Title: Side Effects

Description: Clint has some unfortunate side effects to an injury during a mission. Clint!Whump and slight Natasha!Whump.

Rating: K+

Author's Note: I wrote Clint in this one, w.a.o.n.n.y. wrote Natasha. Enjoy!

"Look, I don't want to be the one who always says I told you so, but I did mention that hitting that button was probably not the best idea, Clint."

"Come on, gimme a break, Tash," Clint returns. His eyes skim the shiny metal interior of the elevator, searching for a means of escape. "How was I supposed to know that 'terminate connection' means 'the elevator cable breaks and we hurtle down in a metal cage like some kind of sick amusement park ride'?" He frowns and scratches his head. "Why is there even a button that does that?"

Natasha is squeezing the handrail so tightly that her knuckles are turning an unhealthy shade of white. "So, I may have just realized that I have a fear of falling. And small spaces. And let's not forget to mention the fact that this is HYDRA's Fridge, which has one hundred floors full of psychopaths and alien weapons, and that the only way to get out is through that door at the top of the building!" Natasha is shouting now, and her whole body is shaking. "I mean, I know we're undercover and so I can understand how maybe you could have gotten a little freaked out when that alarm went off, but honestly, in what universe would it possibly be a good idea to hit a button labeled 'terminate connection'?" She scowls at Clint.

"Gosh, Nat, I'm sorry," Clint says, realizing for the first time how freaked out she is. He stumbles towards her across the rattling floor and tentatively places his hands on her shoulders. "I know it was idiotic, I just wasn't thinking."

In response, she grabs his arm with one hand and squeezes her eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. "It's ok. Just tell me when it's over."

Clint glances at the floor indicator near the ceiling. The glowing numbers are descending rapidly as the elevator box shoots downward, gaining momentum as it goes. "I think we're about to hit ground," he informs her above the rushing wind and screaming alarm. He loops his arm protectively around her, and traps her firmly between his body and the wall. "Brace yourself!"

She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder, wishing she'd had a little less to eat that morning.

The sound of the wind intensifies as the numbers switch from double to single digits. Then, the elevator halts with an earsplitting crash, and the whole enclosure shakes. The force of the impact throws the two assassins to the floor, Clint on his back with Natasha landing on top of him.

They lay like this for a few seconds, catching their breath, until Natasha stands shakily. "Are you ok?" she asks, her voice small and slightly tremulous.

Clint groans. His eyes are screwed shut, and he raises a hand to the back of his head. "I'm fine," he grunts finally. "It's just my head…"

Instantly, Natasha is kneeling at his side. Carefully, she takes the sides of his face in her hands and turns his head gently. She runs her fingers through Clint's tousled hair, skimming them lightly over the area where the back of his head had met the floor, and finds an already sizeable bump forming there.

Clint sucks in his breath as her fingers come into contact with the injury, and he pushes her hands away. "It's fine, Tasha. Don't worry about it," he says, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"You sure?" Natasha asks nervously. "You might have a concussion or something – that was literally a one hundred floor drop."

"I'm sure," Clint says. He shakes his head to clear the haze from his vision, then grips the handrail, hoisting himself to his feet. "We've got to get out of here."

Not entirely assured, Natasha watches him as she hits the button to open the door. Clint seems confused, and he doesn't stop frowning at the floor as he rubs his eyes. Suddenly, she realizes that she's been hitting the button repeatedly, yet nothing is happening. "Clint," she says slowly, "I think we're stuck."

Clint looks up, and steps closer to the doors. He tries pressing the button, but his results are the same as Natasha's. He tries to slip his fingers into the slim crack between the doors, but they're wedged together too tightly. He presses his shoulder against them, trying to shove them apart; but suddenly, the thundering of feet running across the floor sounds outside the elevator. Clint freezes, and he motions Natasha to be silent.
"What's going on?" a rough voice demands.

"I don't know," a lower voice replies. "I just heard the alarm go off, then I heard a crash. We'd better go upstairs." The footsteps stop outside the door. Clint steps silently back, and both the assassins hold their breath. Then the low voice mutters a curse, and says, "The elevator's out of order. Come on, let's take the stairs." The footsteps fade away as the HYDRA agents retreat.

