Chapter Text
For a long, agonizing moment, they just stared at each other.
Clint had walked through the door empty handed, and Natasha wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not—she had always hated to kill an unarmed man. The weight of the Ruger in her hands was a comfort, and she trained it on him, lining her shot up. She could kill him with a twitch of a finger, and she wanted to.
But she didn’t.
“Natasha,” he said, and his voice was rough and hoarse, the way it sounded when he’d been drinking whisky. Jameson, she thought, always his favorite, neat and clean, no ice. I like the way it burns, he’d told her once, and she’d kissed the taste from his lips. He smiled at her, humorless, it didn’t reach her eyes. “Is this the part where I say ‘honey, I’m home?’”
Natasha held her gun arm steady. “You can say it,” she said, “but I never liked it when you called me honey.”
“I know.” Clint eyed her gun and suddenly he looked like the man in Sergei’s photo, the man who was cold and calculating and could probably kill her in as many ways as she could kill him. “So. KGB, huh?”
“So, SHIELD, huh?” she shot back, and Clint’s mouth tightened around the edges. “How long have you known?” she asked, and hated that the words came out in a whisper, breathless and broken. She was the Black Widow; she was better than this.
Clint held her gaze. “Would you believe me,” he said slowly, “if I said that I didn’t?”
“No,” Natasha said.
Liar, her mind whispered.
“No,” she said again, and this time, she pulled the trigger.
***
This is true: When the gun goes off, everything shifts to slow motion. Clint looks at her and Natasha sees not fear but pain, and in the instant before he moves, she sees his heart break.
This is true: Clint does not think she’ll pull the trigger.
This is true: When the gun goes off, Clint looks Natasha in the eye, and she is looking at him with the Tasha’s eyes in the Black Widow’s face, and he thinks, no, this is not the way it ends.
This is true: He thinks, this is not the way it ends, and he drops to the ground.
***
Clint read Natasha’s—the Black Widow’s—file from cover to cover. Increased physical capacity, it read, stamina, strength, speed. Increased mental competency and response time. Psychological conditioning.
Natasha was fast.
Impossibly, in that first moment, Clint was faster.
He hit the ground on all fours and kicked out with one leg, swiping her feet out from under her. The Ruger clattered to the ground but Natasha was already moving, spinning around and whipping a knife from under her shirt, lashing out. Clint caught her wrist, squeezed the pressure point, and she dropped the knife but punched him in the stomach with her free hand in the same moment. He doubled over, but not before he threw a punch of his own, catching her in the jaw. Natasha turned her head, spat out blood, and kneed him in the groin.
Clint dropped to his knees, allowed himself less than an instant of pain, and then rolled out of the way of her next kick. “Low blow, kicking a man while he’s down,” he grunted.
Natasha laughed harshly, blood trickling from her split lip. “I can aim lower,” she said, and reached under the couch, coming up with another gun. .22 Caliber, ten round capacity, Clint thought. Natasha cocked, aimed, fired, and Clint dove behind the other couch. One. He pulled the knife from his boot and sliced the back of the couch open, tore the fabric and pulled out the pair of GLOCK .45 pistols. Two more shots blasted through the couch cushions and Clint went flat to the floor. Three, he thought, and then rolled out from behind the couch, pulled the guns up, and fired a round from each gun.
There was a shower of red and for one terrifying moment Clint thought, no, God, I didn’t want to.
But Natasha was still moving and Clint realized with a jolt that the bullet had gone through her hair, sent a spray of red strands through the air. He let out a bark of laughter and tumbled back behind the couch, jerking the guns to cock the next round. “Still alive, baby?”
“Seem to be,” she said, and shot another two rounds through the couch. This time one of them scored a line across Clint’s back and he gritted his teeth, refusing to let out a sound. Five.
“Good,” Clint said, rolling into a crouch. “Be a shame, taking out the famous Black Widow so easily.” He tore the rest of the back off the couch and pulled the concealed crossbow free, nocking a bolt.
Natasha let out a peal of laughter, brief and high, not her usual laugh at all. “Can’t believe you missed,” she said. “All those stories about Hawkeye, the man with the perfect aim—”
“Never heard you complaining before, darlin’,” Clint drawled. “You always tell me I hit just the right spots.”
“Seems wrong to insult the sexual prowess of a dead man,” Natasha shot back.
That one stung and Clint somersaulted out from behind the couch, firing the crossbow. This time he aimed true and Natasha let out a hiss of pain as it embedded itself in the flesh of her shin. It was a wound designed to hurt, not to maim or kill, and Clint knew it, even as he loaded another bolt. This is what it means to be compromised, he realized, and for the first time in years, his hand trembled on the trigger.
