AN: As always when I find things taking turns in my stories, I debate whether to continue in the same story, or to break off with something else. I decided for this one to break off. First Blush is really the story of them becoming partners. This is moving into a different phase. If I can keep it going, it will be a trilogy I think, but I'm not putting my eggs all in that basket.

Same rules apply for this story as the last: I will leave it marked as complete, and will have it so that any chapter ending could be a semi-decent end to the story, so if something happens or I lose my muse, it's not an unfinished work. Reviews are very much appreciated.

I of course do not own anything to do with this story besides the order in which the words were put on paper.

Natasha Romanoff was waltzing around a grand ballroom at a fundraiser in Madrid. While she had the look of every other guest: smiling, slightly drunk, she was far different. For one, she doubted that even the bodyguards were packing as much weaponry as she had managed to hide on her person. It was something she loved about balls: the gowns were incredibly effective camouflage. Secondly, she was there on a mission to try and get information from one of the other guests.

Her target had a digital assistant, and in one of the folds of her dress, she had a device to steal its information wirelessly. It needed to be close to the device, very close. That's where she came in. Her partner Clint Barton was providing cover and working a secondary mission, if possible. He was watching to see who a particular man was talking to; the government was concerned about where his money was going and they were investigating every angle. Normally, she would still have been point on that, but her primary mission was deemed too important to not split her focus. Hawkeye could watch the whole room while she worked the man to get close enough to steal the information on his device. Overall, a pretty hum-drum mission.

Natasha had been working her way through the room to her mark, subtly moving closer so she could join his circle unobtrusively, which could be harder than it sounded when the target had paranoid tendencies and well-trained security. She managed to get into his circle of friends by seducing one of the other young men who had been seen earlier with her mark. All was going smoothly, on time and as expected.

"Do you get tired of being the honeypot?" The archer spoke softly in her ear as she executed the careful social dance of the party. She quirked her eyebrows just slightly to communicate a non-committal feeling.

"I was born to be here." She laughed as she spoke to someone and they clinked their glasses together in a toast. While her comments fit the situation, they both knew it was elaboration on her answer.

Hawkeye's voice was regretful. "No, you weren't. Not like this. I'm sorry." It was hard for him sometimes on missions, watching her put her body out as bait for whatever lowlife they were chasing down. Females in the spy business unfortunately got placed in that position more often than he was comfortable with, especially with Natasha. Seeing her act, he could almost imagine a world where she would have been born into this sort of life, and not had to be used by everyone, himself included.

Natasha knew he carried guilt for bringing her into SHIELD and that sometimes he thought it wasn't much different than her previous life. She had more control over her jobs though, and the way she used her body was just a facile tool, something she had grown up thinking was normal. So, she shook her head just slightly, with the pretense of moving hair out of her eyes. He was protective of her, not physically so much since he knew just how well she could fight, but emotionally and psychologically. With all his scars, she supposed he maybe thought if he could heal someone else's, it would get better.

As she danced, she feigned a misstep and a twist in her ankle, the gentleman next to her immediately concerned. "I'm fine. Please don't fuss," she said warmly to the man in front of her and on the other side of her comm. With his concern, he squired her to the arrangement of seating that was in the inner circle for her target.

Hawkeye didn't respond to her again, and she sighed. That man had an overdeveloped sense of guilt and self-loathing at times. He was incredibly cocky at times, but the wounds that were under the bravado had never fully healed. Natasha made the effort to push aside her current thought process so she could focus on the job at hand.

She was sitting next to her mark, sipping champagne and dutifully laughing at the sexist jokes the man told. She figured with the next song, she would angle for a dance, and that would give her the proximity and time she needed to copy his data. It was imperative though that he have no clue that she had done anything, because if he knew his security was breached, the data would be useless. So she was patient and played a much slower game than usual.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins though, just as the she was being invited to dance. She saw someone from the corner of her eye and she had to assume she had been spotted too. It was a Russian agent, one who knew her well enough that he might recognize her, despite the dark brown hair she currently wore.

"Oh dear, I have a run in my stocking." She heard a muttered expletive in her ear as Hawkeye acknowledged her phrase. She hated saying it: the scrub command that she and Hawkeye used on missions like this. It was innocuous enough to not sound out of place, and would communicate clearly to her partner that things had gone south. The man she saw was affiliated with the Red Room and she could not chance a confrontation in this room, which ruin the mission and take away any hope she had for completing it in the future. Plus, she had no way of knowing how much support he had. She and Hawkeye had only been planning on information gathering and didn't have enough tactical support if it went south. "Would you excuse me, I need to run to the powder room to fix it."

