Summary: Barton's been compromised; she knows what to do. A post-movie ficlet.

Overwatch

They don't return to the Helicarrier out of unspoken agreement. Stomachs full of as much schwarma as they could manage, they made their way to a relatively unscathed portion of Hell's Kitchen. Clint was too tired to question the safehouse's existence above the small law office. He always suspected Natasha kept a string of them just in case things with S.H.I.E.L.D went south.

It was a spartan studio apartment. A single bookshelf bearing a few legal texts with braille splashed across the spines, an unused kitchenette, coat rack, a worn futon, dusty coffee table, and a door to that presumably led to an equally small bathroom. They flipped a coin to decide who showered first. He lost...

Natasha stepped out of the bathroom in a borrowed red robe. The first thing she noticed was her gear. It was hanging neatly off the coat rack. Her holsters were empty. One Glock 26 rested loosely in Barton's grip. He stared blankly at disassembled pieces of the second from his seat on the futon. Each component was orderly arranged on the nearby coffee table.

"You took the firing pins out."

"I'm a bitch like that," She replied sliding to sit next to him on the futon. She reclaimed the firearm from unresisting fingers and checked chamber before pulling the slide back. A single round leapt from the breech to land silently in the carpeting. The rest of the magazine was empty; the battle had consumed all of her ammunition. "Where'd you find it?"

"Loose round in one of your pouches, sloppy."

"That would've been handy to have a couple of hours ago," she breathed. "Clint it's not..."

He spoke up cutting her off,"Used to think the only shots worth regretting were the ones you missed. Easy for the guy sporting the call-sign: Hawkeye." He mimed nocking an arrow. "Ghost some baddies, feel the rush, go home for a brew." His fists clenched, "Could've put one in Fury's good eye, dead-to-rights, but I still drilled him straight into the armor." His eyes went distant; his voice overly casual, "Guess I liked him better than the others. My quiver was down 17 arrowheads when you took me down. Oh, I'm missing a couple mags from my sidearm too. So I figure between Stuttgart and the Carrier..."

"Stop it," she whispered.

"I tried," He seethed. "Some busybody disabled her semi-autos not to mention my entire rig without me noticing..." She ignored his tirade.

"There's no instruction manual for this; you just figure it out," she placed the gun onto the table. Her eyes studied her two weapons, "Or you don't." She slid her arm across the back of the futon barely brushing his shoulders. "I lucked out. I had a guy there to help me when I stumbled." She confessed.

"Must've been quite the guy," he said softly finding calm in her admission. He unconsciously leaned into the half-embrace.

"He was a jackass." Natasha replied with a small smirk.

"You smell nice," he murmured drowsily.

"You stink worse than Boliva."

"I'll shower in a minute," he yawned, "Just going to rest my eyes a bit."

"Go for it. I got first watch."

She felt him relax as consciousness left him.

It was only when his eyes flickered open hours later did she allow sleep to overtake her.