"I'd feel much safer sleeping with you for company," Clint replied, flashing her a crooked smile that was teasing, yes - but also wholly honest. Very rarely these days did Clint feel comfortable down to his bones - he didn't even feel it just then - because there was always, it seemed, some sort of prickling underneath his skin. It suited him to be alone, but in an environment he was in control of. That, or be away on a job that distracted him.

At the moment he could have neither, and he found there was a third option in Natasha. This was a space she had vouched for. The room he apparently had in the hotel had not been searched or tested, and he would not be able to sleep in there, he knew, even if he had tried, though if Natasha wanted solitude he would have given it and gone there for the night. Clint was trained to spy and kill and do whatever he had to, leaving him with uncanny senses that suggested he had eyes on the back of his head. But sometimes when he was around Natasha, it felt like she was that real, second pair. He looked out for her, and she looked out for him. It was an accidental arrangement, for it had come naturally to him, and he had been pleased to see she returned the sentiments.

"Ah, I would never abandon you for a cute pizza girl," Clint said. "Tonight. Let's just make sure we tip her well, right?" How convenient that the hotel took the cash he happened to have in his pockets and, well, elsewhere - he held at least five currencies, three of which were currently sewn in large sums into the lining of his jacket. It certainly made the universal transition easier, at any rate.