Man's Best Friend (An Origin Story) - AVENGERS - Clint and Natasha (and Lucky) [2/2 - Complete]

[Anonymouse]

If you're a fan of Matt Fraction's Hawkeye, you'll recognize Lucky as the dog Clint saved from the Tracksuit Mafia. Winged and I decided to write a story about Natasha's reaction to Clint's new roommate. I suppose, in a way, this is a take on Lucky's origin story. It's based on the movie with comic-verse tie-ins, and takes place after the events of The Avengers. Broken up into two parts to make it more manageable. Enjoy!

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Part One

Getting kicked in the ribs and spending several hours in the only emergency animal hospital in Brooklyn with a strange dog was not how Clint planned on spending his Friday night. It was nearly one in the morning when he found himself standing outside his apartment building with the keys in his mouth as he tried to balance the kennel between himself and the door frame. The dog was inside, a heavy sucker, but despite his own mild injuries Clint was able to manage without dropping him.

The stairs presented a new challenge entirely, and the elevator was still out of commission.

By the time he made it to his floor, chest heaving, the dog was whining restlessly. Clint could see light coming through the space under his door and remembered that Natasha said she’d be coming over around eight. The last time Clint saw a clock it was just past midnight.

“You in there, Tash?” he called, knocking with his elbow as he readjusted his hold on the kennel.

He kept dropping his keys on the way up the stairs so he’d put them in his pocket. Now they were unreachable. Grumbling, he put the kennel down in the hallway, grabbed his keys, unlocked the door, and kicked it open. “Tash?” he tried again, pushing the kennel through the door with his feet before closing it behind him. “I brought some company.”

“It better be alcoholic, Mister Punctual,” Natasha called from the kitchen, where she perched on his countertop with her legs folded beneath her. “Because you’re out.” Well, she had found a couple bottles of hard cider stashed away beneath his sink, but that hardly counted. Raiding Clint’s kitchen for alcohol had proved to be largely disappointing since he’d started his gluten-free kick, but she still tried anyway.

She’d arrived sometime after nine, expecting a snarky comment from her waiting partner and instead finding an deserted apartment. Regardless, she let herself in with her spare key. She performed a quick survey of the living room and hallway for signs of forced entry or some sort of trouble that could have called Clint away, and, finding nothing out of the ordinary, made herself at home.

The clock had ticked on, and Natasha was at the point of leaving out of sheer boredom when the clink of metal in the hallway outside drew her to her feet. Muffled cursing and the continued rattling of keys had confirmed it as Clint, and she relaxed.

“See, when we make plans, I generally assume we’re using our current time zone, but I suppose I should have clarified,” she commented, sliding to the floor and making her way to the living room to welcome her partner home with gentle touches. However, when she rounded the corner she stopped.

“Did I miss some sort of party invite?” she asked, taking in his torn and dirt-stained clothes and the way he favored his left side. Ribs bruised, not broken, but certainly enough to be painful. Natasha’s thoughts of an evening in bed quickly faded.

Before he could answer a low whine came from the crate at his feet, sounding suspiciously like a dog. Natasha folded her arms across her chest with a sigh. “What the hell, Clint?”

He was sort of hoping she wouldn’t notice their guest. “It’s a dog,” he said, cringing when the nonchalant simplicity of his statement seemed to further exasperate her. “And it’s his fault I’m late, so if you’re going to yell at anyone, yell at him.”

Kneeling beside the cage, he poked his fingers without hesitation through the thin metal bars to pet the animal on the top of its head. Having grown up around men who mingled with lions and bears, Clint was comfortable around things with sharp teeth. Which explained why he and Natasha got along so well.

Standing back up with some degree of effort, he fished his phone out of his pocket. "I tried calling you," he said, holding it up as evidence, "but this piece of junk's been giving me issues. Battery keeps draining. Long story short, I took the dog from some thugs. They weren't treating him well."

They had thrown the dog in front of a moving car, but he spared Natasha the gritty details. Clint experienced his fair share of gruesome situations in the field, but animal abuse was the one thing that never failed to make him physically and emotionally ill every time. This dog wasn't part of any mission, though; Clint just happened to be there at the right time, and decided to get it out of that situation. There was no waiting for the police or animal control to handle it.

“I figure he stays here a couple days,” Clint continued, scratching the back of his head as he looked down at the caged animal. “Maybe longer, if that’s what it takes to find him a family or a shelter that won’t kill him after a week.”

He watched Natasha carefully, trying to get a read on how she felt about this whole situation. Of all the possible scenarios, Clint favored the one where he ended up with his first real pet, but he was not about to suggest it if Natasha had any reservations. He could not recall having ever seen his partner interact with any animal. It didn’t occur to him that perhaps there was a reason for that.

Natasha eyed the crate for a moment, catching glimpses of shifting brownish fur in the dim lighting. “Sounds like he was pretty lucky then.” Clint’s soft side for animals was something she could appreciate, even if she didn’t understand it. Believe it or not, training in the KGB hadn’t allowed time for man’s best friend. She had vague memories of a family cat, back before the fire, but that was a time that she consciously closed off. Clint, on the other hand, would stop and pet the quivering balls of fur in the “free puppies” pen outside the supermarket and send Natasha a baleful glance not unlike the little dogs he would be scratching behind the ears. But he knew Natasha wasn’t an animal person, and she spent as much time at his apartment than at her own, so they would continue on and she would try to ignore the slump of his shoulders.

“So did you…take him to the vet, or whatever?” She knelt down in front of the bars, trying to get a better look at Clint’s new charge. The dog whined and shrunk to the back of the carrier, but she could hear its tail thumping. Natasha glanced up at Clint with a wrinkled nose. “Is that why you smell like antiseptic?”

She guessed the dog was cute, or whatever. An animal was an animal, and that’s where her interest stopped. Natasha straightened slowly, her knee still stiff from their last mission’s rooftop chase (god, did that mean she was getting old?), and headed towards the kitchen, flicking on lights as she went.

“I’m assuming you didn’t eat between beating up thugs?” He still had fruit on the counter from the last time she shopped (“Jesus, do you have anything in your kitchen besides protein powder?”), and she removed a small knife from her belt to start cutting up apples. She also grabbed some Advil from the cabinet, in case his ribs were bothering him beyond the power of ice.

Clint refrained from mentioning the slice of so-not-gluten-free pizza he treated himself to on the way home, just before his encounter with the dog's previous owners. If Natasha knew he went to Grimaldi's without her there was going to be a bigger problem than trying to house a stolen dog. "Whatever you're making sounds good," he called when he heard the sounds of food preparation coming from the kitchen. "I took him to the clinic on Warren. Only place I know of that's open twenty-four seven. Would you believe Avengers insurance doesn't cover vet visits?"