Natasha lets out the puff of air she's been holding and tries to think. "We could climb the elevator shaft to the second floor and take the stairs back down. At least they're keeping the weapon on this floor. Although, seeing as it's tesseract technology, I don't suppose they'd want to stash it anywhere else." She inspects the buttons again closely. "We could always call the electrician."

Clint scoffs. "Yeah, great idea, Nat," he says sarcastically. He pushes his palms against the thick door, testing its strength. His face falls when he realizes how secure it is, and he sighs. He glances towards Natasha. "Look, I'm sorry," he mutters. "About… all of this." He gestures around their metal prison.

Natasha shrugs it off. "It's not your fault, Clint. Honestly, I'm not mad, I was just really nervous earlier and I shouldn't have snapped. And really, on your bad idea scale ranging from one to take Banner swimming with sharks in a small underwater cage for his birthday, this one isn't that high on the list."

"Well, in my defense, they were allegedly tame sharks," Clint replies archly. "And it wasn't my fault they were hungry, either."

Natasha only rolls her eyes and a smirk tugs at her lips.

Clint shoves his shoulder against the door again. This time, there is a low grating noise as it gives a little. "Hang on, I think I'm getting it," he declares, redoubling his efforts. The grating sounds again as the doors separate slightly, then Clint grips the edges and pries them apart till there's a big enough gap for them to exit through. "Come on," Clint says; then both of them slip through the crack and hurry away from the elevator, just as the alarm finally falls silent.

"One-J," Natasha mutters as they quickly walk the length of the hallway, scanning their eyes over the labeled doors. "Here." She stops in front of the correct door and pulls a thin, plastic card from her pocket. "Got your pass ready?"

Clint reaches for his pocket, then suddenly, his face contorts; and he stumbles into the wall, breathing heavily. His hand darts toward the back of his head.

"Clint?" Natasha says quickly, forcing panic away from her tone. "Clint, are you ok? What's wrong?" she ducks under his arm, pulling it around her shoulders in an attempt to steady him.

He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly and gives her a weak smile. "'M fine. It's just my head. I feel…" His words end in a moan of pain, and he stumbles again, spared collapsing onto the floor only by Natasha supporting him.

"Clint, if something's wrong, we need to pull out," Natasha says, adrenaline spiking. Her partner had been injured in the field before, but that didn't make in any less scary each new time. "We can put the op on hold."

"Hang on, just gimme a sec," he mutters back. He sinks to the floor and sits against the wall, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, Natasha looking on anxiously.

Suddenly, the door to the stairwell opens and two HYDRA agents emerge. Their eyes widen as they take in the scene, and Natasha and Clint find themselves at the wrong end of two HYDRA guns. "Hold up," Natasha barks quickly, raising her hands. She's still holding her false HYDRA ID and lifts it above her head for them to see. "Two men just jumped us. They escaped through the elevator shaft though – I think they were heading for the thirtieth floor." Frowns crease the agents' foreheads. One of them curses as they turn and dash back up the stairway. Natasha wonders what's on the thirtieth floor. The alarms go off again right as Natasha starts to press her thumb to Clint's wrist to check his pulse. She looks up worriedly. "How do you feel?" she asks again.

Unexpectedly, Clint wrenches his arm out of her gentle grasp. "I said, hang on," he reiterates, sounding irritated. "Can't you just leave me alone for two seconds?"

Shocked, Natasha backs away quickly. "Take it easy, Clint – I just want to make sure you're ok." She feels a little hurt but decides not to show it. If Clint was snapping at her, she deserved it. She'd probably been too pushy.

"Well, I am. Ok?" Without waiting for an answer, Clint stands up shakily. He sways a bit on his feet, gripping the wall for support, then pulls his false HYDRA ID from his pocket. "Let's finish this mission so we can get outta this hellhole."

Natasha hovers uncertainly by Clint's shoulder as he passes his ID beneath the scanner. The door unlocks and he opens it and steps inside. Natasha scans her ID and follows him.

Inside, the room is white; and completely empty except for a small table in the center of the room. And, sitting on top of the table is their target: a silver and blue assault rifle displayed in an open weapon holder. Clint leads the way to the table and picks up the weapon. He turns it over in his hands, studying it with interest.

"Careful," Natasha murmurs. "That thing is deadly. Let's get out of here."

