Clint felt like he was walking a knife-edge every day he went in to his office.

Things with 'Laura' had progressed steadily after her initial rebuff at her apartment. They still acted as though they were only coworkers when at the office, lingering glances notwithstanding, but they had spent a large portion of their after work hours together. Things had progressed naturally, but at a fairly sedate pace. In some ways it was ideal, it gave Clint the perfect opportunity to observe the Widow in the closest imaginable proximity, but it also bothered him. For one thing undercover had never been his forte and now he had to be "on" all the time; for another things were starting to get muddled and he no longer knew who was playing whom, or even exactly what game it was they were playing.

He was also concerned that he seemed to be spending the majority of his time with her trying to suss out what her real motivations were, to get a glimpse at the person underneath the persona, instead of just doing his damn job and squeezing her for all the intel on Cross he could before ending this part of his assignment permanently. So far all he'd discovered were mundane facts about the life and times of "Laura Matthers" with a bit of work gossip thrown in, alas nothing useful. From time to time he still thought he glimpsed the Widow behind the façade and, underneath even that, the haunted shadow that had set the wheels turning in his head in the first place. He was getting frustrated and he was worried that might be making him sloppy.

The Cross question was also bothering him. He had managed to dig up some leads based on personnel reassignments and power usage that didn't track to any on-the-books project, but so far he couldn't push it further without bringing up questions he didn't want asked. Hammer industries was definitely involved and he imagined that the resources obviously required that weren't traceable even in absences from the documentation he had access to were coming from there. There were a whole lot of blanks and not a lot of answers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him.

He was just looking into some discrepancies in warehouse and lab locations when a knock on his door brought his head up. He clicked the screen saver immediately even though his screen wasn't visible from the door. He couldn't help the very real smile that immediately came to his face and castigated himself internally at the same time that he realized it was perfect for his cover. Laura Matthers had once again managed to come to the very threshold of his office without his having even realized someone was there. Shit, that was unnerving.

Standing up and moving around to the front of his desk to meet her, Clint put his hands in his pockets and leaned back.

"Laura, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The smile on the Widow's face seemed as genuine as his own and he was once again amazed at what an excellent actor she was. No wonder men melted in the palm of her hand with merely a glance.

She waved a file in front of him before throwing it on his desk and closing his office door slightly.

"Just dropping off something you asked for from personnel. I ran into Lydia on her way and said I had to see you for Mr. Cross anyway."

"Oh?"

"I'm afraid it was a little bit of a white lie," she purred as she draped her arms over his shoulders. "But it did give me a good excuse for this." Leaning in she gave him a lingering kiss before pulling back.

"I can't say I disapprove," he said with a smirk as he pulled his hands from his pockets and let them rest lightly on her hips.

"Hmmm, I didn't think you would. So, does the head of security have plans tonight?"

"Oh nothing that can't be moved around for the right reasons I suppose."

"Good," she said letting her fingers scratch enticingly at the short hairs on the back of his neck before straightening his collar and taking a half step back. "I want you to come over tonight."

"Dinner?"

"And other things," she replied with a knowing smile as she turned to leave the office.

"What should I bring?"

"Hmmm…just your appetite."

As she left Benton's office Natasha's saucy smirk left her face and she nodded to herself. Her decision to keep her eye on Benton had definitely been the right one. She had played things relatively easily up to this point, but now was the time to step up her game. That file had contained records for several of the people she had been watching herself. They had no inherent connection aside from the fact that they all worked at Cross and the only reason any of those records would be in the same file was if he was investigating the same project she was looking into.

Benton was getting close. Too close. It was time to find out everything he knew and it just so happened that she had a foolproof method of interrogation.

It was too bad really, beneath the crass exterior there seemed to be some real steel. In a perfect world it would have been interesting to see where things might have led naturally, though of course for the Black Widow there was really only one 'natural' end to a relationship with a man. Benton might well have been an interesting man to know - in a way that didn't have to lead to that kind of end - but then this wasn't a perfect world.

She stopped momentarily as she realized that this would be yet one more red mark in her ledger. Shaking her head, she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. The fact of the matter was that he was standing in the way of her long-term goal, a goal that would be the first step towards the dismantling of the Red Room and all it stood for. In light of that one more small drop of red was a trivial enough price to pay. There would be more than enough black with which to efface it in the end.

