by one, and decides to deal with it. It's not like he hasn't had to stay still in worse conditions for hours on end before.

Twenty minutes of silence later the bed creaks and Steve laughs. His voice is low and rueful, "I don't actually get to sleep before midnight most days."

"Stark'd have a heart attack if he heard you say that," Clint squints as Steve clicks on a small lamp attached to the wall with an arcane pattern of duct tape. "But, yeah, I'm usually up til one or two most nights."

"Tony has some really strange ideas about what people used to be like," Steve manages to wince and grin at the same time. "Television?"

"Why the hell not," Clint kicks the blanket away and swings his legs off to sit up.

The TV on the wall is big enough that it almost certainly came from Tony, but the minimal interface when Steve turns it on and flips through he channels speaks a lot more about Banner's involvement than anything else. Steve's got the hang of it, and Clint wonders how much time the man spends watching it.

"It helps," Steve says as he settles on something that looks vaguely science fiction, and completely 80's. "I think I've learned more about the world through movies and programs than anything else."

"That's kind of a terrifying thought," Clint eventually says after watching a man twitch strangely while being shot. He hates scenes like this, he's shot too many people to be fooled by squibs and fake blood. "Not surprising, but still terrifying."

Clint feels Steve's shrug and decides to see how much of the world Steve has actually seen in the morning. Maybe correct a few things that he _knows_ Steve has to have picked up wrongly from the media. For that night though, they watch late night movies until they both pass out on Steve's comfortable couch.

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	2. Chapter 2

**That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)  
**

**A Word**: Coffee suicides are a thing and they're not always as good as soda suicides. Also, this will end up Steve/Natasha and Clint/Bucky for those that wish to know before getting too invested.

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Clint wakes up to the smell of coffee and the crinkle of a bag. It's a familiar enough smell and sound that he doesn't tense up when he opens his eyes to see Natasha sitting at the small corner table in the kitchen area of Steve's studio. He stretches and is pleasantly surprised at the distinct lack of pain he experiences. For having fallen asleep upright on a couch that is.

Seriously, this couch.

Steve is curled up over the other arm. Oblivious to Nat and looking like he's trying to contort himself into a smaller ball than his mass allows. Clint flicks the corner of the blanket he'd been hoarding over the man and got up to take a piss.

The bathroom is small, but at least has walls around it. Clint's seen some places that were completely open.

Nat's working on a braided bun dripping with icing and walnuts when Clint wanders out to claim his coffee. He looks though the plain bag and finds a danish that looks like it might be apple or pear. It's good, but not familiar. Not one of Nat's usual choices for breakfast then. Which means she either saw something interesting or the closest Starbucks wasn't open for some reason. It probably has something to do with the cinnamon flavored cup of death she slides his way. It's sludgy from the amount of spice in it and if anything else made it into the mix Clint can't taste it past the burn of cinnamon. She likes to mix things together in coffee that has no right being in caffeine and making Clint drink it.

They eat in silence for a while before Clint nudges the third coffee cup pointedly.

Nat shrugs and with that little bit of movement Clint knows he's been set up. For what, he's not sure yet, but he does know that Nat had sent him to Steve for _reasons_.

Steve makes a noise before Clint can even think about laying into her for answers. They both turn to watch Steve blink himself awake. He looks disgruntled and indignant to be awake. His hair is sticking up a little and he has an epic case of pillow face from sleeping on a seam of the couch. He stretches out fully with another grunt and a jaw cracking yawn. It's one of the most hilarious things that Clint's seen in a while, and he debates taking a picture just to show Coulson his idol looking like every other sleep deprived person in the world.

It's obvious when his brain comes online enough to remember he isn't alone.

Nat makes an amused noise as Steve whips his head around and spots them. The sheepish and embarrassed look turns horrified when he sees her siting at the table. Steve's up and in a shirt faster than any person just woken up should be able to be. Super serum or not.

Clint points the three bites he has left of his danish at the third cup and says, "Nat brought breakfast."

"Thanks," Steve's regaining his cool by the second, though he's still red in the face and picking nervously at the boxers he'd unselfconsciously worn around Clint the night before. Clint'd bet a month's salary he's reminding himself that being caught in his underwear by a woman wasn't that big a deal in the future.

