A/N 9/5/15
This chapter is dedicated to you, dear readers, for every time you've eagerly requested an update and devoured new chapters posted. Words can never express how much I'm continually in awe that even despite my slow update progress, your enthusiasm never fades. Thank you, thank you so, so much for believing in my story just as much, if not more, than I do. This is for you.

CLINT

Romanoff was gone. She just…disappeared.

Of course Clint hadn't expected to see her at the theater again immediately after the shooting. Romanoff did have that breakdown in his bathtub after all. It took time to come back from that. Sure, she might have looked okay when she left his apartment but she was a master at sliding that invisible mask into place, not letting anyone in. He'd watched her do it a thousand times at the theater. She'd even done it to him once or twice, shutting him out. Just because she smiled and said, "I'm fine," didn't mean he believed it for a second.

The theater was utter chaos after the news of the shooting, but the show continued on. Word spread quickly that Mila was staying with family for a few days. No one seemed to have any knowledge of Romanoff's whereabouts. Something had to come up at some point though. She couldn't have simply vanished into thin air.

Clint was so focused on keeping an eye out for Romanoff that he almost didn't see Vladimir coming. Almost. There were always a few trouble makers at the circus, Clint never got along with everyone all the time. And he'd learned a long time ago to always keep those trouble makers within his line of sight. He could practically feel the heat from Vladimir's rage coming a mile away.

Clint was in the back of the theater putting the last touch ups on one of the sets when he heard Vladimir's heavy footsteps getting closer. His muscles tensed, tight as a bowstring, and when Vladimir's meaty hand came down in a vise grip on Clint's shoulder, he was ready for it. He spun and shoved Vladimir's hand away as he stepped to the side and backwards, getting a little distance, a little space to diffuse the situation. He put his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Hey bud," Clint said, "startled me there."

"What did I tell you, American?" Vladimir growled.

Clint screwed up one eye in concentration. The situation was not good, he knew that, and yet he couldn't resist the temptation of poking the hornet's nest anyway.

"That….you were hoping Santa would bring you a pony for Christmas," Clint said.

Vladimir's scowl deepened even further until Clint was certain his face was going to be stuck that way.

"I told you," Vladimir spat, "to stay away from the ballerinas, especially Miss Romanoff."

"Oh, that. I've been really good about that too and…"

Vladimir took a threatening step forward. Clint hustled backwards, skipping over a pile of scrap wood and paint cans. That at least put something between them.

"You lie," Vladimir said. "Miss Romanoff and Mila, they were both with you at the shooting. You almost got them killed."

"You have a point there," Clint admitted. He'd tried to not blame himself for what happened, but a small voice in the back of his mind still wouldn't shut up that part of it was his fault. He could chalk it up to the job, tell himself repeatedly that he had to get Romanoff out of her comfort zone somehow. She always had the upper hand at the theater. Clint had been getting dangerously close to a dead end with no leads to follow whatsoever so someone had to make a move and shake things up. But he wasn't supposed to almost get her killed. Or Mila. God, if Mila had been hurt…

But he didn't get to follow that thought through. Vladimir advanced, fist cocked and ready to swing. He stumbled, just a little, as he made it over the pile of wood and paint cans and that's exactly what Clint was hoping for. Taking advantage of the distraction, he caught Vladimir's blow with one hand while snapping his other fist up into Vladimir's ribs. Vladimir grunted yet it didn't slow him down. He barreled into Clint, fists pummeling into Clint's ribs, left, right, left.

Clint tucked his elbows in close to his sides to protect himself then dropped one shoulder and shoved as hard as he could, pushing Vladimir away. Before he could block it, Vladimir's fist connected with Clint's eye in retaliation, sending a shower of black spots dancing across his vision. Clint reeled backwards, fists up to shield his face, elbows still tight against his ribs. His brain was reeling but his instincts kicked in, always vaguely aware of how close Vladimir was, how his footsteps advanced a second time, eager to finish Clint off.

As Vladimir took another swing, Clint ducked to the side and brought his knee up into Vladimir's gut. Vladimir gasped and stumbled this time, swaying for a moment.

"What is going on here?"

