The hand that came to rest on Natasha's neck, playing with her curls, was trembling and just on this side of too cold, despite the warm temperatures in the house. It meant much to Clint that she believed in him like that. And for her, with her, in their partnership, he had always tried to be just that. Good. Fighting for the good thing.

But here he was, Clint Barton, King of bad decisions, failure and delusion, and if there was one thing he definitely was not, it was a hero type. No matter how much he had wanted that as a kid.

"Not exactly what other people use to call me."

It was frightening, how much sadness, resignation and bitterness there really was in his voice. You could only tell yourself so long, it didn't matter what people thought of you. When you got beaten up by fellow agents in a fucking Helicarrier elevator for being responsible for some friend's death, that kind of shifted perspectives.

But this was S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't here. Here, right now, only what Natasha thought of him should count. She had come here with him, not all these smart people with the white coats who tried to treat his brain back into full battle mode.

"Most things I've done right, I've done with you, you know. You always make me want to be better than my genes."