Natasha looked up at him, fire blazing in her green eyes. “Americans,” she whispered. “They breed you so soft. Even your killers are cowards.” She wrenched the bolt out of her leg and threw it at him and Clint brought the crossbow up, angling it in front of him to deflect the blow. The bolt glanced off him but Natasha was already moving, tackling him to the ground and pinning him beneath her thighs, restraining his wrists above his head with her hands and bringing her forehead down hard against his. Clint grunted in pain and wrenched them to the side, rolling her under him and jamming his elbow into her solar plexus; she responded by digging her nails into his neck and scraping bloody lines down his skin. “Synshlyukha,” she spat up at him, and Clint gave her a grin he knew was red; he could taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth.
“Not my fault you’ve got shit taste in men, Tasha,” he said. “Or maybe I was never your taste. Are you this enthusiastic on all your jobs?”
She let out a fierce cry and slammed her shoulder into the side of his head. Clint managed to punch her hard in the ribs before he crashed to the floor, rolling away from her to snatch up his crossbow and flipping up onto his feet, whirling around to face her—
Only to find her waiting, the .22 back in her hand, aimed steadily at his head. She was gasping, blood rolling from her lip and nose, the skin of her jaw and temple already darkening to bruises, her hair a tangled mess.
God, Clint thought, she is beautiful.
He dropped the crossbow.
“Pick it up,” Natasha said, and Clint shook his head, his voice failing. Natasha made a strangled sound in the back of her throat, like a stifled sob. “Pick it up.”
“No,” Clint said. He took a step forward, then another, until the barrel of her gun rested gently against his forehead. This close he could see the faint tremor in her hand, the wild, terrified look in her eyes. “Natasha, I swear to you, I didn’t know who you were.”
“On what?” She steadied her hand for an instant, and then it wavered again. The barrel of the gun was warm against his forehead; he could smell the cordite in the air.
“Breakfast pastries and cold coffee,” he said, thinking of Budapest, of that first morning when he’d brought her breakfast bed and they’d fucked slow and tender, the early morning sunlight sending shimmers of golden light dancing in Natasha’s hair. He met her eyes, and saw they were shining, wet at the corners.
“On Budapest,” Natasha breathed.
She reached for him, and the gun fell to the floor.
***
This is true: It is the gentlest sex they’ve ever had.
This is true: It’s bloody, too, and messy. The living room is a mess of plaster and glass and couch stuffing and crystal, and Clint doesn’t bother to clear a space for them, just wraps Natasha in his arms and draws her down to the floor. He kisses the bruises on her skin and she runs her fingertips over the scrapes she’d drawn down his neck. She peels off his clothes, the fabric clinging in the blood over the gash in his back, and she lets him strip her slowly, following every inch of bared skin with his lips. He kisses her neck, her shoulders, the tops of her breasts, her nipples and navel, he maps her body with his lips and teeth and tongue until she surrenders under him, drawing him against her, whispers please and pulls him close.
This is true: He sinks into her and it is like a blessing. We fit, Natasha thinks, we have always fit together like this. He puts his forehead against hers and looks into her eyes; it’s too close for eye contact but he holds her gaze anyway, and moisture drips down from his face to hers, sweat and tears mixed together, salty-sweet. She thinks maybe she’s crying, too, and lets herself feel every prickle behind her eyes, every tug at her throat.
This is true: At the end, she cries out his name, and he whispers I love you, I love you, I love you, a benediction against her lips, and she kisses him until it hurts, and even then, she doesn’t let go.
***
In the morning, Natasha woke to the smell of fresh coffee.
She picked herself gingerly off the living room floor, brushing dust and small shards of glass from her skin. It took her a few minutes to locate the clothing she’d worn the night before, and she gave up after finding her bra and underwear, padding upstairs to the bedroom to pull one of Clint’s t-shirts and a pair of her own leggings from the dresser.
Clint was waiting for her in the kitchen, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. “Morning,” he greeted her. “We have no non-broken dishware. Congratulations on winning a trip to IKEA.”
Natasha laughed, tiptoeing up to kiss him, heedless of her sore lip, and Clint put his mug down to wind his arms around her. He smelled like sweat and dried blood and she breathed him in, a soft sound of protest escaping her mouth when he pulled away, reaching for him.
