Disclaimer: During a misspent week in September 2012 I mainlined the Avengers and Doctor Who until my brain managed to superimpose River Song and Natasha Romanoff and fuse them into one character. Then she started dictating. Before I knew it, Clint Barton and Phil Coulson had elbowed their way in. That's how this AU 'verse came to be. It's involved some tweaked timelines, altered plot points, a ton of original back story for River, and a lot of fun on my part. I'm having a ball playing in Marvel's and Moffat's sandboxes (and making no money).

Spoiler Note: This series contains spoilers of a vague, AU sort for A Good Man Goes To War and Let's Kill Hitler.

This story was not part of my original line up, but the idea presented itself, it wound up being a quick write, and the timing (this was originally posted on Valentine's Day) couldn't have been more perfect. Besides which, I am, at heart, a sap.

Massive kudos to Like-a-raven-14 who co-authored in addition to betaing this fic!

Part 5: The Marvelous Tale of an Agent, an Archer, and an Assassin

Chapter 1

February 2008

Spending four days in Iceland had been about as entertaining as it had sounded like it was going to be. Not that the mission itself had gone badly. It had actually been fairly boring. River and Coulson had also agreed that the safe house was far too quiet, likely because, for the first time, it had been just the two of them. The mission hadn't required any distance surveillance or kills, so Clint had been ordered to stay behind in New York. Fury had wanted as few ripples as possible, which meant no non-essential personnel and radio silence. Clint hadn't even been able to call to check in.

River had been a little surprised at how sharply she felt the absence, though she really shouldn't have been. She and Clint had always spent a lot of their downtime together and now, since the Chicago mission two months ago, they'd been using it to get to know each other from new (and largely unclothed) perspectives.

At least she'd had the mission to distract her. River wondered how Clint had put in the last four days.

It was tempting to just go straight to his quarters. It was only one wing over and one floor up from her own. But, River thought as she trudged down the corridor to her own room, it was 0246 hours and if he had any sense, he was asleep. There would be time to catch up tomorrow.

River let herself into her quarters, mentally debating whether it was even worth it to go to bed at this hour. She had to stop short to keep from stepping on a pile of papers that was lying right in her path. River frowned as she tossed her duffle to the side. Those certainly hadn't been there when she'd left. They looked as if they had been shoved under the door. River curiously reached down and picked them up.

When she realized what she was reading her eyes widened a bit. River sat down on her bed, arranging the letters in a neat pile as she did. They seemed to have landed in her floor in more or less chronological order, the oldest on the bottom of the stack. They were all in the same handwriting, a neat block print that by now she'd know anywhere.

It had been a long time (a long time) since anyone had written her anything in the vein of a love letter, but damn if that didn't seem to be what she was holding. Even the first one, for all the prosaic nature of its contents.

Quick note, before I forget again.

When you get back, how would you feel about doing some knife training? Throwing, not close range combat. It hasn't come up in a while, but wouldn't want to get rusty, right?

Anyway, let me know.

River smiled and shook her head. Clint was forever doing that, asking questions out of the blue at random times before he forgot about them. Leave it to him to find a way to do it even when she wasn't around to ask.

The second letter was a bit less businesslike.

Found your earring.

Not sure how we got it halfway across the room and into that coffee cup, but really looking forward to trying to get it there again.

I've put it in a safe place. Exactly where that safe place is, well, that's info you'll have to get out of me on your own.

Really looking forward to that, too.

River smirked. Oh, she could have that information out of him in thirty seconds if she wanted to. Given that she liked him, though, she'd probably string it out.

Her smile softened on the third letter.

I had tea this morning. I had this whole story ready, about a sore throat and shit, in case anyone asked. No one did, of course, because no one gives a damn what I drink with my eggs.

But it still felt like getting away with something.

And it tasted a little like you do, when you push me into an empty room and kiss me when we're halfway between breakfast and wherever we're going after breakfast.

A little.

But not enough.

