A Few Months Prior to the Events of 'Iron Man 2':
A charcoal-coloured, armoured Acura MDX sped along the Hungarian motorway. It was very late at night, and the occasional road light illuminated the interior of the car: a forbidding bow and a quiver of arrows to match were sprawled over the backseat, with pistols, a combat belt, and a number of backpacks filling most of the rest of the space.
Half of this equipment belonged to Natasha Romanoff, notorious assassin turned SHIELD Agent, who was currently struggling to control a raging conflict deep within herself, trying to conceal her inner torment from the man across from her who was driving, Clint Barton, her only partner and closest friend, who seemed to have his attention solely fixed on the road ahead.
Natasha tried and tried again to get a grip on herself, but to most people the distress would be understandable; it wasn't every day that they broke the field forces of an insurgence organisation and brought their leader to his knees right in the middle of a crowded Budapest University campus... But then, maybe it was, in the case of two such SHIELD agents as the Black Widow and Hawkeye, which was why Natasha was becoming increasingly frustrated with herself for allowing her mind to make such a big deal out of it.
To a small extent, she was succeeding, because it wasn't the mission which got to Natasha. It was the memories the operation had cruelly brought back to haunt her, and not for the first time... A hospital fire in Sao Paolo - even as they left earlier, infernos still raged in some buildings and the once-proud place now looked more like a battered ghost town... Innocent, terrified people - there had been plenty of those around today... Hushed commands in dark corners – everything had been kept low-profile as this was supposed to be one of SHIELD's more covert operations, if that was even possible... Huge wads of blood money - of course she was going to be rewarded for the 'good' she had done today... She couldn't stop herself from letting a small whimper of panic escape her as each of her worst memories found some way of connecting themselves to today's events, making them even worse to remember.
"Hill, you copy?"
The sudden sound of Barton's voice broke through Natasha's inner terror, she only just realising that he must have heard her a second ago.
"Barton, everything alright?"
Agent Hill almost sounded concerned on the other end of the line.
"Yeah. Keep it to yourself for now, but we're checkin' in at Kilo-Two-Three for the night. Get the bad guy home. Out."
"All copy. Look after yourselves; you don't need anymore trouble tonight. Over and out."
"Clint... We don't ne-"
Natasha tried to will some quiet words into reality.
"Nat, don't even try it. We're getting off the road for the night," Clint said firmly.
"It's fine, really. We need to get back as soon as we can."
"Well if you say so, I guess... That is, if you wanna drive? Which I would not recommend right now… Or on most other days thinking about it…"
He broke a small half-smile to conclude this - he had her pinned. Although, she was certain that both of them knew he could have kept driving until the next night at least. For a second, she smiled to herself, then the precious, positive moment slipped away all too quickly.
They eventually came to a small bungalow in a suburb of the next Hungarian city, Szombathely, which was right near the border with safer Austria. It was a normal-enough-looking place for a SHIELD safehouse: trimmed front lawn, forest green garage door, faintly patterned curtains, and right about now, Natasha was just coming round to the idea of resting up for the night.
After parking the car in the garage, and sorting out their gear, they both went inside to the simple lounge. Natasha was grateful just to sit on an old and dusty sofa, while Clint went to the adjoining kitchen to retrieve a couple of beers.
He returned and sat with a sigh of exhaustion, proffering one of the beers to Natasha. She declined - didn't really feel like drinking or eating much at the moment.
After a few sips of his drink, Clint took it upon himself to break the silence; it wasn't as if she was going to.
"Natasha..."
He waited until she looked him in the eye to continue:
"See, I know you better than any other person on this planet, so there's not a lot of use in trying to hide what you're feeling right now; I was there today too, y'know. I saw everything you saw, and I understand what it's doing to your hea- Don't. I know this. Don't try to blag me off."
She had tried to answer back to what he had to say, but he knew how she lied, and even in that split-second before she even started talking, he knew she was going to try and cover up.
"I'm only saying this because I wanna help, so you don't have to keep facing it alone." She looked away sharply as he was talking, this last sentence sounding almost like a question – a question of trust in him.
But now, slowly, she turned her head back to face him, looking him straight in the eye, serious, intimidating almost. But this was betrayed by the solitary tear rolling down her tensed cheek.
"I saw the hospital today, Clint…"
She paused. He waited.
"I saw the hospital, the fires, the people, the fighting..."
She began to shake as more tears came to her eyes.
I saw some of the worst things I've ever done, and everything that earned me the fear and notoriety of being the deadliest and bloodiest woman on Earth…"
She was about to lose it.
"Everything back then I was proud of myself for being."
She doubled over as if in physical agony as everything she now hated herself for doing and being swirled in her mind and forced itself to be remembered.
As fast as humanly possible, Clint was sat by her side, arms wrapped around her back and stomach. She embraced him, her head falling into his chest, as she began sobbing freely. "'Tasha... 'Tasha... It's alright. I'm right here, I understand, you're okay... We've all made mistakes, and yes, that's all they were: mistakes... You were different then... But it's alright now, you're with me now, with SHIELD, doing good things... You're okay..." Clint was saying softly, in his low, soothing voice.
"So much red... It can't be cleaned; what I've done... No matter how long or how hard I work for the 'good team'... No matter how many Budapests there are… There's always going to be something that will never let me forget it…"
"Hey, hey, hey, come on now, don't do that to yourself. What you do now is the best you can be doing to make up for those mistakes," Clint said, assuring her, with the smallest of smiles.
"C'mon, let's get you to bed."
She let him carry her to a bedroom – which on any other day she would have given him a long-term dead arm for – take off her boots for her, and help her get comfortable on one of the cots, while she began to get a bit of a hold on herself.
Eventually, after some final assurances, Clint turned to the door. He hadn't gone a step when a hand grabbed the corner of his open jacket.
"Wait."
He turned back to look at Natasha, and was knocked back a mental step by the heart-wrenching look of fear and helplessness in those angelic eyes, the eyes of the Black Widow, normally hard and cold as ice.
"Stay."
She sounded almost pleading, but she didn't care, and neither did he. His closest, dearest friend did not need to say or ask anything more. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, removed his own boots, threw them over next to hers, and lay back on top of the covers. Swinging his legs up, he shifted his jacket, and turned to face her side-on.
As before, he wrapped his arms around her, carefully, as if she were the most precious and delicate of china dolls, one over her, and one under. They moved closer then, relaxing into each other, she resting her head on his chest, he his chin on her head, both soundly content with the moment and allowing themselves to draw the smallest modicum of childish safety from the other's closeness.
"Good night, 'Tasha. Sleep now. Sleep well."
A prayer for his friend.
It wasn't four minutes before Natasha Romanoff was fast asleep and untroubled, at which point, Clint Barton allowed himself to drift off, gladly prepared to end the emotional evening and put it behind him, behind them.