Clint would correct that assumption but he's sitting at a table with Nat in his rattiest pair of boxers that'd been washed too thin about two years ago. They're a special case and really shouldn't be used by anyone as a base for normal, but Clint's given up trying to explain how they work to others. They get it or they don't and it's not either of their problems if they don't.

Steve leans awkwardly against a stove that honestly doesn't look like it's been touched and alternates sips of whatever concoction Nat had bought with a cinnamon bun. Clint finishes off his cinnamon bomb and licks the last of the icing off his fingers. Nat is sipping her perfectly plain coffee and looking at a spot on the wall with the far off look of people who don't want to be bothered staring at nothing in public. Steve is looking a little too closely into his cup and trying hard not to appear as uncomfortable as he really is.

"So," Clint casts out for something, anything. All the plans and ideas that'd seemed like such a good idea last night really weren't looking so good in the light of day. "You been to the MOMA yet?"

Steve's blank look is answer enough before he opens his mouth to ask, "The what?"

"It's a museum," Nat offers. The look she sends Clint is amused and warning all at once. "It specializes in modern art."

"Oh, no, I haven't," and Steve looks very interested in things outside of his cup. _Artist_, the Coulson voice in Clint's head reminds him as Steve begins to look a little hopeful. "I'd like to though. If you're not-"

"We're not," Clint says nearly at the same time as Nat. He sends her a grin, already planning out the day. Art's never been his thing and museums honestly make him cringe with how stuffy and quiet they are. Plus, modern art's never been his thing. He spends too much time looking at blobs on canvas wondering why he couldn't make thousands for flinging paint.

"I'll get dressed," Steve sets his cup down on the stove, and Clint can tell it's still mostly full as the man grabs some clothes and retreats to the bathroom.

"Modern art, really?" Nat says in a low voice that probably won't carry through the walls. "Do you really want to throw him off the deep end like that?"

"I didn't hear you objecting," Clint got up and picks up the clothes he'd worn the night before. The jeans are still good and a quick sniff tells him the t-shirt isn't too bad. He's going to have to look into buying more clothes soon, or just resign himself to constant trips to a laundrette. "Besides, Cap does best when thrown off the deep end."

Nat's smile is dangerous and makes even Steve pause when he comes out. Smart man.

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	3. Chapter 3

**That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)  
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**A Word**: At the end.

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Disappointingly, Steve takes the MOMA better than either of them thought he would.

He doesn't look baffled by the blobs of paint or the random lines drawn on paper. He observes each piece with the kind of silent respect Clint just can't manage. The pop art gets the first real smile from Steve, and Clint ends up wandering behind as Nat starts talking about men named Lichtenstein and Jasper Johns. Clint doesn't mind the bright colors or simple lines as much, but he still wonders why people would pay so damn much money for what looks like enlarged comic book panels.

It's only when he catches the words _neo dadaism_ coming from Nat's mouth that Clint has a brain wave and realizes exactly what this whole thing is about.

Nat's never been interested in art. Not the painted or sculpted or whatever kind anyway. She likes music and dance and plays, but the art around them now has never been interesting for her. Not enough for her to go out and learn about the movements or techniques that she's oh so blithely spouting off to a clearly interested Steve. The thoroughness of her knowledge doesn't surprise Clint. She's had to memorize more for even less interesting subjects for missions before, and will have to do it again in the future. Clint knows she's capable of learning anything.

It's just that she only usually goes out of her way like that for missions.

Clint stops looking at the art and starts paying attention to Nat.

Nat's walking easily in two-inch heeled boots. A slight sway to her step that emphasizes the sway of her hips and the cinch of her waist. She smiles freely and laughs a little when Steve says something that may or may not be funny. She reaches up and toys with loose strands of hair occasionally. Pulling and curling the strands around her fingers. She's the very picture of a pretty young woman flirting with an attractive man.

Steve looks as confused as Clint isn't anymore, and Clint wants to go up and pat his head. Tell him he's doing a good job sensing something out of the ordinary, because the woman walking next to him isn't Nat.

Nat stalks or strides where ever she goes. A relentless stride that threatens to run right over anything in her way. Her smiles are a sharp slash across her face and can make anyone sane turn tail and run. She doesn't fidget or move without purpose, can in fact be as still as Clint waiting for the perfect shot most days. Natasha is as far away from the giggly woman towing Steve from exhibit to exhibit as one can get.

