The safehouse smelled faintly of tea and damp concrete.
Rain from the previous night had seeped through the patched roof, leaving small dark stains on the ceiling and a quiet dripping sound—water hitting a metal bucket in the corner, steady as a metronome.
It was peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
Eli was sprawled across the couch like someone who had completely given up on posture. A tablet rested on his knees as he lazily scrolled through complicated schematics pulled from old S.H.I.E.L.D. archives.
Alien reactors.
Energy stabilizers.
Chitauri power cores.
All the kinds of things that usually came with a warning label that read: Do not let curious super-powered teenagers near this.
Naturally, Eli was fascinated.
Across the room, Natasha Romanoff leaned against the kitchen counter with a cup of chamomile tea in her hands.
She wasn't reading.
She wasn't doing paperwork.
She was watching him.
Not obviously.
But enough.
Eli suddenly frowned at the tablet. "Okay, that can't be right."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "What?"
He rotated the screen toward her. "If this reactor core works the way this diagram says, then whoever designed it either had a genius-level understanding of quantum energy stabilization…" He paused. "…or they were extremely drunk."
Natasha sipped her tea. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Eli snorted. "Fair."
He went back to scrolling.
For a few seconds, the room returned to quiet. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The bucket dripped. Natasha studied him again.
"You know," she said casually, "people talk."
Eli didn't look up. "That's usually what people do."
"About us."
That made him pause.
Slowly, Eli lowered the tablet. "…Us?"
Natasha shrugged slightly. "Apparently the team thinks we spend a lot of time together."
Eli blinked. "Well, that's ridiculous."
Natasha waited.
Eli gestured around the room. "This is purely professional."
She tilted her head. "You slept on that couch for three nights."
"Strategic couch sleeping."
"You stole my blanket."
"I borrowed your blanket."
"You wrapped yourself in it like a burrito."
Eli hesitated. "…Tactical warmth."
Natasha's mouth twitched slightly.
Then Eli narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You're enjoying this."
Natasha calmly sipped her tea. "I have no idea what you mean."
Eli leaned back into the couch. "You started this conversation just to watch me get confused."
Before Natasha could answer—
The front door swung open.
"Hey, lovebirds!"
The voice exploded into the quiet room like a grenade.
Eli froze.
Natasha slowly closed her eyes.
Standing in the doorway was Clint Barton, bow slung over his shoulder and a grin spread across his face that suggested he'd already won some private victory.
"And here I thought I was going to walk in on something awkward," Clint said cheerfully, stepping inside. He looked between them. "…Oh wait. I did."
Natasha exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried years of patience and the weight of knowing exactly what was coming. "Barton."
"Yes, Red?"
"You have five seconds to explain why you're here."
Clint shrugged. "I was bored." He pointed at Eli. "And I heard rumors."
Eli groaned and slid deeper into the couch, tablet forgotten. "I already hate where this is going."
Clint dropped into the armchair like he owned the place. "Oh, relax. I'm just here to observe the safehouse romance in its natural habitat."
Natasha muttered something in Russian. It sounded sharp. Eli made a mental note to never ask for a translation.
He looked at Clint instead. "…Do you ever enter a room like a normal person?"
Clint thought about it. "No."
"Sounds exhausting."
---
Clint spent the next several minutes doing what Clint Barton did best: pushing every button in the room with the precision of a man who had spent years learning exactly where they were.
Eli's "ridiculous white hair" came up. His "heroic face." The way he always positioned himself slightly between Natasha and any possible threat—even when the threat was just a squeaky floorboard.
Eli tried to ignore him.
He failed spectacularly.
Natasha mostly stayed quiet, occasionally dropping a comment designed to encourage Clint without seeming to. She was, Eli realized, absolutely betraying him for the sake of entertainment.
He'd remember that.
Eventually, Clint checked his watch and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his tactical pants. "Alright. I'll leave you two to your bonding time."
He paused at the door, his expression shifting—just slightly—into something more genuine.
"But seriously. You two work well together. Don't screw it up by being weird about it."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Deep advice from the man who once shot someone while hanging upside down in an air vent."
Clint smirked. "That was art." Then he looked at Eli, his gaze steady. "She's happier when she's not working alone. Don't make her go back to that."
Before either of them could respond, he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned.
Eli stared at the closed door for a long moment. Finally, he muttered, "I hate him."
Natasha calmly drank her tea. "You'll miss him."
"…Doubt it."
But the small smile tugging at Eli's lips betrayed him.
Natasha noticed.
She noticed everything.
She didn't comment.
Later that night, Eli's phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: For the record? The red bean thing is growing on her. Don't tell her I said that.
Another message appeared.
Unknown Number: Also, if you hurt her, I know where you sleep.
Unknown Number: And I'm a very good shot.
Unknown Number: —Clint
Eli stared at the messages for a full minute.
Then, despite himself—
He smiled.
( I wrote and rewrote this chapter cause I was not really feeling it so tell me what you all think)