“Stop that, you.” He batted her hands away and poured her a cup of coffee, passing it to her in a mug that was missing its handle. “I blame you for this, by the way. I wasn’t the one firing into the kitchen.”
“We’ll mention that in the insurance report,” she said, and they clinked their broken mugs together.
They ate breakfast on the kitchen floor, sharing a bowl of cereal and passing their one usable glass, filled with orange juice, back and forth. Natasha leaned against Clint’s shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, to breathe his scent. Every now and then, he would press a kiss to the top of her head, his lips playful against her hair.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Clint asked finally, taking another bite of cereal.
Natasha took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “We should,” she said. “What do we say?”
Clint laughed. “Honestly, I have no idea.” He put his bowl down, and shifted away from her, holding out his hand. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Clint Barton, codename: Hawkeye. I’m a Senior Agent with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division of the United States government.”
Wanting to laugh at the absurdity, Natasha took his hand. “Nice to meet you, Agent Barton. My name is Natalia Romanova, codename: Black Widow. I am a covert KGB agent, trained in hand-to-hand combat, firearms, espionage, infiltration and interrogation.” Her voice felt tight in her throat at the last part and his fingers squeezed hers, something very much like understanding in his eyes.
“Well, Natalia,” Clint said slowly, “There’s something you should know. Twenty-four hours ago, my superiors gave me a direct order to eliminate you.”
Natasha held his hand in hers, didn’t break his gaze. “And yet I’m still alive.”
Clint took her bowl of cereal from her free hand and put it on the floor, cupped his hand over her cheek. “Yeah, you are.” He leaned forward, kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. Natasha felt tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “I made a different call,” he whispered, his lips finding hers.
“Clint,” she said against his lips, and tugged him against her, drawing him down onto the floor. She pulled his shirt over his head, unbuttoned his pants and slipped her hand inside to draw him out; he peeled her leggings and underwear down, settling between her legs and kissing her at her core. “Yes,” she breathed, threading her fingers through his hair, and Clint made a quiet sound against her. His fingers tightened on her thighs and Natasha let her head fall back against the floor. “Yes,” she said again, and he scraped his teeth against her, hard enough to make her cry out and push her hips forward, trying to get him closer, harder.
He brought her to the brink but wouldn’t let her tumble over, and she grunted in frustration, grabbing his shoulders and rolling them over, sinking down onto him with a gasp and a moan. “Nat,” he groaned, and she leaned down, kissing him, feeling the clench of his thighs under her ass, riding him hard and fast, his hands coming up to close around her hips. He said, “Tasha, God, yes,” and for the first time she could remember he came before her, shuddering hard, and Natasha thought this man is beautiful before his thumb found her clit, circling it once, twice, three times before she was gone, jerking hard against him and collapsing with a cry over his chest.
Clint wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, and Natasha pressed her forehead against his, breathing in the smells of sweat and sex. “I love you,” she whispered. Clint made a soft sound and Natasha realized that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d said it, really said the words. She’d thought them last night but it wasn’t the same, wasn’t nearly the same, and she said it again, out loud, the words spilling from her lips until Clint kissed her, his thumbs brushing the moisture from her eyelashes, unwontedly tender.
For one, dazzling moment, everything was quiet, and peaceful, and perfect.
And then someone threw a grenade through their window.
Instinct kicked in and Natasha wrenched herself off Clint, snatching the grenade and throwing it as hard as she could back out the window, then throwing herself back down. To his credit, Clint moved just as quickly, rolling them to cover her with his body as the grenade went off, sending drywall and plaster and what Natasha was pretty sure was her kitchen sink flying over their heads. Natasha opened her eyes, meeting Clint’s as he looked down at her. “Your people?” she hissed.
Clint shook his head, his forehead moving against hers. “They wouldn’t,” he said. “Yours?”
Natasha swallowed, thinking of Sergei, of Ivan. “They would.”
Clint leaned down, kissed her. “We have to get out,” he said. “Get to the car. Grab as many weapons as you can find. On three?”
Gunfire opened up, automatic, sending a spray of bullets through what remained of their kitchen. “Three!” Natasha yelled, pushing Clint off her. She had time to see him wrench his boxers back up and make a grab for his undershirt but she didn’t bother, picking up her underwear and running naked into the living room instead, snatching Clint’s dress shirt from where he’d thrown it the night before, closing a few buttons one-handed as she picked up as many of her abandoned guns as she could. She threw the pile onto the couch just long enough to step into her underwear, slipping a handgun into the waistband and gathering the rest into her arms, sprinting through the house to the garage.
