AU, depending on how much of Age of Ultron you carefully ignore for the sake of the beauty that is the archer and the spy.

She hadn't meant, necessarily, to do this, whatever this was. Natasha Romanoff wasn't supposed to be able to love people, to wonder, to experience life like any normal person rather than a primed weapon. And sometimes people said she ought'nt have what she did, and sometimes she agreed.

"Tasha," Clint whispered in her ear. "Stay with me, honey." His breath brushed against her earlobe and he pressed a soft kiss to the shell of her ear before pulling her closer. His lips wandered across her cheekbones, skating over her lips and drifting to her collarbones, pausing on her necklace before finally kissing her properly, full on the mouth. It wasn't needy, just strong and reassuring. He never needed anything from her, Natasha was always the one asking for something else, something more. The freedom to choose her own relationship and its course had taken hold of her, let her be demanding and questioning rather than compliant to her mark's wishes. But then again, Clint had never been her mark, wouldn't ever be her mark.

She let her hands wander, into his hair and skating the edge of his shirt for just a moment before he broke away.

"Greedy," he teased, pressing his thumbs over her hipbones, his skin on hers.

"You're one to talk," she retorted, turning on the couch to force him to break his grip. She tugged her shirt down from where he'd shoved it just above her hips and pretended she wasn't missing the strong hold he had on her, both body and soul.

Clint moved so she could sit between his legs and pulled her onto his chest, firm but gentle as always. He threw his arm over her stomach and she let herself relax into the grip, letting the constricting hold be a comfort rather than a point of tension. Even though it was Clint, not anyone who was a danger to her, sometimes she had to remind herself that he held her tight out of love, not an attempt to jail her or force her to do anything. It was frustrating to her stubborn side, to be unable to erase that conditioning and the always present panic button, the one that never said flight, always fight. As a distraction from the instinct, she turned her head so she could press her cheek into the worn flannel that he wore.

He rested his chin in her hair, and rather than an annoyance it was comforting, another one of the little tics they had to remind her to stay here, instead of remembering Russia and the Red Room.

"You okay?" she checked, tipping her head back just enough to make it a question about right now, not his mental state or anything else. Their little language had its nuances- the same question directed towards the empty living room would have told him that she was really asking about his state of mind, and asked with eye contact it was about whatever latest injury he was sporting. This version was simple, just an 'is this comfortable?' rather than anything profound.

He nodded into her hair and brushed his thumb over her cheek. "Sleep, Tasha. I got you."

"I feel childish," she mumbled into his wrist where it rested against her skin.

"I love you too."

When she woke again, the living room was mostly dark, with only faint light from the kitchen. But the space was big enough that it was still near pitch black where she and Clint laid on the couch. She tipped her head back to check that he was still sleeping, listening to the strong beat of his heart and feeling his chest slowly rise and fall. What a different experience than her past had been, where she listened to dead men's hearts and felt for breath to ensure it didn't exist.

The thought sparked a bubble of panic deep in her throat, making her heart fluttery. Weakness. God, she was so strong now, but still so weak. It was like her mind was smooth silk, ready to catch on anything and everything. Sometimes she caught the ragged edges of her past up in the perfect, calm surface she presented, like Bruce and the Hulk but much less obvious. Training was hard to destroy, and hers had taught her that regret was never shown, nor anxiety, nor the panic that was struggling to escape her now, in rough tears to drip on Clint's flannel and thin whimpers to hit the very edges of supersoldier hearing.

"Honey?" Clint asked from above her, his voice rough with sleep. "Tasha. Hey." He shifted, his legs untangling from hers and moving just enough that he had the leverage to tug her to his eye level. The movement left cold air brushing against her bare legs and Natasha curled back into him for warmth. (Well, not only warmth, but she wasn't big on admitting he was like a big security blanket for her). As she did, one rough thumb pressed lightly under her eye, then glided down her skin to cover her lips, resting at the corner of her mouth.

