A 616 fic set in the same timeline (and as a pseudo-prequel to) one of my other stories, Saturday Mornings in Bed-Stuy. You needn't have read that one or the comics, however, to read this (PWP, what?).

Thanks, as ever, to the Hive Mind for betaing, hand holding, and not laughing at my whining. Special thanks to eiluned for the title. 3!

She was only there because they'd gotten drunk.

They wouldn't have been stupid enough to hang out together otherwise, not alone. They avoided spending too much time together in the years since they'd broken it off (if one could even call it that), not because they didn't want to be around each other, but because there had always been enough sexual tension between the two of them to smother an ox, and they'd been careful not to tempt fate.

And then Tony Stark threw the party to end all parties.

She'd ended up drinking half a bottle of exorbitantly expensive scotch, which had been followed in short order by ignoring her better judgment and going home with Clint.

She turned her head to look at the man in question, still fast asleep beside her. He was snoring lightly, there was a bit of drool running out of the corner of his mouth, and his hair was in complete disarray. He shifted in his sleep as she watched him, rolling onto his side. His snoring deepened with the change in his position, and she briefly debated putting a pillow over his head to drown out the noise. Somehow, he managed to be an annoying ass even when he was asleep.

Oh, and she was pretty sure she was still in love with him.


5 Hours Earlier

She wasn't sure why she bothered to come to these things, except that maybe sometimes she got lonely spending the holidays on her own. It didn't make sense, but then, not many things in her life did. But, she supposed, when your job necessitated that you work with superhumans, gods, and mutants, well, maybe sense took a leave of absence.

Still, it was stupid of her to come to the party. She didn't know the people here, not really, not the ones who weren't already three sheets to the wind. She knew Stark, of course, and Cap and Matt and most of the handful of Xavier's mutants that had shown up. They, however, were the sort of people that drank too much too quickly – the sort who proceeded to get too drunk for her tastes. She wasn't a gregarious drunk, never had been, which meant that even though she'd rapidly caught up to the rest in terms of intoxication, she couldn't bring herself to talk to any of them. Besides, what would she even say? Hey, Anna, how's the pariah life treating you? Oh, good to see you Logan! Fight any interesting alien samurai lately?


She'd been here less than an hour, and already she'd segregated herself out on the balcony, her interlude punctuated only by the random smoker and a couple stumbling outside to steal a moment, only to be sent on their way by her glare.

She took another deep drink from her glass, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it slid down her throat. She didn't drink often, but when she did, she made sure it was worth it. She could always trust Tony to spring for the good stuff.

Even if he didn't realize he'd sprung for it, she thought with a smirk.

She looked up at the stars, leaning her chin heavily on the back of her palm, wondering just how the fuck she'd ended up here.

"Oh, hey, sorry. I didn't realize anyone was out here."

She'd already turned around by the time he'd started talking, recognized his gait from the sound of his footsteps as he approached the door. She was inebriated enough, though, that the sight of him out here in what was ostensibly her space hit her like a punch to the gut.

She hadn't forgotten her attraction to Clint Barton, that much was clear. She could feel the liquid heat of attraction pull in the pit of her stomach as he stepped closer despite his words. Even all those years ago, back when he was young and stupid and willing to do just about anything for a mysterious redhead with an accent, she'd enjoyed the hell out of being with him. He'd been an attentive, if inexperienced lover, but everything he'd lacked in technique he'd more than made up for in enthusiasm.

She ran her eyes up and down his body quickly, only halfheartedly trying to escape notice. She'd caught him looking often enough, and besides, Clint had only improved with age, his former lankiness transformed into lithe strength. She'd spent many a night alone with thoughts of that body to keep her company.

"You mind if I . . .?" he asked, gesturing toward the railing where she'd been leaning.

She shook her head. "By all means," she invited, resting her elbows on the cold metal. He took up a place next to her.

"So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, mirth glinting in his voice.

She chuckled under her breath. "Same as you, I suppose. Bored. Nowhere else to be."

He leaned into her, jostled her with the press of his shoulder. "How've you been, Nat?"

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to that. There wasn't much she could say about her life, except that it somehow kept moving forward, even after all that shit with Thanos.

She shrugged.

"Yeah, me too," he said, taking a drink from his own glass. She could see him peering over his shoulder in the periphery of her vision. "When did I start feeling so old?"