Clint was waiting for her in his SUV, the passenger door already open, his bow in the back seat and two guns in easy reach. Natasha jumped into the passenger seat, throwing her stash of guns into the back seat. “Go,” she said.
“Seat belt,” Clint said.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“I’m about to crash through the fucking door, of course I’m serious.” Natasha rolled her eyes and clicked her seatbelt into place, and Clint grinned at her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” A round of bullets went through the garage door, narrowly missing the windshield, and Natasha rolled down her window, cocking one gun. “Now, will you go?”
“Right away, dear.” Clint threw the car into gear and stepped on the gas, and Natasha braced herself as they drove through the closed garage door, full throttle.
***
This is true: Clint is a car man. He knows cars, he knows trucks, and he knows how to buy a car that can do just about anything. So when he goes to the dealership to buy matching SUVs for himself and Natasha, the salesman tells him about the storage space and the childproofing and the safety features, what Clint wants to know about is the more off-the-record features: double-plated glass windows and reinforced bumpers and fiberglass siding. Clint wants cars that he can race and crash and ram shit with, and Clint knows how to find what he wants.
This is true: Natasha hates car chases. She thinks they’re messy and inelegant, and she leaves them to the boys, the new blood from Moscow and St. Petersburg who don’t know any better, who joined up for the action and the excitement. Let them get splattered across the road; Natasha was made for finer things.
This is true: Clint loves car chases. He thinks they’re badass. As they crash through their garage door, he tells Natasha this.
This is true: Natasha says, “Of course you do,” and is not the slightest bit surprised.
***
They skidded out onto the street and Clint took stock of the scene on their lawn out of the rear-view mirror: a collection of black vans, black-clad men with guns, and what looked like a surveillance crew as well, if the armored car across the street was any indication. “Damn,” he said, whipping the wheel around to get them out of the cul-de-sac. “Your folks don’t waste time with avoiding clichés, do they?”
“We’re Russian,” Natasha said flatly, “we have a deep cultural love for tradition.”
“Oh, my God, I’ve married a Tolstoy caricature,” Clint deadpanned, stepping hard on the gas to pull onto the main street. Two of the armored vans had pulled out behind them and Clint scowled. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Natasha, how are you on stunt driving?”
She eyed him. “Why?”
“Because I need you to drive.” He set the cruise control and twisted out of the front seat, and Natasha moved with surprising fluidity to take his place, flipping the cruise control off and gripping the wheel hard.
“Brace,” she said, and he held on to the back seat with one hand as she wrenched them onto the highway on ramp. “What are you doing?”
“Covering us.” He chambered the Glock, aimed it at the back window, and sighed. “Sorry, Betsy,” he said, and shot out the back window. The bullet kept traveling, puncturing the windshield of the armored van behind them, and Clint mentally congratulated himself.
“Who the hell is Betsy?”
“Betsy is my car,” he said, cocking the gun. “Does yours not have a name?” Natasha’s incredulous look in the rear-view mirror was answer enough, and he sighed. “Any other deep, dark secrets I ought to know?”
Natasha swerved them into the left lane, accelerating past a minivan. The scandalized soccer mom behind the wheel blared her horn at them. “I never went to art school,” she said. “Actually, I never really went to school at all.”
“Forged college diplomas? I think they’ve got laws against that.” A bullet imbedded itself in the seat next to Clint’s cheek and he returned fire.
“I show you mine, you show me yours,” Natasha said.
Fair enough, Clint supposed. “I was never in the military.”
Natasha made a disappointed sound. “I liked that about you! It showed discipline.”
“I’ve got plenty of discipline without it,” he assured her. She steered them onto the shoulder to get around an eighteen-wheeler and Clint yelped, steadying himself against the seat.
“I killed a man the night you proposed to me,” Natasha said.
“Before, or after?”
“Before,” she said, sounding almost affronted.
“Well, that’s alright.” Clint traded the gun for his bow and shot two arrows in quick succession, taking out the armored van’s two front tires. It skidded and flipped over, and he allowed himself a moment of smugness before the second van swerved around to take its place. “I was married before.”
Natasha slammed on the breaks and Clint tumbled forward into the front seat in time to take a punch to the face. “Jesus fuck, Natasha—”
“I want a name,” she said, pressing the gas hard enough that Clint shot into the back seat again.
“You’re not gonna kill her,” he said. “We got divorced before I met you—”
“I want a name and a social security number.”
“You can have a first name,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “and only if I get a written statement saying you won’t do anything to hurt her. A notarized written statement.” Natasha scowled at him in the rear-view mirror, and Clint blew her a kiss. “Take this exit,” he said.
