Clint was waiting outside the Briefing Room when Natasha arrived, freshly showered with a bandage wrapped around the gash on her palm.
There was no one else around, so he unabashedly let his eyes roam her body. He was probably the only man in the world who found combat boots and cargo pants sexy as hell, but then Natasha had a way of making any outfit look damn attractive.
He frowned at the bandage on her hand, and the frown became a grimace when his sharp gaze landed on her swollen reddened shoulder, exposed by the plain tank she was wearing.
"What the hell have you been doing?" He asked wearily.
"Training." Natasha replied curtly, avoiding his eyes. She had been unsuccessful in blocking out the nights events, and was more than embarrassed that Clint had witnessed it.
"Only you could come out of a spontaneous solo training session with injuries." Clint said incredulously as they turned to knock on the Briefing Room door.
"Oh, so we're just going to forget about that incident last week when you disappeared at 2am to shoot a bow for three hours straight and took four layers of skin off your forearm?" She responded in a low voice as the doors swung open. He glared at her as she continued at a normal volume, "Besides, it's not my fault Coulson interrupted me in the middle of a simulation."
From one side of the table, Coulson shot Natasha another apologetic look which she waved off, taking a seat opposite him. Clint just blinked at the two of them in confusion.
"What simulation gives you a dislocated shoulder from one interruption?" He asked incredulously, moving to join her at the table.
"Does it matter?" She answered exasperatedly, "God, Barton, I'm fine."
"16.04" Coulson said quietly, staring intently at the file in front of him on the desk.
Clint stared accusingly at Natasha, while she shot a similar glare to Coulson.
"Are you crazy Nat? 16.04?"
"I'm perfectly capable of completing any of the simulations, Barton."
"When you're at your best, sure, but not—"
"Are you implying I'm not at my best?"
"No, Natasha! Not when you woke at three o'clock in the damn—"
"A-hem!" Three heads flicked around and stared at Nick Fury, who was standing in the doorway with one eyebrow cocked. "Am I interrupting something, Agents?" He asked smoothly.
"No, sir." Natasha replied, curtly, turning away from Clint, eyes boring into the wall opposite her. Clint continued to stare as she instantly tucked away her pride and anger behind a completely calm face before her superior.
Fury cleared his throat again as he came to stand at the head of the table, pulling Clint's gaze from his partner.
"Strike Team Delta," He began, "Bulgaria. Tonight. Recon and Intel collection only. I don't wat to see you back here for at least 9 days. Quinjet leaves," he glanced down at his watch, "15 minutes ago."
There is a pregnant pause as the team looks up at the director. Clint is the one to break it.
"That's it?" He asks, slightly incredulously.
"I apologise if you find this mission beneath you, Agent Barton," Fury's voice was dripping with sarcasm, "But we need you in Bulgaria. Apparently I need to stress the urgency of the mission, so get moving. You're already late. Dismissed."
Clint snatched his mission package off Coulson, grumbling under his breath about "stupid rookie assignments" while Natasha simply rolled her eyes. She got to her feet and made to follow him out of the room, when Coulson caught her wrist by the door. She glanced at him expectantly.
"Natasha, I want to apologise again for this morning, but there is something I wanted to talk to you about." She raised her eyebrows when he didn't immediately continue. He coughed awkwardly and began.
"I just wanted to make sure everything is ok. You have been doing so well, but Clint seems to have some concerns."
"Clint talked to you about me?" Natasha's voice was low and gave away very little. Coulson sighed.
"He's worried about you Natasha. He says you've been having nightmares, training all night, pushing yourself too hard. It's ok to need some help. You haven't had a session in psych for three years, we don't expect you to always be 'fine'".
Natasha smiled tightly. "Thank you, Coulson. But I am fine. Now if you'll excuse me I need to get going." She stepped past him brusquely, ignoring his frown and the gaze that followed her out of the room.
She kept on walking straight past Clint who was waiting for her in the corridor.
"Hey!" He called, pushing himself off the wall and catching up to her in a few strides.