She couldn't help the spurt of laughter that bubbled up out of her at that, a choked, chortling noise that lilted off into the night. "Probably sometime after you came back from the dead. Usually does it for me."

He let out a low laugh and brought his glass over toward her. "I'll drink to that."

She touched the rim of her cup to his and drank, finishing off her scotch in one swallow.

He was still leaning against her, still pressing hot against her side, and dammit, he was distracting her. She'd wanted to be alone out here, had wanted to sulk with only the stars and a bottle for company. Why the hell did Clint think he could come out here and cheer her up with his stupid, sexy smile?

"Great party," she said non-noncommittally, trying not to think about the lean muscle mass pressed into her shoulder.

"Better scotch," he said, swirling the last of his liquor in the bottom of the glass.

"What'd you get?" she asked, thankful for the safe topic.

"A Lagavulin 21," he replied, tipping back the rest of his drink.

She smirked and ducked to grab the bottle she'd stashed in a corner earlier. Holding it aloft in front of Clint, she waited for his reaction. She wasn't disappointed.

He whistled long and low in appreciation. "Jesus, Nat, where the hell did you get a Bowman 40?"

"Stark puts out that cheap ass Lagavulin shit to throw you lot off the scent. Found this stashed in his wall safe."

He tossed her a lopsided grin and held out his now empty glass. "Well, I'd hate to let your efforts go to waste . . ."

She poured him a finger, then another for herself. Secreting the bottle below a side table, she held her glass out. "To Tony Stark and $10,000 bottles of scotch!"

"To Stark," he said, clinking his glass against hers and adding, "And to old friends."

He said the last with a strange smile, one that she couldn't quite parse. She drank, debating her next statement. It was either the scotch or the company or the slight chill in the air, but something made her decide to go with the foremost thing on her mind when she probably should have steered toward safer topics, ones that didn't directly involve her feelings where Barton was concerned.

"I've been thinking about . . . old friends lately," she said. "Us, I mean."

"Us?" he asked, carefully.

She crossed her arms, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. "That whole, um, kissing . . . thing," she managed, then sipped to cover her discomfort and hopefully give herself some liquid courage.

He sighed. "I'm sorry about that, Nat. I shouldn't have . . ."

"No," she said sharply, cutting him off. "No, we shouldn't have," she said. "But we did, and . . ."

It was Clint's turn to cut her off. "I broke it off with Jess."

She didn't know what to say to that, but then Clint took her glass and placed both cups on the table next to them.

"Hey!" she protested weakly, but she didn't stop him, didn't move to take back her glass. "I was drinking that!"

"Yeah, but you've got something on your . . ." he said, reaching out to brush something off her forehead with his forefinger. It was a clumsy tack for him to take, but she would hardly complain. She felt the contact ripple through her body, felt it snake its way down her body and settle in the pit of her stomach. It threatened to overtake her, to muddle her senses and make her forget that this was Clint, her best friend, not some random guy she'd just happened to bump into at a party.

So she panicked a little.

She tried to step back, to step away from him, but she ran into a chair, trapped.

He didn't relent, though, and then he was cupping her cheek, staring into her eyes, and she should try harder to get away, she really should, but he was leaning in, closer, and she just didn't fucking want to be anywhere else.

He bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

He tasted everything and nothing like she remembered. He was still Clint, and this was still the same mouth she'd spent so much time with all those years ago. He was still the same person that she'd conned into helping her, the same young idiot she'd tried to write off when he switched sides. He was still the same Clint that helped her decide to leave her former life behind, the one who'd convinced her that he'd forgiven her for seducing him, the one that had decided he liked her better as a friend.

She'd be more inclined to believe the last if it weren't for the firm press of his arousal against her belly.

"Shit," she said, pulling back to breathe. "I was afraid of that."

He nipped at her lip. "Afraid of what?"

She bit back a groan, leaning her forehead against his while she tried to catch her breath. "Afraid that it would feel like this."

He pulled her in for another slow kiss, sliding his tongue against hers.

"It does, doesn't it," he agreed lowly, the gravel in his voice twisting up her insides.

She decided not to fight it, not when they were both single and pleasantly drunk on expensive spirits, not when they were both still so clearly attracted to each other. There was nothing holding them back, nothing except the fear that this would mess up their friendship, and that fear wasn't great enough to overpower the exhilaration she felt at tangling herself up in Clint again, not here, not now, not tonight.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and twined her fingers through the short tufts of his hair, holding him as closely as she dared. He burned her, scorched her, ate up all of her oxygen and good sense in one shot, and fuck, she'd missed being with him like this.

