No smut, despite the rating. This one falls right on the line between T and M, so I upped it just to be safe. If I write another chapter, there will probably be smut there.


It was almost a month before Clint saw Natasha again. He had pulled two jobs in Saudi Arabia and another in rural Sicily before he was assigned the one he was on now. Actually, he thought she might have been in Sicily, there had been signs: a broken lock, a guard that conveniently went missing.

But now he was in Barcelona, and things were about to go horribly wrong.

"This is why I hate this kind of work," he thought to himself as he ran down the hotel stairway. He had been at an upscale charity event, the kind where you had to go through metal detectors and they didn't take kindly to weapons, because despite his distaste for up-close espionage, he really had to get a bug onto this mark so S.H.I.E.L.D. could collect proof of wrongdoing before officially ordering his execution.

But somehow in the process he had been made, and now he was running from three very well-trained bodyguards. They cornered him in the basement and spread out, two of them sandwiching him between them and putting him at a distinct disadvantage. One lunged, swinging a fist, and Clint focused on him, sidestepping and grabbing the man's arm, forcing his elbow the wrong way. He was just wondering what was taking the other guard so long to attack when he heard a surprised grunt behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see a flash of red hair.

They took down their opponents in roughly the same amount of time, him with crippling stomp to a knee and a quick neck snap, her with a knife he had no idea how she'd snuck past security. Clint was just turning around to look for the third one when he jumped out from behind a boiler, swinging a pipe that connected solidly with Natasha's head.

She crumpled, and the man immediately went for Clint, who ducked under his attack and rolled toward Natasha's body, plucking the knife out of her hand and sending it into the last man's throat with a flick of his wrist. Clint barely paused to make sure the man was down before tentatively placing his fingers onto Natasha's neck.

When he established that her pulse was solid, and also that she was out cold and unlikely to wake up and beat him, he picked her up, pausing to reclaim her knife and then slipping out of the service entrance.

He tried not to think about how much he liked the feeling of her in his arms.


It was a solid hour after Clint had gotten Natasha back to his tiny living space before she woke. She jolted out of bed and onto the floor, rolling until her back was against a wall, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room.

"Is this how you always wake up?"

Her gaze snapped to him, a safe distance away put proffering a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

"Are you going to hurt me if I get close enough to give these to you? You've got a pretty nasty bump there."

As if those words reminded her of her pain, she closed her eyes and put a hand to the wound he'd cleaned and bandaged.

"I got hit…" she said, sounding dazed.

"By Mr. Green, in the basement, with the lead pipe." He paused, waiting for some acknowledgement that he had made a joke, even if it was just an eye roll, but she only blinked at him. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. It was my fault; I should have warned you there was a third guy."

She stared blankly, trying to put it all back together in her head. Clint could almost see the next thought pop into her brain as she looked down, running her hands over her thighs. "Where's my knife?" she asked.

He reached into a pocket and pulled it out by the blade. It was a little thing, only about three inches long. She reached for it, and part of him wanted to show off a little, throw it down and make it stick into the floor right between her feet. But the rational part of his brain reminded him that this woman was dangerous, and she was injured, and maybe he didn't want to go around throwing things at her. For both their sakes.

So he bent down and slid it to her across the floor, handle first, and as she picked it up, he asked, "How'd you get that thing into the benefit?"

As an answer, she slid the hand holding it through the slit in her dress, pushing it up a bit so he could see that there was a sheath on the inside of her thigh, up almost to her bikini line. He understood. He could picture it now, the young security guard with the metal detector wand, waving it down her front. When it went off right at the apex of her thighs, all it would have taken was a wink and an assumption, and she would have been in the clear. One of the benefits of being female in this business.

He shook his head of those thoughts and the unprofessional direction in which they were traveling. Instead he offered her the pain medication he was holding again.

"Did you want this? It's the good stuff."