Clint throws her an uncharacteristic glare before returning the weapon to its container and snapping the lid shut. Then, he picks it up and brushes past Natasha, marching out the door without waiting to see if she's behind him.

Natasha hangs closely behind Clint, her mind racing. By this time, she's reached the fact that Clint isn't acting like himself. He seems more irritable. Then, she realizes what's probably happening to him. She's heard of people having some head trauma and consequently losing control over their emotions. She hesitates, not wanting to make the situation worse, but she has to know if she's right. "Clint," she says, choosing her words cautiously. "You still haven't told me how your head feels and I'm worried about you."

"I said I'm ok," Clint says angrily, brushing her off as they head towards the stairwell.

"No, you're not," Natasha presses, taking his elbow and causing him to halt. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that nothing is wrong with you."

"Oh, just give it a rest!" Clint growls, rounding on her in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm perfectly fine! You need to stop getting distracted and focus on the mission," he adds, taking an aggressive step towards her.

"Clint. I'm serious. I'm worried that you have a concussion. Let me take a look at it," she pleads.

"No! I said drop it!" Clint says, his eyes flashing. "It's none of your business, anyway."

"Snap out of it, Clint, if nothing's wrong like you're insisting –"

Suddenly, Clint's strong hands are digging into her arms, and he's shoving her up against the wall. "I said, shut up," he hisses, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. "I call the shots on this mission, not you! It's your job to do what I tell you to and stay out of my way!" He yells the last part in her face, and shakes her so hard her head hits the wall.

Natasha is too terrified and surprised to try to pull herself out of his grasp. So she stands there, trying to calm her heartrate while Clint's vicelike grip continues to tighten. "Okay, okay," she gasps. "I'm sorry, Clint. Please let go of me; it hurts. I didn't mean to be pushy."

Clint's scowl deepens, and he abruptly strengthens his hold on her arms, almost crushing them. He slams her against the wall one last time before finally releasing her and stalking through the door that leads to the stairwell.

Natasha sags against the wall, trying to take deep, even breaths. She's never seen Clint like this, and it scares her. Her head is throbbing from cracking against the wall, and her arms are almost numb where his hands had been. After a minute, she realizes that he's not going to wait for her if she doesn't catch up with him, so she steels herself and stumbles away from the wall to rejoin him.

The task of climbing up a hundred-story staircase seems daunting, but Clint has wasted no time in starting up. Natasha guardedly falls into place behind him, and for a while, the only sounds are the tapping of their feet on the steps, their labored breathing, and distant shouts and running shoes from the top levels. Several minutes pass, and both the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents begin to grow weary, but they keep soldiering on. Gradually, Clint's breathing begins to grow raspy. He looks pale and sweaty, and he relies heavily on the stair rail for support. But he keeps pressing on, still managing to make good time until he stumbles and falls to his knees somewhere near the forty-fifth floor.

Unsure of what to do, as she doesn't know how Clint will respond if she tries to help him again, Natasha stands back anxiously as Clint struggles to stand.

But when he finally succeeds in standing, he sways unsteadily; then his hold on the railing loosens and he collapses, tumbling down several steps to the nearest landing.

Her heart in her throat, Natasha rushes down the steps to Clint's side. He's unconscious; his face is eerily pale and his breathing is heavy and labored. Natasha takes his hand and tries to say his name, but her voice refuses to comply. She clears her throat and tries again. "Clint. Can you hear me? You've got to wake up, Clint!" She glances nervously behind her, listening to the voices of the HYDRA agents as they search the levels of the building. "Come on, Clint," she urges, chafing his wrists and smacking his face a couple times.

Clint mumbles something unintelligible, and his brow creases. Then his eyelids flutter open. As soon as he sees Natasha, his eyes widen. He half-sits up and grips her urgently by the elbows. "Are you ok?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

Natasha frowns, confused and more than a little worried. "I'm fine, but the more relevant question would be, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," Clint says. "My head hurts a little, but that's all." He sits up and surveys their surroundings. A frown of puzzlement claims his face. "Hang on a second. I don't think we're in the elevator anymore."

Natasha freezes. This could not be good. "No, we're not," she answers cautiously. "Is… is that the last thing you remember?"

