She finds Barton sitting on the floor of the bathroom, staring blankly at the tile floor. Her hair is a tangled mess and she’s obviously tried to take her vest off, but maybe gave up halfway through. It’s still mostly fastened and half-zipped, the heavy black cloth and elastic slipping off her shoulders to reveal angry red marks. She’s been wearing it fastened too small again.
“Barton.” She barely reacts, head tilting marginally towards Natasha and eyes flicking up. “What are you doing?”
She shrugs, picking at a hole in her jeans. Natasha hates those jeans. Civvie clothes. Barton loves them, got them in the mens’ section in a discount store in Egypt a few weeks back. Natasha was new then, and had somehow let it slip that she’d never been clothes shopping before. Barton was eager to show her.
“ Barton.” She punctuates this one with a fist on the doorframe and Barton flinches, a full body jerk paired with a disoriented blink. Now she has her attention. “ What. Are. You. Doing?”
She might be worried about her, Natasha muses. This is a harsh emotion, one she’s unfamiliar with, but it’s making it slightly hard to breath and she wants it gone. Barton needs to get it together before she compromises the mission.
Barton sits up a bit, wrapping her arms around her chest before awkwardly pulling them back to sit in her lap. “I don’t know, thinking?” She sniffs like she’s been crying. “Why?”
“If you’re injured or otherwise compromised, we need to alert Agent Coulson.”
“No!” Barton jumps to her feet and runs a hand through her hair like she’s trying to smooth it down. It doesn’t work. “Nope, no, I’m fine. I’m not hurt, I’m not compromised, and Phil doesn’t need to know. Everything is under control. I just need some coffee.”
“It’s ten thirty at night.”
“I have an amazing caffeine tolerance. You’d be impressed.” She’s about to ask why that would impress her when Barton pushes past her out into the room’s kitchenette. “I once drank a full pot of coffee in ten minutes before a meeting. I didn’t spill any. Phil says it’s a miracle I don’t have heart problems.”
Natasha follows her teammate out of the bathroom and sits on the bed, watching her prepare the coffee pot. Barton is taller than her by several inches and must have twenty pounds on her at least. She’s compact despite her height, all muscle and broad shoulders and hips. Natasha allows herself a moment to trace the lines of Barton’s waist into her hips and ass. She’s not what one would consider the standard of feminine beauty, all blunt, heavy lines and unyielding bone and muscle, but she’s a weapon. She’s strong, and Natasha can appreciate that in a woman. Barton, though, can’t, she’s realized. Natasha suspects it had something to do with the way she talks and walks and holds herself like a man. It causes her pain, Natasha can tell, so she calls her Barton. Barton seems to appreciate that.
“Ladies, it’s time to head out,” their temporary handler barks, voice cutting sharp through the thick, comfortable silence she and Barton had been resting in.
Barton opens her mouth like she wants to correct him. “We’re not-”
“Not what, Agent Barton? Do you need more time to get ready?” The handler cocks an eyebrow, obviously looking for any sign of distress or unpreparedness. He’s not unkind, and Natasha can appreciate that. He has, though, fallen into a trap Coulson and Fury had long since learned to sidestep.
“Nothing, sir,” Barton finishes lamely. “We’re ready. Let’s go, Tash.”
On the plane ride, Barton tugs at the front of her shirt thirty-seven times. She looks a bit nauseous. Natasha doesn’t know what to say other than “Barton” every chance she gets.
Barton is sitting on the bathroom floor again, this time in their shared dormitory space at SHIELD Headquarters. It’s months after the first incident, and Natasha is no longer the empty shell of a woman she was then. Barton, on the other hand, hasn’t gotten any better. In fact, she’s getting worse by the day. Agent Coulson is worried; she knows this because she’s seen him staring and heard the two of them having the same circular conversation at the front of the jet every time they think she can’t hear them. Barton is dying, and all Natasha can do is watch.