She was clearly skeptical, but the pain in her head must have been intense, because she finally nodded, and winced a little in the process. He walked over and offered her a hand, feeling mildly surprised when she took it, allowing him to help her stand and move back to the bed. He started to open up the bottle, but she took it from him, read the label quickly and opened it herself, then inspected a pill carefully before swallowing it dry.

He offered her a glass of water, but she shook her head slowly.

"You should drink something," he said.

She didn't even have to say Don't tell me what to do; it was perfectly evident from her expression. He shrugged and set the glass down on the table by the cot. Then he moved back across the room and sat down with his back to the wall, watching her. If she didn't want to talk, that was just fine. He settled into the well of patience all snipers had, watching her. Waiting.


A long period of silence passed between them. She must have been feeling better after a while, because she shook her head a little bit and looked around the room, seeming a bit more alive. Finally she broke the silence.

"I'm somewhat impressed with S.H.I.E.L.D's security. I looked for this place last night and couldn't find it."

Most men would be uncomfortable with the idea of an assassin trying to find out where they sleep. Clint found he rather liked the idea. He shook himself again. He could see a pattern in the way his thoughts were heading, and he knew that there was nothing but trouble that way. For fuck's sake, she was called the Black Widow. That was about as clear as a warning could get.

"You found my place in Kiev," he replied.

"Only because I followed you home. And you were sloppy." He had been sloppy; he'd been too tired to worry about who might be following him. After another pause, he decided it was time to get down to business and have the real conversation they needed to have.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "Have you seen enough of what I do to come work for S.H.I.E.L.D?"

She fixed a sharp gaze on him. "That's not why I've been following you."

Now he was taken aback. "Then why…?"

She didn't answer for a moment, just gave him a hard look. Finally she said, "I owe you my life."

Clint blinked. That was what he had been expecting to hear. "So?"

"I dislike owing people. If we met on the field someday and I had never paid you back, it would mean I'd have to forfeit. Which I do not consider an option."

Clint's mind was racing. Apparently he had read their relationship entirely wrong. And he'd also totally misjudged the likelihood that she would change sides. He was trying to work through all their interactions, casting them in this new light. This explained why she'd been unhappy that he hadn't needed her help in Kiev.

"So, you intend to follow me around the world, waiting for an opportunity to save my life?"

"Yes."

"And then what?"

She faltered. "I hadn't thought that far ahead," she said. Somehow he knew she was lying. He knew she had tried to figure out what she would do and had come up empty.

"Just so you know, I don't consider you in my debt. Killing you was the wrong call."

"Actually, killing me was exactly the right call. And I don't think much of the fact that you couldn't make it, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm alive now because you didn't."

He tried to hide that he was stung. Clearly she liked him even less than he'd thought she did.

"Not bragging, just stating facts, here," he said, "but I've been in this business a long time, and I haven't died yet. This could take a while."

She shrugged wordlessly.

He frowned, then passed a hand over his face, trying to keep from sounding too exasperated. "Okay, well, moving past the part where none of this makes any goddamn sense, can I ask what you intend to do now? Disappear again, spend weeks tracking me down after I move? If you're trying to save my life, you might as well stick with me."

"No."

"You really still don't trust me?"

She gave him a withering look. "Trust is for children."

"If I were going to kill you, you'd be dead already."

Natasha laughed a little, but it was hollow. "It's not you killing me I'm—" and suddenly she cut off, looked as though something had just occurred to her. She cocked her head to the side and scrutinized him. Then she nodded. "Okay," she said, and Clint did a double take, unsure he'd heard her correctly. "I'll stay."

"I… just like that?"

She didn't answer, just popped two more pills in her mouth and downed the entire glass of water he had left her.

"Can I use your shower?" she asked. He gaped a little bit, completely bewildered by the sudden turnabout.

"Uh… yeah." He indicated the door leading to the small bathroom. He was still confused and mostly speechless when she walked through the door and shut it behind her.

Clint shook his head, consciously deciding that trying to work out the Black Widow was a waste of time, and he set about assembling the second cot so they'd both have somewhere to sleep. When the water turned on, he couldn't stop himself from picturing Natasha naked and wet in the next room. She hadn't even locked the bathroom door, which might have struck him as odd if her weren't so consumed by lustful thoughts.