"Breathe," he said. It wasn't really a necessary reminder, they were both trained to control their breathing in tense situations, since even one jagged exhale could mean death. But the gesture was calming, from him, so she obeyed and sucked a deep breath in. The oxygen and his touch was incredibly soothing. Instead of bursting, her bubble of panic simply bled out until she wasn't ragged anymore.

Her exhale was less desperate, and the next breath even less so, until she felt comfortable again and Clint's heartbeat was once more soothing. His own breathing tickled at the edges of her hair, her face, her throat, and when she turned to look at him he had a wicked smirk on his lips, the sort of snarky expression that she could easily make out in the faint light. His eyes glinted in the dim light from the massive windows and she caught his gaze with her own. Clint kept their eye contact firm as he blew out a last teasing breath across her lips with perfect control, ensuring she knew that his actions weren't coincidental.

"Is that how we're playing, then?" she whispered, maintaining her eye contact with him.

"That is precisely how we're playing," he said in return, equally soft, before pressing his lips to hers. This kiss was wild and quickly they were both sitting upright, with her body tangled in his lap and his arms twisting around her waist. Natasha nipped at his lip, just enough to get his attention- as if she didn't have it already- and he responded in kind, pulling her closer and flattening one hand across her spine while the other curled tightly into her hair.

"Who's greedy now?" she mumbled, breaking just long enough to get out the words before returning her attention to his jaw, pressing her soft lips to his faint stubble, then to his throat.

Clint paused in his activities. "Me," he said, husky and rough. His hands untangled from her shirt and her hair and drifted lower, enough to tuck them under the edge of her shirt and run across her bare skin.

"Mhmm," she said, unable for a second to form words as he returned to his exploration of her lips, gentle and wild all at once. "Good."

Sometime after she'd been thoroughly kissed at some hour between midnight and two AM, they had both drifted back to sleep on the massive couch, this time both of them lying flat, Clint curled around her. This time when they woke was different too, because it was Clint breathing hard behind her, his fingers twitching where they rested at her waist. She turned over to face him, letting her nose touch his, pressing her lips hard to his.

"Hi," she said when his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide and dark. For a moment he struggled in her grip, reminding her of the hair-pulling, biting fight they'd had once when he was under Loki's control. Then he relaxed, breathing out hard through his nose.

"What was it?" she asked.

"There's so many things anymore, I've no idea what it was." He pushed himself upright and slipped over her body to go stand by the windows, fingertips resting on the glass. Natasha watched him as if from far, far away as he leant forwards, forehead against the glass. The pulsing lights of the city, even from this far up, illuminated the edges of his figure, making Clint look as if he were glowing. She propped herself up on one elbow to stare for a moment, admiring his silhouette. Sometimes no matter how physically close they were, it was like he was millions of miles away, only an observer from some mental perch. She pushed herself up as well, dragging a blanket off the edge of the couch and gliding over to the windows.

As soon as she came close, Clint reached out for her, tucking her into his chest tightly. Even through the thick wool of the blanket Natasha could make out the rise and fall of his lungs and the warmth of his skin. She let herself fall into his grip, resting her head on his shoulder.

"It's so familiar," he said, just loud enough for her to hear. "All that life, spread out beneath me, and I'm the one from up on high, making the choices. Picking out targets."

She didn't speak, instead letting him get the words out. Clint wasn't much for drawn out confessions and speeches, but when he did it seemed cathartic, so she tried to keep him talking when he started to.

"I don't know what to do with that power," he whispered. "I don't know. I can't. Who gave it to me? I'm just some Midwestern boy, deep down. It's not like Steve, he was given his power, it was right for him to have it, someone else gave it to him, but some days I feel like I just took it."

"Like you don't deserve it? That your choices were mistakes?" she said, less questions than confirmations.

Natasha felt him nod, his chin bumping against her temple.

"Or something worse-" he broke off, and she could tell that there just weren't words for the depth of Clint's fear.

She spun to face him, tucking the blanket over both their shoulders so they were perfectly cocooned. "Someone once told me something," she began quietly, moving so he was forced to meet her eyes. "They told me that perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it."

"And who was this person?"