The bill was pretty steep, but it wasn’t anything he couldn't take care of on his current salary. He was no Tony Stark, but he did okay for himself. They both did. And unlike Tony, Clint and Natasha knew how to live frugally. At least that's what Clint told himself whenever he pulled on a holey tee-shirt or inspected his bare kitchen cupboards for food that wasn’t too far past its expiration date.

Now that the adrenaline from tonight's string of stressful events was fading Clint realized he was pretty tired. And sore. Very sore, actually. Before he could join Natasha in the kitchen and attempt to solicit some kisses for his boo-boos the dog let out another shrill bark. "Right," he said, returning to the cage. "I suppose I should let you out."

He opened the kennel and braced himself in case the dog bolted, but the animal took a more timid approach, slowly putting one paw in front of the other and sniffing Clint's hands. "Good boy," he said, smiling when he heard the dog’s tail thump rhythmically against the kennel wall.

Clint did a quick sweep of the apartment to make sure there wasn't anything potentially edible lying around. As the dog began a tentative exploration of the living room his rescuer joined Natasha in the kitchen. There were apple slice on the counter; Clint grabbed one and crunched into it as his partner washed up at the sink. "What'd you do all night?" he asked. "Have any exciting adventures of your own?"

"If cleaning my apartment and then yours counts as 'exciting adventures.'" Natasha nudged the faucet off with her elbow and flicked water from her drying hands onto Clint. "Your place actually wasn't bad, color me impressed."

She was restless, consumed by the bone-deep itch that sometimes settled in the aftermath of a mission. She couldn't sit still; her nerves were still so tightly strung that she jumped at shadows and could hardly sleep. One time she made the mistake of ordering pizza and nearly broke the delivery boy's arm when he surprised her in the hallway outside her apartment.

But being with Clint made her feel calmer, more level. Even waiting in his apartment for those couple of hours had brought her down considerably. Having him at her side gave her an anchor of sorts, a fixed point to hold tight to while the world spun madly about her.

(She would never tell him that, but she knew he could tell.)

Natasha turned to lean against the sink. The roof of her mouth was getting itchy, weirdly enough, and she coughed lightly to clear it. As Clint munched on the apple slices, she watched him, taking stock of his scrapes and stiffness with a clinical eye. He'd be fine, but it had to be uncomfortable. Ribs were her least favorite injury by far. "So are you bruised from the thugs or the dog?"

Speaking of the devil, the dog appeared at the door to the kitchen, tail low and tentatively wagging. He didn't look bad for the situation he had been in; he was bald in a few places where he had been stitched up and his fur was matted around his legs, but his eyes were clear and his ears cautiously perked.

Clint swallowed and brushed his hands together, following his partner’s gaze to the creature in the doorway. “From what I can gather, this is the gentlest dog you’ll ever meet,” he said. “And he likes pizza, so he can’t be that bad. Most of this-” the bruises, the scratches on his cheeks, perhaps a cracked rib or two “-was the thugs… the rest was me not looking where I was going.”

In other words, he’d run into a pole while trying to escape with the dog in his arms. The mutt made it out of that situation unscathed, thank God, because Clint wasn’t sure he could handle any more trauma. For a long time he thought the dog wouldn’t make it, and he spent his time in the clinic waiting room mentally preparing himself for the news.

But the lucky bastard pulled through, against all odds. After all they went through Clint couldn’t see himself just dropping him off at a shelter to potentially be killed.

He stared at the creature in the doorway for a moment, hoping the mutt wouldn’t prove him wrong by going for Natasha’s throat or something equally terrible. His fear of losing her wasn’t limited to their time in the field, and with all his bottled-up anxiety starting to overflow after tonight he couldn’t help but consider these outlandish but possible scenarios.

Fortunately for everyone in the room the dog merely stood there panting. His tail gave a few more hesitant wags before he slid down onto the cool linoleum. There he observed them from the floor, his doleful eyes flicking back and forth Clint and Natasha.

“He’s probably thirsty,” said Clint, who felt like he could finish off a gallon of water himself.

He began rummaging through the cupboards for a bowl but then stopped, letting out a soft hiss when the movement made the pain flare up. “Man, I hate breaking things,” he grunted, procuring a bowl and bringing it to the sink to fill. “Throws off my whole life.”

Good thing he was in capable hands.

Natasha felt herself tense in empathy as Clint's reach tugged at his sore ribs -- perhaps they were cracked after all. She'd have to examine them by touch to feel for a break. Maybe Clint would take a painkiller before she began poking around at his bruises.

"Asshole, let me get that." She hip-nudged him out of the way, carefully avoiding the area giving him the most pain, and grabbed the bowl. She finished filling it and placed it in front of the dog, who struggled to his feet and immediately began lapping. "Go sit down before you fall over."

Just to make sure he would follow orders (you never could tell with this guy), Natasha took his elbow and guided him towards the couch. "I'll grab some water, and you'd better take an Advil before I start on your ribs. It's not going to be fun."

This was all as familiar to the two of them as the layout of the SHIELD helicarrier -- they'd dressed each others' wounds dozens of times in the field -- yet there was something comforting about talking it through, like she and Clint were ordinary partners who didn't experience mortal danger on a regular basis. She went back to the kitchen to grab the pill bottle, stepping carefully around the dog, and began to fill a glass with water for Clint. The tingle at the roof of her mouth was back again, and she clicked her tongue along it, brow slightly furrowed. But the vibrations along her palette had a different effect than she'd intended; she drew in a sharp breath and brought her elbow up to catch a hard sneeze. "hih'CHHH."

She sniffled in the aftermath, rubbing her suddenly itchy nose against her shirt sleeve. Her eyes too were beginning to sting, creating an annoying combination of symptoms that pointed to some sort of allergic reaction. Maybe she hadn't cleaned the apartment as well as she'd thought.

“Bless you!” Clint called back over the couch when he heard the muffled sneeze from the kitchen.

He wasn’t much of a blesser, but he made an exception for Natasha as soon as he discovered how much she hated it. Despite his teasing she still stuck around, even taking care of his stupid ass when it got into trouble.

She sniffed once more and returned to Clint's spot on the couch with the water and painkillers, deliberately ignoring his blessing. "Here,” she said. “Unless you want to do it cold turkey."

He popped the cap off the bottle of Advil and tapped out two pills, swallowing them down with the water she brought him. He drained half the glass before placing it on the coffee table with a few soft pants.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling up at her. He moved over to make space for her on the couch beside him. “For taking care of me and my apartment.”

It looked nice and clean, just in time for a filthy, furry houseguest to wreck up the place. Clint could picture the water sloshing over the edge of the bowl onto the kitchen floor as the dog drank, but mess didn’t bother him too much. The lapping stopped a moment later, replaced by nails clicking across the linoleum as the dog meandered into the living room. He seemed keen on keeping an eye on both humans, settling in the corner of the room with his attention fixed on the couch.