She opens the door (the bathrooms in these dorms don’t lock, they’re not afforded, nor do they need, that kind of privacy) and stares down at Barton. She’s wearing the pants again, but this time, they’re accompanied by a hoodie that’s entirely too heavy for the mid-summer heat. The AC here isn’t that good.
“Barton?” This time, her voice is soft, but when Barton turns to her, her eyes are still melancholic and lost. “Are you alright?”
Barton sighs, but doesn’t speak. Instead, she scoots over until she’s pressed against the cabinet, leaving a space for Natasha by the bathtub. Natasha sits, tucking her knees up in a mirror of Barton’s own position and pulling the door closed.
Barton picks at a spot in the grout. “Do you ever wonder if you’re supposed to be someone else?”
I don’t wonder, she thinks. “What do you mean?” she says.
“I mean, like, do you ever think there’s someone else hidden inside you, that would be better at being you, but you did something wrong and now they’re stuck in there forever and you’re a failure?” Barton sighs, resting her chin on her knees and pulling her hood up. “I’m tired, Natasha.”
“I know.” She rests a hand on the tile between them. “All you have to do is say it, you know. Whatever it is that’s making you tired.”
“I can’t,” Barton says, whines, really. “It gets stuck. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t think you have to.”
“Shouldn’t I?” Barton takes her hand, tangling their fingers together and flipping them palm-up, Natasha’s hand on top.
“I don’t think there are any rules.” The moment is quiet, decisive in its ambiguity and monumental in its ordinariness. “I think we just do the best we can with what we’re given.”
Barton glances over to her, holding her gaze this time, looking deep into her eyes and it’s like falling off a ledge, it’s like watching a birth, it’s like nothing at all except the cool tile beneath them and the little fleck of brown in Barton’s right iris. “I want to be a man. I already am a man, inside.” A shake of the head. “Fuck it. I’m transgender, Tasha.” A tear slips down Barton’s face.
“What do you want me to call you?”
“Clint. He and him, too. The whole nine yards.” He pulls her hand to his face and kisses it gently. His lips are damp with tears.
“Okay, Clint,” she whispers. “Have you told Coulson?”
“Not yet.” So she’s the first. “Thank you.”
Natasha doesn’t respond except to lean closer and touch their foreheads together. Clint breathes out and she breathes in. Finally, she says, “Do you want to do this?”
“More than anything.”
Their first kiss is on a bathroom floor in the middle of the night.
What if you’re making a mistake?
I’m not.
What if it’s irreversible?
I want this.
What if Natasha doesn’t want to be with you anymore after this?
Well then I guess I’ll find a new girlfriend, won’t I?
What if--
“Clint?” Coulson touches his shoulder. “You’re shaking. You alright?”
Clint comes back to his body. He’s sitting in an uncomfortable chair just outside the office of the one doctor in the compound authorized to prescribe and administer HRT. Phil and Natasha are with him, and he is indeed bouncing his leg so hard his whole body is shaking.
“‘M fine,” he assures them. “Just nervous.”
Natasha nods. “Good nervous, or bad nervous?”
“Both? Neither? I… Good nervous. Yeah, it’s good nervous.” It really is, especially now that he’s been brought out of his doom spiral. The incessant doubts are replaced with the reminder that a few months from now, he’ll be able to grow facial hair. His voice will drop, his face will change, and he might even pass. It’s exhilirating as much as it is terrifying, and the minutes passing until his appointment are the longest ones he’s ever experienced. 13:36. Four more minutes.
In four minutes, the doctor will stick a needle in his stomach and inject him with testosterone and he’ll start a journey he’s been waiting for since age twelve. He’s a little afraid he might throw up. Or cry.
The doctor, a kind woman named Janice Harroway, sticks her head out the door. “Barton?”
“That’s me!” He stands up so quickly he nearly falls on his face.
“Ready?”
“More than.”
“Alright, good.” She smiles and beckons him inside.