His tongue darted out, running along the length of her bottom lip, and she fought the urge to groan, forced herself not to wrap herself around him and beg him to fuck her. She could feel herself grow wetter by the moment, could feel him grow harder against her, and she knew he wanted her just as badly as she him. It was a heady, confusing feeling, and was shocked at how quickly he'd reduced her to this, how quickly she lost her cool.

His hands dropped lower on her back, rested on the curve of her ass, and she arched against him in response, pressing her belly flat against his. She sucked on his lip, bit down lightly as he pulled back, and she let out a hiss of frustration only to have him press his mouth back against her.

He sucked a trail down her neck, licked the hollow of her throat, and when he put his hand on her hip, she didn't hesitate to draw her leg up to his waist. He grabbed her firmly, held her against him and thrust against her core, and when she bucked against him, she hummed her pleasure at the friction.

"Yes," she hissed when he palmed her breast, plucking at her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. He turned them suddenly, pushed her back against the railing. She could see over his shoulder into the party, could see the people milling about inside of Stark's apartment, oblivious to the action taking place outside. Those people wouldn't remain oblivious, though, not for long, not with the two of them acting the way they were, out in the open for the whole world to see.

"Clint," she murmured, tapping the back of his head. "Clint, we've gotta . . ."

He looked up from her cleavage, bleary eyed and blinking. "What?"

She took a breath. "We should move," she said, indicating the glass door at the other end of the balcony.

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to her. "You sure you just aren't trying to let me down easy?"

She snorted, then dragged him off to the side of the deck, out of sight of the party goers. Without preamble, she pushed him back against the wall then held her body against his. Leaning in close enough that they were sharing the same air, she whispered, "I have no intention of letting you down."

She slanted her mouth over his, grabbing the collar of his shirt and holding him fast. She felt decidedly strange at the moment, wild and uncontrolled, but somehow safe and normal, and for once, the dichotomy didn't bother her. She just held on to Clint's tighter and ground her ass against his hand when he gripped her.

His hand slipped up under the hem of her dress, and she could feel his fingers toying with the edge of her panties, could feel his hands hot on the top of her upper thighs. She pulled back from him, keenly watching his face as he explored higher, ran his finger underneath the elastic and drew closer to her center.

"God, you're beautiful," he said, panting as he squeezed her ass. "I can't believe this is happening."

She didn't have anything to say to that, didn't know how to explain that she thought the same thing, so she just kissed him again, breathed him in and tasted him, reminded herself of all the reasons that she had such a hard time breaking his heart in the first place.

He turned her around in his arms suddenly, and took his hands in hers. Putting them up on the wall in front of them he said, "Stay still, baby."

No one called her that. No one got away with saying those things to her, and if you'd asked her yesterday, she would have told you that she would bristle at such a nickname. She would have said that she would have the balls of the person who dared to call her such a thing.

Yesterday, however, she didn't have Clint Barton sucking on her neck and fingering through her panties while Tony Stark threw a party on the other side of the wall. Yesterday, she couldn't have anticipated how wet it made her to hear the word roll off his tongue. She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be upset.

And then he nibbled on her earlobe, pulled the skirt of her dress up around her waist, and called her that again, and fuck she was going to come quickly if he kept up those motions with his hand.

He ran his fingers across her mound, teasing her until she was whimpering, and then, without any warning, he slid a single finger along the length of her slit and dipped inside of her.

"You're so fucking wet, Nat," he said, and she'd make fun of him for stating the obvious except that it just made her want him more. She could feel his erection clearly where it was pressing into her thigh, and he was rubbing against her in time with the motions of his fingers.

She was panting now, rolling her hips as he swirled around her clit, driving her further and further toward the edge madness. Just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, just when she thought she was going to turn around and tear his pants down, just when she was going to climb him and impale herself on his cock, Tony Stark and his party guests be damned, that was the moment that he shoved three fingers up inside of her, stretched her open and fucked her with his hand.

She let out a strangled sound, cursing him in every language she could still grasp, and she sagged backward, her head lolling onto his shoulder as he moved. The heel of his hand rubbed maddeningly against her clit, and she wiggled her hips to increase the stimulation.