"Yeah, I just pressed that button, and the elevator fell." Clint's eyes widen as he grasps the implications of her question. "Oh, no. Please tell me I didn't do anything stupid, Tasha," he says half-jokingly.

"You didn't," Natasha says hastily. Suddenly, she realizes that he's still holding onto her arms, and she pulls her elbows quickly from his grasp. "We have the weapon, though," she adds, gesturing towards it. She rises and picks up the case, waiting for him to act.

Clint raises a hand to his temple. "What happened?"

"Nothing much; we secured the weapon and now we're on our way out," Natasha answers.

"Hm." Clint uses the banister to pull himself to his feet, then leans against the wall for a minute, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. "Ok, let's take it slowly," he says at last. "I feel a little woozy." As they begin ascending the stairs again, Clint looks anxiously at Natasha. "So, you said you didn't get hurt when the elevator fell, right?" he asks to reassure himself.

"Right," Natasha confirms, glancing sideways at him. He seems fine, back to normal, but he had also seemed fine right after the elevator dropped, so she refrains from asking if he's ok again or putting her arm around him to steady him. She's afraid that, if she shows any concern, he'll get defensive again. Instead, they continue up the stairs at a painstaking rate in silence.

Clint glances around them. "Hey, there's not another elevator, is there? I just – I feel a little light-headed, and I'm afraid if I don't take a break I'm gonna pass out again."

"I don't think so," Natasha replies. "Remember – those HYDRA guards had to take the stairs." And I'm not even going to suggest the elevator shaft.

Clint shrugs. "I don't remember, but ok," he says. Then he smirks. "You don't happen to have a magic carpet handy, do you?"

Natasha manages a small smile. "Unfortunately not."

They reach the fiftieth level before Clint stops and sits down. "Halfway there," he pants. "I just need one more break, ok? And then I can make it to the top, I promise."

Natasha leans against the wall and watches him carefully. She's considering asking how his head feels when the door to the fifty-first floor opens and footfalls thunder down the staircase towards them. Natasha stands up straight. "Three men," she mutters. "Piece of cake, but let's try to play it off."

Clint nods, lifting his head to listen as the footsteps come closer.

Three armed HYDRA guards round the corner. Natasha recognizes one of them – she's had guard duty with him before. "Did you find them yet?" she asks.

"No," the HYDRA guard says, slowing down. The other two men pause on the steps to wait for him.

"Tell me when you do," Natasha continues, her heartrate picking up. "I have a small bone to pick." She tilts her head in Clint's direction.

"Will do," the guard agrees, glancing at Clint. His gaze narrows, and he whips out his gun. "Mind telling me why you have the assault rifle?"

Natasha shrugs casually. Then she throws herself at him without warning, shoving him down the stairs into his companions. His shot barely misses Clint, hitting the wall over his head. The three guards struggle to their feet as Natasha swoops down on them. She feels her training take over, muscle memory kicking in as she punches, blocks and kicks. It doesn't take long before all three men are in various stages of unconsciousness or death on the stairs.
"Let's go," she says, making her way back up to Clint. She picks up the case holding the tesseract-powered rifle, and starts to walk past him, up the steps.

"Wait." Clint stands and reaches towards her, his hand covering hers on the case handle. Looking seriously into her eyes, he asks quietly, "You wanna tell me what went down on Floor One?"

Natasha freezes, starting to chew her lip nervously. "Nothing," she says finally. "I don't know what you mean. Come on, let's go. We have to focus on the mission."

Clint's grasp on her hand tightens, and he squints suspiciously at her. Finally he sighs. "I know you're keeping something from me, Natasha. And I'm going to find out what." Then he releases her hand. "But if you don't want to talk about it right this second, then ok. Come on." He turns and heads back up the staircase, and Natasha follows.

…

They reach the top of the staircase without incident. By this time, most of the guards have separated and are searching other floors, so the assassins are feeling fairly confident that they'll be able to take out what little of the enemy remains on the top floor and make their escape.

Clint pauses outside the door and pulls his collapsible bow out of his jacket. "Ready?" he asks his partner, fitting an arrow to the bowstring.

In response, she pulls out her pistols and kicks the door down.

