Disclaimer – Recognizable characters belong to Marvel. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No copyright infringement intended.

Notes – Thanks to my dear friend Cindy Ryan. Who is awesome.

Trust – Love may be for children, but trust is for partners.

He was readying his equipment for yet another mission, laying out his bow, checking and carefully entering each specialized arrowhead into his quiver. This would mark the fourth overseas jaunt in two mere weeks. He wanted to remind SHIELD upper brass that he couldn't move faster than a speeding bullet or leap tall buildings with a single bound, and jet-setting from one side of the planet to the other and back again was wearing his patience thin.

If he didn't know better, he'd think they were trying to keep him intentionally away. All of the missions were solo, keeping him far from his Strike Team Delta partner, Natasha Romanoff. She'd sent him an encrypted message two days prior, something about taking a sail with "SR," which he surmised was Steve Rogers, the one and only Captain America. He was relieved a bit at that. Clint Barton, after all, wasn't exactly a super soldier. He had some moves and skill, but nothing compared to the World War II hero.

But, he hadn't worked with Natasha in months. They hadn't even been at any of the SHIELD locations at the same time for five minutes, not to say hi, grab a coffee, or anything. Truthfully, he missed hearing her voice, or seeing the smirk reach her eyes when he said something funny. The encrypted messages – gibberish to the untrained eye – just weren't the same.

With a sigh, he grabbed his radio, to call into the nearest field post to inform them that he was about to begin his mission and that he would report back when the job was done. "Echo-one-seven to Beacon," he said, giving his designated call sign for the mission and the name of the base he was attempting to reach. He waited for the go-ahead order, but one didn't come. His brow furrowing, he depressed the button again, repeating a bit clearer, slower. "This is Echo-one-seven to Beacon, over."

The silence on the line ended, rather suddenly, replaced by static. The once-live channel was now gone, history. SHIELD offices didn't just go dark. Something was wrong – drastically wrong. His trained, honed senses didn't resort to panic – he didn't have that kind of luxury. Instead, he slid the quiver onto his back and lifted his bow while his mind raced through the varying scenarios, each seemingly unlikely, but, given the things he'd seen and experienced, he knew farfetched was normally the name of the game.

He fired off a quick message back to Natasha, a series of alphanumeric characters that she would know meant that something was wrong, he would contact her again as soon as he could, and, in the meantime, she should stay close to Steve until he knew what was happening.

There were very few people he trusted. Natasha he trusted implicitly, without a moment's doubt or question. During the New York siege, he learned that the Captain didn't hold grudges – not when lives where on the line and when it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. Clint couldn't be sure if it was that catastrophic yet, but he'd learned to trust his instincts. And his gut told him that everything that was going on around him was wrong. He just wasn't entirely sure what was going on yet.

His gut also told him to move. Considering Beacon's darkening, he opted not to wear his SHIELD uniform out into the world. He wasn't sure the stylized eagle logo would provide the usual clearances he was used to receiving – waltzing through customs, past armed guards, the like. He retained his badge, though, sliding it into the interior pocket of his leather jacket. He wiped the hard drive of his computer, dropping the now useless piece of tech into his duffel bag with his uniform and the rest of his clothes. Rather than using the front door, Clint used the fire escape, taking a long look at the city before him.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he saw a series of three black SUVs peel through the streets. They weren't coming his direction, but something about it seemed odd, out of place. "What the hell is going on?" he muttered.

She wasn't entirely sure what to think when Steve had insisted he knew where to go and he wound up taking them to a little house in the D.C. suburbs. It was nice enough, sure, and nonchalant looking, but was it what they needed? Natasha had some caches around the world and was certain she could get to any of them.

Upon seeing Sam Wilson and his place, she quickly summed him up. Veteran, patriot... trained and deadly, but based on his reaction to the Captain, not a threat. She relaxed slightly, but only just. As she washed her hair and face, she heard her phone's text message alert and realized she'd left it in Sam's bedroom, where Steve was patiently waiting his turn to get cleaned up.

When she opened the door, her red hair wrapped up in a towel, her clothes clinging to her a bit from the steam of a quick, hot shower, she saw Steve's attention shift from her phone, abandoned on the made bed, to her. "It's from Barton," he said gently, averting his gaze as she rushed past him. Steve moved to take her place in the bathroom. He lingered, though, looking back at her as her green eyes flitted over the screen. "Can you trust him?"

Her eyes stopped on the part of the message where he requested she stay with Steve until he contacted her again. "For the longest time, Clint was the only person I could trust."

"But, then Nick...?" he guessed.

She nodded. "Nick. Stark. Banner, when he's Banner." She looked up at him. "You."

"Nick said not to trust anybody," he reminded her.

"Clint and I have been through hell together," she told him. "Long before New York, and with some frequency. And SHIELD just left him out in the cold, too."

"That's what the message said?" he asked, frowning a bit.

"We... have our own language," she admitted. "Something SHIELD doesn't know, something no one's broken."

"You're certain?" Steve asked. He wanted to believe her. He knew that there was a connection between Natasha and Clint, more than they would ever admit to, even under torture. The tiny arrow around her neck spoke volumes.

"Completely," she told him, nodding.

Steve nodded a bit, closing the bathroom door behind him.