Natasha sunk down next to her partner, placing the antiseptic and rolls of gauze on the coffee table between them. “You’re not going to need stitches, are you?” She tucked her legs beneath her and turned to face Clint, checking him over. His right cheek was smeared with dirt and dried blood, but it didn’t look like much more than a shallow scratch. The bruises she couldn’t do much for, though he looked like he’d certainly have a black eye in the morning. Natasha made a mental note to make him ice it.

And now to the ribs. She rolled up the sleeves of her worn sweater and motioned for him to take off his shirt while she applied hand sanitizer. She could see exactly where the site of impact had been: there was considerable swelling around his sixth and seventh ribs, and she could see the echo of a shoeprint in the bruising.

“I’m going to feel for a break,” she said, keeping her voice soft, as if speaking to an injured animal. Her fingers were icy against his warm chest, and she shivered. Clint was in excellent shape, and it was hard for Natasha to keep from lingering on the defined lines of his abdomen as she found the injured ribs.

“Yeah, they’re cracked,” she said, allowing herself an empathetic wince as his expression screwed up at the contact. “Sorry, I know rib fractures hurt like a bitch.”

Natasha was still feeling along for fractures when a badly-timed inhale turned the prickling on the roof of her mouth into the beginnings of another sneeze. She withdrew her hands quickly, not wanting to hurt her partner, and caught another forceful “huh’CHHH-uh” in her arm, punctuating it with a thick sniffle.

Hunting for a distraction from the fact that her nose was starting to run, her eyes flicked to the dog, who was cradling his head on his paws and staring over at them with big eyes. Clint followed her gaze to the creature in the corner. “I feel like we should call him something besides ‘it’,” she said.

He was rather fond of ‘Lucky Bastard’ and found it to be quite fitting, but he was always curious to hear what Natasha had to offer. “Any suggestions?” he asked.

“Would ‘Lucky’ be too cheesy? I think we’ve already established this trait of his.” Honestly, she didn’t care what Clint called the mutt, as long as she didn’t have to take care of it, but she could tell he was already smitten. Might as well play along.

"I like cheesy," Clint said, grinning, then wincing slightly as Natasha's fingers resumed their prodding. "I'm good with Lucky if he is."

The dog didn't protest, so that pretty much settled it.

Clint was a good little patient for about thirty seconds longer before he reached out to gently catch Natasha’s wrist, silently giving her permission to stop fussing over him. There wasn’t anything more she could do for his injuries, and outside of resting, healing, and popping painkillers there wasn’t much he could do, either. Which meant he would likely be out of commission for a month or so. Good thing their director was a dog person. Clint was confident that once he explained the situation Fury would be more willing to forgive his recklessness.

Natasha disentangled her wrist from Clint's grasp, giving him a "hands up" to show that she was done. "I'll get you some ice for your ribs, and for that black eye that you're going to have tomorrow. Or today," she amended, taking the early hour into consideration. And damn Clint, he still hadn't put his shirt back on. His ribs were broken, for heaven’s sake -- it wasn’t fair to tempt her like this when she couldn’t partake. She flicked his shoulder a little harder than would count as affectionately as she went to fetch the ice from the kitchen.

Once she was out of Clint's field of vision, she retreated to the bathroom to blow her nose. Clint had been strung incredibly tight since New York, and even when he said nothing she knew he worried about her. It was better to avoid giving him reasons to worry. She examined herself in the smudged bathroom mirror, biting her lip critically. Nothing too bad yet; her eyes were a little watery, but it wasn't noticeable. Hopefully it would lessen once whatever dust she had kicked up when she was cleaning settled down.

In the living room, Clint tried to work out what needed to be done over the next few days. As long as the dog stayed here it would need food, maybe a bed and a toy or two. He would put out a blast email to the Avengers in the morning to explain the situation. Maybe Tony could use his connections to find a rich family looking for a pet, or at least a decent no-kill shelter.

Natasha returned to the couch with ice packs in hand and tossed them into Clint's lap. She was still sniffling, her efforts at being discreet wasted on Clint. He’d let that second sneeze slide without an obnoxious blessing, but it seemed like there might be more on the way. Natasha rarely sneezed unless she was sick. “Feeling okay?” he asked casually, knowing that if he acted too concerned she would just shut down. Natasha was more sensitive to that kind of thing than she let on.

His inquiry into her health was far too casual; he knew that she knew that he was worried. What a mess. Natasha flicked him a small smile.

"I'll feel better once you put some ice on your bruises.” She wrinkled her nose. “They're grossing me out."

Clint was in the same spot and state of undress she left him in, his injuries on full display. His bruised and bloody body was a familiar sight to the both of them. The television was on now but the muted as Chef Ramsay berated his cowering contestants. Even without sound the movement on the screen was soothing to Clint, like visual white noise. He smiled tiredly as Lucky approached him, peering up at him with those curious, searching eyes. It would be nice to have a dog for company when Natasha wasn’t around, for however long he ended up staying here. After New York, the archer found he wasn’t as comfortable being alone in the apartment as he used to be.

Taking one of the ice packs, he slapped it against his bruised ribs. His face scrunched up in a grimace but the shock only lasted a second or two. Soon the cold was soothing rather than painful and he allowed himself to relax a bit more, sinking back into the couch with a sigh. The couch was the only comfortable piece of furniture in his entire apartment, and preferred it to his own bed, even for sleeping. As Clint’s restlessness dissolved he began to realize how utterly exhausted he was. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier as he watched MasterChef, icing his injuries and settling in for a long evening of not moving.

Lucky chose this moment to start whining urgently. Clint, who had never owned a dog before in his life, immediately knew what he wanted.

“Shit, he probably has to go out,” he said, wincing again, this time apologetically, as he looked up at Natasha. “I didn’t see him go once since I got him. Help me up?”

He held his hands up like a small child asking to be held. The dog danced at his feet before running to the front door, wagging his tail in anticipation.

Natasha rolled her eyes and obliged, taking care to be gentle. As soon as Clint was on his feet she began searching the dog kennel for -- ah.

“Thank god they gave you a leash, or we were going to have to use rope,” she muttered, half to herself, as she clipped a nylon lead onto the matching red collar Clint appeared to have bought for the dog. He was such a sucker for puppy eyes. Natasha wound the dog’s leash around her wrist and turned to Clint.

“I’m walking him, in case he decides to go after a squirrel or something.” She glanced down, annoyed, as Lucky began sniffing at her leg. Clearly the dog had been someone’s pet before Clint came across him; he was familiar with being tethered and obviously knew what came next.