Clint spun around. An older woman marched forward, her heels sending sharp, staccato echoes like gunshots ripping through the stunned silence. Her white hair was pulled back tight from her face, making her bony features seem even more pronounced. Her entire body was all angles, her hands placed firmly on her hips in a scary, no-nonsense way. And holy hell was she on a mission. Clint had seen her around before, directing the dancers on stage. This must be Bolishinko.

"Just a misunderstanding," Clint said in the best Russian he could manage. "It's sorted out now."

She squinted at him in suspicion. "You're the American, aren't you? Your Russian is atrocious."

Clint stifled a sigh. No credit for giving it his best shot then. "I do have a name actually…"

"Don't be smart with me," she snapped. "Vladimir, straighten up. Tell me what's going on here."

Vladimir was still bent over his knees, gasping for air. Slowly, he raised himself to a standing position. His face was beet red and Clint forced himself to glance away to cover a small smile of triumph.

"I told the American to leave the dancers alone," Vladimir explained. "I warned him but he didn't listen."

Clint gritted his teeth. Nothing like setting him up to hang.

Bolishinko's steely gaze flicked back to Clint. "Is that true?"

"I…"

"Vladimir is your superior," she cut in, "and you went against his direct orders. Any orders that came from him were mine to begin with, which means that you have defied me. My dancers can't focus when they're distracted by stagehands eager for a bit of distractions themselves."

"It's not like that," Clint said. "I didn't…"

"Two weeks," she declared with a dismissive flick of her long, pale fingers. "Two weeks suspended pay, Mr. Jones. After that, I will decide whether or not we still require your help here. Vladimir, please see him to the door."

Vladimir was all too happy to comply and get rid of Clint. Once Bolishinko was out of earshot, Clint hissed, "Just had to go whining to Mommy, didn't you?"

"Shut up, American," Vladimir said with a smirk. "Or I'll see to it that Madame Bolishinko decides she won't need your help ever again. Might do that anyway."

Clint clamped his mouth shut and seethed as the door was shut and he was left alone on the sidewalk.

"Bobbi," he sighed.

"Here," she replied immediately. They'd settled into a comfortable routine now, hardly talking most of the time except for when it was of the utmost importance that they inform each other of what was going on.

"Pretty sure I just lost my job at the theater," he said. "Damn. Sorry, I should have…"

"No," Bobbi said. "There are no 'should have's' in this job, Barton. They're nothing but a black hole that will suck you in and you'll never get out. Focus on finding another angle or making it right. Just keep moving forward. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

[][][]

Clint had nothing to do but sit around his apartment and it was driving him crazy. He canvased the neighborhoods, searching for any news at all of Romanoff popping up, but nothing presented itself. As much as he tried to not allow himself near the slippery slope of "should have's", a few managed to sneak through his defenses and he kicked himself for getting into that fight with Vladimir. He knew better. He knew Vladimir was the kind of guy who wouldn't back down from a fight, not until he saw the other guy flat on his back or dead. Clint should have backed down, should have appealed to Vladimir's ego, should have let Vladimir win. Then he'd still have his job, he'd still be able to watch Mila dance, he'd still be able to have an in with Romanoff whenever she decided to show up again. It would make things ten times harder to keep an eye on her when he wasn't around her on a daily basis.

Almost a week after the fight, his phone blared to life in the middle of the night. He stuffed his head under his pillow and fumbled around for his phone on the nightstand until his fingers stumbled across it.

"What?" he grunted.

"Get up," Bobbi said. "Looks like everything just went to hell."

Clint sat bolt upright. "What does that mean?"

"The KGB is down and Vanko made contact."

He shook his head, struggling to keep up with the conversation.

"It's three in the morning, Bobbi," he said. "One thing at a time. Start at the beginning."

"The head of the KGB was murdered in her apartment less than an hour ago," Bobbi explained, a little slower this time. "It's possible there are other members being targeted as well. The whole organization is crumbling which means the ban against SHIELD agents has been dissolved. They have no power to keep us from entering Russia anymore."

"So I don't have to be out here alone?" he asked as he searched for a clean shirt in his closet.