As soon as she left his office Clint slumped back against his desk and ran his fingers through his hair. So, now was the time. There was no getting around this moment. He had been biding his time and playing the long game hoping for an opportunity more conducive to his wishes to present itself, but the Black Widow had just invited him into her lair in terms that could not be misconstrued. If he hadn't already been aware of who and what she was he would be walking into the deadliest trap imaginable. As it was he was still only giving himself a 50-50 chance…he wasn't going to be sniping anyone from a distance.

Tonight was going to be the decision point and Clint didn't plan on dying. The only clear option he had was to fulfill his primary mission. Get in, somehow play his cover to its maximum benefit, and ensure the danger of the Black Widow was neutralized. The clearest path to this end – the only sane one - was her death. Despite this he still couldn't shake the misgivings that were clamouring in the back of his mind. He was finding it harder and harder to fight his gut when it told him his orders were wrong. Could he manage to find some other way of dealing with her, an option where more than one life could be salvaged from the wreckage?

Returning to his desk he considered calling Coulson to update him on the situation. Maybe they could get a strike team in place around her apartment. That would give him the greatest odds of surviving come what may. He shook his head. Too many people, too many variables, too many options for someone to decide to go cowboy with the Black Widow in their sights. Clint never liked playing with a safety net anyway, and if he got Coulson involved now, then he would have no choice but to play it by the book - and for whatever reason, he was still not happy with chapter and verse according to the Book of Fury.

So, it appeared he'd made his decision then. Maybe it was going to kill him. Somehow this fact didn't concern him the way it should have. He could only think back to a night not so many years ago, though it felt like a lifetime - maybe in some ways it was.

Moments came back to him in vivid flashes between blackness: a plan that was slipshod at best made by kids who didn't know any better; a dose or three of liquid courage to steel the nerves; a partner too scared to think clearly and too angry to care; a man on the premises who by all rights shouldn't have been there; a shot ringing out that was returned by an arrow streaking through the night as panic and fear took over; a dead body and an injured boy lying in his own blood.

It had been one night of tragedy and regret that could have destroyed all the lives it touched, but against all expectations had instead been transformed by the mercy of a stranger. Clint thought about Phil Coulson and the choice he had made for the millionth time. He wouldn't like what Clint was thinking of doing, but he sure as hell couldn't say he didn't understand it. Maybe karma was a bitch, but there was the slimmest of chances that instead of payback he could pay it forward. He hoped it would be worth it.

Natasha smiled as she opened the door and saw the bouquet that Benton held out to her.

"I know you said just bring my appetite, but I figured the beautiful hostess deserved something more than insatiable hunger for her troubles."

She raised an eyebrow as she levelled her gaze at him.

"Insatiable hunger I can work with, I've been told that I'm quite the cook."

With that she took the proffered gift and moved towards the kitchen, letting him follow her into the penthouse apartment. As she put the flowers in a vase Clint walked around the living room, taking in the space. He'd seen it before, but now he was looking at it with new eyes and with a specific purpose.

There were several options for both attack and defense depending on how things went, though escape routes were limited given the building's height and his lack of equipment. Letting his gaze move to the window he saw his accustomed perch across a wide gap of space and considered lost opportunities before looking back towards the kitchen.

The Widow was just emerging, a smile on her face as she handed him a drink.

"Bourbon, rocks, right?"

"You know me too well," he replied with a smile. Swirling his glass to allow the bouquet to reach his nose he noticed that she didn't have one. "Not partaking?"

"Oh I still have dinner to get ready and I'm saving myself for the exceptional bottle of wine I've picked out for us."

"Exceptional is it?" he said with a grin. "Have I wandered into a special occasion?"

She shrugged.

"Let's just say it's a moment that's been a long time coming."

Leaving him with a mysterious smile she returned to the kitchen.

"Need any help?" he called after her, placing his untasted drink on the side table next to the couch.

"Oh no, I can handle myself," she replied with a backward glance and a smile.

Clint nodded to himself. That was certainly an understatement. So, here he was; in the lair of the beast with only his wits, training, and a small concealed firearm for defense against one of the deadliest assassins in the world. Peachy.

Sometimes he wondered how he managed to get himself into these situations. He was sure that Coulson would have a choice word or two in that regard - probably something about lack of forethought and brash recklessness. Clint shrugged, no point in griping over a decision made, you simply had to play the game and react to the circumstances. Easy, right?

She was standing at the counter chopping something when he walked into the kitchen. Coming up behind her he let his hands slide down from her shoulders along her arms. She stopped her chopping and his eyes were fixed on the knife even as his lips descended to her neck , brushing it with the lightest of kisses.

