There was blue everywhere. It surrounded him. It consumed him. It was him.

He was a prisoner in his own body. A spectator in his own personal hell.

It was surprisingly quiet as Not-Clint and Natasha fought. This part of the Helicarrier wasn't wreaked by the Hulk. Nor by Loki. The metal catwalk they fought on didn't sway, bolted to the very walls of the slowing crashing carrier.

"Don't." Natasha said skipping backwards as Not-Clint took a swing at her. But Not-Clint is faster and more ruthless than Clint is. He sweeps her legs out from under her and jumped on top. She took a swing at him. Not-Clint easily caught it and pinned the hand above her head. When the free hand came up with a knife, he caught that one too and pinned that hand over her head also.

"Don't do this to yourself." She croaked out as he slammed an arrow through her pinned wrists.

"This is Loki." All Widow had left was pleading. It was wrong on her. So wrong.

"This is monsters," She kept trying to get through to him even as Not-Clint's hands closed around her throat and squeezed.

---

Clint gasped and woke. His eyes wide and panicked before he remembered where he was. Laura. Home. Clint closed his eyes, laid back in bed and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Natasha didn't die. She had saved him from Loki.

When Clint was sure he was back in control, he rolled over to face Laura. Only her side of the bed was empty. Clint laid a hand on the empty space. Still warm. She must have just gotten up. That was even possibly the trigger for his nightmare.

Clint sighed, gave a small smile at the thought of Laura, and climbed out of bed. She was probably making breakfast right now for the kiddos. And him. That thought make his smile widen as he tugged on a pair of pants and snagged a shirt.

He was slipping into his shirt as he stumbled down the stairs.

"Smells delicious." Indeed, the smell of bacon, eggs and even cheese, was wafting into his nose. Of course the smell of coffee was the biggest draw.

As Clint finally entered the kitchen he wasn't looking and was surprised to see booted feet. The training kicked in at the unfamiliar sight.

Combat boots.
Black.
SHIELD Issue.

Clint slowly moved his eyes up the intruder's body until he reached the face. Rumlow. Clint had worked with him a few times before it was discovered he was HYDRA. Swallowing hard Clint turned to see Laura held by another HYDRA double agent, Rollins.

"Let her-," Clint started. A sharp crack of a gun cut him off.

---

"No!" Clint's cry echoed about the room. It wasn't home. It wasn't Laura. This was Natasha. This was red in the ledgers. Nat undoubtedly heard him, just because they weren't sharing a room didn't make everything sound proof.

Clint lunged across the bed and grabbed his cellphone. It was already ringing before he raised it to his ear.

"Clint?" Laura's sleepy, confused voice was a godsend.

"Sorry. I just..." Clint mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his weakness. Of course Laura knew just what to say. The beautiful, lovely, woman.

"Bad dream?"

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

About an hour later Clint finally got off the phone with Laura. He grabbed a towel and headed straight for the shower. Nat would give him space. When he finally emerged he felt human again. But he needed coffee to round out the feeling. And proper clothes, not sleep wear.

When Clint finally went into the kitchen to score some hot life saving coffee, he was back on even keel. The light from the clock on the microwave read 4:46 and Clint frowned.

"Did I wake you?" Of course he did. Just as he probably had a few times. He had slept better after he retired from the Avengers and had gone home. But things just, got in the way. Like the Ten Rings and Stark. It wasn't his fault. He didn't mean to paint a target on himself when he left the Avengers and retired. It's just he was so public. And now the Ten Rings thought they could lay their hands on him again.

When Clint and Nat had found out that little tidbit from the part of SHIELD that hadn't been compromised, they hadn't hesitated to act. Hence why Clint wasn't with Laura and the kids.

After the clusterfuck that had become her life after Sokovia, Natasha had never been more grateful to get back in the field. S.H.I.E.L.D. had fallen and risen again and the Avengers helped fill the power imbalance left in the intelligence community. Talent was recruited, uniformed, and put to work. Between liaising with Stark’s people, with Hill’s people, with her own people and training up the new team, she’d barely had a chance to breathe. So when the name Yuri Klementiev popped up on Natasha’s radar again, she went to work.

Natasha was a spider, and she knew better than anyone how to tug on threads. She’d delved into systems and files meant for other’s eyes and started pulling. Yuri Klementiev and new arms deals, new shadowed clients, whispers of Stark. The more she pulled, the worse it got. On her count, there were seven rings left—Klementiev had found yet another. Worse, he’d found new tech and was poised to make billions. That tech, it seemed, was meant to find its way to Stark in his cushy retirement and take him out.

Stark could undoubtedly handle himself, but Pepper would be furious if Natasha let it get that far. There were so few people who looked at her like she really was something more than venom and sharp teeth. Failing Pepper was not an option. So Natasha armed herself with secrets and bullets and went to take care of it.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have told Clint. Nathaniel was so small and he, more than anyone, deserved to go home to his pretty wife and kick up his feet. Clint was the best of them—human and good and solid earth beneath her feet, no matter how many feet of empty, empty air separated them. He’d lowered his bow when all she knew was red and terror and red and dragged her from the smoke, pulling her to her feet. She shouldn’t have brought him a manila folder and asked for his eyes. She could have found someone to watch her six; there was no shortage of snipers in their talent pool. And yet she’d stolen away to his quiet farm and sat on his porch, elbows on her knees and gaze on the horizon as he read through her files.

He’d joined her. Good, stupid, foolish man that he was, he’d grabbed his bow and joined her in the shadows once more.

Lisbon was sunbaked streets and bustling tourists. Her contacts were scarce—dumping S.H.I.E.L.D.s everything onto the net had been a bomb in her web—but not completely gone. And Natasha’s bones were built from secrets and her hands were claws that could rip them from any throat. She knew Klementiev was here, and that he’d been making deals in Madripoor with Stark’s would be assassins. A photostatic veil fudging their features, and she and Clint had vanished into the crowds to ferret out information. It was a long, sunny week of chasing whispers and greasing hands.

She shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much. This empty world of lies and manipulations was every entry in her soaked ledger, every sin that was slowly coming to light. If they could have held her, a dozen nations would have fought for the chance to put her in their deepest, darkest hole. They might even try—Natasha knew that if she were half the hero anyone thought she was, she would let them.

They’d tracked Klementiev to a remote mansion some fifteen kilometres outside the city. He was back to old habits, wining and dining traffickers and other dealers, with a pair of models on his arm and another waiting in his bed. It wouldn’t be hard to transform into another one, but it wasn’t worth the risk of pulling the same trick twice. They had managed, at least, to bug his home. Clint in her ear felt right, bad jokes and wry commentary flowing between them.

The motel they’d found wasn’t ideal; it was hardly defensible, and there weren’t enough guests to truly hide. It was a dingy place, small, and cold. She’d been spoiled, living in Stark Tower, in the new facility, where everything was sleek metal and luxury. Still, it was in range of their devices, and that was all that truly mattered.

She’d have given anything for a proper S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse, but this was off the books. Stark would undoubtedly figure out what they were up to and interfere. Pepper would disapprove. And it wasn’t as though Natasha had any of her own safehouses nearby to use. She’d been reduced to only three after the dump. Only three havens remaining. Her skin itched at the thought—she needed more places to hide in case things went to hell. Nothing was forever—one day, they’d splinter, and she would need a place to bunker down when they turned on her. She knew better than to trust them; even Steve. Hell, even Clint didn’t know. If all went well, he never would.