She looked at the message, wondering where he was exactly, what SHIELD had done to him, or if he knew about Nick. It was only because Clint had trusted the director that she'd even remotely considered opening up, to becoming a true SHIELD operative, to working for something greater than her bottom line. It was only because of Clint that she was even given the opportunity to go straight, to clean up her act, to have the chance to wipe out the red in her ledger. And it was only because of Steve that she still had that option. She sighed a bit, drying her hair with the towel. While she wanted to text Clint back, she knew that they were in a precarious position. His message hadn't relayed that he was in any immediate, physical danger.

All she could hope for was that he remained safe, that SHIELD wouldn't see him as a threat, and that they'd meet back up when things settled down a bit, when life made sense again.

He made his way back to the States carefully, taking a few detours, no direct flights anywhere. At the airport bar in Stockholm, it was all over the news. Captain America on his knees, surrounded by SHIELD operatives. Worse still, the redheaded woman a few feet from him, also at the mercy of the Strike forces. Clint seethed. This was wrong. It was all wrong. Fury dead, Steve and Natasha captured... He regretted telling Natasha to stay with the Captain now, but he'd get to D.C., to the Triskelion, and he'd work his way up the levels until somebody listened to reason.

Except, direct confrontation, face to face, that had never been his style.

His pondered his flight into Washington, given his close affiliation with Natasha and how ridiculous his employers were being. His flight to Dulles had been delayed but now he wondered if it was a wise choice to even fly in directly. Heading for the ticket desk, he traded destinations, opting for Charlotte, North Carolina instead. He hated yet another delay, but he'd get there, as soon as he could.

What he didn't expect, when he'd finally reached the Capital, were the helicarriers hovering over the Potomac and the air fight that was ensuing. While most of the people in the city were frantically heading for the outskirts, Clint bravely drove in, his quiver and bow in the passenger seat of the rental, determined to get there, to help.

By the time he finally got close enough to fire a shot, the three carriers were down, and he couldn't tell who had been the good guys and who had been the bad guys. The bridge into the Triskelion had been damaged by heavy artillery and a fallen plane, the rubble of which was still visible in the river. He lingered, outside of the rental car, the quiver on his back, his bow at the ready, as a black helicopter flew overhead.

For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw a shimmer of red hair through the open door. "That had better be you, Nat," he whispered.

"Agent Barton?"

He keyed in an arrowhead as he turned, just in case. An injured agent stood before him, her blonde hair messy, her clothes covered in soot and blood, which mostly seemed to come from the cut on her arm. "Yeah," he ventured carefully.

"You're not with them are you?" She knew that, technically, he and Natasha were occasionally classified as Strike agents, composing their own, independent Strike Team Delta. Considering Natasha's near incarceration with the Captain, she was taking a huge chance. "With Hydra?"

"Hydra?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

She swayed a bit on her feet, and he reached out to steady her instead of grabbing the arrow.

"We'll talk at the hospital," he decided, easing her into the back of his car.

When the door to Steve's hospital room opened, Sam smiled a little, closing his book. "Hey."

"How's he doing?" Natasha asked, stepping in and immediately moving into the darkened corner of the ICU.

"Well, the doctors are still a little perplexed," he said. "His medical records aren't exactly typical."

She smiled thinly. "Of course."

"I appreciate you trading out with me. My errands shouldn't take more than about two hours," he told her. "I can't imagine he'll want to wake alone after... well... after who knows what happened up on that helicarrier."

She couldn't either, really. "See you soon," she said as Sam saw himself out of the room.

The door didn't close as soon as she expected it to, though, and when she did hear it close, she turned and was shocked to see Clint standing there in the room. He'd managed to slip in as Sam had eased out, she guessed.

"Clint," she breathed.

He immediately pulled her into his arms and out of the shadows, holding her close. "You're okay," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the scent of him, of his after shave and shampoo, until it filled her senses. Of all the things she'd done in her life, she'd never expected to find a home with SHIELD, or a touchstone like Clint. Now that SHIELD had been shattered, lost, having him close meant the world to her. For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to be held, in full view of anyone who might be wandering down the hall, even Steve, if he was awake.

When she pulled back, he released her. Knowing that she was alive was all he needed to keep going. As much as he wouldn't have minded just disappearing with her, finding some place to hole up for a while, he knew they couldn't. While their jobs might've somehow dissolved, they still had a greater mission, a purpose that still needed to be fulfilled.

"There's so much to tell you," she said, searching his eyes.

"I've heard a bit. Hydra, though... You'll have to catch me up on that," he said.

She swallowed hard. "I put everything out there, all of Hydra... all of SHIELD's secrets, even ours..."

"Not all of ours," he murmured.

She hadn't wanted to smile, but it graced her lips and lit her eyes.

He sighed softly, relaxing for the first time in weeks. That was what he'd needed to see. He placed a hand on her shoulder, to prove again that she was real. When she swallowed a bit, he realized she was in pain and he immediately removed it. "Natasha..."

"I'm fine," she assured him, catching his arm. "And I'll be better once Rogers is awake... and once you and I are working side by side again."

He nodded. "We will be. Soon." He lingered, watching her, just for one more moment. There was a hesitance, like he wanted to say something else – do something else – but he just didn't.

She sighed so softly as Clint vanished, her strength seeming to escape with him, just for a second.

From the bed, Steve managed, weakly: "Y'know, if you asked him out, I'm sure he'd say yes..."

End.