Clint’s building had what was generously called a “courtyard,” but it really amounted to little more than a patch of weeds the size of a highway median. Nevertheless, the dog was content to wade through the grass and promptly found a bush to lift his leg on.

“Does your building even allow pets?” Natasha called back over her shoulder. Not that a couple of master assassins couldn’t handle hiding one medium-sized dog, but it would be nice if they didn’t have to take the trouble.

“Are you kidding? Agnes loves me.” Clearing some stray ivy from the rarely used bench, Clint sprawled across it as if it were his couch. He was starting to find out the hard way that he couldn't handle standing for more than a few minutes at a time. "She lets me get away with anything." Like accidentally shooting an arrow through the window of the apartment building across the street. Fortunately nobody was home at the time. "Not to mention I provide her with a very valuable service."

That service was protection. Clint hadn't chosen to live in this neighborhood for shits and giggles. Sure, he could stay in a tower with thirteen security checkpoints before you even hit the foyer and an arsenal of weaponized suits in the basement (and sometimes he did, when the Avengers had stuff going on that required them to assemble), but what good was he there? Lounging around playing video games with Tony and Rhodey while surrounding neighborhoods were being terrorized by gangs and corrupt governments?

Natasha called it a savior complex. Clint considered it part of the job description.

Despite the violence surrounding his own building, this enclosed patch of weeds was a peaceful little place to sit and ponder graffiti in the lamplight. He would have liked to stay out here for a while, let the dog loose and watch the sky for UFOs with his partner, but she was sniffling again, each abrupt inhalation noticeably wetter than the last. Now her eyes were really beginning to bother her, and she drew the heel of her hand across them in irritation. Her nose didn’t show any signs of letting up either. She froze, hand still hovering by her face, and stifled a series of small, itchy sneezes into near-silence. She came out of the fit with a sigh and pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger for a brief moment to quell the tickle still feathering around her sinuses.

“Fuck this,” she hissed, breathless. She hadn’t had this bad of a reaction in years, and never in response to dust or mold. If it kept up she was going to have to leave Clint and the dog by themselves for the night; maybe it would pass and in the morning her immune system would have its shit together.

"Bless," Clint said, bracing himself to stand. "Ready to go back in?"

From what he could see of her in the sickly lamplight, she did not look well. Definitely some sort of reaction. He had Benadryl in his medicine cabinet, but getting Natasha to take medicine was like trying to force a panther to eat a vegetable. Maybe she would be okay once they got back into the air conditioning. He pushed himself to his feet and limped over to her, taking the leash and kissing the top of her head in thanks. They rarely said ‘thank you’ with words, but neither of them seemed to mind.

(When he’d asked her what “thank you” was in her language, she told him “There is no word for ‘thank you’ in Dothraki.” It was one of the many times he’d stopped and looked at her and thought This is why I love this woman.)

They cursed the elevator for being useless and began their gradual climb to the fifth floor. Clint allowed Lucky to hobble up the first few steps on his own, but he lost patience and scooped the dog up in his arms to carry him the rest of the way. He directed Natasha to get the keys from his pocket and unlock the door to his apartment. Placing the dog on the floor, he straightened with a suppressed wince and began moving casually from room to room, checking for unwelcome guests. Lucky proved to be a natural watchdog, following Clint to each room until he decided the apartment was clear.

Natasha couldn't help but smile as the tattered dog limped after his equally tattered human companion, sticking to his heels like they'd been partners for years. Clint hadn't said anything about keeping him, but she saw the way he absently reached down to rub the dog's ears as it followed after him. "Two peas in a pod," she said dryly, allowing herself a flicker of pride for the correct usage of the idiom. Her mastery of the English language was indisputable, but silly things like idioms and slang tended to trip her up from time to time. "Perhaps he won't make it to a shelter after all."

She still didn't like the way Clint was limping about; he'd had his fair share of broken ribs before, but he didn't usually favor them so heavily. Perhaps he knew that she'd take pity on him if his distress was more visible. All the same, she couldn't help but worry about internal bleeding: the bane of every field agent. "Come here," she decided, grabbing him by the arm of his t-shirt and then unceremoniously removing it.

Her hands settled into a familiar position just above his hips as she checked him carefully for any odd bruising or coloring. "You can breathe okay, right?" Natasha asked, rewarding Clint for his (forced) compliance by giving him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. "No punctured lungs or anything?"

Even though neither of them was feeling one-hundred percent, his shirt was off again and her willpower was waning. She began to slide her thumbs along the hard crests of his hipbones, her touch soft as velvet.

“My lungs are up here,” he joked, but from his tone of voice and the way he watched her as her hands roamed across his bare skin made the state of his own willpower quite obvious. “Stop fussing, Nat, I can breathe just fine.”

As much as he pretended to hate it, he loved the extra attention. Natasha was not being unfair to suspect that her partner might be exaggerating his injuries for some bonus TLC, but there was nothing exaggerated about the way he winced as her fingers traveled over what would likely be an ugly bruise in the morning. Taking both of her hands, he held them in his own for a moment as he looked up at her, taking note of the pink tinge of color around her eyes and nostrils.

Releasing her hands, he struggled into a half-upright position and glanced at Lucky, who was back in the corner he’d apparently claimed for himself gnawing at an itch on his hind leg. Though Clint preferred the couch to his bed for sleeping, when it came to other… activities, it did not have much room to move around. Especially when his body hurt in at least ten different places.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards the bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what he was even capable of at this point, but he would be just as content with cuddling and crashing until noon tomorrow as he would be with a slow, gentle screw and a nap.

Natasha hummed in reply, feeling her heartbeat quicken as Clint's hands wrapped her wrists in a soft vice. In reality it hadn't been more than a week or so, but she felt like she'd gone ages without the touch of her partner's skin. Unfortunately more often than not one of them was injured -- it had been her shoulder for a while, then her knee, and now his ribs -- which made it necessary to set some limits. Neither of them were a stranger to inflicting pain, but they did enough of that in the field that around missions their activities behind closed doors became quite vanilla.

She saw the way his eyes lingered and she knew that her allergy symptoms had him worried, particularly since she hadn't admitted to anything, but apparently that wasn't going to keep him from following her lead. She looped a thumb through his belt loop and tugged him towards the bedroom.

Their touches were gentle at first -- thumbs tracing loose circles on collarbones and backs of necks, a chaste kiss or two -- but as her body warmed to his Natasha nudged Clint into a seated position and looped her leg over to carefully straddle him. His hands were on her waist, soft and questing, and she was considering removing her shirt when her sinuses began prickling like they'd been immersed in icy water. Her lungs swelled automatically, and she had no time to think before she jerked forward to sneeze squarely onto Clint's bare shoulder: "hup-TSSHEW!"