Instantly, the dozen or so guards in view look up, shocked. Clint and Natasha take advantage of their temporary confusion by opening fire on them. Several men fall, but one manages to dispatch a message on his handheld radio while his allies begin shooting at the assassins. "Code Red, we're under attack!" he shouts into the device. "All personnel, report to Floor –" His words end in a wet gurgling noise as Clint sends an arrow through his stomach.

Meanwhile, Natasha shoots a few guards through the head. Then, red hair flying, she stuffs her guns inside their holsters and runs a few short steps to where an agent is aiming at Barton. She lands on his shoulders with a strong leap and delivers him to the ground with her famous thigh choke, tasing him with her Widow's Bite.

"There were some guards on the ninety-first floor," she calls to Clint. "It won't take them too long to get up here."

"'K, let's finish up in here!" he calls back as one of his arrows passes through the heads of two guards. Both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents look around, and find that there are only four guards remaining. All of them look petrified at their opponents' expertise, and one of them throws down his gun and lifts his hands in surrender. The others quickly follow suit.

Clint and Natasha's momentary relief quickly fades as footsteps pound on the stairs, heading for the door. Clint raises his eyebrows and says, "Let's go." Then, both of them race down the hallways towards the exit, the incoming HYDRA guards hot on their heels.

They burst out the door into the bright sunlight, the weapon case gripped tightly in Natasha's hand. Simultaneously, they head for a HYDRA vehicle with two men inside. Natasha throws open the driver's side door, then heads around to the passenger side as Clint takes out both men. Then, they're being chased towards the open road by a few stray bullets with only a couple cuts and bruises for their trouble.

Clint steers the black vehicle away from the base, pressing the gas pedal firmly to the floor so they're heading towards the main roads at top speed. Minutes pass in tense silence as the building fades into the distance. As the car nears the highway and traffic becomes thicker, Clint finally slows down, maneuvering the car into the busy interstate at a comfortable speed of seventy miles per hour.

For the first time in days, the partners feel that they can finally relax. Clint leans back against the driver's seat and heaves a sigh of relief. "Well, I'd say that mission was a success" is his comment.

Natasha leans back and props a foot on the dashboard. "Yeah," she agrees. "Fury'll be glad to get his hands on this."

"No kidding," Clint says. "And truthfully, after the infiltration part, it was pretty darn easy. Grab the loot, and fight our way out. Pretty straightforward, if you ask me."

"Mhm," Natasha mumbles noncommittally. "The stairs were overkill, though."

"Tell me about it," Clint says with a chuckle. Then he switches on cruise control, and turns seriously towards Natasha. "Nat… you know we're going to have to talk about this, right?"

Natasha glares out the window in silence. "'Bout what?" she asks after a second, hoping to keep up the façade.

"You know what," Clint replies, tilting his head in an attempt to glimpse her face. "Whatever happened after I blacked out in the elevator."

"Oh, speaking of that, how's your head?" Natasha finally gets the question out, partly to distract him and partly to determine whether he actually is back to normal. Plus, she wants to know. "You hit it pretty hard."

"Natasha," Clint says in an I-know-you're-trying-to-change-the-subject tone. "Answer the question."

Natasha sighs and risks a glimpse at him. "There's not much to tell," she admits. "You hit your head and I wasn't sure how bad it was. You were acting a little confused. When I asked you about it, you got a little… defensive. Then you fell down the stairs. That's it." She sighs again and pulls up her knee, hugging it.

When she glances back at Clint, he is looking askance at her. He remains silent for a moment, pondering her words, then says, "If that's all, then why were you acting…" His voice trails off as he searches for a word to describe her behavior.

"What?"

"Weird," Clint starts to say, then stops and shakes his head. "No, not weird. I mean, yeah, weird, but more like… nervous. When I touched you, you pulled away. When I came to after I fell down the stairs, you didn't seem very worried about me, didn't offer to help me. And when I asked what happened, you didn't give me a straight answer." He tilts his head again. "Not to mention the fact that you'll barely look me in the face right now."

Natasha presses the side of her face into her knee as she continues to stare out the window determinedly. "Really, Clint? Am I getting in trouble for things I didn't do, now? I'm sorry if I was too focused on the mission." She hadn't meant to sound so harsh. She gives a passing driver a death glare.

Clint blinks in surprise at her response, realizing how upset she is. "Nat…" He reaches across the divide and gently touches her arm.