The radio crackled in her ears. Natasha curled into her chair, Sam’s old air force sweater slipping off a shoulder. He’d laughed when he’d seen that she’d stolen it (I’m a real Avenger now, aren’t I?), and it was warm. Her chin rested on a legging clad knee, toes curled in the drafty room, as she read through the files once more.

There was a scream, Clint—gun in hand, headset removed, adrenaline surging, senses tracking, listening for footsteps and breaths that weren’t his, lingering outside his door. There was nothing—just him calling Laura, voice thick with sleep and emotion. Natasha had slipped back to her own room, relief flooding her veins, and let him be.

He entered her room just over an hour later, smelling of cheap soap. Natasha looked over her shoulder as he padded into the kitchen. He looked reasonably human. His face was drawn, features just off enough that she knew he’d been locked in his head again. She’d told him once, after the Battle of New York, how it never really went away. There was always a piece of someone else in your head, that you’d always wonder if you were really at the helm. Loki would always hide in his head, slivers that stung in dreams. He hadn’t looked comforted, but Natasha had never liked lying to Clint, so she had given him the truth that no one else would.

“No,” she said evenly, removing the headset. The house was quiet, and she could afford to step back for the moment. She raised the folder and gently waved it, before setting it aside. Her lips curved into a wry smirk as she shrugged. “I was already up. Thought I’d do a little light reading.”

Sleep had been a fitful thing, never quite settling in for much longer than flashes of green and steel as she ran ran ran, as lies and spiderwebs fell from her lips in quiet moments, as a city plummeted to the unforgiving ground. Four hours was more than sufficient, and the static and rustles of their bugs brought her to an even keel.

Turning her chair, Natasha pulled both legs crossed beneath her, hands resting in her lap. Green eyes tracked him through the room, amid weapons and tech that they had smuggled with them. “How’s Laura?” she murmured, head cocking slightly to one side.

Clint watched Nat as she spoke. Not doing well either. His brain mentally tagged that information. Which shoved him into not serious mode. Because there could not be two serious people on a team. Ever.

"Happy I'm gone." Clint smiled crookedly. "Apparently I hog too much of the bed and act like a three year old high on sugar."

Which was Laura's actual words as she had booted Clint from the house. The retirement hadn't sat well with Clint. He had started the kitchen remodel six times. The first time he had gotten as far as to de-door all the lower cabinets before stopping. Of course Laura snapped at him. The cupboards needed doors, as she pointed out, with a baby in the house. No words were spoken of the fact that baby Nathaniel wouldn't be walking any time soon. Still Clint had put all the door back on the lower cabinets. The second time he de-doored the upper cabinets.

Laura had made him put them back on when the project ended there. And thus is continued. He stripped the floors, but never re-waxed them. He tore down one wall's wallpaper, but didn't paint. Both Cooper and Lila were amused at the talks their parents had. Of course they loved all the time Clint spent playing with them. Something Laura enjoyed watching. But she could see Clint was suffocating at the forced isolation. She held him through the nightmares, but she knew he wouldn't be better until he let himself atone for Petro.

The day that Natasha called Clint for him help, he and Laura were nearly having another argument. The two loved each other, would do anything for each other. Including a swift kick in the butt (no swearing around the kiddos).

"Go Clint." Laura had said even before Clint had managed to open his mouth.

"I," Clint started. "You don't even..."

He trailed off as Laura pressed a kiss to his lips. "I know that look Clint Barton. Go save the world."

"Laura." Clint kissed his wife back. "I said I was here to stay."

Laura let out a full bodied laugh which ended in a snort. "Yes. And I fully expected you to keep that promise for about two weeks." She glanced over to the crib where Nathaniel was sleeping. "You lasted two months." She turned back to her husband. "And now you're driving me up the wall. You, Clint Barton, are like a three year old who just discovered sugar."

Clint's mouth ticked upwards in a smile. "I'm not that bad."

Laura snorted again. "I was going to make you sleep in the barn with that freaking tractor."

Clint raised an eyebrow and clutched at his breast, fake wounded. "You wouldn't!"

"Shh." Laura hissed even as she tried to hold back her own laughter. "I was. Or I was going to call up Captain America and have him haul you out of here. One of the two."

Clint leaned forwards and kissed his wife again. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Beats. Me." Laura replied between kisses. "Lord knows you screwed up."

Clint snagged another kiss. They had been over this, and it didn't hurt anymore when she pointed out his indiscretion with Bobby. She was right, and Clint tried every day to prove to Laura how much he loved her.

"But you're a good man. So go. We'll still be here when you come back."

"I love you." Clint said as he pulled away.

"Love you too." Laura echoed back. Words that she had echoed again just before Clint had ended their call.

"Nathaniel's still not sleeping through the night. But Lila's taken to the role of older sister like a fish to water." Clint flopped down next to Natasha. He took a sip of coffee moaned at how good it tasted. Not as good as the stuff Stark got for him and Laura, but it was hot and coffee. Which made it good, even when it was crap.

His free hand snagged the abandoned headset and shoved it on his head. It was still silent, and would probably be until the morning when the household staff awoke. Hopefully there'd be something going on soon. Like other arms dealers showing. Or even the leader of the Ten freaking Rings himself. Anything. At least it was more interesting when they were undercover busting heads for information. This waiting was killing him.

"Any movement?" It was a good thing Laura convinced him to go. Not only would be keeping the tractor warm, Widow would have been out here on her own and probably breaking down too. last time he saw that look on her face, it was the first time they meet. Damn, there he went being serious again.

Nat’s lips quirked into a knowing smile when he spoke of Laura’s enthusiastic support in kicking Clint’s ass out to the field. Laura was—Laura was sunlight and such incredible faith in people. If she’d ever worried that Clint wasn’t safe with Natasha, she’d never said anything to her face. Laura simply looked at her with trust, as if there weren’t a thousand words in her ledger arguing that Natasha was the last person to believe in. Natasha would have liked to be the person that Laura saw.

“True on both counts,” she agreed. She’d spent years working with Clint, and his chronic inability to not get himself beat to shit and his stupid quips had once perplexed her. He’d been her handler once; he was the only one who really seemed to think she could be deprogrammed, could be something resembling human again. So Fury had dropped her leash in his hands and wished the poor bastard luck. Natasha often wondered how often he’d regretted it—lowering his bow. How many times had she taken a blade, a garrote to his throat over the years? Coming down off red in the helicarrier, Ivan and whispered words that dragged her back like a chain around her throat, Budapest, nightmares when the world still blurred at edges?

Thirteen. Thirteen times she’d nearly killed him. She’d burned every blade and broken bone into her memory, as if knowing what she had done would ensure it would never happen again. As if there were promises she could truly keep.

Clint spoke of Nathaniel. She didn’t soften, not quite, but there was something like warmth in her eyes at the thought. Nathaniel, who deserved more than her legacy, and a world where things like her didn’t exist. She’d douse her ledger a thousand times over to keep his world safe and happy. He dropped into the chair next to her gracelessly, delighting in his truly awful coffee. Natasha shot him a flat look. All these years and she’d never understand his pathological need for coffee and his complete disregard for its quality.