She had just enough space before the next sneeze to feel instantly mortified, and she whipped her head to the side in time to continue the fit. "EEESH-uhh, hh'ISSHH."

Natasha panted, her head stuffy in the aftermath of the hard, unsatisfying sneezes, and rolled off of Clint. "Fugk, sorry," she rasped, her throat scraped sore, and sniffed thickly. "Thadt was really gross."

Clint marveled as the taut muscles of her abdomen tensed thrice in quick succession under his fingertips. The first sneeze startled the bejeezus out of him but he wasn’t nearly as grossed out about it (meaning, at all) as Natasha seemed to be. “Bless you...” He frowned, glancing down at her as she moved away from him. “Maybe tonight’s not the best night for this level of physical activity?”

As much as he wanted to add “For either of us,” he spared her his excessive concern. Natasha hated when he worried.

Relieved to find a box of tissues on his bedside table, Clint grabbed it and passed it to his partner. He settled beside her and stroked her hair in what appeared to be an automatic gesture of intimacy, but it served an ulterior motive: to check her temperature. Natasha’s head didn’t feel warm; he continued to trail his fingers lazily through her hair, planting a light kiss at her hairline.

Natasha loved when Clint played with her hair. She leaned happily into his touch, closing her eyes briefly. When he removed his fingers, she pulled herself to a seated position and grabbed a tissue from the box.

“Want anything before I get too comfy?” Clint asked. “Glass of water or something?”

He tried to remember if he had any orange juice (or anything, for that matter) in his fridge. Maybe there was tea somewhere, from the last time she came over.

"Water would be great," she replied, angling her body away from him to blow her nose. The lust coiling low in her stomach had vanished as she forced herself to admit that neither of them were really up for sex right now. Which meant admitting that she, too, felt like crap.

Clint returned with the water, and she held the cup between her hands for a moment. "I think I'm allergic to something in your apartment." She made a face. "If you couldn't tell."

It was annoying to say it out loud, but Natasha wasn't so stubborn that she would push past every red flag her body was giving her. The best thing at this point would be to go back to her own apartment. She and Clint would both get more rest that way.

Clint knew exactly what she was thinking, and in a last-ditch effort to get her to stay he suggested the impossible. “I have Benadryl, if you think that would help.”

He remained standing, on the off chance she would actually give him permission to drug her up so she could keep him company without suffering. But if Natasha wanted to go back to her apartment, he wasn’t going to stop her. It would give him time to investigate what could be setting her off.

Probably the furry, filthy mess sleeping on my living room floor, Clint thought. If it was the dog, maybe he could give him a bath and see if that helped the situation at all. Hell, he could use a bath himself. Maybe this was his doing. Clint had run through a vacant lot overrun with weeds as a shortcut to the veterinarian clinic. There was probably pollen all over the shirt he kept taking on and off and tossing all over the place. It was definitely time for laundry and a shower.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, kissing Natasha on the lips despite the fact that her nose seemed to be on the verge of running again, “and if you’re gone when I come back out, then I’ll see you tomorrow at the tower. If you stay… Benadryl’s in the cabinet.”

Smiling, he gave her another kiss on the forehead and gave the shoulder that hadn’t been injured recently a gentle squeeze. He grabbed his compact bow off the side table and brought it with him to the bathroom. It stayed propped up against the corner of the stall while he showered, within easy reach.

Part of Natasha's body wanted to follow Clint to the shower and pick up where they left off, or at least curl up on his bed and wait for him. She glanced at his bed covers suspiciously, as if blaming them for their comfort and enticing scent. But it had been a long day before Clint had brought home a stray. She had spent hours in S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters combing through paperwork, and all she had wanted to do was come back to her partner and spend the evening cozied up in a nest of blankets. Instead she had been treated to hours alone in Clint's apartment, and his homecoming hadn't been anywhere near satisfactory.

So she was a little bitter -- she was also exhausted, and it came with the territory. Another soft sneeze caught against her arm made her decision. She was going to go home and take a shower of her own, then crash for a couple hours so she could handle a morning of Stark Snark at the Tower.

Maybe Bruce or Steve would be there, she mused as she began to gather her things. She hadn't seen Dr. Banner in a couple of weeks, and her interactions with Steve had been fairly brief. It would be nice, in a way that she didn't like to admit, to see the team again.

She jotted a quick note onto a napkin for Clint -- Headed home, see you at ten, Nat -- and left it on his pillow so he would be sure to see it when he got out of the shower. The dog was curled up in the corner, watching her with a vague tail wag, and Natasha spared it a brief glance before letting herself out.

Edited May 17, 2015 by AnonyMouse

[NoV]

I always thought that Natasha would have a super-effective stifle what with all her spy training Its great that she finally gets to let them go in this Nice work!

[darkness-is-the-light]

I have to agree with NoV on this one. I really did think that Natasha would have quiet sneezes because she's always reserved and attempting to hide something. But I feel as if this is a very nice concept that she can't hold back so it's a bit humiliating for her. It brings a quality of her being human to the table that I haven't seen before. It's wonderful. Please keep up the good work.

[Dusty15]

PIZZA DOG!! I LOVE that you guys incorporated Lucky into the story. I wish he'd make a film appearance! I like how torn Natasha is between her concern for Clint's ribs and her own increasingly itchy nose!

[beatlelover22]

Hey! This was so awesome. I am a fan of Matt Fraction's Hawkeye and you really hit the nail on the head with this one! I mean, incorporating Lucky was genius! Nice job, I hope you continue writing Hawkeye in the future... he's one of my favourites and who doesn't love Natasha? Ahhh, I loved it!

[Bruyere]

Pizza Dog origin story! <3 This is such a brilliant idea. I really like the dynamic that you portray between Clint and Natasha.

Definitely looking forward to the second part!

[Anonymouse]

I wanted to thank you all for your lovely comments, and clarify for those of you who are interested that Winged wrote Natasha's parts and I did Clint. I'm editing the second half now and should have it up this evening!

[tenderwarrior]

I'm not into the Avengers at all, really. I'll be honest with you. BUT I loved this. It's so nice to read sneeze fic that has an actual plot and storyline where the sneezes aren't the main focus of the story but still in there. I really loved this and I bet Lucky is just so cute.

[Anonymouse]

Aw, thanks greetingsfromboston! I'm glad you enjoyed it despite not liking the movie. I always worry that my stories are too plot-oriented... though I wrote this with Winged and had a great time with the plot part, so I wasn't as concerned this time around. I think she spaced out the sneezes nicely. We're both very happy with the response this got! I guess it's about time I post part 2.

---

Part Two

The dog woke Clint up several times during the night, sometimes to piss, sometimes to sniff around a patch of grass for ten minutes before his new owner lost his patience and pulled him away. When his alarm rang Clint was already awake, staring at the ceiling, completely drained of energy but unable to sleep.

