The thing was, that -- yeah. They were Clint and Natasha and the second she'd showed up, it was true. She was different a little but she was still Natasha and Clint didn't care much for making the distinction between his and other or whatever. It seemed silly. Natasha was Natasha and water was wet and everyone liked pizza. It was like... life facts.
But he absolutely made a distinction between himself and that other Clint. The one that'd gone off and retired and had a family and just let Natasha sit on the sidelines in silence until it was time for the ultimate sacrifice. He knew, probably, that his assessment was unfair, and that OtherClint was probably fine and just doing his idiot best the same way he was, but it felt like an affront.
Because, yeah. Clint had always loved Natasha. Even when they weren't together. And this look? It wasn't new, not for him. Not really.
But maybe it was the first time that he'd given it (without thought or restraint) that Natasha openly responded to it. Maybe this was the first time they really synched up in a way that worked and mattered, though.
"It's always been you and me," Clint said a little helplessly. "It's not weird. It's just -- how it's always been." They were partners in crime and then partners in superheroing and everything between. It just was. They just were. "And -- I mean. I think I have. Is it bad? I don't think I can stop."
She said she'd loved him -- no. Did love him -- when she'd first arrived. Years of experience and idiocy told him that he never waited to think things through. And yet. Here he was, practically waiting, like he needed permission.