Woah. Guys, what happened to the editing thing? Everything's smaller! I don't like it! Anyway, I am so super sorry for disappearing on you guys for basically the entire. I know that this doesn't fix it, but I've got a fic here for you, another one to post straight after this one, and then two more to post tomorrow, and two the next day! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognize.

They met in Brazil. He had been going by Connor at the time, and she as Natalia. Clint hadn't been put off by her vibrant red hair, as he had expected to be. No, he found that he rather liked it. Neither knew that they were working for separate agencies.

When he did find her again later that night—the Black Widow, his target, stalking away from her dead target—he had been slightly shocked. Clint had not been expecting to see Natalia—Natasha, Black Widow's name was Natasha Romanova—and she clearly hadn't been expecting to see him. Clint acted first. He managed to recover quickly and launched himself at his target. They fought for at least ten minutes—master assassins don't go down without one heck of a fight—before Clint, having a slight advantage, seeing as Natasha had used some of her energy on her last kill, managed to pin her, snatch an arrow from his quiver, and poise it above her throat, ready to kill, but something stopped him.

He looked down at her, and remembered the girl from earlier, Natalia, the very sweet, very mysterious, and very human red head. If he looked deep enough, he could swear that he saw traces of that same girl in Natasha's eyes. There was no way someone could fake being that human, Clint realized. He stood up, and held out a hand to Natasha. She didn't move from her position on the ground, simply watched him with cold, calculating eyes as she tried to figure out his intentions. Trying to look all the less dangerous, Clint returned his arrow to the quiver and extended both hands—an offer of a hand up from the ground and a peace offering.

Natasha regarded him warily, debating whether or not this was a ploy. When he put his arrow back, she realized that if she stood up, she would have the advantage. His favorite weapon was tucked away again, and Natasha preferred hand-to-hand combat, whereas he clearly preferred long-range stuff. If she suddenly decided to attack once she was off the ground, she would have the upper hand.

She swatted his hands away and stood. She refused to accept a hand from the enemy. Clint was unfazed by this. He took a step back and a held his hand out again, clearly saying 'come with me'.

"Why are you doing this?" Natasha asked of him. Her voice was low and rough and her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out Clint's intentions.

"I want to help you. Do you really want to kill people the rest of your life?" Clint answered. He kept his hand out, but Natasha refused to take it. Instead, she stepped up next to him and looked him in the eyes.

"You were sent here to kill me." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"You make a living killing people. So do I. Who I kill for doesn't make any difference."

"Yes, it does," Clint argued. "You kill innocent people. I kill those who kill innocents." Natasha stared at him with cold eyes, giving away nothing. "Do you ever feel any remorse, any guilt?"

Natasha didn't respond at all. Her right eye twitched, though, and Clint knew that in assassin-speak, that meant that resolve was cracking.

"Come with me." Clint reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Why?" Natasha's voice was flat, but it wavered just a tiny bit. Her gaze flickered to his hand on her wrist before snapping back to his eyes.

"You can work for S.H.I.E.L.D. with me. You'll be safer. You won't kill innocents anymore."

"What if I like what I do?"

"What if you don't?"'

Natasha didn't know why, but she wanted to go with Clint. He was right, for the most part. She really didn't like killing whoever her employers sent her after. More often than not, she did kill innocents. But she never showed any guilt, and very rarely felt any. The feeling only slowed her down, and she couldn't have that—it was get in, kill, and get out. She really only did it because she needed to live, and to live, she needed money. From the looks of the bow on Connor's—Clint's—back, S.H.I.E.L.D. did have some good money, and didn't hesitate to use it on their agents. They could probably get her some better guns.

"Alright," Natasha agreed. "One wrong move and you're dead, though."

Clint cracked a smile and said, "I figured." Natasha couldn't help the smirk that crossed her face.

In about an hour, she was in a S.H.I.E.L.D. containment cell, and ready to kill Clint.

In another hour, she was let out of her cell by Clint and a man in a suit, and led into an office where a man with an eye patch sat behind that desk.

The man in the suit left the room. Clint stayed with her.

In a matter of weeks, Natasha was back on the field, working to track and kill people like she used to be, with Clint as her partner.

Other agents and random people from missions began to blur with time. She can't remember at least half of them now.

Clint stayed, though.

He always stayed.

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