“Fuck...”

He sighed in resignation, forcing himself to get up and get ready. As he was putting his shoes on Lucky came bounding into the living room. Clint sat upright and watched the dog dance in front of the door, his tail wagging. “What, you wanna come with?” he asked. “Go for a walk?”

Lucky barked.

Clint knew Tony would have a conniption if he brought a dog into the Tower, but he didn’t want to leave the animal alone in a strange apartment all day. So he clipped the leash onto Lucky’s collar, mentally preparing himself for the repercussions of bringing him along. He forgot to account for his and the dog’s injuries when he did the math the night before, and the walk that usually took fifteen minutes took nearly three times as long.

Needless to say, Tony Stark was not amused by Clint’s tardiness or his unexpected plus-one, but he did not react as strongly as the agent suspected he might. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Bruce seemed to take to the dog instantly, scratching him behind the ear and speaking softly to him. “Good boy… there’s a good boy, huh?”

Natasha too was late, though she had still beaten Clint by a good ten minutes, and therefore had bragging rights and immunity from Tony's glare. She settled back into her armchair and gave Clint a little wave.

"I'm assuming assassins aren't always this late for everything, or else how would anyone ever end up dead?" Tony sniped from the kitchen. Bruce chuckled from his position on the floor, where he was now administering a belly rub to an exuberant Lucky.

"You get special privileges, Stark," Natasha called, lazily running a finger across the lip of her mug. Her eyes were on Dr. Banner, as usual. She liked the man, even felt fondly for him, but it took a lot of willpower to bring her instincts back from the high alert that she felt whenever he was in the room. It was like putting a brick wall between a mouse and a lion: the mouse was safe, but the scent of the lion was enough to put it in full panic mode. Now Natasha Romanoff was no mouse, but in the face of the awesome power of the Hulk she might as well be.

Dr. Banner looked up and caught her staring at him; she looked away, guilt prickling in her stomach at the way his brows tightened. She needed a distraction.

Luckily Tony often had all the attention span of a petulant child, and he quickly brought the focus of the room back to him. "Where'd you get the mutt anyway, Barton? The dog, not the Russian," he added.

“I actually got him from some Russians,” said Clint. “Well, thugs… they were thugs, primarily. Thugs who happened to be Russian. And did you just... call Natasha a mutt?”

“I said the dog, not the Russian,” Tony repeated, narrowing his eyes as the dog sniffed at the carpet. His calm facade was starting to crack; Clint could see that notorious Stark neurosis beginning to show through. “Is he house trained?”

“I think so,” Clint said, stifling a yawn behind his fist. “He woke me up ten times last night to pee.”

Tony looked unconvinced and vaguely faint. “I need another drink.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Clint observed as the billionaire - possibly now a trillionaire - strolled into the kitchen to fix himself a mimosa.

“Which is why I’m drinking mimosas,” he replied simply.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a robot doing that for you,” came a familiar voice.

Clint briefly acknowledged Steve Rogers, who up until now was just sitting quietly and observing his teammates’ interactions. The agent didn’t even notice him there when he first came in, or hear him enter afterwards, which was a little disturbing; but Clint still wasn’t feeling quite himself after last night, so he shrugged it off. Steve smiled as the dog walked over, giving him a “hello” and a friendly pat on the head. Bruce, done playing for now, got to his feet and brushed off his shirt.

“No mimosa for you,” Tony said, gesturing to Steve with his glass. “Nat, mimosa? Bruce?” He looked at his fellow science geek, who was sitting in the chair next to Natasha, then at Clint. “Hawkguy?”

“No, thanks,” he said, claiming the seat on the other side of Natasha as his own.

As Tony returned to the kitchen and Bruce began a conversation with Steve, Clint leaned over and gave his partner a flick on the (non-injured) shoulder and an impish grin. “Sleep well?”

"Brilliant, thanks," Natasha replied drily, waving away the mimosa. "Like a queen in a castle."

After returning from Clint's her body had been humming with a nauseating mixture of restlessness and exhaustion, so she'd sprinted up and down the stairs of her apartment complex until her legs were giving out. It didn't help that she couldn't breathe through her nose for the first half hour, but she refused to dope herself up until absolutely necessary. A shower had brought most of her symptoms down to a minimum, and thankfully Clint wouldn't bring anything up in front of the others.

"How are your ribs doing?" Natasha angled her body so she could plop her legs on top of Clint's lap. "I see you've got the spectacular beginnings of a black eye." She paused, considering. "Seven out of ten. Lovely job, Mister Barton." She rewarded him with a golf clap.

"What happened to his ribs?" Steve asked, glancing over from his conversation with Bruce.

"I'll let him give you that story," Natasha replied. "It's quite heroic, I assure you." She flicked Steve a small smile. "How have you been, Rogers? It's been a while."

Her nose was beginning to run, damn it all, and she listened to Steve discuss his exploits until she could politely excuse herself to the restroom.

It seemed to be Pepper's bathroom, thank god. She didn't think she could deal with a close-concentrated reek of Tony's cologne with her nose as it was. Even blowing her nose provided enough of a stimulus to force her into a sneeze. "h'ESSCH'uh."

She sniffed and dabbed lightly beneath her nostrils, which had only barely recovered from their red, irritated state of last night. One sneeze was nothing to be worried about; it would make sense that her body was still a little out of whack. She blew her nose once more, gently this time, and returned to the living room to reclaim her chair.

What she walked back into was a bit of a spectacle: her partner was slowly backing away from Lucky, who had a mimosa balanced on top of his head. The dog sat completely still, his eyes locked with the archer’s as he slowly straightened up and spread his arms out, a silent tada! It reminded Clint of the lion tamers in the circus where he grew up, except he knew the dog didn’t want to bite his head off. Tony, already on his third mimosa of the morning, was too amused by the trick to worry about the potential mess. Bruce applauded politely. Clint grinned; he was getting quite a bit of applause today. Even if 50% of it had been sarcastic.

He noticed Natasha in the doorway and his grin turned to a smirk. “You totally missed it,” he said. “Lucky just jumped through a hoop of fire. We’re doing the lame tricks now.”

Lucky did know more basic stuff, like how to sit, give paw and roll over. Clint could tell he’d been someone else’s dog before the Russians’, someone who took the time to teach him a few tricks.

Tony’s phone started blasting whatever hard rock ringtone he had this week and he groaned as JARVIS said “Sir, it’s Maria Hill.”

