The crowd was thick and bustling; people wove delicately through the streets with an indescribable grace, everybody carrying out their daily lives, commuters walking briskly to the stations, businessmen chatting animatedly on their phones, teenagers talking loudly, drug dealers working the corners, food vendors serving up their product, all of it so routine. So normal. Nothing ever changed within the city, the routine's always the same. Except for, of course, when it isn't. High above the living city, on the roof of a warehouse, one\ routine was being shattered.

It was an average job she was working, nothing special. Simply get in, kill, and get out. She wouldn't have even taken the job if it weren't for the money because she preferred a challenge, but the money was too good to pass up on this one. So, the boring job it was. She turned from gazing at the sea of people below her and stepped from the ledge she was perched on, landing softly on the gravel-covered rooftop. She straightened herself and shook her head and shoulders a bit, letting her deep red curls bounce slightly. Her hair fell like a curtain to the small of her back; it was soft, light, beautifully radiant, and a very prominent distinguishing physical feature. She ran two pale hands through it, gathering it all together, and tied it up loose bun. The woman then padded silently over to a single aluminum door near the center of the building. Crouching in front of the door, she reached into a pocket and pulled a small lock picking kit. Carefully selecting two instruments, she began her work. She was interrupted only moments later when she heard the faint sound of gravel underfoot, barely a whisper above the traffic below. She stilled. Removing a pistol from her thigh-holder, and aimed it directly at where the sound had come from, she stood. About a hundred yards away from where she was, stood a man. He was about 5'10" and very well built, muscles rippling through his tense body. He was wearing a black tactical suit, much like herself, however he wore vest to prevent any arm restriction. That wardrobe choice was made very obvious as the woman stared down the wrong end of the man's tactical bow. She quickly fixed her gaze upward, locking her brilliant green eyes on his stormy grey ones.

"Natasha Romanoff." He said calmly, his eyes steadfastly boring into her, as if they could pierce the very depths of her soul. It wasn't a question, more of an accusation. She smirked, cocking her head to one side.

"Clint Barton, it sure did take you long enough." An expression of shock replaced Clint's calm demeanor. It was only for a second, but Natasha caught it. She caught everything.

"Oh yes, I know all about you. SHIELD Agent Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton. You've been following me for quite a while." Clint visibly tensed her words, his hand twitching slightly, eager to let his arrow fly. Natasha too flinched slightly, her free hand clenching at her side. Her slight movement drew the attention on Clint's eyes down, no longer focusing on her weapon. Clint took a step forward, expecting Natasha to take a step back to get her against the door. Instead, she took a step forward, closing the gap between them. It was a dance. There was a certain easiness in the steps they took as they circled each other. Each move was cold and calculated, but each step was completely fluid and perfectly matched. This dance continued until they both were staring directly down the barrel of the other's weapon, only an arm's length apart.

"Why are you here?" Natasha asked calmly.

"To kill you." Clint responded matter-of-factly.

"Oh, really?" She replied, quirking one perfectly manicured eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Because you're a murder."

"Then, what does that make you?" Natasha lowered her weapon, keeping in loosely in her hand by her side. Clint's eyebrows knitted together, and he scowled at Natasha.

"You're no better than I am, really." She continued.

"I don't kill innocent people." Clint snapped at her.

"Neither do I. Not intentionally at least. I'm the best at what I do, I can afford to be picky about my clients. The target in there," she gestured to the lone door, "is a petty drug dealer who likes 13 year old girls a little more than her should. Now, would the world really be worse off is he just, I don't know, stopped breathing?" Clint lowered his weapon too. She did have a point, he thought, but he quickly shook it off.

"You are a loose cannon, a liability. You kill whoever you want, whenever you want, and that makes you dangerous." Clint raised his weapon again. His bow was suddenly thrown from his hands by a sharp roundhouse kick delivered by Natasha. It skittered away as Natasha's fist came hurtling towards Clint's head. Clint caught her arm and twisted it, opening her defensive stance, before punching her in the gut. She doubled over, but quickly recovered, rearing her head to connect sharply with Clint's chin. The force of the blow caused him to take a step back, and Natasha took the opportunity to kick his legs out from under him. As Clint fell to the ground, he pulled Natasha with him and flipped them so he was straddling her.

He used his weight on her hips to immobilize her legs, but Natasha reached up and slammed his head down onto the ground next to them. She brought her leg up and kicked him in the chest. Natasha stood up and made for the fire escape when Clint grabbed her ankle and pulled her back down. She tried to kick him in the head with her free foot, but he caught that as well and, faster than she could follow, had bound both her ankles with a zip-tie. In her moment of confusion he grabbed her belt, pulled her towards him, and punched her hard across the face. Her head rolled back and blood filled her mouth. She was roughly shoved face-first into the rooftop, her arms brought roughly behind her and bound with another zip tie. Natasha writhed beneath him when he turned her onto her back, trying find some way to escape. When Clint placed the blade at her throat, she stilled. He put a slight pressure on the blade and it broke skin, Natasha didn't flinch. Blood pooled around the knife and began to fall in heavy drops down the side of her neck, the bright red sharply contrasting with her pale skin. Clint tore his eyes from her throat to lock eyes with her. Even now they were defiant and cold.

