It was twilight: that in between-time when the light was deceiving. It wasn't quite bright enough to highlight the surroundings in great detail, but it wasn't dark enough for Black Widow's eyes to adjust to the sharper sight that was required in the dark. Everything was pale and yellow and dim. Natasha hated it.

Clint on the other hand was completely at ease. His eyes, impossibly wide in the waning sun, were focused, darting back and forth. As his gaze travelled, it grew to include Natasha. After several months of being partners, Clint had learned of numerous, tiny, unmistakable cues that spoke of her unease. Right now she was rigid, tense. Her shoulders arched as if she might have to spring at any moment. Her lips curved into an unmistakable frown.

"Romanoff," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Relax, it's just reconnaissance."

At the sound of his voice she visibly relaxed, her shoulders dipping into a more natural position. Clint was surprised and even Natasha didn't know why his voice seemed to sooth the tension rippling over her skin, but it did. Something about the gravely sound his voice made as the air vibrated between the vocal chords. The way he managed to say her last name without rolling the 'R'. (She was Russian and was still getting used to the dropped consonants.) Mostly it was the way he spoke in an intimate whisper, even though they were the only ones around.

Clint reached out to touch her shoulder, in a reassuring sort of way, but Natasha's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist expertly, though she hadn't even turned her head yet. Her fingers were firm, but gentle, only meaning to catch his attention, not cause him pain. He knew she could snap his wrist like a twig if she so desired it. "Barton, look," she said, nodding below.

Reluctantly, Clint pulled his eyes away from her face: the delicate curve of her jaw, the slightly arched eyebrow, the perfectly pouted lips. He shook off the spell that she was unconsciously casting over him to peer over the side of the building.

The rooftop they were scouting from was high, but not high enough that his unparalleled eyesight was impacted. He saw each detail imprinted on the men leaving the safe house in clear cut perfection, as if he was watching a movie reel in slow motion.

He waded through the mob off people that had emerged, searching for one face in particular. He didn't see it. Not yet.

They had a target, their first target together. At Director Fury's insistence Clint had spent the better part of six months training with Agent Romanoff, otherwise known as the infamous and deadly, Black Widow.

Clint had never been worried about it, but Fury and Coulson had their reservations. Black Widow had once been a target with a dangerous reputation. It was only because Clint had felt something incredibly strong, almost like a cosmic gravity forcing his bow to drop, that he neglected to terminate her, instead opting to turn the Widow: make her an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D.

For months, Coulson and Fury refused to send the pair on assignment, insisting they get to know each other better: learn each other's cues, strengths, weaknesses. To Clint's surprise, the Black Widow was less reserved about the partnership than he thought she would be. Six months passed quickly as the pair learned about each other, trained, sparred, and prepared; prepared to know one another well enough to read off each other in the thick of the battle.

And now, they finally had a target. They had a mission. It was simple enough. The leader of a weapon trafficking ring who was supplying several terrorist groups in the Middle East had caught the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D. All they had to do was terminate the target, locate the weapons storage, infiltrate the building and destroy it. Simple, right?

So far they had found it difficult to locate said ring leader. A tip from a man that Natasha had weeded information out of the previous day led them here.

The man was still tied up several blocks away in a dingy bathroom where he had mindlessly followed Natasha as she called to him, not out loud, but in that highly feminine way where she batted her heavy, mascara lined eyelashes and swayed her hips innocently. The man had followed Black Widow as she strung him along on the sticky strands of her web, a move where the hunter unknowingly became the prey.

Clint had watched from above, using the ventilation grate as his perch. Even he had to admit that Natasha was good. No, she was beyond good. She was irresistible when she was in action. That's what made her so deadly. The seductive innocence she portrayed lured the men in and then they were trapped, because Black Widows were poisonous by nature.

The fact that Natasha was so dangerous to any human being: man or woman, big, small, young, old, should have comforted Clint. But the sharp pain, like a hook behind his navel, that he felt as the man stalked Natasha had almost driven him to fly from his coup and rain down on his head. That would have ruined everything.

Clint couldn't explain it, but the idea of the man touching Natasha, even if it was all part of her plan, made him sick, in a twisted sort of way: one that made him volatile. For a good hour Clint wanted to kill every living piece of scum Budapest had to offer. He didn't. He had more control than that, but Natasha was tempting it and he didn't know why.

Before the man could lay a finger on her, she had him in a sleeper's hold; Black Widow silencing her victim. Clint watched, ready to strike if the need arose. It never did.