Clint immediately grabbed his mimosa off Lucky’s head and sat back down, setting the drink on a coaster. He was drinking it for the Vitamin C, since Tony didn’t seem to have juice that wasn’t a color that looked gross and wouldn’t let anyone just have straight orange juice. He wanted to keep his immune system up just in case Natasha really was getting sick. She still looked a little off, and he could tell she felt off, too. Clint gave her a quick smile as she sat next to him, but it was more of an unspoken question: Are you okay?

Tony answered and a hologram screen with Maria’s image appeared. “Yello?” Tony said in greeting.

“It’s more orange, really,” said Clint, examining his drink.

Tony shot him a look.

Maria was clearly less than pleased to be dealing with an inebriated Tony Stark on a Saturday morning, but professional as ever she managed to refrain from comment. “Do I have all of the Avengers present?”

Steve answered for the group. “All except Thor, ma’am, and the last we heard he was dealing with a border dispute on the outskirts of Asgard.”

Maria had acquired some papers from somewhere offscreen. “Great. If Mr. Stark will cut that out, I would like to settle in for a briefing.”

Tony, who had been making bunny ears behind Maria’s holographic figure, snapped a salute and went back to his mimosa.

Natasha tucked her legs under her as Maria read the background information on their subject of interest: a collector of blackmarket items who appeared to have acquired a legitimate Chitauri spear sometime after the battle in New York. Reports from the field listed the weapon as non-functional, but it wasn’t worth taking chances, Maria emphasized.

“Why can’t you just get one of your S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on this?” Bruce asked, his fingers so tightly interlocked his knuckles were going white. “Why the Avengers?”

Maria paused. “Many of our agents are...busy at the moment. It would take too long to assemble a full tactical team with the proper knowledge and weapons expertise.” She cracked a small smile. “And we have to make sure you earn your keep, right?”

In the end, it was decided that Steve and Tony would go, with Natasha on hold for backup in case things went south. And, in her experience, things often did. They would leave tomorrow for Idaho.

Once Maria had disconnected, the Avengers fell to chatting amongst themselves, with Tony redistributing mimosas with a new sense of gravity. It had been a while since they'd been on a mission, and Natasha knew that he hadn't exactly been at the top of his game since New York. Going into a situation like this had all the painful markings of deja vu.

She laced her fingers through Clint's, subtly stroking her thumb along the back of his hand. "Sorry your ribs are keeping you out of this. It's going to be weird doing recon alone." She wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing that Clint would be sitting this one out. On the positive side, he would be far away from anything triggering reminders of Loki and the Chitauri, but it was likely he would spend the time moping and worrying about Natasha. Hopefully his new furry friend would keep him occupied.

"All right, Avengers, listen up," Steve announced, bringing the focus in the room back to him. "Here's the plan."

It would be a quick in-and-out mission, nothing fancy, and Natasha's attention soon began to wander. Her sinuses were prickling again, stirred into action by her quiet sniffling, and she pressed the back of her free hand to her nose to keep the tickle at bay. But her body seemed to have other ideas; her breath caught on a sharp inhale and she pulled her hand from Clint's to stifle the oncoming sneezes. "hmmp'chh, HMP'chih." They were soft but not silent, and Bruce was blessing her when two more sneezes shoved past her careful guard.

"ESH'hh -- h'-h'ETSSHHuh!"

Her face now bright red, Natasha took a tissue from Bruce with a mumbled, "Thanks," and angled her body away from the room to blow her nose.

“Bless you…” Clint frowned at her, then jumped as something wet touched his leg. The dog was under the table, chewing on the archer’s shoelaces. “Lucky, no,” he said, moving his foot back.

Lucky obeyed and rested his head against his front paws, making himself at home at their feet. Clint glanced back up at his partner and frowned. He wondered if she was allergic to dogs, but he wasn’t about to pop that question in front of everyone. Surely if she knew she had an allergy she would have told him about it. Perhaps she didn’t even know, or didn’t react this way to most dogs. While Steve finished outlining the plan of attack Clint pet the dog’s side gently with the tip of his shoe, listening Natasha sniffle beside him.

As Tony and Steve debated the benefits of ordering from the shawarma place down the street versus the one down the street and up a block, Clint stood up and gently touched Natasha’s arm before moving towards one of the large windows overlooking the street below. They often had secretive huddles apart from the group; nobody questioned them or tried to interfere (Tony did, once, but Natasha made sure he would never do it again). Clint watched the sky, trying to find the sun behind the dark clouds that were rolling in over the city.

When Natasha joined him he glanced at her, keeping his voice low. “Is it the dog?” he said, looking back at Lucky, who was under the table where they left him. “Because if it’s the dog, I can find him a place to go in ten minutes. I’m sure Kate would love to take him. I’ve just been stalling ‘cause I really like the guy… but I like you more.”

He gave her a small smile, then glanced back at the dog again. Lucky had decided to get up and amble towards them to see what they were talking about.

Natasha’s eyes were prickling with tears that were about 60% allergic reaction and 40% frustration. She was exhausted and fuzzy-headed, and she had spent the last ten minutes thinking of ways to subtly scrub at her itchy, running nose without drawing attention from the group, and particularly from Clint. She had started to suspect the dog last night - there was no way Clint’s apartment had been dusty enough to set her off, especially after she’d spent two hours cleaning it - but she had seen how Lucky and her partner had bonded. Hell, they’d been together less than twelve hours and already acted like they’d known each other for the dog’s whole life.

Natasha didn’t care a lot about dogs, but she did care about Clint. She knew he was still in therapy, months after the attack on New York, and that he couldn’t sleep without a light on anymore. She knew that when he was alone he worried about her, and that he had panic attacks because of it sometimes. Maybe this dog was what he needed right now. Even as her nose twitched and she stifled a pair of itchy sneezes, Natasha had made her decision.

Once her breathing had evened out again, she rubbed at her irritated nose, grateful that Clint had pulled them away from the group for a moment. “I don’t want you to get rid of him,” she said resolutely, though the effect was somewhat lost as she raised the tissue to her face. “HITCH’chuh.” She sniffled and cleared her throat. “Really, Clint. You love that dog. I’ll -- I’ll take Benadryl, or whatever. I can handle it.” She touched his wrist gently, her eyes firm even if they were red-rimmed and glittery with allergic tears. “If he’s part of your life, then he’s part of mine too.”

Though he couldn’t shake that guilty feeling, Clint didn’t challenge her decision. He trusted Natasha to make the right call in any situation, and hoped she would let him know if it was getting to be too much for her. They could just spend more time at her place while Kate kept an eye on the dog back at Clint’s apartment, and Bruce would probably be more than happy to take Lucky while they were both away on missions. The dog was calm enough that Clint would trust him with the Hulk’s gentler alter ego. It would work out just fine; they would make sure of it.

