All the Clintasha feels.

I don't own marvel.

when the light appears boy,

or fire is pain, but ice is bittersweet

The helicraft is deathly quiet. Clint knows better than to look at the blood-stained woman next to him, or even think about small talk.

Coulson had appeared, heavily armed with at least sixteen guns on his belt. He eyed Natasha warily as he fondled his lapel of the suit jacket, obviously implying that a knife was nestled in there somewhere. Clint thought he was right in preparing- it was hard as hell to beat Natasha in close combat, only because he had eaten a croissant and some coffee, rested well and was alert, and she was exhausted after days of running. After glancing at Natasha's glare, he shook his head slightly at Coulson. If Natasha was calm and fighting, she was already extremely dangerous, and he hated to think of her angry. God knows what would happen.

'Next time,' Coulson said, taking out the knife in his lapel and taking out fifteen guns, 'I want more warning.' He kept the last one in his belt, eyed Clint, nodded to Natasha and left.

That lead to their current position. Acquaintences that were too knowledgable about the other, but too distrustful to be considered friends. Not enemies, seeing how Clint had easily offered the white flag that Natasha craved. Frenemies? Clint let the term bounce around his head, before deciding it was too common for the unique pair. He settled on 'partners in crime', since it sounded pretty badass.

'Clint,' said Natasha, breaking the deafening silence. Clint turned, shocked. Natasha had only called him 'Bird brain', and he had responded with 'Natalia', which earned him a huge bruise on his back.

'Yeah?'

'Can I sleep now?' Natasha asked calmly, her voice quieter than usual. It was obvious she hated asking, but was clearly in a habit of doing so.

Clint looked at her. He looked for a while, not through S.H.I.E.L.D's eyes, or his own rose-tinted goggles. She would easily be drop-dead beautiful when she was healthy. Her lips were full, but swollen with a cut Clint had given her. Skin that looked sickly white under the fluroscent lights, but was actually just smooth and pale. Fiery hair curled around her back, the colour of the dying sunset. And she was skinny, painfully so. Clint couldn't wait to introduce her to the miracle of Chinese takeout and all-you-can-eat buffets. He looked at her eyes last and inhaled quietly. They were catlike and a dark green with heavy bags.

Finally, he answered. 'You don't need permission to sleep.'

A dark look flashed in Natasha's jaded eyes, hopefully directed to some other person.

'If I slept without his permission, I would be punished.' She exhaled and so did Clint.

'Punished?' Clint probed, his curiousity piqued by Natasha's scowl.

Natasha shook her head. 'Rather not say.'

Clint nodded, not drawing any conclusions. He paused, before saying, 'If you want to sleep, do it now. THe seats fold out to become beds. I'll wake you up when it's time to leave.'

Natasha nodded briskly, with a hint of thanks for his infomation. Her face remained blank though, which reminded Clint of him before S.H.I.E.L.D. He could see Natasha barely slept anyway, or maybe wasn't used to information that didn't end in a death.

Unless Fury was involved. Clint didn't know how, but he swore he saw him kill someone with a mattress from the helicraft.

As he explains to the furious Director why exactly he disobeyed orders, destroyed half of Budapest and saved Natasha, he remembered the blood, sweat, teaes, the destruction, the graves and the guilt. All caused from him.

And he looks at Natasha, sitting quietly as Coulson gave her the standard pep talk, and the 'misbehave and we'll get Agent Hill to bombard you with paperwork with may or may not kill you' chat, and he watches her ask all the right questions and looking like an angel drenched in sorrow and things you wish you had never seen. She's possibly never looked more beautiful.

And Clint wonders, when the hell did he become the saint and girls like her the sinners?

fin.