"Exactly."

"And Vanko?"

"This whole thing has him spooked. His history with the KGB goes way back and he worked with them on several projects for years. But there's a rumor going around that the assassin was a HYDRA agent. It's just a rumor at this point, but if it's proven true, Vanko knows he can't stand against them on his own. They'll get to him eventually. SHIELD is his only option at this point, to protect himself as well as those blueprints."

"That's where we come in."

"We'll be escorting him out of the country by dawn."

Clint's head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast. His job was almost over then. He'd be free of Russia and onto someplace new, all before noon probably.

"You still with me, Barton?" Bobbi asked. "Awfully quiet over there."

"Yeah…it's a lot to take in."

"I'll admit it's all pretty sudden. Over half of SHIELD was betting on those blueprints going to the KGB. When Fury got the call, headquarters went crazy. It hasn't really quieted down since."

"Does this mean you're on your way here?" Clint asked, his words slightly muffled as he tugged his shirt over his head.

"You bet. Grab some coffee, Barton, because the next couple of hours are going to be one hell of a whirlwind. You'll need to be packed by the time I get there. Coulson wants you out of that apartment as soon as possible. He's concerned you might be compromised. I disagree, but he's not taking that chance."

"I'm ready to get out of here anyway," he said, only partly true. He would miss the winding streets of Russia, the marvel of nearly every building he came across. And Mila. Would she wonder why he disappeared? But he was eager to get back to more familiar and humble surroundings. Russia was too rich, too elaborate for his tastes. He missed American movies and American music and American food. He missed home.

By the time Bobbi arrived and pulled up at the curb outside of his apartment, Clint was packed and on his way out the door. As he slipped the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Romanoff climbed through his window, smooth and lithe as a cat, as if she hadn't vanished for nearly two weeks, as if it was perfectly normal to be using the window to get into his apartment rather than the front door.

"Hey," he said. "What are you doing…?"

Without saying a word, Romanoff pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans. No hint of hesitation, not a tremble, as she trained the muzzle on him, her aim deadly sure and unwavering.

"Uh…think I must have missed something here," Clint said.

"Who are you working for?" Romanoff said, softly, quietly, but with an underlying venomous threat that was undeniable.

Clint's pulse picked up speed, working double time. She knew. She wasn't bluffing and he couldn't put her off this time. She knew.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clint replied, though it was feeble even to his own ears.

A flicker of disappointment mingled with a blaze of rage flashed in Romanoff's eyes before she quickly quelled it. Always calm and cool. Always in control. She reached into her jacket pocket and drew out a cell phone. Pressed a button.

Clint's voice played back to him, metallic and tinny. His own words betrayed him.

"I just…I have a gut feeling about Romanoff. I mean, she had someone take a shot at me. That's worth looking into in my opinion. I want to get her out of her territory for a while and see if it rattles her a bit."

How had she made that recording? Had she been listening to him the entire time he was here? Frantically, Clint raced through the past few months, struggling to mentally catalogue every phrase he'd ever spoken in the apartment that might damn him further. A thousand scenarios sprang to mind and he stifled a groan.

Romanoff tucked the cell phone back into her pocket, her gaze never leaving his face.

"Well?" she said. "Did I rattle as you had hoped?"

Bobbi honked in the distance. Clint held no illusions that he would be able to drag this out until Bobbi grew impatient enough to come get him. He may have never witnessed Romanoff kill anyone personally, but he didn't feel it would be the wisest choice to try his luck and bank on the fact that she wouldn't pull the trigger. His gut instinct was already screaming that he'd be dead before Bobbi got in the building let alone up four flights of stairs to his apartment. And his own gun was stowed away in his backpack, so that option was out.

"No," Clint whispered. "You didn't rattle. Not even a little."

"Then you know I'm serious," Romanoff said. "And I want a serious answer."

Clint said nothing. It was pointless to try and defend himself. His cover was blown, ruined, no going back, no fixing it. And Romanoff knew she had him pinned with no hope of escape.

"Silence won't help you, Barton," she said. "Tell me who you work for."

"I can't. You know that."

"I will have the answer out of you, one way or the other."