“Bless you,” he said, wrapping an arm around Natasha’s waist. He gave her a slightly-longer-than-normal kiss on the cheek and quietly thanked her for being awesome. He wasn’t very good with words when it came to this sort of thing, but he really hoped Natasha knew how much he appreciated her. The others were watching them curiously now but he didn’t care, though for his partner’s sake he tried to remain discreet, pulling back reluctantly and patting his pockets.

“I did happen to bring some...” He slyly pulled out a blister packet out of his pocket like a drug dealer. “Just in case.”

“You got enough for the whole class over there?” Tony asked, standing on the tips of his toes to get a better look at the pills.

“What, you wanna go on birth control?” Clint shot back smartly.

Tony filled his mouth with more mimosa to keep himself from talking. Clint pressed the pack against Natasha’s palm, squeezing her hand briefly before heading towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. The others were talking loudly about the kind of orange juice Tony used in his mimosas, as if the differences between Tropicana and Simply Orange were significant enough to merit an entire conversation. They were clearly trying to hide the fact that they’d been eavesdropping. Clint ignored them and casually helped himself to Tony’s glassware and some filtered water, nearly tripping over Lucky when he turned around to make his way back to the expansive conference room. “Heh.” He gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ear. “Should’ve named you Shadow.”

"Why'd you name him Lucky anyway?" Steve asked, leaning down and wriggling his fingers along the floor to attract the dog's attention. Lucky glanced up at Clint and Natasha before padding over to visit his new friend.

When Clint returned with the water, Natasha took it and gave him a nudge with her shoulder. "Tell 'em, Barton. They deserve to know why you'll be cooling your heels watching Cupcake Wars while we chase off to potato country." She'd never been to Idaho, although she had spent a couple of painful months next door in Wyoming.

"Are Idaho's potatoes really that much better than the rest of the country's?" Steve wondered aloud as he tousled Lucky's ears.

"Gotta be something giving those poor hicks something to live for," Tony commented, looking sadly at his now-empty pitcher. "If we really want some quality intel, I can get JARVIS to send for a bushel or a sack or whatever you buy potatoes in."

Natasha took advantage of this detour in the conversation to escape to the bathroom again. The little pink capsule of Benadryl nestled neatly into the center of her palm, and she eyed it dubiously for a moment before bucking up and swallowing it chaser-free. When she made her way back to the main room, Dr. Banned stopped her with a light touch to her arm. It took all her willpower to keep from flinching, and she forced a smile.

"I've noticed you're having an allergic reaction to something," Bruce said, his voice low. "And I know you're not one to complain, but I do have an antihistamine handy if you'd like it."

His eyes were so kind, Natasha thought. It was hard to feel anything but compassion for this man, in this state. She placed her hand on Bruce's shoulder briefly.

"Clint took care of it, but I appreciate it." She smiled, genuinely this time. "Thanks, Dr. Banner."

Bruce chuckled. "I guess they do call him Hawkeye for a reason."

Back in the main room Clint was regaling the others with the tale of Lucky’s rescue that, now that he was telling it out loud, didn’t sound as bad-ass as it did in his head. Tony couldn’t get past the part where Clint took a beating to the part of the story that actually mattered - that he staggered along afterwards to find help for a wounded animal. “Would have been a cooler story if it involved you shooting lasers out of your hands,” Tony said, simulating one of the many violent features of his suits. He put up his hands and made power-up noises.

Steve rolled his eyes. “New rule. No day drinking. Especially not when we’ve got Hill on a conference call.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Tony snapped another salute. Steve was not amused.

Those two on a mission alone together was a recipe for disaster, and Clint couldn’t help but worry that Natasha would get sucked into their mess. He noticed Bruce moving out of the corner of his eye, searching his pockets before intercepting Natasha on her way back from the bathroom. When they rejoined the group Clint looked pointedly at his partner and nodded towards the couches by the windows. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows were his favorite part of the tower - they gave him an excellent view of the city and let in warm sunlight for taking cat naps on the couch. Lucky had found his own little patch of sunlight on the floor and was lying in it with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, his paws twitching along with some dream.

“Guess you’ll probably be spending tonight at your place,” Clint said as they made themselves comfortable on one of the leather couches. “You probably don’t want to keep popping Benadryl all night. You’ll need to be sharp tomorrow.”

He was torn between joining her at her place and staying with the dog. It would only be Lucky’s second night in his new home and he still had some adjusting to do. Clint was sure the dog’s sporadic sleeping and pissing schedules would sync with his own after a few days, but until then he didn’t want to burden anyone else with the task of taking him out for late night bathroom breaks.

The others left to go pick up their lunch orders and Clint sprawled out on the couch, closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his face. He was feeling sore, exhausted, and not quite right. Then again, he never really felt quite right after Loki. “Feeling better?” he asked, blindly finding her hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Yeah.” Natasha squeezed his hand in return, her eyes flitting across the city stretched below them. It had taken a couple of months to repair Stark Tower to its former glory after the Chitauri invasion, but Tony’s army of architects had sped things along considerably. Most of the heart of the city was still in the process of rebuilding.

Clint seemed to be on the verge of dozing off, his eyes firmly closed and his breathing slow and steady. Natasha watched him like a patron observing a fine work of art, a small smile on her lips as she watched the lines of his face smooth into slumber.

Once Clint was asleep, Natasha carefully disentangled her hand from his and got to her feet. She had her assignment and no desire to stick around and drink beer for the rest of the afternoon. Tony and Steve would see her tomorrow. And Clint...she glanced back at his sleeping form, considering. She would leave him a note when she left in the morning.

Natasha took off solo for the rest of the day, enjoying all the solitude she could get before being confined with Tony and Steve for the next few days. She jogged a few miles through Central Park, loosening her muscles and her mind, and spent the evening watching from the rooftops as the sunset dappled the city with light and shadow.

Seven AM came early, but Natasha made enough time to drop by Clint’s apartment before heading to Stark Tower. She paused outside the door for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the old building settling in around her. Natasha couldn’t hear anything from Clint’s apartment; man and dog must be sound asleep. She slid her note under the door anyway.

See you in a few days. x N

Edited May 17, 2015 by AnonyMouse

[NoV]

This has been a great story, which I have very much enjoyed reading I especially like how well you write Tony - you've got all the little mannerisms that make his character so amusing down perfectly! Natasha sneezing in one of the Marvel movies would make one of my deepest fetish fantasies a reality

[tenderwarrior]

What a great addition, Anony! I loved the growth of Clint and Natasha's relationship. You and Winged should write more stories together.

[Winged]

What a great addition, Anony! I loved the growth of Clint and Natasha's relationship. You and Winged should write more stories together.

I love writing with Anony, so I'm always up for this

Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback, everyone! It's always awesome to see so many other Clintasha lovers around here.

Edited May 22, 2015 by Winged