She wondered what he'd think if he knew she'd been drinking slightly-too-sweet black coffee in Iceland for the same reasons.

The fourth note was on a torn-off piece of yellow-lined paper, the handwriting a little less neat than normal, like he had scribbled it down in a hurry.

I can't stop looking at that picture from Memphis.

You know you're fucking gorgeous, right?

That picture. He'd taken it at the tail end of a mission back in September, catching her unexpectedly when she'd been smiling good-naturedly at a really bad joke he'd just cracked. She'd been wearing sunglasses because her eyes were tired and bloodshot from being up for thirty-six hours. The bright morning sunlight had highlighted the tangles in her hair and picked out every last one of the light freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones, making them stand out far more than they normally did.

He'd looked a little embarrassed last month when he'd confessed that he'd kept it. River hadn't minded, though she'd argued that it was far from her best look.

Secretly (or maybe not so secretly) she liked that it was the picture he'd chosen to keep hidden away.

The next note was written on what seemed to be the back of a handout from a training seminar.

10 11 Things I Like About You
You're smart
You're strong
You're brave
The sound of your laugh
You can make me laugh
The fact that you can kick my ass
The way you wear the hell out of a dress
You usually smell pretty good
The times you let that accent out to play
You make me want to be better than I am
Oh, and the sex is pretty incredible, too

1 Thing I Don't Like About You
You're not here

River read the list over several times, leaning back against her pillows. She couldn't decide whether to laugh over it or not. Some of it she was sure Clint meant for her to laugh over. Other parts, she wondered if he meant to be as confessional as they were.

You make me want to be better than I am.

How topsy-turvy had the world gotten that she was Clint's motivation for wanting to be a better person? Especially when he was already a better person than she was ten times over.

The next letter had gotten a bit crinkled up on its way under the door. River smoothed it out before she read it.

Good morning.

Fell asleep thinking about you.

Spent the night dreaming about you.

Woke up without you.

That made two of them. It was amazing how quickly someone could become a fixed point in your life. Even when they spent the night separately, it was always with the knowledge that the other person wasn't very far away.

River had to unfold the next letter.

God, I hope you're okay.

And it's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself, because I know you can. Both of you. Yourselves and each other.

It's just that I feel better when I know I've got your back.

And I feel better when I know you've got mine.

River hoped that he hadn't worried too much. She certainly couldn't hold it against him that he had been, though. That was just something they did.

He hadn't spent the entire time worrying, though.

It's been way too long since I licked the hollow of your throat.

And it's going to be way too long until I do.

Fuck, River. Look at what you've done to me.

River rubbed her thumb idly against the paper. If he thought she was the only person in this equation who had that effect, well, she'd have to disabuse him of that notion.

She had to stifle a peal of laughter as she read the next one. River really didn't want to wake her neighbors at this hour.

There once was a woman named River,
Who knew how to make a man shiver,
And when she gets back,
I'll get her in the sack,
With a shaft I don't keep in my quiver.

She was still giggling as she set it aside. Other women could keep their sonnets and flowery prose. She'd take a dirty limerick from Clint any day.

There were only three words on the next piece of paper, up at the top of the page like he'd meant to write more and hadn't.

I miss you.

River gently set it on the top of the pile by her side.

By contrast, the last letter was three pages long.

It's 0100 here, which means it's 0600 where you are. If everything goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow you'll be back. But it's SHIELD and things happen, so I'm trying not to bank on that, without really succeeding.

What I should do right now is stop writing to you, kill the desk light, and turn in for what's left of the night. But hell, when do I ever do what I "should" do where you're concerned, River? So instead I think I'll write a little more.

You know what I haven't done since you and Phil left? Talk. I don't mean that I've taken some weird vow of silence or something, but with the two of you gone, there's no one to just talk to. Whatever I've said in the past four days has had a specific purpose behind it. There hasn't been any idle conversation, talking just to fill the time, just because I want to.