He claimed the headset wordlessly, taking up her restless watch. He knew. He usually did; if anyone could read her, it was Clint. She could lie to him, could craft a myth around herself, but it made her skin crawl. She saved those falsehoods for the things that he didn’t need to know, the things that could only lead to hurt and arrows and lead. But when she simply was, he had an unerring sense for when she was off. It had saved his life too many times before.

“Only his security detail,” she remarked, leaning back in her chair, toes tucked beneath her thighs. She curled into Sam’s sweater, crimson hair spilling down its front. He would have been just as good backup. Any of them would have been, really. The new team was finally learning how to work together (and Steve was undoubtedly annoyed that she had vanished and left him with all the heavy lifting), finding their rhythm.

“They’re Kurdish, for the most part. There’s a Ukranian. A Canadian, too. They’re methodical. Quiet enough to mean that they didn’t come cheap. I’ve mapped out their patrols, but if they’re half as good as I think they are, they’ll change them nightly.” The mission was steadying, simple facts and familiar ground. She knew how to slip through shadows. She knew the bite of copper in her mouth and the rush of combat. This was what she was made for.

She nodded over to one of four monitors, satellite imagery and LIDAR on display of the mansion and its surrounding terrain. “He’s got some patrols in the surrounding area as well, but they’re stretched thin. We can work that if we have to.”

Ideally, they’d get more information about his deals with Ten Rings before storming the gates—which meant for who knew how many more long hours staking out in this cold room.

"Barton!"

Clint barely kept from flinching at the sound of Fury's voice. The Director still intimidated him, even if he would never admit it. The archer turned and gave a sloppy salute.

"Hey. Nice day right?" Clint casually leaned against the nearest wall, watching Fury's good eye twitch.

"Agent Barton!" Fury still practically roared. "Come with me."

"Righty-o." Clint drawled as he lazily peeled himself off the wall. He couldn't say no. Not to Fury. After all the man had personally recruited Clint after he came onto S.H.I.E.L.D's radar. And not in a good way. He was just lucky he didn't end up in jail like Barney. While Clint tried to be a good person, Barn, well he didn't really ever try. It had all started to look up when they ran away to join the circus, but after meeting Jacques and Buck, things had spiraled back down hill. Fury had pulled him out of that and Clint wasn't sure if he ever thanked the man. Or if he even forgave him yet.

Clint followed Fury and couldn't help but smile broadly when people gave him pitying looks. It was no secret Clint was a handful and caused all sorts of problems. His new nickname was 'trouble' and he lived up to it. The only one who seemed to respect or even like him was this pretty slip of a woman. Bobby Morse. Man, was she a looker.

Some of that must have been on Clint's face when Fury turned back to him. If anything eye-patch's expression became more sour. "In." He grunted opening a door.

It was dark, but Clint stepped boldly through, as if he owned the place. Fake it until you make it. That was one of the few lessons he learned from his father that was actually worth something.

"Ooo." Clint sing-songed. "What a dark and scary room."

Obviously Fury didn't reply, but Clint imagined him holding back a snicker, or even a snort. When light flooded the room, Clint had to resist shielding his eyes. Fury walked around Clint to a metal desk and dropped a file on it.

"Am I getting the boot? The six foot nap?" Clint asked, still in that same tone from earlier. "This is so exciting!"

Clint liked to believe he really could see the vein's in Fury's head was actually throbbing. Fury would make a good anime character. If only Clint could make steam come out his ears. Than everything would be so worth it. Clint could feel the smile on his face that refused to leave even under the force of Fury's glare.

Fortunately for Fury, before Clint could continue the door opened again and another agent stepped into the room.

"Coulson." Fury greeted him. Was that relief in the man's voice. God, Clint hoped so.

"Director." Coulson said taking a seat next to Clint.

Ooookay. This was weird. Clint looked this new agent over and wondered what this stick-up-his-ass agent could have done to have received Fury's ire.

"Barton, this is your new handler. Congratulations." The dry, dead pan delivery took away from the horror of Fury's words. Ever since Clint had set foot in SHIELD as an agent he had driven everyone away.

"I don't need a handler." Clint snarled at Fury.

There was a small snort from Coulson. As if that was somehow funny. So Clint's head snapped around and his eyes bore into Coulson's. "How old are you anyways? Fourteen, Twelve?"

"Old enough." Coulson tossed back unruffled.

"And the only one who's still willing to work with you." Fury added.

Clint leaned back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. "Is this what this is? Clean up your act or we'll really give you a dirt nap? Jesus, you are like a villain in a B movie."

Fury sighed and pushed the file toward Clint. "This is your next mission."

Clint eyed the file like it was poisonous. Were they fucking serious? It had only been two years and they were thinking they were going to get rid of him? Clint raised an eyebrow and waited and waited. He wasn't going to move if they really were going to retire him. Eventually Fury had enough, stood up and left, leaving Coulson to handle Clint.

This was ridiculous.

---

Clint opened one eye to look at Nat. Then he closed it with a sigh. "Goons are never the answer. Seriously. Who really goes the whole evil villain lair surrounded by Goons anymore? Is this the nineteen eighties?"

Clint took another sip of the coffee and grimaced. It had cooled down enough he could actually taste the flavor. "Blerg." He placed the offending drink on the coffee table. "Remind me to hit up Stark for more coffee. He can afford it. Too bad I cant get him to overnight some right now."

Clint paused, his face looking thoughtful as he mulled over the idea. Would he believe it if he said it was SHIELD or some other mission and he couldn't disclose the location. But that they were in a dreadful pinch and really needed decent coffee? Doubtful. Stark never did anything by halves. "Life sucks." He proclaimed mulishly. In the light of more hours sitting here, life really did suck. He could barely muster up the ability to make jokes.

"Are we really just going to sit here? We're in Portugal. We should go sight seeing. Maybe by a few souvenirs for the kiddos." When Clint said kiddos he didn't just mean his kids. Though that was the major insinuation. The others he spoke of were the new team. Wanda, Rhodey, Sam and Vision. They'd all get a kick out of souvenirs wouldn't they? Of course it would probably raise awkward questions. But Nat would just glare at them, and viola! Problem solved.

Tonight, she was a swan.

All long lines and dark magic, she moved through lights and shadows, a flurry of black and glittering crystal. She was treachery en pointe in endless, perfect pirouettes, capturing a prince’s heart and tempting him ever forward with brightness and a laugh. He fell into her orbit, golden, shining eyes, hands on her waist, spinning, kneeling to press his lips to her hand.

Tonight, she was a spider.

She slipped through dark halls, only a sliver of a shadow darting past windows, fluttering past men with guns and eyes meant to find her. She was treachery in silent footfalls, less than a whisper as she stole through the nameless mansion, her blood singing with the ecstasy of fire. She stole into a room, to a man whose face she knew in a memory she could not find, and shot gold into his veins. Her thighs kept him from thrashing for several minutes until he stilled, his lips parting on a dying breath beneath her glove.

Tonight she was in love.

