"Why are we even doing this again?" Clint asked as he sorted through stacks of paper and manila file folders spread out on the coffee table.

"Shield is updating its paper record system, you know, in case Stark ever come to play again."

"I know that. Why do we have to organize our own files? Doesn't shield have secretaries for that?"

"With a high enough clearance to see what we've been through?"

"Point taken."

"Here," said Natasha, striding over with her own neatly stacked folder in hand. "Let me help."

"Tony did say you made a pretty good secretary," he chuckled. "I'm gonna pay for that later, aren't I?"

"You have no idea." Natasha smiled mischievously and handed him her file. "Check over mine and I'll organize yours."

"Works for me, though I'm pretty sure we're never supposed to share our files with anyone."

"Please, Clint," she said, "I could write that for you."

"You think we don't have any secrets left from each other?"

"Something you want to tell me?"

"Just wondering," he shrugged.

"None that are important enough to be in here." She took his scattered papers over to the breakfast nook were she was working and started organizing his file. "Remember Geneva?" she smiled as she put the mission report in line with the others.

"Remember Krakow?" said Clint as he flipped through hers. He hand slipped as he chuckled to himself, and some on Natasha's papers spilled onto the floor.

"You better fix that," she said without turning around.

He placed the rest of the file on the table before him and bent to pick up the papers that had fallen. One folder in particular caught his attention. It was part of Natasha's medical history that has been sealed on the side with a sticker that read SHIELD: CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. The files inside had slipped out the top and onto the carpet. He glanced at the cover page, intending to ignore the report and put it away, but the words typed there caught him and held him there. Poor girl, he couldn't stop himself from thinking.

"Natasha," he said softly. She turned to look at him, and saw what file her partner had in his hands.

Her eyes flicked quickly to the burgundy carpet. "I didn't know that was in there. It's supposed to be redacted," she said quietly.

"Tasha, you never told me you had an abortion," he said. His voice was gentle, sad.

"There've been four," she said, still not meeting his eyes.

He held out his hand and she obeyed him, letting him pull her down to the couch. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He took her thin pale hand in his and kissed her on the top of he head. "I'm sorry."

"It's. . ." she started, wanting to pull away. This wasn't a secret she shared often, ever in fact. She had buried it away in her mind as if it never existed. Almost. She took a deep breath and let herself stay, resting her head on Clint's shoulder. "Thanks."

"How did. . ." he started, spreading out the file to see four identical documents.

"Occupational hazard, I suppose," she said.

"There wasn't a better way?"

"Espionage is a messy game."

"Yes, but Natasha. . ."

"I try not to think about it."

"I can't believe Fury let this happen to you."

"He didn't. Not all the way. Only the last two were under Shield."

Clint looked closer at the date stamped on the first document. "You were fifteen? Tasha. . ."

"It's okay, Clint. It was a long time ago."

He opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just. . .how do you deal with it?"

"How am I so heartless, you mean?"

"You're not heartless. That's why I'm asking."

"Sometime missions don't turn out as planned. Sometimes you get hurt. Every mission brings pain. These ones were just. . .different, a different kind of wound treated in a different way. Clint, please don't think less of me, I . . ."

"I would never think less of you Natasha. Maybe a bit less of the people in charge. . ."

She smiled. "They why to you look so sad?"

"I'm tired of watching you getting hurt."

They fell silent for a while. Clint ran his fingers through Natasha's fiery hair. She held on to his calloused palm.

Clint scanned the file laying out on the table. "So, a stable boy who trafficked in state secrets, a notoriously sleazy Russian congressman and an Saudi oil prince."

"Yes?"

"You sure can pick 'em."

Natasha breathed a little laugh. "Ok, we're done with the sentimental for today," she said, patting his knee and standing up. She had taken a few steps away when Clint picked up the fourth document.

"Who was the last guy?" Most of the file had been redacted: man's name, mission number, facility location, everything. All that remained was a date.

"It doesn't matter."

"Seriously, who was he? You've already got criminals, politicians and royalty, who's more secret than that."

"Drop it Clint."

"Throw me a bone."

"Fine. It was the president."

"Of what?"

"Or where?" she teased, reaching for the file.

"Wait." said Clint suddenly. Natasha stopped. She could feel her heart rate increasing behind her placid mask. Clint stared at the file, at the date innocently typed in the box. "July 27, 2009" he read out loud. "That was right after Budapest."

"I suppose so," she said calmly.

"Right after Budapest, where we were sequestered in a crappy little apartment for three months doing surveillance before we hit battle." He felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, like a haze was clouding over his vision. Fear and rage knotted up in his chest so tight he wanted to throw up. "Natasha, is this me?" he stammered.

She wouldn't look him in the eye. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, holding the redacted file beside her face. "Natasha," he asked again, fighting for air in his lungs, "is this me?"

Her eyes quivered. He could feel her pulse racing under his grip on her wrist. "Clint let me go," she said, her voice about to crack.

"How could you?"

"I'm warning you Clint, let me go."

"Natasha!" he screamed. She could feel the pain reverberating in his voice.

She counted slowly in her head. 3 . . .2 . . .1 . . . . She swung her leg up in a high kick, dropping her weight onto Clint's arm and breaking his grip.

He dove in, faked a hook punch and caught her block. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her head, stretching her shoulder back until even she couldn't move. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Natasha drove her heel into his kneecap and bit down onto his muscular wrist. He let go and immediately dove after her again. She flipped out of his reach, landing in a handstand on the back of the couch. It teetered on it's back legs, threatening to topple over toward the empty fireplace. Clint stomped down on the seats of the couch, righting it and sending Natasha flying. He grabbed her out of the air and threw her to the ground, landing all his weight on her and pinning her to the carpet. "Natasha!" he screamed again. A tear fell from his eyes and landed on her cheek below, and another. Tremors shot through his free fist, poised to strike her in the face.

With blood pounding in their ears they barely heard the door crash open.

"You only get one warning," said Director Fury, a pistol trained on the pair.

"What brings you here Director?" Natasha offered weakly.

"What brings me here? What brings me here is my two best agents are fighting like schoolboys and my guards" he emphasized out the door, "are too afraid of to deal with it themselves."

"What, why?" said Clint.

"Apparently with you two they can't tell the difference between foreplay and a fistfight."

"And you, Sir?"

"Let's just say I made a lucky guess." said Fury. "Get up, both of you. I will not have Shield's leading field agents acting like children. I don't need either of you injured before your mission even starts."

"I'm not going anywhere with her," said Clint as he wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.

Fury holstered his gun. "Is that so?"

"A partner is someone you trust with your life. All of your life. I don't have one anymore."

"Clint . . ."

"We're done, Agent Romanoff." He stalked past she, grabbing the file as he went. Clint held it to Fury's face. "Even if she wasn't man enough to tell me you should have been."

"It is the strict policy of shield that its agents do not involve themselves romantically with one another."

"But you just said. . ." Clint argued.

"What you do in your spare time is none of my business. What happened in Budapest is none of my business. Until it interferes with your performance."

"So that's it then. You wouldn't tell me without risking your own ass."

"I would much prefer you two on good terms," said Fury. "Shield missions are dangerous enough without my agents at each other's throats."

"That's no longer an option," said Clint as he stalked down the hall.