When Natasha finds Clint, she finds him sitting on the roof of Stark Tower; crouched just inside the border near the edge of the burnt circle left by Loki's machine. She lets the gravel crunch under her feet; Clint is not a god, and he's armed, and he'll shoot to kill if she surprises him.
She would think less of him if he didn't.
Love is for children.
He hasn't moved, staring over the destruction of the city as though he caused it or might find sense in it. She'll grant him some responsibility for the first -- because she knows he'll feel better if she does, not because he deserves to. And there's no sense to be found in any of this, in their surviving but they did and they do.
She watches his still form, knows he can keep that crouch for hours if he has to, stone, a gargoyle. Takes another step forward, then another, watching for the moment when he turns so she can see a new-moon crescent of his face.
She pauses when it comes, hands at her sides, palms facing him and fingers ever so slightly spread. He turns a little more, so she can see one eye and the profile of nose and lips. Hard, at first, and then an infinitesimal softening before he turns back to his view over the city.
I see better from a distance.
Acknowledged, she closes the distance between them and settles against his back, cheek pressed to one tense shoulder. One hand on his thigh; relaxing, but just as ready as he is to move, should needs must.
The two of them shape one darkness against the light-polluted sky.