Clint turns to Phil and Natasha, both watching him intently. “See you on the other side!” And then he’s in the doctor’s office, and the door closes behind him, and his life begins.
The meeting is a blur of nerves and needles and remember to flick the needle before injecting, remember to draw with the larger bore and inject with the smaller, remember to sterilize, sterilize, sterilize. 0.25 milligrams of testosterone into the fat of his stomach, subcutaneous instead of intramuscular. It’s not what he was expecting. It’s wonderful, it’s everything, it’s the air he’s breathing, but it’s just a moment, and he has a song stuck in his head when the nurse sticks the needle into his skin. It stings more than he’s expecting, but then again, he’s never gotten a shot in the stomach before. Usually, when he gets a shot, it’s with an autoinjector and under extreme duress. He watches the needle go in, watches it pucker his skin, watches the doctor depress the plunger, and he finds himself blinking away tears.
The doctor smiles up at him. “That’s it!” she says. “You know, these are always my favorite appointments. I deal with enough sick people. It’s good to bring some joy to someone once in a while.”
Clint’s not sure he’d describe what he’s feeling as joy. It’s too big for that, and it hurts too much. A good hurt, like pressing on a bruise or pulling a loose tooth. He’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.
He leaves the doctor’s office on shaky legs. He’s grinning uncontrollably, as if his face is feeling all the joy he thought would be in his head. His heart pounds, and he wonders if it’s a side effect of the shot or the momentousness of the occasion.
“Normally,” Phil says, “I’d make you wait fifteen minutes. I talked to the nurse, though, and we’ve got somewhere else to be.” He smiles, and Clint smiles back, and when they walk down the stairs to the parking garage he has to keep his hand on the handrail because he still feels weak. It’s probably just from the injection. He got a dose of steroids once, for an infection, and he’d blacked out. Maybe that’s what this is.
“You alright?” Natasha murmurs once they’re in the back seat of Phil’s car. “I can tell you where we’re going if that’d make you feel better.”
Clint shakes his head. “Nah, I’m alright. Just… It's a lot, you know? I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”
Phil makes eye contact in the rear view mirror. “Would you rather be alone right now? We can do this later, but I wanted to take you out to celebrate.”
“It’s okay!” It really is. He hasn’t been this okay in a long time. He hasn’t felt this much in a long time, and he wasn’t expecting the feeling to hurt, like when you sit on your foot for too long and it goes all pins-and-needles when the blood comes back. Ridiculously, he feels like his voice already sounds different. He wants to look in a mirror and wait for his stubble to grow in.
Oh.
Oh, this is happening. Oh, he just took his first T shot.
“Clint?” Natasha calls. “Clint, you alright?’
He’s crying. He’s crying in the back of Phil’s car, which he’s only done once before and for much better reasons than this. What is this? He’s too happy, so he’s crying?
Phil’s pulled over. He twists around and grabs something from the passenger seat and holds it out to Clint. A folder. Clint’s folder, the one with all his super-secret super-spy information in it. It’s emblazoned with a SHIELD logo and when Clint takes it, his hands are shaking.
“I was going to wait for the restaurant, but I want you to see it now,” Phil says.
Clint opens the file. Written in all caps across the top is his name. His name. Clinton Francis Barton. M, 24 years old.
“How…?”
“Fury. It’s not everything, just because medical needs a record of your birth sex and how long you’ve been taking HRT, but it’s everything we could change. It’s all you, Clint. No one but your doctor ever has to know again.”
He’s not sure if that’s what he wants, has no idea if he’ll go stealth or stay out, but Phil’s right. It’s all him. He can’t reach Phil, so he throws his arms around Natasha and whispers, “Thank you,” into her shoulder. He’s shaking again, and crying for real, but here, hiding his face in Natasha’s shirt, he can’t bring himself to stop. His heart races and his stomach flips and his tears fall and he is real, real, real.