"Wanna feel you come, baby," he whispered into her ear, and there it was again, that name, and she thought she might fall apart just from that alone. He increased his pace, and his free hand moved up her torso, up to her breasts. He palmed her through the fabric, rolling her nipples, and the combination of the stimulation of his fingers and the lace of her bra sent her into a boneless tumble. Without any more warning than a sudden tightening in her stomach and a rush of warmth, she was coming, grasping his fingers where he was clutching at her tits, bearing down on them in her efforts not to shout her release and arouse the attentions of the people inside.

She turned her face into his neck as she shuddered, breathing in his scent as her heart rate returned to normal. She shifted in his arms, drew him down for a kiss, and she was just drunk enough on whisky and Clint that she didn't mind how good it felt to be held by him, how natural it felt, how much it felt like coming home.

They swayed like that for a long moment, clinging to each other in the dark, listening to the music throb through the wall, and it didn't feel anything like it used to, nothing at all.

It was better.

He was still hard against her, still pressing insistently into her, and she couldn't think of anything she would rather do than get him somewhere truly private, to take him home, strip all his clothes off and wedge his thick cock inside of her.

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him if he wanted to do just that, but he beat her to the punch.

"You want to get out of here?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

The trip downstairs to the cab Clint called was interesting, not least of all because she felt high, pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol and her orgasm. They'd agreed to slip out one at a time, with Natasha following ten minutes after him to avoid any suspicious gazes. It wouldn't do to have any of their teammates knowing about this, whatever this was, especially when they weren't sure themselves.

Not that they really had to worry. Stark really got the party moving sometime around the time Clint had stumbled onto the balcony, and she'd be shocked if even one person had noticed her walk through the room, much less leave it.


She met him downstairs, found him waiting for her in the back of the cab.

"Hi," she said, pretending that this wasn't the most awkward situation she'd been in recently.

"Hey," he replied, and then gave a few quick directions to the cabbie. He turned to her when he was finished. "I thought we'd go back to mine," he said, stammering, "Unless you just wanted to share the cab. Because that would be fine, you know you don't have to . . ."

She smiled, picking up on his own nervousness, feeling herself relax a little now that she knew he was in precisely the same boat that she was in. She touched a finger to his lips, shutting him up.

"No, yours is fine," she said. "It's closer, isn't it?"

He swallowed hard and shifted closer to her at that, and some of the nervous tension between them resolved itself, dissipated into the air. He leaned into her, hooked a thumb under her chin and brought her mouth to his. Heedless of the man driving the car, she kissed him back for all she was worth. She wanted to taste more of him, wanted to press her lips against the rest of him, and she began to work her way down. Nipping lightly at his lips, she moved along his jaw, then down to the soft flesh of his neck, sucking on his skin, leaving a mark. She skimmed her hand down his chest then, over his stomach, down into his lap where she was greeted with his rising interest.

She grinned against his neck. Licking along the rim of his ear, she whispered, "You wanna know what I'm thinking about doing with this?"

He squirmed underneath her, tried to angle his hips away, tried holding on to her wrist to halt her motions, but she didn't let him stop her, didn't let him off the hook. She bit down on the fleshy part of his earlobe and said, "First I'm going to take off your clothes, piece by piece, until I get to see you naked."

She grabbed his cock tighter, rubbed him up and down through his jeans as she continued to lay out her plans. "Then I'm going to lick every inch of your body, starting with those tight fucking abs of yours . . ."

He moaned under his breath as she continued, as she told him about all the ways she'd imagined having him. She started to grow wet again, squirming in her seat and crossing her legs as she narrated, getting so very turned on by the way Clint was losing control next to her, by the way he barely could restrain himself from leaping on top of her.

He was bucking against her hand by the time she started describing what she was going to do to his cock, and he let out a breathy moan that drew the attention of the cabbie. The man didn't say anything though, just glanced backward and kept driving, so Natasha took that as tacit permission to keep up her ministrations.

Two blocks away from his apartment, she felt Clint blow his load in his jeans, felt the crush of his fingers around her wrist, holding her hand in place even as he came in hot spurts against her palm, soaking the placket of his pants. She smiled wickedly at the cab driver's mild expression in the rear view mirror. She doubted this would be the oddest thing the guy had seen happen in the backseat of his cab. Hell, she figured this wouldn't be the oddest thing he saw tonight.

Clint rested his head on her shoulder then, and they rode the last two blocks in silence.

She'd let him get his rest where he could. He'd need it.