A/N: The emergence of a(nother) Clintasha story that I've been working on for a while. I just returned from some vacation but will leave for Spain next week. I plan to release at least two more chapters by then if this is well received. I'm trying to update Being Someone Who Pays Attention, but this is really just the result of my reunion with my laptop after 5 days of 18-20 hours a day work.

What more to say? Oh, this will be uploaded at AO3 later, too, once I find out how to. I had a hard time categorizing this since the relationship/friendship between Clint and Natasha is so multi-faceted that it incorporates angst and comfort one moment, potential romance the next, only to be exposed to tragedy and adventure the next. I might change the rating later, but you'll receive warnings.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or all these emotionally compromised characters. Sigh. Sadly.

Chapter 1

Vienna, Austria

The abandoned rooftop was exactly like any other rooftop he had ever been crouching atop of for three hours of rain, leaning over a sniper scope. His clothes were drenched by the motherfucking weather that had been brewing for the last couple of days, caring little about the humans its rain troubled. Like a mighty beast, it growled and grumbled in the horizon, threateningly sending an occasional thunder echoing from the western mountains. The archer perched on said rooftop removed his gaze from the scope momentarily to eye the misbehaving weather with mirthful malice before resuming his task. Whatever term the population and local meteorologists assigned the mischievous rumble, the man wearing dark clothes soaked by its rain knew better, or to be technically accurate, worse. This wasn't thunder. Thunder was intruding, mighty, distracting and a nuisance. This—background noise easily ignored—was nothing compared to what he'd witnessed firsthand, which frankly made anything else pale in comparison.

He readjusted his position and winced lowly under his breath as his bad knee protested slightly due to the cold rain and stillness. The hood of his fieldwear had admitted defeat and most of his hair clung wet to his forehead. The purpose of this mission wasn't blatant termination, not primarily, so he'd been forced to leave behind his favorite weaponry, the one that he was notoriously known for and hence, assigned him his name and reputation as an archer. This mission demanded discretion and so he was forced to rely on more modern weaponry (although he was sure that it wasn't an insult to his beloved bow or his skills concerning it to have been assigned such a mission). He generally accepted any missions that came his way and didn't involve physical contact with people, good or bad. The distinction really wasn't easy to make anymore and luckily it wasn't his job to tell them apart.

He had remained undetected for the past many hours—hours before the rain began to interrupt his otherwise remotely pleasant and tolerable stakeout. His displeasure served nobody, so he pushed the discomfort out of his mind, focusing on the task at hand. He had catalogued the blurry movements observed by the infrared on the tablet pressed between the rooftop and his stomach. He wasn't exactly known for delicacy when it came to standard-issue equipment, but he was pretty sure he'd receive an unforgiving reprimand if he managed to ruin yet another tablet. Normally he wouldn't care, but his handler was one of the few people he actually genuinely wanted to remain in his life and not blow off like he usually did. One of the reasons was that he tolerated his regular bouts of lone wolf, reckless behavior and overall attitude.

His stomach rumbled and his left hand grabbed for the front pocket of his backpack without removing his eyes from the scope in search for a granola bar that was as tasteless as it was nutritious. Even without the scope, his eyesight was decent—beyond so, if he had to cut his modesty, but since there was no one to harass, he cared shit about such things. He preferred solo missions and was thankful that the organization that retained him—'employed' was such an ambiguous phrase, considering it had been over a year since he'd actually been to one of their bases and only kept in contact via shady emails, drop offs, and phone calls—had finally understood that he worked best alone, no exceptions.

His brain worked against him and flared at that statement but he cut it off before he could delve further into the personal hell his mind had become these days. He'd gotten the mission briefing two days ago and frowned at its classification but shrugged it off. He didn't do missions that required commitment, but as long as he wasn't expected to socialize and go undercover—actually tolerate these people, whomever they may be and have done—he wasn't about to turn down work. Although his patience was incredible, he grew restless on his own. He needed these missions, in spite of malicious weather and protesting limbs, to go on and keep him from his own mind.

It hadn't always been like this. He remembered a time where he appreciated downtime and indulged in entertainment beyond lonely local reruns of shows he'd originally watched on his couch back in his apartment in the U. S., which had probably had three tenants since his own tenancy expired. Occasionally, he missed that life and the regular trips to headquarters, even the shitty plumbing and narrow thresholds. Now, he depended on month-to-month leases of rooms that didn't even receive pest control, in various European cities. As much as he could pretend that the downsides to living on-base overruled the advantages, it still irked him that he'd twice woken up to the glinting eyes of a rat, most recently this morning. It was also demanded of him to do his own cleaning, washing and cooking, which meant he lived off takeout too often to be considered healthy. He tried to cook at least one meal a week from scratch, but missions—especially like these—had other plans and often interfered. The rodents might be his sole company but he was not that desperate. In fact, the solitude was voluntary on his part. Snipers rarely needed backup and he was competent enough to survive on his own.

