Exhausted and groggy, Natasha was almost like a cranky child, huffing about and getting annoyed at inanimate objects. Had Clint the penchant for using the word ‘adorable’ now would have been the opportune moment for it. As it was he could only grin goofily at her as she waged war on her footwear.

“Do you want...” he started to ask but was cut off when she suddenly flopped back down against him, giving up the task half finished. “I can handle Fury,” Clint agreed. The last thing either of them needed was the Director asking her questions about what had gone on tonight when she couldn’t carefully choose her answers. “Though he’s probably gonna insist you let the doc check you out.”

Clint always hated that part. The debriefings were horrible and he certainly wasn’t a fan of those either, but it was the medical check-ups; the bandages, splints, blood tests, needles, stitches and general poking and prodding that he loathed above everything else. He preferred to stitch himself up on his own and pretend all was fine, which was probably why he had so many scars.

“You want me to take care of that other offending boot too?”