She was trapped in his orbit, emerald eyes tracing his jaw, fingers trailing down his chest and voice pitched low. She was wrapped in furs and jewels, laughing at the world, light and free, hands pulling at a crimson necktie, mouth angling under his, tongue stroking deeper with love and hope and love—

Tonight, she was nothing.

There was red and smoke and thoughts chased away by blood screaming through her veins. She was staring at things without faces, a father-not-father whispering praise into her ear, learning things only to forget ever having learned them at all, locked deep in hollow bones that she did not own.

---

Clint filled the silence with familiar complaints. He’d said the same thing in Madripoor, once, wondering aloud why anyone ever wasted their money on useless fodder. She had looked at him curiously, still adjusting to life with S.H.I.E.L.D., and wondered if her handler was mad.

She knew better now; Clint Barton was absolutely certifiable. Her lips twitched into a smirk, eyes locked on their recon.

“Ask Pepper instead,” she remarked simply, “She’s got better taste; Stark would just send you whatever is most expensive. She could even keep it secret.”

Unless Stark went looking for that secret, of course. Which he might do soon, if this mission took them much longer, if he heard that she’d been absent at the new facility. Natasha had left Maria with the simple assurance that she would return. Maria had simply nodded, placing herself like a wall between Natasha and the others. They’d ask questions, perhaps they’d think that she’d abandoned them, and there were few people Natasha would rather have running interference.

“You’ve gone soft,” Natasha scoffed, although there was only humor in her voice. Acid green eyes flicked over to her grumbling companion, “We’ve only been here a day. We’ve spent much longer, holed up in much worse places, on recon before.”

He wasn’t soft, though. Not in the way he should be. He should be home, reflexes transforming from combat to simple fatherhood. Beneath his complaints, she knew he could fly into combat at the drop of a pin, track targets with unerring aim. She knew his instincts almost better than her own, and knew exactly where she fit into the battlefield beside him. It was one of the things she knew in her bones, a fundamental truth in her universe.

“Souvenirs,” Natasha deadpanned. Clint’s words weren’t lost on her, and she wasn’t sure what it made her feel. She was happy to be Aunt Nat, even if she didn’t deserve it, but there were more now, weren’t there? He and Stark and Thor had passed on their torches, made room for new blood. It was just her and Steve now, trying to build a team together. But they weren’t her…it wasn’t a maternal thing. It was a responsibility. But not as a mother; mothers didn’t raise children for war. Her calloused hands could not build.

“We could bring them t-shirts,” she said with a wry smirk, “I heart shady, Portuguese motels. I’m sure they’d be a hit.”

The silence was nearly killing Clint as Coulson and him had a stare down. Clint wasn't going to crack first. No way. As if sensing his determination, Coulson gave an exaggerated sigh. He grabbed the file Fury had pushed at Clint and flipped it open, twisting it so Clint could see it.

"This is Black Widow. She also goes by Tatiana Sokolova, Alion Vans, Natasha Romanoff, Marya Konn, Irina Zlataryova and Audrey. And no, we don't know if any of those names are her real one. She's a Russian Assassin. She's linked mostly to the KGB." Coulson flipped the file from the photo of an attractive Redhead woman. "She's killed many people SHIELD would have rathered stayed alive. She poses a very real threat to national security."

Clint watched as Coulson flipped through photos of Black Widow's confirmed kills. He pressed his lips together. "So you want to kill her first. If that it?"

Coulson raised an eyebrow. Clint's you vs. we wasn't missed. "Yes. We've received good intel that she's assigned to kill someone in Madripoor. You will find out who, and stop her."

"And if I refuse?" Clint asked casually, even though the question was anything but.

"You push the rules Clint. You don't follow orders and you're a pain in the ass of not only SHEILD but the WSA." Coulson looked Clint steadily in the eyes. "But I think you're a damn fine agent, even Fury agrees. He wouldn't have recruited you if he didn't." Coulson stood up from the table. "I think it's about time you stop punishing yourself."

Clint stared at the empty seat even as the door swung closed. After a long while he pulled the file closer and began to read.

---

“You’ve gone soft,”

Clint's eyes were wide even before the words left her mouth. His hands flew to his chest, something he did often when offended. "I'm not soft!" He protested. "I am super freaking awesome." When Nat continued on to some of Clint's other ramblings, he gave himself a mental pat on the back. Her dour mood from earlier had been slightly eased. It would never go away, but Clint knew how to make her forget, if only for a while.

Clint's eyes lit up at Natasha's suggestion of shirt. "Or even, 'My friends went to Portugal and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.'"

The archer snickered at his own joke. The headset on was a gentle murmur in the back ground. "But you know what would really be awesome?" Clint didn't wait for Nat to guess, instead he just plowed right on with nary a breath. "When I was trailing ---"

Clint was on his feet with his hand pulling his gun. "Damn it!" Clint hissed as gun fire still echoed in his ears from the headset. Clint didn't often use a gun, but ever since they hit the stage in Europe he'd become widely known. After Manhattan he had been able to still fly under the radar in a lot of circles. But now? Everyone recognized his distinctive style. Which unfortunately meant he had been using normal weapons up to this point, guns and knives. He did bring his bow, but that was only for worst case scenario.

"Someone's shooting up Yuri's."

Clint shoved said gun back in it's holster, ripped off the head set and made a b-line for his shoes. He didn't check to see if Natasha was coming, he knew she was. So even after he shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his 'go bag' and the rental cars keys, he knew she was ready.

“Наталья.”

It is a rare moment of lucidity.

The training room is quiet. It is late, shadows stretching across stark lines and concrete. She knows that it will not last—she leaves in six hours for somewhere, and they will dose her before she leaves. She will be instinct and fangs and a Widow.

Right now, she is something else entirely. The facility is secured for the night, handlers returned to plush rooms and tools returned to their proper places. But while she isn’t quite a woman, she’s more than a tool, and she used their training to steal through rooms neutered in their emptiness.

She breathes deep, looking down into dark eyes, presses her forearm deeper into his windpipe. It does not hold him for long. A moment later he surges forward, and she catches a sharp blow to her ribs when she slips away. They tense, strafing each other in perfect silence. He watches her with something like pride, something like humor, and her own lips quirk in response.

“Иаков.”

---

Everything is supposed to be red. Her blood is thrumming with fightfightfight, and her body moves with another’s command. She knows this, knows the haze and the rush, knows that she will hunt and kill and kill and kill until she finds the right prey. Those distant, flickering thoughts should not be here yet. She is still in a humid summer, curled around a thing in a suit, still batting her lashes and playing at adoration. She doesn’t stop, can’t stop, fingers curling around silk and pulling its face closer to hers.

Its eyes are supposed to be red.

She breathes it in and it tumbles into her web of poisoned lips. She lets it slump back, rising to her feet, and tries to find her thoughts again, but they slip away, and she follows the smoke back to her mission.

---

She’d gotten Clint going. She’d undoubtedly regret this later, thick in a firefight with him chattering in her ear about T-shirt ideas and tangentially related stories. Natasha arched a brow as he dove right into another story, barely taking a moment to breathe.

And then he was armed and moving. Natasha moved on pure instinct, reaching beneath the desk to close long fingers about the butt of the glock squirreled away there. He spoke as he moved, and Natasha was already pulling Sam’s sweater over her head, moving for her gear.

