Clint had the coffee pot (stolen, from a hotel during a busy convention just earlier in this month, in fact) set down and brewing just before Natasha was in the building proper and that was good -- just great really because it gave him just enough time to whirl around and get a good, proper look at her.
Natasha. Not quite his, no. But so, so similar in so many ways that she might as well have been. Her hair was a little different, not quite as red, and he hadn't seen an expression quite so frantic on her face in -- god knew how long, actually. His Natasha was always so ready to be put together even if it was so often a lie.
There was probably more to notice and call out if he had a minute but he didn't and fuck if he wasn't glad for that because instead of turning and walking off Natasha was springing over the counter like her life depended on it and Clint moved in turn, not quite catching her (because Natasha didn't need catching, at least not in terms of balance) so much as just falling into a hug he hadn't even realized he'd needed until just this second.
He'd missed her. Terribly.
"Hey," he said, but it was muffled into her shoulder, the curve of her neck. Words felt less important than actions, but Clint had always been a little on this shit side of knowing exactly when he needed to shut up.