Romanoff said nothing as she filled the wine glasses. It was true that she had very little to prove that this person was Clint Barton — a Clint Barton — beyond how easily they seemed to fall into a rhythmic rapport. Something in her bones told her she could trust him and as difficult as it was for her to accept the instincts of others, Barton had always been the exception to every rule of preservation she’d put in place.
As familiar as he felt, there was something different in the way he looked at her. The Clint Barton who had made the decision not to kill her when he was a child used to glance her way (when he thought she wasn’t paying attention) with such enchantment and familial affection. With this man, that enchantment and affection were both still in those stolen glimpses but the motive had changed. She had questions about that, but they weren’t the kind that she had any intention of asking directly. Natasha did, after all, have other ways to make him talk.
Holding Clint’s wine glass by the stem, she walked around the island to stand beside him. She placed the glass down and slid it to rest next to his arm; at the same time, closing the space between them.
“It’s comforting, really.” She raised her free hand to touch the fringe of his blonde hair. “That we seem to manage to find each other in one way or another. It gives me hope for, you know, timelines or realities that aren’t where I’m from.”