Readying for war was muscle memory, as natural as breathing, slipping into black and red. Holsters strapped, weapons placed, spare ammunition already staged. Bites locked, armed, and she was snapping laptops shut, collapsing their work center into a massive, silver case.

She met Clint in the hall, following him through the silent hallways, every sense trained on the environment. They neared the door when she threw out an arm to stop Clint, slinking back into the shadows near the empty reception desk. Footsteps. Maybe a dozen. She’d hoped that a raid on Yuri hadn’t meant that they’d known about their monitoring. No such luck.

“Company,” she said curtly, and then paused as a smirk lit up her lips. “I’ll race you to the car. Winner gets to choose where we eat next.”

Clint walked lazily through the streets filled with criminals of all sorts. Honestly, he feels the most at ease here than he's felt in a long time. It'd be so easy just to turn a corner, slip the comm out of his ear and vanish. But he doesn't. Because that would mean going back to what he used to be. And that wasn't an option. He wanted to do good. Not be a criminal. If only SHIELD would realize it and stop using him as an assassin. Why did they think he rebelled?

Clint scuffed his sneaker against a crooked stone and hissed. A sharp pain shot into his toe.

"Watch your step." A passerby laughed.

Clint flipped whomever it was off before walking again. Shake it off. He mentally told himself. It's just a toe. And he had a meeting to make it on time to. Coulson had set it up a few days ago to get him an in, and the possible whereabouts of Black Widow.

---

Clint jerked to a stop as Nat's slim arm shoot out in front of him. The archer narrowed his eyes at the door, but didn't hesitate to follow Nat into the shadows. His outfit was dark, much like Natasha's. The only difference this was his old SHEILD special ops uniform. Stark would have a fit if he discovered Hawkeye was wearing an outdated uniform when he had designed one for stealth, that wasn't all flashy and purple.

“Company. I’ll race you to the car. Winner gets to choose where we eat next.”

Clint's mouth broke into a grin. Bets were so his thing. "You're on." Clint agreed. And without further ado the man stepped back out of the shadows and towards the doors. His hand was resting easily on his gun and his eyes were sharp. The men about to come through the doors were an unknown. They could be part of the Ten Rings, but since they were following Yuri because he was connected to the Rings, it was either the best bet, or the worst. Or they could be HYDRA. The little fuckers were everywhere. Poor Cap was still upset about it. Not that Clint blamed the guy.

As the door slowly opened Clint pulled his gun and in the smooth motion fired a shoot into the man opening the door. There was a sharp curse as the man hit the ground. Dead. Clint wasn't an amateur. Because of that he was still moving as the door flung itself open and a grenade flew through it.

In a very showy move Clint fired on the grenade before it got too far from the gunmen. The explosion was loud in the small space and the heat sharp, even as he dove for cover on the opposite side of the room from the receptionist desk. Sucks for you. Clint thought briefly. There was most likely another of the hit team down or dead. Having a grenade blown up in your face did quite a bit of damage.

Her target is selling secrets, she knows. KGB, Red Room, perhaps simply Ivan’s, she doesn’t know, only that he can no longer be allowed to live. She knows his face better than her own; dark eyes, heavy beard, white lines of scar tissue bisecting gnarled lips and hands marked with fading ink. He stands to slip a knife into the belly of the Kremlin with every sale. She will find his buyers and slit their throats before they can cause more damage. And then she will handle Kostya.

This is everything she’s made for.

She finds him in a resort that could double as a fortress, flanked by mountains in the guise of men, indulging in colourful drinks and beautiful women. She follows him for days, lifting information off his bulky laptop, tapping his phones, bugging his suits. She learns and learns and learns.

They are to have an auction, she discovers, in the resort’s glittering ballroom. They will sell her motherland’s secrets like chattel.

She will not let that happen.

---

“I’m thinking Thai,” Natasha said lightly, handing off the case to Clint, as if she was already assured of her victory. Her skin hummed in anticipation, streaks of red painting across her vision. She’d never stop loving the dance of battle. And here they were only fighting men; there were no gods, no monsters, no cities plummeting through the clouds. This was her playground.

Clint took the men at the front door. Natasha was halfway out a window when the first had fallen, swinging out to strafe (and, subsequently, position herself closer to the car) their attackers.

They were well armed, well-coordinated, but entirely too focused on assaulting Clint. His trick with the grenade had caught their attention, and Natasha sprinted, her hands manipulating a garrote from her bites. She sprang on one of their men from behind, winding the metal cable about his neck once, twice, thrice, elbows snapping out. He made a gurgle. One of his friends turned, shouted, but she’d shifted her victim’s body to catch the spray of bullets. She sank into the fight, firing electric stings and dancing around her prey, her lips split into a grin and her eyes shining like acid.

Someone managed to catch her neck with an arm, but she shifted her weight, spilling him off balance and swinging her thighs about his neck. A twist brought him crashing to the earth, and she unholstered a glock in a smooth motion. The bullet found home in his throat, gunpowder and blood arcing across her hands. She gave it no thought, already honing in on her next target.

Clint adjusted his light jacket as rain began to pour from the sky. Over the past week he had followed in Black Widow's wake. A trail of dead bodies appeared as her calling card. Whatever reservations he had about hunting down a woman were gone. This Black Widow was dangerous. Too dangerous. And he was up against her alone. With only Coulson for backup.

Whom, Clint had discovered, was a true fan boy. He could name the X-men, knew everything about Captain America (God, Clint was sick of hearing about the man. If he heard the words Steve Rogers or Captain America one more time he was going to ram his sharpest most stabby arrow right up Coulson's--)

Clint jerked as the door he was huddling next to opened. That was his cue. Apparently the men she was targeting were associated with his auction that was happening. As in, happening right now. Of course he wasn't invited. Hence, the sneaking in. And he was in disguise too.

Clint shed his waterproof jacket and exposed a suit. It wasn't the best quality. But apparently it matched the serving staff's uniform. Hooray for posing as staff. Did Clint ever mention how much he hated his life right about now? No, well he does. Very much so.

"Ballroom is to the east." Coulson's calm voice was soft in his ear.

Clint could hear him but Coulson couldn't hear Clint. Clint didn't think it was the best course of action because now that he was inside he was literally on his own. Come Hell or High Water, Clint Barton was a solo act. Hopefully Black Widow knew the two step.

Clint passed a waiter and snagged the tray right out of her hands and continued into the ballroom.

---

Clint reached out and grabbed the case as he scrambled to his feet. His ears were ringing from the grenade. A quick sweep of the room with his eyes revealed that Natasha was no where in sight. Clint could only trust that is she needed help, she'd let him know. He had learned long ago that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. It was getting her to allow other people to help had been the issue. But, no, her being gone wasn't the issue. Well... it was, only because that meant she was probably outside sitting in the car. Waiting.

Which meant Clint was going to loose. And have to eat Thai food.

That... wasn't that bad actually. There was this eggplant dish that was to die for. It was the loosing part. And Nat was such a troll. She's lord it over him for days. Of course Clint would do the same. But that wasn't the point! Damn it. It was the principle of the thing. And Clint hated to lose to Nat. Or to anyone.

