It starts as a punishment really: this thing.

This explaining how SHIELD works to a woman capable of killing with blank stares and bullet-less guns.

Only fair, Clint supposes, seeing as he's the one who snuck her on the Quinjet in the first place.

Fair since he did not in fact dispose of his target, but instead brought her back to headquarters, marched into Coulson's office and then Fury's when his handler had all but fainted at the sight.

Dodging a fiery Maria Hill, with her gun drawn and aimed was the least of his worries after that.

He had endured the wrath of the eye patch.

And had been threatened in a series of bumbling, two-worded stutters with disciplinary action and suspension.

He had his bow confiscated and strung up from the rafters in the basement.

Someone even slashed the back of his uniform; thankfully it was only while it hung in his locker. He guessed it was that douche Jenkins, but he'd deal with him later.

People—his fellow agents and superiors alike—were scared shitless and he was so preoccupied explaining and defending his actions in a series of interrogations that left him weary and hungry, that he didn't have time to do anything but yawn and assure Coulson that he had not lost his mind.

Apparently bringing the Black Widow in and not back in a body bag was a problem. A treason kind of problem.

The SHIELD base trembled at the thought of her walking through the halls unchecked.

But seemingly the best they could do to punish him in the end was to assign her every movement, action, and thought to him.

"Your problem, Barton!" Fury had boomed, his knuckles cracking against his desk where he leaned. "She steps out of line. Your problem. She interferes in anyway. Your problem. She shoots you in the goddamn chest. Your problem! Understand?"

"Loud and clear," he had replied, ducking out of the room and retrieving said problem from a trembling, shifty-eyed Coulson.

Natalia Romanova, aka Black Widow, looks more than pleased with herself as she sits, legs crossed on the arm of the couch in the hallway, inspecting her fingernails with the same gusto Agent Coulson is eyeing her with.

And so here he was, escorting the most deadly thing to ever pass through SHIELD to medical.

"Perhaps you should have told them," she says quietly as Clint leads her through a tangle of color-coded halls that she works to memorize.

He notes that she's dropped her accent already. A guise? Which of her many covers has she adopted for the role?

"Nah, it's better this way."

"If you say so." She walks beside him, never ahead, never behind, but in pace with his lengthy stride.

"I do."

But maybe she's right. Maybe a heads up would have been a good idea. Wasn't that SHIELD's motto? Be prepared?

Yeah, he thinks, sort of. But he also thinks the end of the motto was something like . . . to blow shit up.

If he had thought to warn Coulson or Fury or even Hill they would have walked off the Quinjet to a barrage of bullets.

So yeah, it's better this way. It's better to shout surprise than to dig bullets out of his chest.

He looks over at her again, examining the stoic, if not mildly impressed expression on her face as they pass the gym, the training center, Intel . . . the cafeteria. Sure must beat the cold-ass Russian warehouses. He wants to ask her if she's ready for this. If she's ready to start all over again.

He doesn't though, because he knows she's not. At least, he sure as hell wasn't.

But with Coulson's help he turned out okay.

She would be okay, too.