Clint was suiting up in the plane above Egypt, organizing his quiver and bow. As much as he would have liked to think that this was just a regular mission, he and everybody else on the plane knew it wasn't.

Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow, sat across from him, staring at a fixed point on the horizon. She made no clear moves to comfort herself or be consoled about the situation they were about to be dropped in. She was only a few years younger than Clint, but her getup (to make her look youthful) and his knowledge of what she was capable of made him slightly uneasy.

The SHIELD agent had spent months tracking her, given only 'Black Widow', a history (more like a list of suspected crimes), and a face that might or might not have been hers. He had gone through the international underworld, tracing the whispers and legends to a twenty year old woman- emotionally, she was a girl- named Natasha Romanoff.

Staring down at her unconscious body, he had a decision to make. She had committed so many crimes, and probably many they didn't even know about. Many people would have shot her right there and walked away, allowing the authorities to take care of it.

But Clint didn't. He waited, and when she woke up he offered her a choice; come back with him to America in chains, or consider joining SHIELD. The girl had been fierce, insisting that she didn't need his help. Many agents would have shot her then, and told themselves that they were compassionate for even trying, but Clint had shrugged and told her she had to make a decision. She finally did (obviously) and here they were.

The therapists had insisted that she was fine now, cleared for duty and all that. And because Natasha would actually speak with Clint (with the other agents she would just shrug or nod) Fury had decided to put the two of them together for this, with Clint there in case the Widow did anything. He trusted his judgment, blah blah, but Clint knew that it was truthfully punishment for not following orders.

Coulson, his handler, called over to him. "You ready to go?" Clint nodded, securing everything on his person. They were going to be collecting information about corruption in the Egyptian government while at an art exhibition at the home of some influential general. "You'll cover Romanoff as she goes in, interrogates the general, and makes her exit. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Clint said. He looked across at Natasha. "Do you have a signal?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Do we need one? I'm not an amateur, Hawk."

Clint raised an eyebrow at her tone. "Neither am I, and I've always had a signal."

She shrugged one shoulder sullenly. "Fine. If I mention that somebody smells, that's a problem."

Clint nodded thoughtfully. "Subtle. I like it."

Natasha smiled, just at the very corner of her mouth. "I'm a professional, Hawk. I don't throw unnecessary insults at people, unless I'm trying to prove a point."

Clint smiled, admiring it. Many of the agents he had worked with often resorted to petty mockery, and they had been twice Natasha's age. Maybe she was more mature than he had previously assumed.