Clint steps up next to the two and deliberately bumps up against Nat before walking into a small side room that's dark and showing a silent film. No one is in there and he tries to puzzle out what's going on in the minutes it takes Nat to ditch Steve and come in. The easy smile is gone and her shoulders are tense.

"That how your tastes are running these days?" Clint doesn't do her the disservice of easing into it. "Captain America? Really?"

"You object?" Nat crosses her arms and arches one eyebrow. Her feet slide apart as she balances herself perfectly on the heels. Ready to dodge or attack at a seconds notice. The flirty mask is dropping away as he watches his partner come back to herself.

"Nope, can't say that I do," hell, Clint's sure that there isn't anyone in the country who'd object to anything about Captain America, or even Steve Rogers. "But I don't really think he's liking the act, Nat. You're confusing the man. You remember that he's _seen_ you fight, right?"

Nat stalks across the room and stops in front of the projector. Her shadow's cast across the wall and Clint can't see her face at all anymore. He doesn't need to see it though. Nat's face never shows anything she doesn't want it to show, and he's learned to take all his cues from her body and voice.

Nat's stiff and still in a way that screams disappointment and/or disgust. The thread of frustration in her voice lets him know it's all directed at herself, "That is a problem, yes."

Clint hums, tuneless as he watches the flickering images around Nat's shadow. Scenes of beauty and life happening around a solid black shadow that exists but is untouched by it all. And that's everything that most people have to know about Nat. She doesn't do emotions, she doesn't do love, she doesn't do relationships. Except for when she does.

Clint knows exactly how long it's been since Nat last felt like making an effort to connect with someone this way. Beyond putting on an act, using them, and discarding them while she fades into the night. Nat's always been the master of one night stands. It says something about Steve that he's brought out this desire for more in Nat after such a short time.

It wasn't easy, the first time she did it. Clint remembers all too well the way Nat was around him when she maneuvered him into bed three years into their partnership. The way she'd switch from the competent and scary as fuck woman he'd brought in to this bubbly cardboard cut-out so quickly his head never got a chance to stop spinning. The mind blowing sex on top of it hadn't helped either.

It'd almost broke them until they called it off.

Clint offers Nat a smile and asks, "You want me to throw something at you each time you turn this into a mission? Because I can do that if you're going to play ditzy red-head #5 for the rest of the day."

He's not entirely joking. He has a program/map thingy. Cover sheet, not quite heavy enough on it's own but he can make do with it. Spitballs are quick, easy, and just annoying enough to get through to Nat whenever she tried pulling an act out.

"I'm using #3," Nat shakes off her mood and turns far enough away from the shadows for Clint to see the glare she's giving him as she walks out. "Honestly, Clint, don't you pay any attention?"

They find Steve in front of a case holding what looks like two vacuum cleaners as a far too skinny college student expounds on the _meaning_ of the lint stuck in the bottom one. Steve's got a tiny, polite smile on his face but he's also eying the room's exit with the kind of calculation that Clint usually only sees on missions. Nat steps up her pace and neatly inserts herself between the two. Her arm threading through Steve's as she pulls him away without looking at the girl. "I want to see the gardens."

Her statement is blunt and just this side of demanding, and Steve looks relieved as he gives in to it.

Clint follows after the two and notes that the girl doesn't actually seem phased to have lost her audience. She's still talking about the artist's past and how it relates to the vacuums as Clint turns the corner. They manage to make it through the rest of the museum, and Clint ends up only having to nail Nat with two spitballs.

Steve only gives Clint a slightly puzzled look when he catches sight of the second shot.

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To be clear; Mandy Blane is an 19-year-old freshman who needed an art class for her general studies and thought modern art would be cool to study. Turns out she didn't find it as interesting as sleeping in a whole extra hour every Tuesday and Thursday. As a result she's in danger of flunking unless she can ace her report on a written paper of a piece in the MOMA and the artist who made it. She's been mainlining coffee beans and Monster in an attempt to finish her paper and thus has no real idea who she's talking to anymore when Steve wanders up. She also has no idea why she's talking to people other than the fact that the sound of her own voice keeps her awake enough to keep writing. Mandy later gets an A- on her paper which is just enough to squeak her way through to a passing grade.  
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	4. Chapter 4

**That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)  
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**A Word**: Good talk.