Natasha gave him a look that said this conversation is not over, and he leaned over the seats to drop a wet kiss on her cheek. “You’ll notice,” he said, “that you’re the one I’m married to now. Even after you tried to kill me.”
“You tried to kill me, too,” she said, but she sounded a little less angry, cutting across three lanes of traffic to get off at the exit ramp. The van trailing them, despite its blaring horn, shot past the exit, but Natasha turned on to the first tiny back road she could find, parking along the side of the street.
They clambered out of the car, Clint strapping on his quiver and slinging his bow over his shoulder, passing one of the guns to Natasha. “Okay,” he said, “we need a phone.”
Natasha buttoned the rest of Clint’s shirt. It fell down just below the curve of her ass, and he took a moment to admire her thighs. “There’s a pay phone,” she said. “There, on the corner.”
He set out at a run and Natasha followed him, careless of the stares they got, running barefoot and barely dressed down the street. He picked up the phone and hit “0”.
“Thank you for using this service,” a tinny, female voice told him. “If you'd like to place a call, press 1, if you'd like directory assistance, press 2.” Clint jabbed “1” and the voice continued, “Please state your name and dial your desired number.”
“Clive Roberts,” he said, and, conscious of Natasha’s presence against his side, dialed in the nine-digit number ever SHIELD agent was required to memorize before their first mission.
“Grandma Sue’s Bakery,” a cheerful voice answered. “Thank you for calling! How can I help you?”
“This is Agent Clint Barton, codename: Hawkeye, serial number 7-echo-03851-november-bravo. Get me Fury.”
The voice’s cheerfulness seemed to disappear. “Agent Barton, you missed two check-ins. Director Fury is pissed. I can get you Hill—”
“Get me Fury,” Clint repeated. “Now.” He glanced at Natasha, who was watching the street over his shoulder, her brow furrowed.
“Please hold,” the voice said, overly polite, and Clint rolled his eyes. He hated junior agents.
There was a click, a brief tone, and then Nick Fury’s voice came over the line. “Barton, where the fuck have you been? Coulson’s throwing a fit.”
Clint snorted. “Coulson doesn’t throw fits, sir. I need evac for me and an asset.”
“An asset?” Fury sounded incredulous. “Barton, I need confirmation that you have neutralized the Black Widow.”
“Uh.” Clint looked at Natasha again. She arched one eyebrow. “Neutralized is…not the word I’d use.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what word you would use, instead of being a little shit?”
Ah, Fury, Clint thought. Always with the people skills. May you never change. “Sir, I married the hostile.”
“You what?” There was a crash and Clint actually winced. “Someone get me Hill and Coulson. No, right the fuck now, you little fucker, do I look like I’m patient? Barton,” he said, voice sounding almost alarmingly controlled. “When exactly did you have time to marry the hostile?”
“Five years ago next week,” Clint said cheerfully. Natasha’s lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile. “Sir, she didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t know who she was. I want to bring her in.”
“The Black Widow is at the top of our threat list,” Fury snapped. “What makes you so sure she’ll defect?”
Natasha’s lips thinned. “Tell him,” she said slowly, “that if I was not willing to defect, you would be dead.”
Clint relayed the message, and Fury snorted. “It’s on your head, Barton. I’ve got a lock on your location. I’m sending Coulson in with a team. Twenty minutes out.”
“Fury,” Clint said. “I want your word that she won’t be harmed.”
He could hear Fury’s gears turning. “My word,” Fury said after an agonizing moment, during which Natasha’s fingers found his hand and clenched, hard. “She’s off-limits. You’d better be worth your word, Barton.”
“Never let you down before, sir.” Clint hung up the phone, turning and pulling Natasha into a kiss. “All good?” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes and no,” she said, pulling away from him. “Hostiles, on your left.”
Clint turned, bringing up his bow in time to see the armored van come crashing down the side street, men leaning out of the doors. “In case this goes to shit,” he said, “I love you.”
“Don’t let it go to shit,” Natasha said, but she gave him a faint smile. “I love you, too.”
They set off at a run, weapons raised, and Clint could still feel the tingle of her lips against his.
***
This is true: Violence is a dance, Ivan told her. And you are a dancer. Natasha is a dancer, yes, and she has always danced alone. But sex is a dance, too, and she and Clint have been dancing together for years. So it comes as no surprise that when they charge into battle together, guns blazing, they sink into an instantaneous rhythm. She knows where he is without looking, can sense his presence at her back, at her side.