He worked better alone, and after half a dozen partners—amateurs and experienced agents alike—his employers had realized what he'd adamantly insisted from the very beginning: their archer was meant to work alone, despite irregular successes in the past. No, he'd declined partners and disavowed them after the last one—the only one—had skipped out on him nearly five years ago. Five years later, he was the furthest thing from allowing someone that close again.

His arm muscles tensed as he thought of her before obstinately banishing her to the part of his brain that didn't distract him and act like a jack-in-a-box. He hadn't thought of her in two months, which was progress, but then little things would remind him of the days where he was younger and less bitter (but not less jaded) and part of a functional partnership that most of his handlers and fellow agents wouldn't believe if he decided to inform them. No, he'd just about pushed away everybody that had witnessed the partnership, and death had taken some of them, as was so frequently the case with spies and federal agents—just about anybody that finds themselves on one side or the other of a gun. Suffice to say, he hadn't kept in touch with the persistent ones that continually defied death.

The guys he was currently surveying weren't harmless, nor did he believe them an actual threat, but most of the missions he fulfilled anymore weren't like that; he took out bad guys preemptively before their tendons could spread and directly threaten S.H.I.E.L.D. and their agenda. They were plenty of dangerous, but danger was all relative. The disorganized terrorists could be as destructive as the cunning criminals in the world of today. No, his job was observation and initial assessment. He was surprised they even considered his words valid at this point, but then again, his skills hadn't faded, merely his tolerance for people and interaction.

He wasn't totally separated from civilization. He chatted with his landladies and landlords, attempted a smile to the guy that sold him his takeout, he just didn't involve himself in any manner that could be interpreted as voluntary or interested. He avoided clingy types. He knew that a person couldn't just distance himself from human society without mental repercussions. It was just easier not to establish ties that could be severed by death or betrayal and abandonment.

Yeah, he wasn't nominated for faith in humanity, but so what. He was an archer, a sniper, an executioner, and mercenary, and occasionally, a spy. Hope wasn't a requirement. Honed skills like aim, agility and the ability to stay alive and dodge bullets, and various other weapons (and operate those weapons), were. What little loyalty he had left ensured his employment by S.H.I.E.L.D., an organization whose members themselves were shady and of less conviction than your average butcher. He took his missions and performed them mostly successfully. Distance allowed him a god's eye view that often, coupled with his assessing mind, allowed him to predict the result of unfolding events. Or, simply put, when and who to shoot to incite chaos or to leave a murder undiscovered for hours. He could do both.

He hadn't done intimate missions for years. He hadn't done up and close assassinations in years, either. He worked best on the end of a scope where he relied on a weapon, his eyesight, and the target profile his handler usually supplied him with along with a location. Currently, Vienna was such a case although the sniper rifle was merely precaution, should opportunity strike. He'd read the file about the group. Vienna was merely one of their outposts but had the potential to develop at a dangerous pace if fueled properly. He'd been in Austria for a week, drifting across Europe as he received and fulfilled missions per the request of his handler at S.I.D., the Europe-based branch of S.H.I.E.L.D., before he received the mission regarding the surveillance of the band of mercenaries that went by some fancy Latin name that mattered little in his assessment. Something about lions and Romans—he'd looked it up before putting up his stakeout equipment.

From his spot, he could watch all exits of the supposedly abandoned chemical plant that laid crammed against alleys and backs of warehouses and a former carnival field—an odd place for crime to be brewing and yet unsurprising to him. Crime wasn't picky when it came to locations. He'd seen drug deals in slums and in the suburbs, in rich neighborhoods and on the street outside shops that earned more in single purchases than he made in a year. Murder, robbery, rape, child abuse, corruption, and solicitation likewise. Whoever they were, he wasn't interested, or rather, he was interested but only because S.I.D. was, and thus, S.H.I.E.L.D. was. It really was the other way around, as he suspected S.I.D. merely followed the wishes of S.H.I.E.L.D. except in Europe, but he didn't ask questions.

Nightfall wouldn't arrive for two hours yet twilight seemed to have settled already, which was perhaps why a vehicle drove up to the street aligned with the chemical plant's barbed wire fence. Nightfall tended to give people the wrong impression; the impression of safety. He was more than willing to give it to them, as they were more inclined to make mistakes when they thought themselves safe and unwatched.

He pressed himself lower as he looked through the scope and got the license plate to the dark gray Skoda. He hastily typed it in as he watched the first silhouette exit the car. He was your average run-of-the-mill thug, broad shoulders, ex-military stance, black blazer over a bland t-shirt, carrying a concealed weapon. The thug scanned the area and the archer ducked soundlessly to avoid detection, counting mentally to ten before reappearing in time to see a blond exit the door on the side of the passenger's seat. The second man's stance was more casual, so not military, but more open with his gestures, wearing jeans and an unzipped hoodie over a shirt. He was less bulky, more lean and agile, moving with the gracefulness of a great cat and not a wall of muscle like his companion. The archer's mind quickly assessed him to be armed—but not at the waist or shoulder, but the ankle. It took longer to draw a gun from there, or a knife for that matter. He obviously wasn't about to enter a hostile environment. The agent on the rooftop made a mental note of that information but didn't recognize his face from any of the sparse files his handler had provided. He hadn't expected him to.