Less than ten minutes later, the water shut off and the curtain slid across the bar. Clint heard the door open and turned just in time to see a graceful hand dart into the bag right next to the doorframe. His bag. She grabbed something white and retreated back into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Before he really even had time to wonder what had just happened, the door opened again and Natasha stepped out wearing… Clint's throat suddenly went dry. She was wearing his t-shirt—and nothing else. It hit her upper thigh and left most of her long legs bare. She had just barely dried her hair, and every so often it would drip, the water rolling down her neck and leaving a wet, transparent track between her breasts.

He'd never seen anything hotter in his life.

As she brushed past him, the heat from the shower seemed to radiate from her skin and sink into his bones. She moved to the opposite wall and pressed her ear against it. More inexplicable behavior, but at least this he could ask about.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if your neighbors are out. I need clothes. Do you know if a woman lives in this room?"

Thank god, something to think about besides the gorgeous body of the deadly assassin. Clint was very thorough; he had checked out the people in suites surrounding his so he would recognize someone out of the ordinary.

"There's a woman about your size who lives in 3. She's a waitress, so she should be at work now, too. Are you really going to steal her clothes?"

He expected derision, but instead Natasha fixed him with a smoldering expression. "Would you prefer I wore this all day?"

He really hoped his gulp wasn't audible. As a distraction, he turned and rummaged around in his bag, pulling out a wad of cash and tossing her a few dozen Euros. "At least leave her some compensation." Now she did roll her eyes at him, but took the money and walked out the door.

After the door was shut, Clint let out a breathy "Fuck." He decided that—for multiple reasons—he really needed a shower.

When he left the bathroom after his shower, more than one kind of tension relieved, Natasha was back in the room. She was dressed, thankfully, but in rather tight workout clothes. It was obvious that, despite being similar heights and sizes, the girl from suite 3 was distinctly less voluptuous than Natasha, and the yoga pants she was wearing left little to the imagination.

She stood by the window, very blatantly reading confidential S.H.I.E.L.D. files. When he walked in, she gave him an eyebrow and dared him to say something. He decided that there wasn't anything in those files important enough to pick a fight with her about, so he let it go.

"I see your employers haven't found out the name of Zimmerman's Russian contact?" Luca Zimmerman was the man Clint had tried to bug earlier that evening.

"No," he replied. "Why, did you get it?"

She gave a wicked smile and put the file back on the desk. "It's amazing the kinds of secrets someone will spill in bed."

"I can't imagine doing that."

"What? Fucking someone for information? "

"Yeah."

"It's just the same as fucking for any other reason."

"I'd say that means you aren't doing it right."

"Oh, believe me," she purred, moving right up close to him, "I do it perfectly. Work you right up to the edge, right at that moment when your muscles all tense and electricity shoots up your spine and you're just. so. close. And I whisper that I'll do whatever you want if you just tell me what I want to know. And you try to come up with a lie, but the only thing you think about is the heat of my mouth on you, and before you can stop yourself you blurt out the truth, tell me anything and everything just so you can come."

Clint was mesmerized again, watching her full lips form those filthy words. She was so close to him, too close, and his hands drifted up to her waist totally of their own accord. But the second he touched her, she backed away, slipping gracefully out of his grip.

He put all his energy into making sure his next breath didn't sound like a gasp.

"Okay, seriously, are you fucking with me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said nonchalantly from across the room.

I'll take that as a yes, he thought to himself.

"So you fucked Luca Zimmerman and he told you the name of his smuggler? Really?"

"No, of course not," she said, sounding amused. "I fucked his assistant."

"His…"

"You must have seen her at the party. Tall, brunette, gorgeous, never leaves Zimmerman's side? She practically runs that man's life; she knows all his dirty secrets, and she's far less inclined to keep them."