"Mmmm," she hummed as she closed her eyes. He noticed that her grip had tightened on the knife handle. "That feels nice."

"You look beautiful," he said and he realized that he meant it. She had been stunning when she answered the door, her scarlet hair loosely bundled on top of her head, stray ringlets curling around her perfect features. A loose-fitting emerald blouse, both revealing and concealing in such an artful way that any man not primed to be wary for his life would have immediately melted under her gaze. She leaned back into him resting her head against his shoulder.

"Hmmm, you can continue."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but I'm afraid I lost my words."

"Poor boy," she said dropping the knife and turning in his embrace. Her eyes locked with his as one of her hands reached up to caress his cheek.

"Can't wait for dinner?" she asked, leaning in until their noses touched, their breath mingling, lips hovering on the edge of a kiss.

"Insatiable appetite," he replied before claiming her lips with his own in a deep and powerful kiss. The kiss lingered and deepened further as his hands travelled down her arms and across her waist before coming to rest on her ass. Cupping her cheeks, he pulled her forward forcefully and she gave out a slight yelp, their kiss broken by her playful smile.

His growing arousal had to be obvious by this point and he could feel an answering heat in her center. It appeared that she was starting to want this too.

"Naughty boy, wants dessert already does he?" she asked in a husky purr.

"I want everything," he replied.

She answered with another kiss, as deep as the first, her arms twining around his neck as his continued to caress her ass. Then one of his hands moved up, lightly brushing her stomach before moving further to stroke her breast. He noted that she wasn't wearing a bra as he felt her nipple tighten underneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

"We should take this elsewhere," she whispered breathlessly as she broke the kiss. They were both breathing heavily.

"What about dinner?" he asked with a sardonic rise of his brow.

"Oh, I think we have more important matters to deal with first."

She grabbed him by the belt and pulled him after her as she left the kitchen.

Clint wasn't quite sure what was happening. Had he really started this? Was this part of the plan? What the fuck was his plan again? He was playing right into her game. He had to get a grip on himself before things got totally out of control. Why was he so clouded?

He looked at the supple form of the Widow as she towed him in her wake. Right, stupid question. Ok Barton, deep breaths, he told himself.

Making his decision Clint stopped suddenly, halting the Widow in her progress towards the bedroom.

She looked back, surprise on her face.

"Alvin? What's wrong?" The ghost of a sardonic smile curled languidly on the side of her mouth making something in his gut curl and twist in response until it was a tight knot. "Don't tell me you'd prefer the couch?"

Clint took a steadying breath and stepped forward. Gripping her shoulders tightly he pushed her until her back came against the wall with a thump. Nothing in her face showed concern, her eyes merely narrowed slightly and her smile gained a harder edge.

"Well Alvin," she nearly purred, "I didn't know you liked to play it rough." She let her glance move across his body, "But luckily for you I'm a girl with an open mind."

Clint narrowed his eyes.

"Cut the bullshit Romanoff," he grated out harshly, his every nerve ready as he saw her tense at the name.

"What are you…" she started, but he merely shook his head.

"I think we're way past that now, don't you? It's time we laid our cards on the table."

Calculation passed behind her eyes as she concentrated on his face and then visibly relaxed. He could still feel the tense readiness in her, but to all outward appearances she was as calm as if he had asked her what her favourite colour was.

"Alright then Mr. Benton," she said easily, "it appears that you have me at a distinct disadvantage."

"Barton," he said tersely.

"What?" she asked, confusion and calculation again passing behind her eyes.

"Clint Barton. Of SHIELD."

God, was this really his plan? Lay everything on the table and hope the Black Widow didn't feel like killing him immediately? Shit. Maybe Coulson was right about him. One thing was certain, Fury was going to have kittens if Clint managed to survive this.

"Barton," she said to herself as she looked away, thinking. Then she looked up at him, a question in her eyes. "They call you Hawkeye."

He had to give the Red Room credit, their intel was good. He shrugged.

"Sometimes."

"But," she said slowly, confusion again flashing across her features, "you're a sniper."

She said the word like it was a curse.

"What the hell are you doing up close? I thought your kind preferred the clean kill. The easy one." Disdain was now apparent on her features. "You must have had a dozen chances to neutralize me now that you've finally caught up."

Another question seemed to hang on her lips, though it remained unasked.

He knew exactly what she meant.

"It's been a long chase. You're more resourceful than anyone we've ever tried to track, no doubt about it. Nothing to go on but a target and a bloody mess while we tried to figure out your next move." He stopped, looking into her eyes. "Until three months ago."