Natasha tied the man against one of the rundown stalls and beat him back to consciousness. Once she had him awake and a gun pressed to his temple he was quite compliant.

"Barton," Natasha said roughly. His mind had been wandering faster than his eyes. "Is it him?" Natasha asked.

Clint stared, zoning in on a new face sheltered beneath a fraying baseball cap. Mid-forties. Beady eyes, like a beetles, blinked rapidly. A thin, hooked nose. Scar across his lower left cheek. Coarse, stippled skin. Slick black hair flecked with grey.

"It's him," Clint confirmed.

Natasha reached for the gun holstered at her waist. Clint grabbed for her arm. "Wait," he told her.

"Are you kidding me?" she whispered furiously. "This is the first sign of him. What if it's our last?"

Clint furrowed his brow, peering over the side of the building again. "He's got too many people around him," he said.

"Casualties of war," Natasha murmured, cocking her gun. Clint's grip tightened on her wrist.

"Romanoff, we have one target. Everyone else killed today would be an innocent. We can't do that."

"Even if they are working for the bad guy," Natasha protested.

"They are not the ones in the file," Clint reminded her. "That's the difference here. S.H.I.E.L.D takes out the target and no one else, unless absolutely necessary. I know the Widow is telling you to just pop them all off, but that's not how we do things."

"It would be more efficient if you did."

"That's the assassin talking."

"Isn't that what I was hired to be, an assassin?" Natasha countered.

"You were hired as a spy. Your particular skills are an asset to that."

"I'm pretty sure this mission was to take a guy out, not read through his personal files."

"You going to argue with everything I say?" Clint griped.

"Depends." Natasha gave him a small, almost nonexistent smile under the hard frown. "Is everything you say going to be stupid?"

Clint huffed, his eyes, with great effort, leaving Natasha's face and darting back towards the scene below.

"He's getting into the car. I can still make the shot from here," Natasha said hurriedly. Her finger was poised on the trigger. She was a crack shot. Clint knew she wouldn't miss.

"Don't you dare," Clint said through his teeth. "We'll end up in the middle of a turf war. Don't even tell me you don't think those guys are armed. They belong to a weapon trafficking ring for crying out loud."

"I could take them all in thirty seconds," Natasha argued. "What about you, Legolas. How fast can you reload?"

"Fast enough to shoot you in the butt if you don't start listening." Clint eyed her seriously. "Communication. That's going in the report to Coulson. You need to work on that."

Natasha cocked a red eyebrow at him. It rose to a dangerous point. As perfect and sharp as the knives she had tucked into her belt. "Well, I might as well have some fun then, if this is going to be my first and last mission as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent." Her frown became a devilish grin. "What do you think about going out with a bang?"

"Romanoff!"

"Okay, I was kidding. The silencer is on. Geez."

"Romanoff!"

"What?" Natasha snapped, finally looking at her partner again. She had unconsciously released the second gun she had strapped to her thigh, both locked and loaded.

"Put the guns away and stand down or I will shoot you with one of my tranquilizer arrows."

Natasha scowled at him for a long minute. Clint bit back a laugh. He couldn't remember the last time an agent had scowled at him, especially on mission, especially looking so adorable. It was easy to forget sometimes that Natasha was a killing machine.

"Be patient," Clint told her as she muttered furiously under her breath; the English swear words quickly turning into Russian babble as she strapped the guns down to her suit once again.

Clint smirked, which infuriated Natasha even more. She was not used to this wishy-washy, sit and wait junk. She was used to quick results. In and out, strike hard and fast, like the deadly spider she was supposed to be. In another life she would have taken out the entire group of men stumbling out of the bar that doubled as the rings safe house. Back then she wouldn't have cared whether one man was innocent or guilty of more than those that currently rotted in hell. She was indifferent. Anything that stood in the way of her and her target was collateral damage. But now she had to care. Clint made her care.

"Argh," Natasha groaned as the black sedan pulled away. "He's gone."

"Patience," Clint said again. "I'm going to recommend you work on that when we get back to base. I'll put it in the report as well."

"I know just where you can stuff that report, Hawkeye," Natasha quipped.

Clint nudged her and she grimaced, rolling her eyes. "You know exactly what to say to piss me off."

"I should. I'm your partner," Clint said with a cheeky grin.

Natasha huffed, the small gust of breath pushing aside her bangs. "Now what?" she asked, irritated.

Clint smiled, rocking back on his heels. He drew in the dirt that covered the roof, forming the base for a game of Tic-Tac-Toe. He looked up at her. "Now, we wait."