Thankfully, at that moment Natasha turned away from him to look out the window. Clint took the opportunity to break his military bearing, sag forward and rub his hands over his face a few times. Wow. It was one thing to read in a file about a woman capable of reducing men to whimpering puddles of lust. It was another thing entirely to experience it first-hand.

Then he stood up straight and summoned his resolve. He didn't know what she was trying to accomplish, but she wouldn't get to him. Cool, composed, these were traits Clint prided himself on, and he'd be damned if he was going to let one woman take them away.

"I didn't mean you were doing the fucking-for-information thing wrong, incidentally." Maybe it was a bad idea to keep talking to her about sex, but he was determined to come off unaffected.

"Oh?"

"It's the sex for pleasure you're doing wrong, if it feels just the same as what you do for your job."

She raised her eyebrows. "And what makes you think you know the first thing about my pleasure?"

"Well… I…" he floundered.

"I'd bet money you don't know anything about what any woman wants." There was a strange kind of challenge in her voice. "I know your type: big macho man who thinks he's so good in bed. Well, let me tell you a secret, Barton. Every woman you were ever with was faking it."

He gave her a small frown. There was no anger in his expression; he had always been very slow to anger, and years working as a spy had only enhanced that aspect of his personality. But he was confused. He knew that Natasha wouldn't ever speak as carelessly as it seemed like she was, which meant she was goading him on purpose. And he had no clue why.

"Okay," he said slowly. "I may be totally off base here, but if you're coming on to me I'm going to need you to come out and say so." It was blunt, but then, he was a blunt person. He could play mind games if he needed to, but he didn't like them. And it might have been naïve, but he wanted his relationship with Natasha to be based on something a bit more real.

She actually looked surprised. Honestly surprised. Her body dropped its seductive lean against the window and she gave him a long, searching look. "I'm not," she said softly, but she sounded distracted. She continued to watch him, long enough that he had to turn away and find something to do to escape the intensity of her stare. He started packing, and it was almost fifteen minutes before she spoke again.

"Are you afraid of me?"

He really considered the question. "No."

"Then why won't you touch me?"

He turned back to her, totally bewildered. "Did you want me to touch you?" He tried to say it lightly, but it was a pretty damn loaded question. And he still had no idea what her game was.

"No," she said. "But when has that ever stopped a man?"

His eyebrows shot up. "I don't know what the hell kind of men you've been— wait. Is that what you've been doing? Have you been trying to provoke me into raping you so you won't owe me anymore?" His voice was rising, and she was looking at him warily. This was the most intense she'd ever seen him. He was simultaneously horrified by and concerned for her. "Fuck, Romanov, do you realize how fucked up that is?"

She pressed her lips together into a thin line and looked at the floor, and he knew that look, knew that he'd upset her. Immediately he took a breath and allowed his emotion to pass over him. When he spoke again he was much calmer.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. But regardless of however things go between us, that is never going to happen. There's a chance I may kill you someday, but I swear that I will not ever touch you sexually unless you ask me to. With words. Very explicit words."

She gave a wry smile, but she still wasn't looking him in the eye. "When we met you told me you didn't consider yourself one of the good guys."

"Yeah?"

"Well, take it from me, Clint Barton—you're one of the good guys."

"Because I won't rape you?"

"More because you're so horrified by the thought. It seemed like the quickest solution to my problem."

He collapsed on a cot and rubbed a hand over his face. "Christ, Romanov. If you hate owing me that much… god, now I'm really worried what else you're going to do. The only thing I want is for you to stop killing good people because they've pissed off someone powerful. You do that, I call us square. Go live your life."

"I don't have one."

He would've asked what she meant, but he knew already. He was the same way. Without the job, he had no one, nowhere, no purpose. He had no idea what he'd do in the civilian world.

"Then come work for S.H.I.E.L.D," he said quietly. "It's as close to freedom as I've ever gotten."

And finally, finally, she didn't turn him down. With a softer expression than he had ever seen her wear, she conceded:

"Maybe."


One more chapter after this one, I think. I've just got to get her to the point where she says yes.