Friend wrote this one

It's past midnight when Coulson tells them. New Mexico. Natasha gets her hopes up. It's nothing more than a tiny glint in her eyes that Coulson misses entirely but Clint sees it shining as brightly as a Christmas tree. She can't wait to get away from Stark, and even after he's given the CEO position of Stark Industries to his PA, he's still driving Natasha insane.

She doesn't complain, not openly, because they're holed up in a three-bed apartment in the middle of a family complex while she's pretending to be Natalie Rushman and Coulson and Clint work her cover. Clint's more than happy to tail her from afar, keeping her in his comfortable distance even when she's at the office, but it means that he sees the reasons why she slams doors a little too loudly when she returns.

It's in her body language, the extra growl into a morning coffee cup and the extra ounce of force as she combs her hair up before work. When Coulson's away from the apartment, he helps her destress. They don't trust themselves to full let go when he's not around because it's Coulson and moment-ruining has become a sport he's not aware he's competing in, but Clint puts his hands on her shoulders and runs his hands through her hair to relax her when the muscles in her neck are twitching with contained stress.

But she perks up when Coulson explains the unfolding situation in New Mexico. He doesn't tell them a lot because at this point there's nothing more to tell other than the vague briefing their used to. But she's seeing the opportunity to get out of Stark Industries and her gun finger is itching to grasp it.

"Pack up, Barton. We leave at 8am."

That floors them both, but again they don't show it.

They wait for Coulson to leave, mumbling their accepted orders until their handler retreats off to bed himself (though they're convinced that Coulson doesn't sleep, he just waits) and then the grumbling, the door slamming and the complaints start.

And it's not about Stark. It's not about the job. It's not about having to play secretary and slave with a false grin and a low-cut blouse.

It's about Clint. It's about not having her partner there. It's about walking through the parking lot in the morning and not feeling the familiar weight she's convinced she feels when his scope is trained on her. It's about not having him there to complain about the same things she complains about.

She's not much of a girl, but the way he sits beside her with a beer and assures her Stark's a jerk is the most twisted and precious sleepover she's never had.

She says nothing while Clint complains about the heat in New Mexico, and after ten minutes she goes off to bed alone. She doesn't ask him to join her, doesn't expect him to, but she doesn't push him away with the knowledge of Coulson being in the next room when she feels those archer's arms wrap around her midsection in a way only he would dare to do. She says nothing when he pulls the blanket up from where she's left it at her waist so that it covers up to their necks, and she certainly says nothing when he buries his face in her hair and lets out a sigh that says more than his complaining ever could.

"I'd stay if I could," he tells her.

"I know," she says as a response.

They fall into silence, because as words go they don't rely on the ones they just exchanged. The words don't matter, but saying something, anything, makes it seem like it's not his fault that he's going. He didn't beg for missions, especially not ones that took him away from her side. Whatever this...thing...was, this thing where they crept into beds for him to hide in her hair and her in his shoulder...whatever it was, it had grounded them to each other. They'd been working better together, less careless on jobs where they were apart because while it was far from domestic and mainly further from romantic, they considered themselves to have someone to return to now, someone who would cause a fuss if they got hurt, and it grounded them.

Words don't matter. There's no "you're important to me", there's no "be careful" and there's certainly no "I love you". But some words speak louder, and love isn't for them because they don't know what love is. For all they knew, they were too far in love to do anything about it, but they had no way of recognising it. The words that mattered to her were the ones he whispered as he dragged his lips along her neck in the darkness of the room.

"Stay in my scope sight," he tells her, feeling the shiver follow his hand as he trails it down her thigh and smirking into her skin.

She bats his hand away, the unspoken reminder that their handler is on the other side of the wall. "You're lucky you're out of range," she mumbled as an empty threat.

The kiss to her shoulder is far more intimate, more personal, than she's prepared for, but she knows his habit of taking what he can get when there's no chance for something more.

"Never out of your range," he whispers to her.