This is true: Natasha fights with a grace born from years of training and conditioning. But Clint, oh—he fights like he does everything else, at once fluid and calculating, wild and elegant. He’s as nimble as she is, almost as flexible, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye out of more than concern.
This is true: Clint fights like a soldier, and it is almost enough.
***
The bullet caught him in the gut. Clint stumbled back, and Natasha felt her blood run cold. “Clint!” She caught him as he staggered, forcing him to the ground behind what remained of the SUV, bullet-ridden but still shelter. “Clint. Baby—” an endearment she never used, slipping out before she could stop it “—talk to me, Clint.”
“’S not bad,” he slurred, but his t-shirt was turning red under her frantic fingers.
She could hear a plane overhead. “Clint,” she said, urgently, “I can hear them. SHIELD is coming, just hold on.”
He grinned up at her, teeth bloody. “Guess that whole til death do us part thing came a little sooner—”
“We didn’t say that,” Natasha said, cutting him off. She pressed down harder against the wound.
Clint rasped out a laugh. “Maybe we should’ve.” He reached up, threaded his fingers through her hair. “You’re beautiful, you know.”
“You told me that the day we met,” she said. “Do you remember?” Keep him conscious, keep him talking. Basic field first aid.
“Told you you were bold, too.” His eyes glinted. “Hasn’t changed. Natasha.”
She bent down, pressed her forehead to his. “Stop,” she said. “Just don’t.”
“Was going to ask you,” he said. “Our anniversary. Next week—let’s do something special.”
“Whatever you want,” she said. He was losing blood at an alarming rate, but his eyes were sharp and steady, his breathing even. “What do you want?”
“Marry me,” he said. “Marry me again.”
“My romantic,” Natasha said, and leaned down to kiss him. “Yes.”
The wind picked up and the sound of a plane roared above them, and then a sleek, high-tech aircraft was touching down behind them. A gangplank lowered, a slender, middle-aged man in a well-cut suit coming down with an AR-15 in his hands. “Agent Barton,” he said, “You called for backup?”
“Oh, good,” Clint said. “Natasha, this is Phil. Phil, this is Natasha. Don’t kill her. And someone find me a medic.”
***
This is true: They board the jet. Clint is loaded onto a gurney and fussed over by a medical team, and Phil sharply tells a group of junior agents that Natasha is not to be handcuffed or restrained in any way. She sits by Clint’s side and holds his hand in hers, rubbing the platinum ring on his finger. It is crusted with dried blood, just like hers, but it fits there, and she wonders if he’s ever taken it off. She thinks that he probably hasn’t, and it makes her smile.
This is true: The jet takes them to an airbase in the sky. The medics take Clint into surgery and Natasha is debriefed by Phil and a female agent, Maria Hill. She is calm and collected and passes her psych evaluation with flying colors, and within an hour she has a SHIELD serial number and badge, and if her security clearance isn’t high, she’s fairly sure it’s just a matter of time. In exchange, she gives Phil names, bank account information, and residential coordinates of every KGB official she knows. From the look on his face, it’s more than he had in mind. When Clint wakes up from his surgery, groggy but pain-free, Natasha is sitting by his bedside in a SHIELD-issue uniform, twisting her wedding ring around her finger, and Clint grins up at her, like he had no doubts in the world.
This is true: That night, Phil Coulson goes off base. He sits in a bar and, over the course of many, many drinks, tells the guy sitting next to him about the clusterfuck that is his life. He tells them everything Clint and Natasha told him, barring any details that could cause an international incident, and the guy listens, eyes wide. “What about you?” Coulson says when he’s done, chugging down the rest of his vodka tonic. “What do you do?”
This is true: The guy says, “I’m a screenwriter, actually,” and Coulson thinks, oh, fuck.
This is true: Clint’s healing stitches keep them from any extravagant adventures for their anniversary. But Phil pulls a favor, and the SHIELD chaplain meets them in the medical ward. They renew their vows. This time, they have witnesses, and when the chaplain says you may kiss the bride, everyone claps and Clint thinks, this is the way it was supposed to be. They sign Clint out AMA and go to Natasha’s new quarters, and make love under military-issue lighting, laughing into each other’s mouths. They hold hands the entire time, and when Clint says I love you, Natasha says it back, over and over in a breathless litany. It’s the opposite of luxurious and in the end Clint’s stitches tear, but it’s perfect.
This is true: They don’t live happily ever after, but they do live, and they’re happy, they’re together, and they think that in the end, it’s enough.