He thought the men fully arrived until the blond suddenly turned around and grabbed the door handle to the backdoor, only to back away in a stumble as it opened on its own accord (well, not exactly but as the person who'd opened it remained out of sight due to the angle, he stuck with that description). Clint grimaced in semi-confusion—he'd thought them alone, arriving by pair. Whoever was seated in the back had the second man's respect and fear. The blond smirked knowingly and the fear passed as he rose his hands in surrender, amused. The tinted glass had prevented Clint from getting a good look, but now that his attention was there, he couldn't help but notice the changes in the man's body language as a third figure slipped out of the car with ease. It took him only a second to notice the feminine curves, but the movements were contradictory and therefore it took him another full three seconds to verify that it was indeed a woman that invoked such fear. The first man merely watched.

She wasn't tall or particularly physically imposing—at least not from a distance—and wore slim jeans, heeled practical boots and a coat that flared at the knees. Like her companions, she wore dark colors but her hair gave it away. A vibrant red, even tamed into a knitted braid that looked like it had been combed tight enough to pull out hair, that made Clint inhale sharply in a moment's remembrance. She had had vibrant red hair, truly auburn but brought alive by dark clothes and pale skin. His gaze lingered brazenly and he told himself it was out of professional ambition and not foolish hope that he studied her movements and appearance.

His breath hitched when she turned her head and copied the first man's scan, only this time, Clint couldn't tear his eyes off her, removing himself from the scope to see her without the equipment, freezing when her eyes met his from 100 feet away. He stiffened, suddenly feeling as if submerged in icy water and burned alive. His throat thickened and he choked on his own tongue, astounded and unable to process proper thought.

Maybe one of the reasons to throw himself into work so feverishly five years ago had been due to an inevitable sense of self-destruction and a foolish hope that maybe—just maybe—he'd see her again. There was only one person worthy of the mention and designation of her. The person who evidently still managed to reduce him to uselessness with her mere appearance. It was foolish really. It was insane. Hadn't they already done this dance of recruitment and defection? Wasn't that the definition of insanity—repeating the same thing, expecting different results? It had taken him years to get to a point of acceptance of her sudden departure from S.H.I.E.L.D.—not understanding, mind you, but acceptance that he, Clint Barton, was partnerless and there was nothing he could do about it.

All those years' worth of self-discovery came crashing down as that initial anger and sense of betrayal flooded back at the mere sight of her. Because he had known her for long enough—yet not enough, apparently—to know when he was staring at Natasha Romanov, Black Widow, redhead and lethal assassin.

All these thoughts assaulted him in the brief moment he locked gazes with her before she broke away, resuming her chat with her companions.

"Tasha," he said and the nickname came as natural to him as breathing normally did and yet it broke with strain of emotion.

She didn't acknowledge him and if possible, it angered him more. He tightened his grip around the weapon until he realized what he was doing and immediately backed off, trying to control his pants with breathing exercises. He didn't tear his eyes off the trio, though, wanting to confirm that Natasha—goddamn, fucking Natasha bullets-and-leather Romanov—had joined the other side. Or should he say rejoin? He'd been goddamn naïve to think she'd settle down or join a governmental agency somewhere else, but no, she had to go and do the one thing that hurt him more than leaving him had—going rogue and bad.

Natasha had always been bad, had always had the potential for bad things, but never with ill intent. She didn't categorize her victims as good people or bad people—(at least, she hadn't five years ago)—and he'd believed her to be generally in want of a normal life after everything she'd been through. He refused to see the relapse for what it was—obviously nobody was forcing her to do anything, he could read as much off her body language and he stifled a kick into the gravel of the rooftop. Nobody forced Natasha to do anything she didn't want to do. And so Clint looked, desperately, for an ulterior motive, an angle, anything that would explain—that could explain—Natasha's cooperation with this group.

She seemed downright friendly and it was unbearable. No stiff movements to insinuate a new alliance. Even worse, his own body was failing him by responding to the knowledge and confirmation that she was alive, and it was unbearable not to hate her.

The moment the trio entered the warehouse and Clint was allowed to remove his gaze from the scope, he sat down, back against the roof's edge, breathing slowly, surreally. He felt like he'd been crushed, crushed by a fata morgana like a thirsting man in the desert. He cackled, lowly and bittersweetly like a madman as he reached realization. Crushed by Natasha Romanova, crushed like any man exposed to her wiles would. That was before, however, his eyes darkened with determination. That was before he expected shots from gunfight to banish the doubts he was experiencing. No, hours passed before the men and woman split amicably, and Clint had a new target, chosen specifically and without permission.

Natasha Romanova—or whatever name she went by—had crimes to answer for; she had questions to answer and a fucking explanation to offer by the time he got his hands on her.

Someone's in trouble! Leave a review while I type up the next part, eh?