With a sharp intake of breath, she jerks away from his gentle touch as his fingers graze the place where he'd grasped her arm so tightly before. A light touch like that shouldn't have hurt so badly. It must be getting worse. She realizes she is staring wild-eyed at Clint, and turns her face quickly back to the window. "Sorry. Some HYDRA bum punched me during that last fight. It's still pretty sore."

Clint frowns at her, puzzled. "I don't remember seeing that happen," he says doubtfully.

"You were in the middle of shooting at someone," Natasha lies. "It's understandable."

"No, it's not," Clint says, still frowning. "I know I would have remembered…" His voice trails off, and his expression hardens with suspicion. He gazes intensely at the redhead, comprehension dawning on his features. "Nat… when you said I got 'a little defensive'… what exactly did you mean by that?"

Natasha's jaw tightens. "I don't know. You just kept on insisting that you were fine and that we should stay focused."

"But that's not all, is it?" Clint persists. "Natasha, what did I do?"

Natasha says nothing.

Clint's face tightens, and he turns his gaze back to the windshield. He doesn't speak for a moment, just maneuvers the car into the far right lane. Then, he pulls over on the side of the road, unbuckles his seatbelt, and turns towards Natasha.

"Natasha, let me see your arm."

"Clint, it's ok – you didn't do anything."

Clint closes his eyes. "Nat… I mean it. Show me."

Without looking at Clint, Natasha slowly unbuckles her seatbelt. Then she unzips her HYDRA jacket and shrugs it carefully off. Two angry purple bruises are blooming on each of her arms in the unmistakable shape of a handprint.

Clint stares at the marks for a moment without speaking. He exhales hard through his nose; once, twice. Then he turns away and covers his face with his hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Natasha's heart aches to see him like this, and she regrets showing him. Her eyes start to burn. "It's ok, Clint," she says huskily, reaching across and putting her hand on his shoulder. "It really doesn't hurt that bad. It'll heal. I've been shot through the stomach before."

"Nat, this isn't okay," Clink says brokenly. "I hurt you." His voice drips with self-loathing, and he slumps forward towards the steering wheel.

"Yes, it is okay, Clint," Natasha says firmly, but now her nose is red too, and her eyes are starting to water. "Compared to everything the KGB put me through, this is next to nothing. It's not your fault." She squeezes his shoulder comfortingly.

"Not my fault?" Clint repeats incredulously. "In what way is this not my fault?" His voice catches slightly at the end, and he presses his hands even harder against his face.

He looks so small and ashamed that Natasha can't bear it. She climbs over the divider into his lap and wraps both arms around him, hiding her face in his collar and trying not to cry on him.

He responds by slipping his arms around her and pulling her even closer, his body shaking with suppressed sobs. He rests his face on her head and whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry" into her hair.

Instead of trying to convince him again that everything is okay, Natasha hugs him tightly and murmurs against his shoulder, "I love you, Clint." It's the first time she's ever said it out loud, and she says it so quietly that she'd be surprised if he actually heard her.

Several minutes pass in silence, and Clint's breathing gradually evens out. Finally, he pulls Natasha away, holding her at arm's length, and gives her a watery smile. "You're not… mad?" he blurts out stupidly.

She smirks. "That's an automatic no."

He breathes a sigh of relief. Then his brow furrows again. "But… you are scared. I know I scared you, Tasha," he adds bitterly.

"Maybe a little," she admits seriously, looking into his eyes. "But that's just because I wasn't expecting it. And I'm not scared anymore."

He smiles again, and squeezes her arms comfortingly, being careful to avoid the bruises. Then his eyes move to the clock, and he sighs. "It's getting late. We should probably head back now, we have a long drive ahead of us."

Reluctantly, Natasha clambers back into her seat and snaps her seatbelt into place.

Clint looks earnestly at his partner for a minute. "Thanks," he says simply.

Natasha turns her head to look at him. In response, she reaches for his hand and gives it another squeeze, her face softening.

Clint sighs calmly. Then he releases her hand and takes hold of the wheel, carefully steering them out into traffic again.

As the car speeds up and the hum of the motor increases, Natasha is surprised by Clint's voice breaking through the stillness again.

"And by the way… I love you, too."