But, there was something else there too. Something that made him question what he was about to do, and he couldn't quite place what it was. He looked into her eyes and discovered that this moment is one of those rare defining moments in your life. Where a little decision could drastically change everything. He could kill her, and it would be easy, just a little flick of the wrist and it would be done. But, Clint had seen Natasha. Seen how she works, seen what she does. She's incredible. He's borderline terrified of the woman. She's the best he's ever seen, she's better than he is. She has a skillset and a natural talent in her line of work that's unparalleled, and it would be a shame to waste something like that. Clint made his decision. He broke his routine.

He removed the knife from her throat and sheathed it again.

"You're coming back to base with me." Clint responded as he patted down Natasha, removing her plethora of weapons one by one.

"What?" She spat angrily at him. He roughly unholstered her guns, and pulled blade after blade off her suit before disengaging and removing her Widow's Bite from her wrists. He gathered her things carefully, snipped the zip-tie around her ankles and stood her back up.

"Well, what can I say? I'm a sucker for a pretty face." Clint smirked at Natasha's obvious fury before turning her towards the stairs and shoving her roughly towards them. She caught herself with ease, but didn't move. She pulled her shoulders back and raised her head high. She was too stubborn to let herself be taken, she'd rather die than let herself be bested, so she stood firmly in place. Clint placed a gun against the small of her back, hoping to coax cooperation out of her, but she remained still.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Natasha." Clint warned.

"Do you really have to be so painfully cliché?" Natasha bit back sarcastically. Behind her she heard him dig through a pocket, and a moment later he stepped in from of her with three large zip ties. He used one to re-bind her ankles, one to bind her thighs, and the other her put around her waist to bind her arms to her back.

"Comfortable?" Clint asked with a small smile that Natasha immediately returned.

"Quite, actually."

"Good." Clint said as he bent down, lifting Natasha up, and practically throwing her over his shoulder. She huffed slightly at the sudden change, but remained silent. He carried her with ease down off the roof to a car parked in an alley where he unceremoniously dumped her in the passenger seat. He slid smoothly into the driver's side, buckling himself, and then reaching into the glove compartment. He pulled out a single hypodermic needle with a basic tranquilizer, and removed the cap.

"Fuck you, Barton." Natasha spit from her seat when she saw what her was holding.

"Is that an invitation, Miss Romanoff?" He retorted with a cheeky smile.

"You wish, sweetheart." She sighed at her head was forced up by rough hands to reveal the veins in her neck. Clint pushed the needle in with a little more force than necessary and pushed down in the plunger. Natasha fought against he drug as she started to drowse. It took her 12 minutes to finally succumb to the drug, 10 minutes longer than anybody else he'd seen, shuddered to think why.

Natasha came to several hours later, and by then Clint had already driven both their asses back to base.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!" Clint called as he reached over an unbuckled her seatbelt. He got out of the car himself, and walked around to the passenger side door, opened it and hauled Natasha out, placing her on her feet. He cut the ties on her ankles and thighs, and she promptly kneed him in the chest. She smirked when she heard the oddly satisfying crack of ribs when her knee made contact.

"Bitch!" He wheezed, struggling to regain his breath. SHIELD agents ran over to their car, which she noticed to be parked in an indoor hangar, but Clint held up a hand to halt their advance. He stood, straightened himself, and stepped behind her. His hand shot out, burying itself in her long hair, twisted and yanked hard, forcing her head back.

"Walk." He commanded through gritted teeth, and shoved her angrily forward causing her to stumble. She caught herself and righted herself before walking determinedly towards where Clint had been gesturing. He followed closely behind her, both of them steadfastly ignoring the blatant stares of the other agents as they passed.

Natasha Romanoff was famous around the SHIELD base. She had been on their radar for a few years and every agent sent to neutralize her came back in a body bag. That's why they sent Clint after her, he was their best, and it even took him over a year to catch her. Needless to say, she was not well liked.

She was young, only 19, and already had a rap sheet longer than most senior agents. To a few, she was impressive, to most she was a monster. Clint was one of the few.

He led her to the main control room. The minute they entered, the whole room fell silent; people literally dropped what they were doing to stare with open mouths at them. And in the center of the room stood Clint and Natasha, one bearing a mask of triumph, the other, one of complete indifference.

"CLINTON BARTON!" Boomed a voice, as the owner of the voice stormed out of an office. "In my office. Now." He ordered threateningly. "Bring the girl." He added as an afterthought as he turned back into the room he had come from.

Clint gave Natasha a light shove, and she marched forward with her head high.