They tried to keep off the comms as much as possible from this point on, to lessen the chances of the other getting captured. Theoretically, it also meant that they should scramble individually, but they had tended to ignore that particular dictate of protocol. You didn't leave your partner out there, exposed, if you could at all help it. Each of them would make the other swear to try and uphold the 'every agent for themselves' policy, but when it came down to it, neither would leave the other.

She stood up gracefully, and walked quickly but casually toward the restrooms, which were thankfully in the same area as the exit. She found ways to try and keep her face away from the enemy agent, while still trying to track his movements.

As she slipped out the door, she felt a bullet graze her upper arm silently. No distant crack from the firing weapon was forthcoming, making it difficult to narrow down exactly where the sniper was. She ducked behind a Grecian column, trying to move away from the civilians. No other shots came.

The fact that there was a sniper at all worried her; typically Hawkeye would have taken care of such things, or at least warned her. "Hawkeye, I have a hostile out here." Her voice was soft and her lips barely moved. Silence greeted her. Dread rose in her mind. She kicked off her heels and starting moving towards his position, watching for other snipers or hostile forces.

When she arrived in the building, she ripped off the excess tulle from the dress to make it easier to move, and began clearing the rooms on her way to his position.

It seemed to be forever until she reached the roof. Her eyes scanned for anything out of place. She saw a pair of boots, face down, behind one of the cooling towers and the sense of dread rose to critical levels. She didn't run headlong to his position; she couldn't help if she went down too.

She carefully made her way towards the cooling tower, on guard for any other combatants. When she got close enough to see the owner of the boots more closely, a wave of relief hit: they weren't attached to an archer. The man had been shot neatly between the eyes, telling her that most likely her partner had done the deed. She ventured a soft call to him.

Still silence. Now she quickened her pace, her breath getting painfully short suddenly. She found him where he had made his nest, and the scene terrified her. He wasn't conscious, and there was an alarming amount of blood coming from his right leg and pooled all around him. He clearly had been trying to get a tourniquet around his thigh, but passed out before he could get it tight. At least she hoped it was just not tight enough and that was why the blood was now just slowly dribbling out.

She dove down to his side, the tourniquet now too slippery to handle. She ripped open the pants leg, grabbed the throwing knife that had made the wound and enlarged the cut in his leg enough to get her fingers in while she voice dialed HQ.

"Agent down, I need emergency air evac at my coordinates. We're on a roof and there is enough room to land." She tried to keep her voice calm and professional as her fingers dug into the flesh of her partner, seeking the artery that was cut and killing him. "Bring blood. Lots of it." She didn't listen to the replies, having found what she was looking for. Her fingers manually pinched the artery closed at the top, then she went in with the other hand to get the other half.

Clint actually stirred with the painful digging of her fingers. He opened his eyes to half mast, the faintest twitch of his lips being the most he could manage for a smile.

"Don't smile at me, asshole. You were supposed to scrub, not hang around getting stabbed." She kept her fingers closely pinched on his arteries, praying to a god she didn't believe in that the chopper was nearby. "I'm going to kill you if you die. You can NOT die and leave me."

There was a faint rumble in his chest as he tried to speak but couldn't manage it. His eyes tried to communicate everything he wanted to say to her, though he knew that even if he could speak, he wouldn't be able to say enough. He tried to tell her that he was sorry. That she would make it through, even if he didn't. That if these were going to be his last moments, he was glad that she was there.

She refused to acknowledge the possibility of his death, even though the pulse she felt against her fingers was disturbingly weak. She continued to swear at him and threaten him if he dared leave her. Her last threat, the truest and most frightening to Clint coming toward the end: "I won't go on without you." It was a desperate whisper with tears in her eyes.

Finally, she heard the chopper approaching. His pulse was still there, even though he was barely breathing and she had seen polar bears with more color. When it landed and the medic ran over, trying to push her out of the way so he could evaluate the fallen agent, she hissed angrily. "I'm holding his femoral artery closed. Get a line and board to get him loaded."

The medic paled himself and ran off to grab supplies and another person. They got him loaded and blood started with them pushing it in, as she stayed by his side, no longer with feeling in her fingers, just frozen in place, they were clamped so tight. They only had brought four units of blood, and she angrily directed them to tap her own vein to directly transfuse when they ran out. They tried to say no, but with the threats she brought against them, they were more afraid of what she would do to them if the patient died.

It couldn't infuse as fast from her, but it kept blood flowing until they got to the hospital. When Barton was unloaded and the doctors were there to take him back to surgery to repair his artery, it was touch and go whether she would be willing to let go to allow them to clamp it. Finally, they convinced Natasha that they could take it from there and that he was out of immediate danger.

She let go and backed away as they rushed him into the OR. She was covered in his blood, her fingers stiff from holding in one position so tightly for so long. It wasn't as long as it seemed before someone came out to tell her that they were able to make the repair, he was going to be ok. They offered her a set of scrubs to change into, out of the ruined remains of the ball gown that had started the night with her.