With that though propelling him as he climbed to his feet he turned to see the twisted remnants of the seedy motel's doors. In the rubble lay a few men. Dead. Clint ignored them, they were of no concern. It was the few that were still on their feet that held his attention. With two quick shots he took down the two nearest. Just in time to see Widow appear from somewhere, jump on a guy and use him as a human shield.

Clint was still adjusting his aim as the last gunman fell, blood raining from his head. There was a split second when Clint reassessed the scene before he was off running for the car.

It will be a bloodbath. There are nearly two dozen guests intending to bid on the Kremlin’s secrets. Every man and woman that purchases a dossier, a photograph, a weapon, a corpse, will meet her wrath. She will string them up one by one, legs kicking, lungs screaming, and make an example of them. She will bleed them out, and when her target knows that their deaths are on his hands, she will sink her fangs into his fat, soft throat.

It is not her plan. It is someone else’s vision, a letter they have crafted. She is simply the messenger, writing words with every broken bone and spray of red.

If it were her plan, she thinks that she would simply track down the buyers and poison them in their plush beds. She likes her deaths clean, likes the comfort of shadows, likes it when they never see her coming.

But it is not her plan. It is not her letter. This is not her body. She can only watch as she rewires security systems, preparing doors to lock on her command, to trap her prey in her web. Their guards will turn and try to shoot, but they will stumble, falling victim to the venom she’s timed so meticulously, and they will crumble one by one. She wonders why she’s calculated doses that will not kill them, but she cannot find the answer.

She closes the access panel, slipping out of the security room, picking her way across arms and legs, barring the door behind her. They will not wake until long after her work is done. She scales walls, disappearing into vents, every bit the spider they have made her.

It is starting. They are gathered in the ballroom below as she slips out, balancing on the massive lights illuminating a stage. The room glitters in gold and crystal, with no lavish expense spared, her prey sitting at opulent tables.

Her target is on a stage, whispering to the man who will guide the bidding, all expertly tailored suit and traitorous, beady eyes. Kostya’s death will not be quick. It will not be painless.

They begin bidding. She thumbs the switch. All around the room, doors lock. The pen is made, and the slaughter will begin soon. She is hidden in shadows, coils of wire readied, every inch of her dark suit loaded with tools of slaughter.

She can only watch as she tracks the winners, memorizes their faces, as she coils her body and waits for the auction to conclude and her work to begin.

Natalia only ever gets to watch.

---

As much as Natasha hated to admit it, Clint was right. Goons were such a waste. Shouldn’t their enemies have learned by now that quality was so much more valuable than quantity? What she wouldn’t give for a real fight, to have to dig deep into all her skills and wits, for a victory that mattered.

The last body crumpled to the dirt road, eyes empty and blood pooling around them. Natasha rose to her feet, looking up to assess the situation.

Clint bolted. Natasha followed, close on his heels.

He’d reach the car first, she realised, and that was unacceptable. She changed plans, adjusted her course. With a burst of adrenaline, she pounced, tackling Clint, dragging him with her to the dirt.

Wire around throat, tighten, snap neck, watch the light leave his eyes— something whispered in the back of her skull, old instincts, but this was her body, her plan, and she simply shifted her weight to complete a pin.

Natasha’s grin was positively feline, eyes gleaming with the thrill of competition, even one as trivial as a pointless race.

“Are you even trying, Barton?” There was a laugh in Natasha’s voice, something almost light about her features, before she was moving to exploit her foul play and gain the precious distance the would assure her victory.

The building was made for the upper crust. Clint's eyes kept catching on those things of value just left strewn about as if they were worthless. Another habit from his Carnie criminal days. He passed more men and women dressed in tuxedos and carrying trays. He knows he's going in the right direction. Still, his only comfort was his bow collapsed and hidden in his pant leg. His arrows were in the other.

"The doors are all locked." Coulson's voice sounded strained. "She's locked everyone in."

Clint cussed. There's only one way Coulson would know that. It was coming through the building feeds. He dropped the tray he's holding and pulled out his bow. Someone screams but he ignored them. They weren't armed, nor were they aggressive. Rather they were backing away. Just as well, Hawkeye didn't have time for this.

"Hurry!" Coulson urged as Clint finished his preparation and ran down the corridor. A part of Clint seethed in anger. There's something else here going on that no one told him about. And it pissed him off. His mission could be compromised and he wouldn't even know it. Hell, Coulson could be leading him into a trap. But he had to trust the man. There was no other choice at this point. He made his bed.

Finally the doors to the ballroom were visible. Great double doors, gilded in gold. Clint picked an arrow out of his quiver and fired it nearly point blank at them. Upon impact the doors quivered and one fell neatly off it's hinges. The ruined doors exposed the iron inside of once gaudy cries of wealth.

With the doors a non issue, Clint slammed himself against the wall just outside the ballroom. He could hear screaming from inside. At this point he wasn't sure if it's because of him or something else. He pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it against the bow string. He took a deep steadying breath before poking his head around and looking into the ballroom. Only to pull it right back out as people started running by him.

That wasn't his fault. The scream that was. The Black Widow must be inside.

---

The catwalk was rickety as Clint tested it with his body weight. The small radio on his neck was a welcome presence. His strung bow and nocked arrow was even more welcome. Widows were never something Clint enjoyed tangling with. Especially not a O-Stupid-Dark-Hundred in the morning. In fact he wasn't sure if it was even morning yet.

This new rendition of Widow, most likely Natasha's replacement, had lead them on a merry case. The blonde was just like Nat from the Good Old Days. Back when she was murdering people and torturing them for information. Facing this new woman made Clint doubt his own sanity. And Fury's. Why had SHIELD ever thought Clint could take down Natasha? He was just a guy with a bow. A crappy guy at that. As his current girlfriend would attest to with the woman he cheated on her with.

Clint pressed more of his weight on the catwalk. It made a small groan and he hurriedly back pedaled. Shit.

Never underestimate a Widow. Ever. He learned that by working with Natasha. Some of the things she dd push him past all his limits. He had been so sure he'd die so many times. Yet, instead of passing, he some how managed to pull off stupid and insane and incredible. With Natasha at his side he had quickly moved off SHEILD's shit list and up the ranks to one of their best agents. Nat didn't follow. But she did gain Fury's respect. Still she had to battle against every one's expectations against traitors. Still, it was eerie to see this Widow act just like Nat.

Clint quickly gazed around the warehouse. The building was full of crates, shelving and strewn packing supplies. Undoubtedly there was a room somewhere filled with bodies. She had made her lair here. And all signs pointed towards this being an active building. Which meant the workers had to go somewhere.

Clint's heart pounded as he waited for any sign of movement. Sweat trickled down his neck, itching him, but he didn't dare move. Had the Black Widow #2 heard him? Was she even now aiming to kill him? He had to take a deep breath to dispel the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Nat needed him in position. And where he was, did not cut it. He couldn't see most of the warehouse.

He forced himself to step back on the catwalk. It made the soft noise again. Instead of pulling away he moved his entire body weight onto it. It held, but the slow whine continued as he moved.

Screw it.

Clint moved crouched down, slow but as rapidly as he dared. When he was in position he tapped his mic twice.