He waited a beat until he saw realization dawn on her face.

"Drakov's…" she stopped herself, her lips tightening as her jaw clenched.

Clint nodded. "I was only six hours behind you there. God, what a fucking mess."

She flinched at that. It was almost imperceptible, but he was too close not to notice. Something in him relaxed just a fraction at the fact.

"Things changed after that. Your tactics are different. You've been running. Running hard. I'd almost say running scared if I thought it was possible."

She didn't say anything, just looked at him with defiance and something that almost looked like resignation.

"So I came in close."

He looked closely at her, watching her eyes. Surprisingly she looked away first.

"So, I was worth coming in to make the close kill, was I? I was enough of a monster to warrant you getting your hands dirty." She shook her head slightly, a faraway look in her eyes. "I'm flattered. Maybe you'll even learn to enjoy it."

"That's not it," he said something hardening in him even as his eyes softened. "I don't believe you're working for the Red Room anymore. I think you're trying to find a way," he stopped, searching for words as he continued looking into her eyes, "a way to make things right."

She didn't say anything at that, just glared at him. If looks could kill as effectively as her thighs and hands, Clint Barton would have been stone dead.

"I think you're working to dismantle the infrastructure that supports the Red Room. I think you want to break them into a million pieces. That sounds like something worth doing to me. So I want to give you a choice. I want to bring you in. I want you to come over to SHIELD."

The confusion on her face increased. He could tell she was uncomfortable with the fact. Apparently he had had her flat-footed during the entire conversation and she didn't like the sensation. She needed control, even if the destination was her own termination.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she spat. "'Bring me in'? I'm sure it would be quite a feather in your cap, Hawkeye, but whatever I am, whatever you might think I deserve, I'm not going in meekly like a lamb to the slaughter to let your de-programmers open my mind and play!"

She took a deep breath, vulnerability momentarily crossing her features. "I've had enough of that. I end this on my terms."

He shook his head. "Romanoff…Natalia, this doesn't have to be the way it plays out. You can't keep this up and I don't want to kill you. I know you've gone rogue. I know that you've renounced the Red Room. I know you've had enough."

"You know?!" she spat. "What do you know sniper? What do you know about anything?!"

She was so tense he thought she might come apart in his hands, but suddenly she stopped, the fire gleaming in her eyes dwindled to nearly nothing and this time she truly did relax into his arms.

"You have the kill order Hawkeye. Do it. Up close, far away, I just don't care. Do you hear me?" she said looking into his eyes again. "I don't care."

"Yeah, I got the kill order," he said, "and my head is on the line, but you know what? I'm going to make my own call on this one."

"Why the hell would you do that?" she sighed.

"Because I have to. Because everyone deserves to have a second chance."

She just stared at him like she couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. She probably couldn't - he wasn't sure if he could and he was the one saying them.

"You expect me to believe that SHIELD will spare my life on your say-so? That Nicholas Fury and the 'protectors' of the western world will let the Black Widow live?!" Her lips curled into an ugly snarl. "The best I could hope for would be torture and a prison cell buried so far under the earth no one would ever find me again. I'll take death instead, thank you very much."

"No," he said tersely, "no torture. I can't say what they'll do about prison, but…but isn't it worth risking? You're a very valuable asset, Natalia. You would be worth more to SHIELD as a cooperating asset than as a piece of meat rotting in a cell somewhere."

"So I trade one set of amoral masters for another? I've been a plaything for politicians with an agenda for long enough."

"So instead you decide who lives and dies and to hell with the consequences?"

"My ledger is filled with red, I know the score, I know how to make it black. Trust me, I'm in a better position than anyone to know who deserves death."

Clint closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. "Please," he almost whispered before opening his eyes again and looking into hers, "trust me."

He could see the conflict, the uncertainty, playing across her features. "Why?" she whispered back. "Why would you even care?"

"Because I can feel what you're going through. Because once I wasn't so different from you. Because sometimes the only thing that can save someone is the trust of a stranger."

With that he let go of her arms and took a step back. "Because I want to make my own call, my 'masters' be damned."

The Black Widow looked at him blankly. She didn't seem able to process what he was saying, what he was doing. She looked down and took a small step forward, her hand coming up towards his cheek. Somehow Clint managed not to flinch and stood his ground. Her fingers ghosted across his cheek, something like wonder on her face.

"Thank you," she said, before her other hand shot out and flew towards his neck. Everything went black.