The whole situation was spiraling out of control and Clint had no idea how to stop it. He could try and make a run for it. The door was within reach. Once he was in the stairwell, he had a better chance of dodging any shots Romanoff fired off. But it was that three foot stretch to the doorway, seemingly so short and miniscule, and yet cavernous to cross in his current predicament that made him hesitate. Romanoff might miss him if he made it to the stairwell…but she wouldn't miss now, not this close, not this direct.

"Are you the HYDRA agent that put Russia on its ear?" Clint asked.

Romanoff made no reply but the gun remained steady as ever. Could he take that as an answer? Or was she simply refusing to respond out of spite? To maintain control and put him on the defensive?

"You do realize that whole organization is made up of nothing but murderers, right?" he continued. "I mean, you're the one with connections. You've got to be aware of how bad HYDRA is and…"

"Stop. Talking." Romanoff bit out.

Clint pushed on. "If they're forcing you…"

"They're not forcing me to do anything I don't want to do. They're not the ones trying to rattle me."

Clint snapped his mouth shut. Yeah, he'd royally screwed himself on this one. Any headway he'd made with Romanoff before, all of that ground was lost now. He had crossed her, betrayed her even, and it had obviously left a lasting impression that wasn't good. To his surprise, it was leaving a sour taste in his own mouth, too.

"Tell me," Romanoff said, every word slow, measured, and filled with acid as it left her mouth, "who you work for or we'll do things the hard way. I'll start with blowing out your kneecap. Your friend downstairs won't hear a thing."

The threat of physical violence was nothing new to Clint, especially not from Romanoff. But it felt different this time. She wasn't simply trying to scare him off or establish a hierarchy like she had on previous occasions. This time she was going to make him bleed for how he had turned against her, how he had lied.

"I can get you a fresh start," Clint said, pulling out every last possible trick he had up his sleeve to stall for time, to get her to put that gun down for just a split second. "You don't have to be with HYDRA. There are other choices, Natasha."

Romanoff took a step forward and the gun's muzzle shifted from his kneecap to the middle of his forehead. "Don't call me that," she hissed. "You have no right to act as if you know me, not after what you've done."

"After what I've done?" Clint asked. "Or what you've done?"

The words hung there, suspended, frozen in the icy silence.

Then Romanoff pulled the trigger.

The bullet went wide, shattered the wall a bare inch from Clint's head. He flinched, his shoulders hitched up around his ears as bits of plaster rained to the floor. But that was the distraction he'd been waiting for all this time. His fingers curled up, brushed against the bottom of his backpack, searching as subtly as possible without giving himself away.

"Don't think I missed by accident," Romanoff said.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clint replied.

"Next bullet goes to the kneecap as promised."

"I believe you. But I still can't tell you what you want to know."

There. Clint's fingers skimmed across a small zipper, tucked into the side of his backpack. Carefully, slowly, he inched it open.

"Maybe I'm taking the wrong tactic here," Romanoff mused. "I've seen the way you're so attached to Mila. And with your past in the circus…" she shrugged. "The threat of pain no doubt holds little sway over you."

Clint struggled to maintain a neutral expression despite the dread churning in his stomach.

"Your friend downstairs would be much more forthcoming with information, I believe," she said.

Cold metal fell into Clint's hand at last. He pressed the small button at the edge of the switchblade, heard the soft snick of steel as the blade flicked out. Judging by the flash of recognition in Romanoff's eyes, she'd heard it too.

Clint threw the knife a fraction of a second before Romanoff fired again. The knife found its target, grazing Romanoff's hand just enough to send the bullet off course, embedded in the doorframe. Clint darted out the door and down the stairs.

More bullets lodged in the wall or bit into the wooden railing as he moved, one after the other after the other. Romanoff wasn't even taking her time anymore. Desperation and anger had taken over, fueling her, with nothing in mind but to hurt him, to make him pay for lying to her.

Clint burst out of the door and into the street. Bobbi's black sedan waited for him. He barreled in and slid down in the front seat.

"Go, now, right now," he said.

Bobbi stepped on the gas, tires screeching. "Good to see you too, Barton," she said.