"It's from a children's story," she admitted. "But still applicable. You would be surprised at the amount of 1990s and early 2000s American pop culture that I know about."

He leant forwards and softly kissed her forehead, holding her there for just a moment. "Childish," he murmured into her skin.

"Worth it, to have you."

They'd ended up sliding down the glass to curl up together on the carpet, the blanket tight around their bodies. Even though it was the dead of summer, the glass was still cold against her spine, but Clint kept her warm. She wondered what someone would think of the pair of them, his arm around her shoulders and her head on his chest, free hands wrapped together, looking the picture of domesticity. He had rescued her all those years ago, the first time anyone had bothered trying, and now, though she'd be loathe to admit it, Clint made everything easier. He was the difference between knowing the movie and getting the reference. It was like having her own personal knight in shining armor, the annoying type that showed up even when she thought she didn't need him, though half the time she kind of did.

She let herself stare aimlessly into the depths of the Tower, something she rarely did, because daydreaming was a weakness. Faint pink and gold was drifting across the white carpeting as the sun rose, moving towards the dark hardwoods that covered the kitchen. There was no doubt this floor had been purposely designed to use the dramatic morning light to full advantage. The glass and steel practically glowed in the dawn, brightening the ultra modern space considerably.

"Jarvis?" she whispered, not wanting to break the comfortable silence.

"Yes, Miss Romanoff?" the familiar voice said, keeping the volume low enough to match her own.

"Time, please?"

"It is currently five twenty-two."

"Thank you," she whispered to the ceiling before scooting her head out from under Clint's chin. "Time to go," she told him, moving to stand. Natasha preferred that no one besides Jarvis knew about their nighttime vigils, their friends didn't need to worry, and if anyone found them making out on the couch at two AM, they would never, ever hear the end of it.

"Go where?" a new voice asked. So much for that plan, then.

Natasha levelled a fierce glare at Peter, who was hanging upside down five feet to her left, reaching for a hatch in the windows.

"Far away from you," she said. The poor kid took a quick backwards step before flipping off the ceiling and pulling off the red and blue mask. She wasn't really mad, just a bit frustrated, and annoyed with herself because she didn't know if she could handle their little relationship being fully in public. There wasn't much point to grand romantic gestures, in her opinion, and no need for every person on the face of the planet to know she'd loosened up enough to love someone as she did Clint.

"Sorry, sorry," Peter said quickly, raising his hands in the air. "Only, we, uh, kindofallknewalready?" He spit out the end of the sentence in a rush very different from the snark she typically heard from him.

Natasha shook her head and let Clint use her hand to haul himself to his feet (she'd tease him about getting old later) before responding. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You live in a building of insomniacs with deep-seated problems with healthy sleep schedules and an omniscient AI that lives in the ceiling, how long was it really going to stay quiet?" Now the sass was back, and he had a perfectly cheeky smirk spread across his face.

"Mr. Parker is correct," Jarvis said, with the sort of tone she associated with scolding Tony. "Did you two think we would disapprove?"

"Nah," Clint responded easily from behind her, where he had one arm wrapped around her waist and the other caught up in her hair. "Just didn't need to be blatant about it. Unlike all the other happy couples in this building."

Peter sighed dramatically. "Yeah, from Mr. Happily Unattached here, the number of sappy romances around here is kind of extra."

Natasha raised one eyebrow at him, the sort of expression she made when she wanted someone to be very sure they meant precisely what they had just said. "Oh, I'm sappy, now am I?"

"Uhm," Peter forced out. "Uh. No. Nope, never, bye!" With that, he spun back onto the ceiling and out the window faster than she could catch him.

They both turned to watch him go, swinging over the city in the predawn light.

"You know, I don't mind sappy," Clint whispered in her ear, dragging his lips down the delicate skin in a way that made her inhales sharp and sudden.

She didn't take the bait to turn around. "Sappy is for children," she said, trying to ignore him as the blanket pooled around their feet and his fingers slid down her throat.

Then she did, quickly spinning in his grip. "And I, for one, don't mind the occasional childishness."