---

Holy Crap. He was going to make it. The car was directly in front of him. A small cocky smile broke out over his face. Oh yeah. Who's he man? Clint thought to himself as he reached for the car door. Only to find himself hit from the side. He immediately went limp as he hit the pavement. Little bits of Crappy Motel poked at him as he hit said ground. Those would leave marks.

Clint twisted as soon as he hit, trying to regain the upper hand. But Nat was already off him and moving. Her teasing words echoed in the space she had been.

“Are you even trying, Barton?”

So that was how it was going to be. Clint's mouth flicked back into his cocky smile. He had just the arrow to wipe her own smirk away. He reached for his quiver even as he gained his feet. When his hand meet empty air he groaned. That was right. No arrows. Which meant he couldn't use his net arrow. And that he lost.

"Aww man." Clint complained as Nat reached the car first. "That was dirty and uncalled for."

Clint picked Nat's case off the ground where it had bee left when he had fallen. He tossed it towards Nat. In most cases (No pun intended) off missions Clint would have made a huge production out of his loss. But he could be professional. Kind of. As he walked around the car he made a pretense of being hurt.

"Look what your foul play did!" He mock complained and even exaggerated his limp just a little more. "I'm wounded!" He cried theatrically as he sat down heavily in the passenger's seat.

One.

Legs kick uselessly, hands slicing themselves on the wire turned noose, red arcing across her vision.

Two.

Someone screams as the man on their right is whipped out of his seat, as men in suits stagger to their feet, swaying unsteadily. A gun cracks, a bullet screams past, but her body is already moving to the third buyer through the darkened room, working through another length of wire.

Three.

She has barely captured the fat man when the door explodes. People start running, her targets are running and she cannot let them go. Alarms scream in her head—if they don’t die, she fails, if she fails then they will drag her back into the red, into smoke, with needles and knives and she is better than failure.

Kostya is leaving the stage, panicked, and her body moves, leaping off swaying lights. She rolls through the impact, sprints through the panicked crowd, trying to find him—

He has a gun when she finds him, but she is faster, deadlier, and his hands are shaking. He fires, she strafes, someone else screams at the bullet in their back. Kostya’s eyes are bulging as she knocks him off balance, swings her body around and snaps the garrote about his throat.

He goes down, hard, thrashing desperately as she tightens the weapon. His curses are choked by the blood bubbling in his throat. Her body leans in, close to his ear, lips curving with someone else’s smirk,

“<You should have known better than to cross us,>” means nothing to Natalia, but Kostya thrashes violently, and the message is delivered. Something in her head clicks into place, although she does not comprehend it, and she knows he is dead. Her job is done.

Completion allows her to shift her focus to survival. She releases the corpse and rises, blank eyes scanning the room. There is a bottleneck at the destroyed door, terrified guests trampling each other to fit through the wreckage. She slips her switch from a pouch, already running the opposite direction to a small door off the side of the stage. It flips and there is a delightful click as the lock is disabled. The door opens with a slam of her shoulder and she runs.

---

“You’re telling me you really don’t know who this is?” For a man with only one eye, Fury managed to deliver the single most skeptical expression Natasha had ever seen.

A blonde woman stared up at her from a photograph, curls tumbling down her back as she snapped a neck, lips curved into a wicked smile. She’d left the security footage for them to find and disappeared.

“ I am,” Natasha said blandly, arms folded as she looked up to the Director. “ Perhaps she is new.”

“New,” Fury huffed, leaning back against his desk, looking ten thousand percent Over This Shit. Natasha cocked her head to one side. “You think they kept this shit up after the collapse?”

“ You know they did,” Natasha pointed out, green eyes searching Fury. He was testing her, she knew, trying to catch her in a lie. “ If I knew her before, I don’t remember it.”

Fury said nothing for a long moment, before handing her the file and nodding towards the door.

“Take Barton with you.”


--

They tracked the Widow throughout the US, following bodies without identities, dismembered in a way that made her brain tickle with unexplained familiarity. They found a man with his eyes gouged out, his tongue severed, his ears meticulously carved from his head, all placed neatly on his chest. Snow, breath clouding the air, December—it’s Christmas Eve—the warehouse is freezing and he is screaming as she delicately severs the optic nerve, a man’s voice laughing in her skull.

“ St. Petersburg,” She’d murmured. Barton had looked at her curiously. She’d collected the preserved eyes and sent them to S.H.I.E.L.D.

S.H.I.E.L.D. named him Николай. That night, Natasha dreamed in red. She woke to her hands strangling the air, pulse screaming through her veins, laughter that wasn’t hers bubbling out of her throat.

At least she hadn’t attacked Barton when he’d pulled her back to reality. Progress! He’d informed her, rather cheerily for someone whose neck she had nearly snapped only a month ago.


--

It was dark, another hour yet before the sun was due to rise, but it was already uncomfortably humid. The material’s scientists who had made her suit had made it durable, breathable, and surprisingly good at repelling knives, but there was only so much they could do. The harbor warehouse was practically sweating. Red curls stuck to the back of her neck and the air sat heavy in her lungs.

She was a shadow, skulking through the warehouse in perfect silence, tracking every corner with sharp eyes. It was a shipping warehouse, which meant numerous containers, and numerous places to hide. Natasha cleared rooms methodically.

Two taps on the comm meant she had another pair of eyes. She didn’t relax—she knew better than to let back up make her sloppy—but there was something almost like reassurance in the knowledge. Barton was a special brand of crazy, but he’d never failed to have her back.

No workers yet. No signs of life, even, in a building that had been fully staffed only a day ago. Her brows knitted together as she paused, surveying her surroundings. Something was wrong. She wasn’t sure how she knew it—but that was nothing new. Natasha simply accepted that there was knowledge locked inside of her that she’d never know how she learned it. At least it was useful.

There was a whisper in the air. Natasha shifted on pure instinct, guns drawn, aimed. Suits, men in suits, faces she knew without knowing, features that she was forgetting, even as she looked at them—

Red Room.

“ Barton. Run.”

---

Leaning against the front of the car, Natasha was sure to flash Clint her most smug smirk. He’d moved for an arrow on instinct and found only empty air, and she’d won their pointless wager. She took entirely too much delight in her victory, even chuckling as Clint complained.

“ You can’t honestly say you expected me to play fair,” She drawled, eyes glittering with mirth. He tossed her the case, her hands automatically snapping up to capture it.

Clint’s antics made Natasha scoff, although the sound was playful, free of genuine scorn. The case found its home in the back seat, and Natasha withdrew keys from a belt pouch, unlocking the bland sedan, They had borrowed it from an old S.H.I.E.L.D. cache, one that had been mercifully left alone after the intelligence dump before Sokovia. It looked unassuming, but S.H.I.E.L.D. engineers had always been good at hiding power in plain sight.

“ That’s quite the injury. You might not make it,” Natasha quipped, glancing over a shoulder as they whipped out of the space, before turning on a dime and screaming down the memorized route. “I’ll be sure to invent something suitably heroic at your funeral.”

Clint watched people run past him. But none of them were his target. He was had seen a photo of the woman and she was not in the crowd. Which meant she was getting away. He didn't need Coulson hissing it in his ear. Since his handler couldn't hear him anyways, Clint ignored in in favor of finding another entrance to the ballroom.