So these are all the things I haven't said to you this week. These are all the things I haven't said to anyone this week, because you weren't here to hear them:

Working for SHIELD has really ruined James Bond movies for me.

I had to talk to Agent Taylor about firing range reservations. Whole conversation took three minutes. He said "um" 27 times. Is he that nervous around everyone or just me? If it's everyone, how the fuck does he manage in the field? If it's just me, what the fuck did I do?

Running five miles around and around in a circle is a lot less fun when I can't watch you lap me.

I spent half of Tuesday humming "Come On, Eileen" because it was stuck in my head. If you'd been here, you'd have told me to stop, but since you weren't, I just went on humming.

I really hate the song "Come On, Eileen."

My bed smells a little less like you every night.

The ice cream machine in the mess hall was down for two days. For a bunch of highly trained, very professional, best-of-the-best intelligence operatives, we sure do get cranky when there's no chocolate/vanilla swirl. People probably would have died if it had been the cappuccino machine.

It's Girl Scout Cookie time again. I'm thinking of ordering by the case this year.

I saw an amazing sunrise on Wednesday, but I would rather have slept through it with my arm across you.

It doesn't matter how many channels you get, there's nothing worth watching on any of them at 0437 hours.

Agent Mahoney has gone beyond his customary buzz cut and effectively shaved his head. Apparently, it was an accident with the clippers. Which we all know because ...

…Ms. Miller of Purchasing (you know, the one with the not-found-in-nature red hair) has been out "sick" ever since accidentally e-mailing the whole base about "Agent Mahottie" and his "tragic" new haircut, instead of just e-mailing Ms. Dupuis, also of Purchasing.

Ms. Miller is right, though. He looks ridiculous. On the plus side, if we need to infiltrate a nest of skinheads, he's now the perfect candidate.

I'm half-heartedly debating growing a beard. Or maybe more of a goatee. How do you think I'd look?

I honestly don't know if you'll ever see this note or not. Can't decide if I hope I'm brave enough to shove it under your door or brave enough not to. Don't even really know what I mean by that, but kind of think that maybe you'll know.

I caught Agent Moretti singing some Britney Spears song at her desk yesterday. It put the whole "Come On, Eileen" thing in perspective. She blamed her daughter. Grace is apparently a fan.

Agent Moretti has a very nice singing voice, for what it's worth.

I miss your freckles. And everything underneath them.

Next time, I think you and Phil are just going to have to invent a reason I need to go, too. I am unfit for public consumption without either of you around.

Miss you, River. More than I can write.

C

River read the last letter through twice before stacking the others back on top of it and carefully tucking the lot away in the drawer of her nightstand.

It was 0324 hours. River got up and quietly left her quarters.

xxxxxxxxxxx

He wasn't asleep.

Dozing maybe. Lightly drifting, but not asleep. Clint smiled when he heard his door open and heard familiar soft footsteps cross his room. He felt the side of his bed dip a bit as a slight weight settled there.

"You know," Clint said, "I'm pretty sure it's against regs to just let yourself into someone's quarters like this. Invasion of privacy or something. Human resources thing." He opened his eyes. River was looking down at him with an amused smile. "So, what do you have to say for yourself?" he asked.

"Move over."

Clint scooted to the side, holding up the blankets so that River could slip in next to him. He took a deep breath as she curled up with her head under his chin, smelling chamomile and…fuck he didn't even know what else. She had told him once what was in that soap that she used, but his brain just classified it as "River." He didn't need any other descriptors.

This, he thought, wrapping one arm around her. This is much better.

"Did you just get in?" he asked.

He felt her nod. "I had mail waiting."

"Did you?"

"I liked it."

"Oh, yeah?" He'd felt a little stupid leaving notes under her door all week. He was glad now that he'd done it anyway.

River wrapped her arm around his waist. "I'll show you how much in the morning."

"Deal," he said.

For the first time in four days, Clint fell into an easy sleep.