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"I respect Steve," Nat says as she launches herself up over an outcrop on the wall. Her fingers grasp a ledge and she quickly hauls herself up into a more stable position. "I also want to climb all over him and rub my face against his chest."

Clint grunts as he stretches out over a smooth expanse of wall that has no handholds. Trying to see if he can make it or if he has to back down and go around the area. "So why don't you just do that?"

"Because I respect him," Nat rests on a half-inch ledge and waits for him. "And so do you. Steve doesn't need to be used and discarded."

"No," Clint gets enough of a grip in a crack that probably wasn't meant to be used and scrambles up quickly before he can loose it. Nat's flexing her fingers as Clint makes the same ledge she's on. He looks for the next handhold and pushes as hard as he's ever dared with Nat. "Why do anything about it though? Seems like you're going to be paying a lot just to get him in the sack."

An understatement. Steve isn't a casual lay in any sense of the word. Oh, Clint doesn't think he's the straight-laced, wait-until-marriage, keep-'em-bare-foot-and-pregnant type of man that most of the world seems to think he is. He does think that Steve is the type to want actual relationships that don't solely revolve around a bed or the nearest convenient surface. Nat's normally a bit of smoke on the horizon when it comes to those types of men, but she's not distancing herself here. She's actively looking to get herself into an actual relationship.

"I respect him," Nat repeats and launches herself upward. Attacking the wall with the same ferocious intent she gives to dead men who don't know their time is near. Clint follows her up. Keeping pace to hear her soft words. They have the room to themselves, but that means very little in SHIELD. "He's attractive, he can keep up with me, and with enough prompting he can learn to not underestimate me. I could do worse."

"Of course," because the world might end if Nat admitted there might be more to it than basic lust and pure practicality. Nothing at all to do with the tricky emotions that she likes to believe were burned out of her when she was a child. Clint rubs his forehead against his arm, brushing away a drop of sweat before propelling himself upward. "You sure about this though? You can't exactly end this like a mission."

"Yes, I can," Nat slows down to give him a scornful look as she disagrees. Which is fair enough, he thinks. She _can_ end a relationship with anyone by disappearing never to be seen again. Steve, SHIELD, Clint. She can end it at anytime, because she has the _choice_ to do so now.

It'd been one of the things he'd emphasized when talking the edgy Black Widow into signing up with SHIELD all those years ago.

"Yeah," Clint reaches the top with Nat and swings up onto the small platform. His muscles are warm and loose from the climb and he feels ready for something challenging. "But it'd be a dick move."

Nat twists fluidly, her spine making one loud crack as she follows his gaze up to the metal rafters of the room. Nat jumps and grabs onto a metal bar, flipping up onto the four inch bar that runs the length of the room. Clint watches for any swaying but the bars are steady enough so he follows. The rafters stay still even with Clint's added weight.

"I don't plan on it," _but I will if I need to_, goes unsaid as she watches Clint jump experimentally. Both of them gauging the sturdiness of the structure.

"So, you're saying I should give him the shovel talk? Just in case," Clint smirks as Nat produces a small knife and tosses it at his head harder than she needs to. Clint catches it and thumbs the edge. Sharp but not Nat's preferred razor edge. A practice knife dulled just enough that any cuts won't hurt like an utter bitch.

"I was never allowed to do that with your people," Nat produces her own knife and flips it over her fingers as she slides back into a crouch.

"Didn't stop you from doing it anyway," Clint says kicking out at one of the struts holding the rafter up. It vibrates worryingly but Clint figures SHIELD only has itself to blame if their building breaks from a little bit of practicing. "I still talk to Bobbi, Nat."

"Bobbi's exaggerating," Nat snipes in a tone that's all sorts of pissy. The two women had never gotten on well even before Clint had tried to make something more out of his relationship with Bobbi. "I only warn people off _after_ they leave you."

Which went a long way to explaining the abrupt disappearance of the few people he'd tried actually dating. But still, the reminder that he's always the one left in the dump kinda stings. "Ow, Nat. You really wounded me there."

Nat lashes out. Swift and brutal and Nat's version of a heartfelt apology. Clint accepts it by flipping around one of the struts and kicking her in the chest. Conversation over. They don't talk again until they've managed to break enough struts to make the rafters too unstable to support their weight.

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Avengers, Romance