"You are unbelievable, Clint Barton." She muttered, not even pausing to look at him. "Going behind my back to our handler? Are you serious? After all the times I've covered for you, all the shit you've gone through and I've kept my mouth shut because I've got your goddamn back."
"Tash come on." When she didn't stop, he grabbed her shoulder and spun her to face her. "Natasha. Seriously. You don't know how shit this made me feel, alright? Don't you understand how worried I was that I would even consider talking to Phil? Jesus Nat I don't have a fucking death wish, you need help!"
In seconds Clint was pinned against a wall with Natasha's elbow pressed into his jugular. She stared at him for several seconds before making a noise of disgust and pushing away, stalking off down the hall.
Groaning, Clint began following after his partner again, not bothering to continue arguing his point (even if he was totally justified in going to Coulson…). Matching stride perfectly, the team turned into the main walkway which was bustling with people. There was some kind of commotion at the end of the hall, and Clint craned his neck to try and get a look.
A group of agents was escorting someone into the main complex. Clearly whoever they were, it was a high risk movement – given the number of guards, agents, and large weapons they were holding. As the group came closer, Natasha and Clint stepped back out of the way and scrutinised the affair.
The detainee was tall but hunched over, feet practically dragging along the floor while agents on either side of him supported his weight. Clint couldn't make out any of his face past the long, greasy black hair that hung down on either side. Even from back here Clint could tell the guy was big. He was dressed in full heavy duty tactical clothes, boots that looked like they could stomp your face in, and he practically bulged. The muscles in his neck were taught, and his massive shoulders—hang on. Was that arm fucking metal?!
Clint turned to his partner in wonder to point out the bionic prisoner, but she was white as a sheet. Her eyes, glued to the group moving past them, were widened in confusion (and fear? No. The Black Widow wasn't afraid of anything) and she had one hand on the gun at her hip.
"Nat?" Clint asked, looking from his partner to subject of her gaze, "Do you know this guy or something?"
At that moment, the prisoner lifted his head, groaning in agony. He looked around wildly, but when his eyes landed on Natasha his whole body shook.
"Natalia!"
The cry seemed to rock the building and Natasha looked like someone had punched her square in the gut.
"Natalia!" The man screamed again, his voice thick and foreign, and begin trying to shake off the guards at his sides. "это я! Актив, что происходит?" He grunted and threw an agent to the ground.
Natasha was frozen, her mouth in a small circle, a tiny furrow in her brow, as Clint stared in confusion.
The prisoner became more agitated. On the side of his metal arm, he could not be contained, as it bent and twisted unnaturally, fighting off the half a dozen men who tried to get him under control. He started to fight his way towards them, still yelling out in Russian, his words punctuated by punches.
"Наталия!" He cried out once more, lunging toward Strike Team Delta. Clint was reaching for his bow when one of the other agents finally released three shots of tranquilisers into the prisoner's neck. He slowed, and dropped to one knee, still reaching out towards the shocked redhead.
"Наталия…" he murmured once more, before the extraction team caught him under the arms again and began dragging him off in their original direction, shooting sheepish apologetic looks to the two senior agents involved.
Crowds of people had gathered, watching the commotion, and Clint cleared his throat and started moving them along. When he returned to his partner, it looked like she had not moved a muscle – barely taken a breath – since the whole scenario had begun.
Clint reached out hesitantly, and grabbed Natasha by the shoulders. At his touch, it was like a cloud washed away from her. The shocked expression completely disappeared, her lips becoming a thin line, eyes flaming. Natasha straightened, and brushed Clint's hands away dismissively.
Without saying a word, she turned back the way they had come and began walking back to Fury's office. As Clint trailed behind her, confused and more than slightly panicked, he could track the way that an all-consuming rage began to work its way into Natasha's body.
He didn't know what had just happened, but he knew that in that moment he would have been glad to be perched on an icy roof in Bulgaria. And he certainly did not envy whatever wrath Director Fury was about to face.