Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Marvel… No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—I was just gonna write a little something to cheer up my friend Cindy after a long day… and then it turned into this! This monstrosity! And then I decided to share it with y'all, too. Aren't you lucky? :) Thanks, Cindy Ryan, for the beta. :)

Adjustments—Getting used to life with red tape isn't easy for Natasha. Sequel to Opportunities.


The gym was normally vacant after nine o'clock at night. Most agents were long since home, resting or trying to. It was Natasha Romanoff's favorite time to be there. Taking out the day's frustration on the heavy bags in the corner seemed far more productive than any other method of stress relief.

It had been three months since Budapest. The first four weeks, she'd gone through extensive testing of her skills and abilities, both mentally and physically. They'd gone so far as to test her loyalty. Considering hers had always been available to the highest bidder, she felt that hoop to jump through was set unfairly high.

She was just supposed to fall on her knees and thank her lucky stars that a bureaucracy lingered over her head?

As she pummeled the heavy bag, she pictured hitting Clint Barton, the one who had talked her into joining in the first place. While it had seemed like a good idea at the time, in reality, she hated every single second of her captivity.

After the tests, she'd endured eight weeks, and counting, of being in a bizarre holding pattern with SHIELD Director Nick Fury. She met with him daily and, each time, the meeting went exactly the same as the one before.

She could have them without him at this point, as he gave the same tonal inflection every time he said: "We're still waiting on your test results to be thoroughly processed."

The very nebulous "we" had never been explained to her liking. At least, when she had been in control of her own destiny, she knew who was footing the bills and sending her after targets.

While she continued to wait, she wasn't allowed off SHIELD property. This so-called opportunity had turned into a prison sentence. Sure, Fury attempted to dress it up, telling her she could come and go about the compound as she pleased, but the quiet whir of the security cameras following her every move became deafening. The walls, while seemingly huge upon her first glance at them all those weeks ago, seemed stifling.

As she landed punch after punch, kick after kick to the bag, she wondered if taking an arrow to the heart would've been so bad. Bleeding out on a Budapest sidewalk sounded better and better each day. The more time that passed, the more she realized she was a caged animal, kept and tortured at the pleasure of the all-mysterious "we."


He was ready to go home, have a beer, and put a bag of frozen peas on his shoulder. Mombasa had been messier than anyone had anticipated, and Clint Barton not only had accomplished the goal assigned to him, he then had to stay long past his initial extraction and clean up the insanity left in the wake of one dead criminal—one who had turned out to be more of a kingpin than a capo.

Just as he secured his bow and quiver in their respective cases, Phil Coulson spoke: "Good, you're still here."

Clint glanced up, through a yellowing black eye. "Not for long. Headed home."

Coulson smiled. "Unfortunately, you're needed at the gymnasium."

"Trust me, I've had enough sparring practice the past week. Street guys are a little more…" He searched for the right word before settling on: "entertaining than any greenhorn Fury's torturing this late at night."

"It's Romanoff."

Clint stopped packing his gear and stood up straighter. "What about her?"

"You know now as much as I do. Director Fury would like you to report to the gym. Romanoff is there."

Clint haphazardly placed his backup sidearm in the top of his duffel, zipping it closed quickly before walking toward the massive gym complex.

There was an indoor pool, a weight room, and tennis courts, all empty. A few agents were in the middle of what he knew was a pickup game of basketball—he'd participated in a few of those himself after rough nights when he wasn't ready to go home and be still. Natasha wasn't there, however.

He was about to call it a night when he stuck his head into the last room in the complex, filled with mats and stationary targets. The rhythmic thud and rattling of chains greeted his ears, leading him to the corner, where fiery red hair moved with each hit.

From his distance, he could tell she was beyond frustrated. Considering he'd already been a punching bag for days, he didn't want to be hers, too. He glanced at the nearest security camera and noted that the red indicator light blinked twice before going off. He smiled to himself and made a mental note to thank Coulson later, assuming that it was the unassuming senior agent who had provided them some privacy.

Mostly he was thankful because, even if the worst happened, he wouldn't see a file on the shared server the next morning titled: "Black Widow beats Hawkeye."

"What do you want, Robin Hood?" she asked, never once looking back at him.

He was impressed—of course, he had been since the moment he first saw her. "Came to see how you're adjusting."

The movement combo she performed on the weight bag was impressive and would, definitely, hurt a living person. "Not well."

He frowned as he cautiously approached her. "What's wrong?"

"I did not come here to be a prisoner. You said I could work, do things, use my skills—"

"Yeah…"

"You lied."

He stopped. "What are you talking about?"

She left the heavy bag and advanced on him, slowly and methodically, with venom in her eyes. "I did not agree to give myself up so that I could be locked up, unable to set foot off this compound."

He took a cautious step back. "You aren't working? Haven't been given an assignment?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Have I not been clear?"

"It's just that Fury should understand what an asset you'll be to this operation."

"Perhaps you have too much faith in people—that's not a good trait for an assassin."

He shrugged a shoulder. "If that were so, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. I'd have killed you."

"I knew you were there. The whole time."

He smiled—and it was crooked and adorable and it caught her completely off guard. "I let you know I was there."

She closed the distance between them, poking a finger into his chest. "You think that."

The energy in the room shifted. Instead of feeling threatened, it felt… different. "Let's get out of here."

She blinked, catching up to his sudden shift in the conversation. "You forget: I can't."

"Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, killer of unknown masses, spy extraordinaire… can't escape from one little SHIELD base?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Maybe this is why Fury hasn't given you the green light yet." He doubted that was the case but, once he started down the path, Clint wanted to get her riled up. He wanted to see the passion he knew was within her. He could tell, easily, that she was up to the challenge. "I'll meet you at Greenley's—it's a bar not far from here—in an hour. Dinner and drinks, my treat. You'll feel better." He glanced at his watch. "Time starts… now."

"I have no weapons."

Looking at her incredulously, he reached for her hands and held them up. "But, don't kill anyone. That may be a one-way ticket out of here, but it won't be to Greenley's."

She broke free of his grasp and, using the momentum, soon had him in a choke hold. "I could walk out the front door like this."

He remained still, not struggling against her. "Believe it or not, some people do like me here. You do that, you'll get shot. No dinner, no drinks, no freedom," he said, though his voice was strained from the pressure she had against his neck. "Time's wasting…"

She sighed and released him.

"Your advantages? Whatever you can get in this room. But, the second I walk out the door, those cameras come back on."

She looked at the numerous cameras in the room. She kicked herself for not having noticed before, that they were off. "How did you…?"

He grinned. "And you call yourself observant?"

"It may be worth cracking your beak, bird."

Clint covered his nose with his hand. "Fifty-eight minutes, brown recluse."

Her green eyes scanned the room. While he wasn't sure what she was going to do with the items she collected, she soon had a small supply kit. "Greenley's?" she asked to confirm.

He nodded, checking the time again. "Fifty-four and a half min—" He stopped dead when she pulled the watch from his wrist. "Hey!"

"You'll get it back," she promised.

"I'd better. Good luck, Nat."


Stay tuned…