Clint turned another corner to find the next door to the ballroom wide open. He cursed under his breath as he slowed to a stop. Then he bends down. There's a small drop of blood on the floor and a few smears on the door. Clint was sure if he looked inside the ballroom there'd be more.

"Messy. Messy." Clint tisked. He straightened back up and took a moment to look around. Sadly it wasn't like the movies. There was no trail of blood anywhere. Clint knew it wouldn't be that easy. He just had to choose the right direction to find her. Without considering the seconds he already wasted he picked the way he knew lead to outside the fastest. He just hoped Coulson's eyes in the sky would be enough to get another bead on her before she escaped.

"Widow sighted on the east corner." Coulson's voice came over the comms as Clint finally made it outside. The archer used the door he just opened to abruptly change his direction. His breath was coming in long controlled breaths. He was nowhere near winded. But if the chase went on all night with him running...

Clint really wanted this night to be over already. Still, he raised his bow as he spotted a woman running. He drew back the string and released. The arrow sailed true.

---

Clint was testing the tension in his bow when Nat's voice came over the comms. So much for radio silence. He didn't spare a thought for her words. Nat was always self sacrificing. Something to do about making up for the things she had done in the past. She drove herself too hard. And somewhere deep inside she still expected to be abandoned. It's far easier to justify when she initiated it. But Clint would never leave his partner in the lurch.

He drew his bow fully and shifted position until he could see Nat. She was facing down men in suits.

Fuck. Where did they come from? Clint thought in horror. He released his arrow right into the group of them. A grey smoke cloud billowed out, hopefully giving Nat the edge she needed until he could pick off a few.

He already had another arrow nocked against the bow string before the first arrow even hit the ground. He pulled back the string and aimed. He exhaled and his fingers loosed their grip. That was when he felt something his him between his shoulder blades. Hard.

Clint pitched forward. His arrow going wild. He kept a hold of his bow and swung it around. It didn't hit anything. Clint allowed the force of the swing to turn him around and found the catwalk empty. His sharp eyes didn't see any movement either.

As the archer slowed to a stop there was another impact on his back. This time it took him to the floor of the catwalk. The weight felt familiar. Nearly like Natasha's when they spared and she got him from behind.

"Should have run when you had the chance." A woman's voice hissed him his ear.

"Take your own advice." Clint hissed back, no longer worried about giving away his position. They were making enough noise to raise the dead. He allowed his words to be used as a distraction. Nat had taught him more than this woman realized. He was able to control his fall and use it to his advantage.

The woman pressed something to his neck, but Clint was already rolling them over. There was a small line of fire as they rolled, but it wasn't major. Just a scratch. It would be bad if it was poisoned though. His free hand reached over to his quiver even as he felt the woman try to regain her element of surprise.

---

Clint clutched at the Oh Shit bar as he was unceremoniously forced to the side. The screeching of tires made the archer wince. There was no sense in maintaining stealth. Not after their outside gun battle and the grenade.

"Couldn't have made that turn any tighter could you?" Clint asked when he finally felt safe enough to release his death grip. "I'm not sure, but I feel like Astronauts had less Gs on them on reentry.

"Anyways." Clint plowed on. "You better make me a nice funeral. Make Stark foot the bill. It's his fault I'm here anyways."

Clint pulled out a small Stark tablet and poked at it. He plugged in a set of head phones and put the other end to his ear. He hissed in frustration and pulled out the buds.

"Static. We're not receiving anymore." They'd be driving up to Yuri's blind. They wouldn't even know if his squad of Goons had lived. This was a complete and total mess. And he was going to harass Stark about it endlessly. And Nat too. Just because he could. Laura wouldn't let him complain to her after all.

"You know." Clint began with a mischievous tone to his voice. "This reminds me a little of Stalingrad." He smirked at her. "You me and that bottle of Vodka. Of course," He paused. "I cant really remember what happened next. But I'm sure I was awesome."

The two assassins were nearing Yuri's place thanks for Nat's breakneck speed. All too soon they'll learn Yuri's fate. And what they'd have to do next. Stark was lucky they liked him. Spending all this effort. Clint commented on that aloud to Natasha also. Babbling along, not really caring if she would answer anything. It was hard to tell with Nat when she was in her Black Widow mode if she'd try to clock him for talking to much, or join in. Or even somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.

Natalia is about seventy percent sure she’s never been shot by an arrow before, which is about as certain as she can ever be. It’s not unlike a bullet wound—perhaps more painful, perhaps not. It’s difficult to tell. Her veins are surging with adrenaline and dopamine, her vision red, her body moving on pure instinct. Her reflexes are what let her move and catch the arrow with a forearm. The bloodied tip points straight at her throat.

The sight of her own fragile mortality should probably disturb her.

She spares only an instant to find her would-be killer. Male, dressed like wait-staff, with a bow that looks custom-made. Nothing useful springs to mind. Sometimes she sees people and somehow knows their name, their skills, their histories and crimes—not this time.

She runs. Her blood screams as she flits through halls she memorized weeks ago. She snaps the shaft of the arrow, leaving it to plug the wound. She just needs to reach the third floor, where she has an open window and a motorbike parked below it. With leathers and a helmet, she can disappear into the crowded streets and fall back to her extraction point.

Her handler will not be pleased.

The thought makes her stumble, dread pooling in her stomach, airway closing up.

She can’t leave. She hasn’t finished the job properly. If she returns now, she will be taken back to that stainless steel room and she knows without knowing why that she does not want to go back there. Every instinct screams at the idea. She’d panic, if she could.

She’s losing time. Her assassin can’t be far behind, and he has reach. Natalia sprints harder, rounding a corner. Motorbike first—finish the job later.

---

Smoke, pitch black, every instinct screaming run, thoughts blurring at the edges, familiar fog--No.

Natasha dropped low, reflexes taking over. Old reflexes, ones they had given her in cold grey halls and red, red rooms. Sweep the leg, elbow to the back of a head, sprint, legs swinging up around a neck, throwing her weight and snapping down to cold concrete, blood arcing across S.H.I.E.L.D. blue.

Blue.

Her thoughts sharpened. The world came into agonizing focus. Smoke was clearing, and they had guns, but they had trained her too well. Someone was speaking old words, familiar and tugging at old instructions, but Natasha was new and young and this is my body burned in her every vein.

The tasers around her wrists were very effective, taking two seperate men down in a breath. She really needed to thank the (terrified) S.H.I.E.L.D. tech that had built them for her.

Four remaining, trying to find cover and riddle her with bullet holes. Green eyes darted through the warehouse, tracing a path along boxes and machinery, to the catwalk above and--Barton. Barton and white blonde hair strafing, moving to snake legs about his throat and snap him down (Наталья, shift your weight just so, dark eyes wounded, drowning and empty and screaming through a void, hand so cold against her skin and she owns her body in his lessons).

Natasha moved, darting past the screaming of bullets, launching onto a massive piece of equipment and climbing. They made her a spider. Natasha darted through steel and empty air, moving upwards, focused.

This is her body, and she won't let an empty puppet kill the only good thing in her life.