Breathing came easier when they said he would make it. She took the clothes but delayed changing until she was able to slip back to recovery and see for herself that he was stable. Once she saw him and was satisfied that he was still out of it, but seemed to be out of immediate danger, she changed, also taking a quick shower to get the worst of the blood off her. She didn't dare tarry for long though, wanting to be near him when he woke.

She sat down next to his bed, lacing her fingers in his, awaiting his awakening. The doctor came by to give her an update, saying that her impromptu cut-down would possibly take longer to heal than the blood loss, but that it was the right thing to do. She nodded absently. Of course she had been trained for situations like this. Just not with the person bleeding to death being someone so important to her.

When Clint Barton awoke from his anesthesia there was, as always for him, a moment of panic as he tried to figure out what happened. Natasha was sleeping in a chair next to his bed, with her head leaning forward to rest on the bed, her hand intertwined with his. With his movement, she woke too, quickly grabbing his other hand and leaning over his body to prevent him from pulling out his breathing tube or any of the other hardware attached to him until she was sure he was ok. He didn't get nearly as panicked as she did in medical situations, but he still was prone to irrational behavior.

With her hands and body restraining him, she whispered gently, "You're in Madrid, with Natasha, safe. You're injured but ok." Her whispers to him were reminiscent of his reassurances to her those first weeks in Poland, as she dealt with her nightmares. She felt his body relax under hers and sat up more to release him, since he was seeming in control.

He looked down quickly, anxiously, trying to signal her to relieve him of the breathing tube. "¿Hay alguien que pueda sacar el tubo por favor?" She called over to the nurse politely, trying to not be too obnoxious to the military hospital staff, but if Hawkeye wanted the tube out, it was going to come out, one way or another.

"Vale no, acaba de salir de cirugía," the nurse replied, astounded that she would even ask to get the tube out; he had just finished having surgery.

Natasha looked down at Clint, who was clearly still drowsy but demanding to get the tube out with his eyes. She gave him a little smile and whispered, "One, two, three!" Clint obliged her cue with a good cough as she pulled his tube herself.

The alarms sounded on the ventilator, and Natasha quickly silenced them, though not before the horrified nurse saw what she did. The nurse hit the code button and called for security as the staff tried to approach Clint's bedside. Natasha took a defensive stance, and just as she was afraid she would have to come to blows with security, Phil Coulson ran in, yelling for the nurses and security to stand down. Dealing with their quirks was one thing, the paperwork to explain why Natasha had killed a large portion of the staff was another.

"I tried asking nicely for them to take out his breathing tube." Her tone was self-righteous to Phil.

"I heard her, she did," Clint croaked helpfully. "If she hadn't done it, I would have."

Phil sighed, explaining in Spanish that his idiotic agents had PTSD and he apologized for their behavior. He turned to the two of them, looking at Natasha who was wearing scrubs with hospital slippers, still with her partner's blood in her hair and just barely not out of her mind with worry for her partner, and Clint who was still pale even after the massive transfusions he had received and clearly trying to not panic himself at being in a hospital bed and drugged. Any anger he may have felt drained away. "Are you both ok?"

Clint nodded his head, while Natasha hesitated. They exchanged terse glances and then both nodded to their handler. The fact that Natasha was willing to hint something was wrong and Clint was trying to hide it spoke volumes to Phil. "We'll get you out of here and on the way back in ten minutes."

The flight back to the United States was uneventful and despite something that came very close to whining from Barton, he was readmitted initially to SHIELD medical. At least the staff there were accustomed to treating patients that had experienced torture and had major issues with being in a vulnerable position.

After his preliminary exam, his doctor was actually willing to allow him to stay in his own quarters on base, provided he kept the IV in. A nurse would come by every 6 hours to change fluids and give him antibiotics, allowing him to stay in a more familiar setting. He quickly agreed, though Natasha amended that they would be at her quarters so she could watch him.

Once they got him settled into her (their) bed, Natasha's frayed nerves finally started calming. He was back where he should be and if she ignored the IV, it was almost like everything was normal…except they both knew it wasn't.

Natasha laid on her side, slightly curled, watching him breathe easily. In and out, just like it should, no agonizing pauses, no struggles. It made her feel calm, watching that.

"You know it's creepy when you watch me sleep." Clint gave no other clue he was awake, besides talking.

"You do it all the time, creeper." Natasha smiled fondly. After a beat she continued speaking, though much more quietly, "You scared the shit out of me, Hawkeye."

Clint opened his eyes to meet hers. "I scared myself pretty badly too. Who would have thought, of all things, that a lucky knife throw would be the thing that almost got me." Despite the small attempt at humor, his eyes communicated to her how seriously he took this incident.

