Part I: She's Been Everybody Else's Girl, Maybe Someday She'll Be Her Own

My Image Under Her Thumb

"I'm out of a lot of things," Natasha replied, folding her arms over her chest. "How did you find me?"

With a slight smile, Clint returned to rummaging through her cupboards. "I'm hurt. Sounds like you don't want to see me."

"Clint."

"'Tasha."

Sighing audibly, she turned around. "I'll get dressed. We'll go out for breakfast."

"And coffee?"

"And coffee."

Twenty minutes later and they were in a café not far from the safe house. It was busy this time of day, and Natasha was suspicious of any prying eyes – or ears. So she focused on enjoying her first real meal in a few days and watching Clint do the same. He looked tired. The kind that no amount of sleeping would drive away. She hadn't expected the prison to hold him for long, but was surprised he hadn't just gone home instead of traveling. Unless there was some kind of job that brought him here – but he had said he was retired.

"Keeping busy?" she asked lightly.

A grim smile quirked on his lips before fading. "Trying. You? You've been getting some sun, I think."

She laughed, surprised. "I've been in South America for a while, working."

"And what brings you away from beautiful beaches and palm trees?"

Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head. "Working, Clint. Not on vacation."

"Of course." He smiled at her over his coffee cup, commiserating.

"No good jobs were available, so I figured I'd change my location for a while."

Finishing his food, he moved his chair away from the table to lean back, watching her. "Things sure have changed since we were last here."

"Yeah."

"Not for the better."

"Probably not."

He fell silent, looking around casually. No one would see him and think he was assessing their surroundings as carefully as any well-trained spy – he looked like a tired tourist taking in the view. A smirk crossed her face at the thought and he returned his attention to her.

"We have some things to discuss, 'Tasha."

"Alright. Let's go," she said, finishing her drink before getting to her feet.

They took care of the bill and walked leisurely to the nearest store. Clint insisted on buying coffee, and they got enough food for about 48 hours, making Natasha wonder what her friend had planned. Their conversation regarded the weather, or the availability of certain foods, and ignored anything that might be suspicious. It was a relief to finally get inside and be able to ask him –

"How did you get out of prison?"

"Cap," he answered nonchalantly as he started making a cup of coffee, leaving their purchases on the counter.

Though she'd hoped for something more specific, she moved on as she began putting things away. "Why didn't you go home?"

Clint was silent for a long moment while she waited. "Can't," he said at last.

Impatiently, she walked over and blocked him to get his attention. "Why not, Clint?" she asked slowly, more gently than her body language would suggest.

His eyes narrowed, but he wasn't angry at her. "Stark. Told 'em about Laura and the kids. Well, that they exist. I didn't want them to get wrapped up in this, so I figured I'd lay low for a while. Help out Cap – he's not the best fugitive."