Natasha nodded, relieved that he acknowledged how close he came to dying. No one in their line of work could function if they feared death too much, but a dose of fear on occasion was important to keep you grounded. "What should we do while we're out?" The seriousness noted, she could now move on, and also let him know that he wasn't going to be sidelined by himself.

Clint exhaled, a pained expression on his face as realization dawned. "Shit. I was supposed to go home after our mission." He had forgotten about that until now. He supposed it was telling that on the edge of death, it wasn't his wife that he wanted with him.

"It's alright," she said quietly. She understood the position that he was in, at least on an intellectual level.

He took her hand and squeezed it in apology. He wanted to stay here with her too. They sat in silence as he dozed, until Natasha's phone vibrated.

"Coulson." Natasha frowned as she looked at the caller ID before answering, bringing Clint out of his drowsy state. "I'm on medical, Coulson." Technically of course, she wasn't. But she had no intention of going out while Clint was sidelined. If she wasn't around, he might talk his way back into active duty before he should.

The frown deepened into concern as she swore colorfully in Russian. "Does he have leads?" A pause as she listened to the response on the other end of the line. "Yeah, I have places. How long?" Another pause before she finished with "Fine" and hung up the phone.

"What's going on?" Her partner demanded as Natasha stood up and grabbed her "go bag" and some other minor things she would want.

"The reason I had to scrub the mission was because I saw someone from the Red Room. Apparently he saw me too, and so some people are looking for me."

"I'm going with you. You can't go after them alone." He started getting up and moved to remove his IV. Natasha quickly though returned to his side and stayed his hands.

"For one, no matter what, you have to recover. Secondly, I'm not going after him, yet." She sat back down.

The archer huffed in disbelief. "Liar."

She gave him a warning look. "I'm not lying. I…" Her brow furrowed as she thought. "I know what they're like. And what they're capable of. We were lucky in Madrid, and you can't go up against them without research, plans and backup." She gently touched the back of her hand to his cheek with a smile. "And I wouldn't dream of going in without you."

"I'm going to lay low for a while, figure out how to get rid of the problem and do it well, with as little risk as possible. I will not be put into their custody again, for any reason." Now Clint could see the fear she still carried about the people who raised her. No matter how much she would deny or hide it, they scared her.

He still looked dubious. "And being on base isn't low enough?" Sometimes fear led to poor decision-making.

Her hand flexed into a fist. "Fury thinks there might be an information breech. He and Coulson are advising me to go to one of my safe-houses that SHIELD knows nothing about." The idea that either someone had hacked into their computer system, or worse that an agent was able to be bought to betray her was troubling. It was another issue she would have to see to personally, no matter what Fury or Coulson said. But she wouldn't start murdering SHIELD agents until she was sure she had the mole, if there was one.

Clint's face darkened at the thought of a traitor in their midst. "I can still go with you. You need another set of eyes to watch your back. And I can also help with the research."

She shook her head. "No, go home to your family, if you think you can get there safely. You should probably lie low too," Natasha admitted unhappily. "If they know I have a partner, that's who they'll go after if they can't find me."

"We need to stay together. I'm not in a great position right now to be fighting off Russian assassins, and I can help you." His voice was firm, meeting her eyes to communicate the truth in his words.

"Damn it, Hawkeye. I'm trying to keep you out of harm's way. You know you will be safe there, and you can heal until I've figured this out." Frustration and anger with the situation made her whole body tense.

He set his chin stubbornly, "I don't care about being safe, I care about you."

It pained her to take the next step, knowing it was a low blow but needing to keep him safe at all costs. "Are you going to tell your wife that?" She kept her face a mask, but hated herself for playing that card with him, and for the pain and shame he showed on his face.

"Fine. I'll stay here until I'm able to get there." He turned his face away from her.

"You need to go now." She tried to be more gentle in her words, but she couldn't leave while he was wounded and unprotected and she needed him to understand that.

Clint turned back to her, anger on his face. He hated this argument, and he hated that he was a liability to her, that he was a liability to himself. "Well, I can't leave now. I'd rather take my chances with being on base than trying to manage with a fucked up leg with an arterial graft that could rupture and kill me if I try to use it too much before it's healed."

Natasha's shoulders sunk unhappily. "I'm sorry." She knew that being hurt was killing him psychologically, and that he was right to be worried about his ability to get home safely and securely with what he was dealing with. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I can't leave you alone to deal with these people, not while you're injured. I would be beyond forgiveness if something happened to you."

"Then if you want to insist on me leaving, you can take me there." Their eyes met and he saw the shock in hers: he was willing to tell her where he hid his family.

Stupefied at the amount of trust that he was willing to give her, she nodded mutely, and began gathering supplies for the trip.