The door to Clint's apartment building opened just as Bobbi pulled away. The dull thud of bullets rammed into the rear of the car before Bobbi turned a corner and out of sight.

"Making friends I see," Bobbi chirped.

[][][][]

Clint told Bobbi the whole story. Every detail, no matter how bad it made him look, no matter how it made him cringe. He told her everything. Bobbi listened, keeping her gaze on the road, occasionally checking in her rearview mirror if anyone was following her. When Clint was done, Bobbi pulled over and got out of the car without a word.

Clint waited, wondering if he'd made a huge, unforgivable mistake somewhere along the way. He knew he'd messed up a couple times on this mission, but Bobbi never got mad at him for it.

Well, not really mad. She did get pissed occasionally but he deserved it, considering some of the stupid moves he'd pulled.

After several moments passed, Bobbi got back in the car and plopped a small mess of tangled wires and bits and pieces of broken plastic into his hand.

"Tracking device," she said. "Courtesy of HYDRA Agent Romanoff."

"Shit," Clint muttered. He should have seen that coming. "When she was shooting at us earlier?"

Bobbi nodded. "Remember those little bursts of static you got on random occasions in your com?"

"Yeah?"

"Interference from a planted bug."

"And that's where the recording came from," Clint groaned, the pieces locking into place at last.

"I totally missed it, Barton, and that's on me, not you."

"Sounds like you're creeping awfully close into 'should have' territory."

A small smile teased at Bobbi's lips and she cast a quick sideways glance at him. "Point taken. Moving forward?"

"Moving forward," Clint agreed. "Do you think it's safe if we keep going as planned? Evacuating Vanko and everything?"

"You've already done most of the heavy lifting getting us to this point," Bobbi explained. "I'll run it past Coulson first, get him up to speed on the latest development, and he'll decide whether you're out or not."

Clint was silent, fighting back the rising ache of disappointment. Bobbi had given him credit, sure, but to think that he wouldn't see it through, that he wouldn't get to escort Vanko out of the country all because of Romanoff…it stung a little more than he cared to admit.

To be on the safe side, Bobbi switched out their cars, swapping the sedan for a smaller economy car. When they finally pulled up outside of an abandoned warehouse, Bobbi shut off the car and nudging Clint's shoulder with her fist.

"You did a good job through all this, Clint," she said. "I mean that. Not many rookies would have been able to pull off what you did. So even if your mission ends here, just know that you did a good job."

"Thanks, Bobbi," Clint replied with a nod. That eased the sting a little, he thought. He might have messed up here and there along the way but at least he didn't screw everything up beyond repair.

The warehouse was empty, save for Coulson standing dead center in the room, hands clasped in front of him. He tipped his head forward in greeting when Bobbi and Clint walked up.

"Agent Barton," he said. "Nice to see you in one piece. From what Agent Morse has told me, it's been an exciting adventure for your first time out of the gate."

"Are all the jobs like this?" Clint asked.

"Some of them are much more…exotic," Coulson said with a smile.

Clint had no idea what to make of that comment, but judging by the wicked gleam in Coulson's eye, he decided he didn't want to ask.

"Coulson," Bobbi broke in. "Could I have a word in private?"

Clint willed himself to stay calm as he watched Coulson and Bobbi talking a few feet away. It might not be his fault that Romanoff found him out and potentially endangered their entire mission, but he really wanted to finish this job, to prove to himself that his second chance would work out after all.

Finally, Coulson and Bobbi rejoined him and despite how Clint struggled to remain neutral, his stomach was still flip-flopping like crazy.

"Bobbi has informed me there's been a slight hitch in our plans," Coulson said.

"Yeah…" Clint hedged.

"It won't be a problem, Agent Barton."

"…it's not?"

Coulson shook his head. "Not at all. There are plenty of hiccups in this job, regardless of how many years of experience you have under your belt. We all make mistakes. Now, having said that, there are some changes to the original plan. You will be put on sniper duty rather than getting in touch with Vanko. You'll be far enough away that if someone followed you or they're tracking you and we're not aware of it, there shouldn't be any issues. Do you feel you're still capable of getting in and out undetected?"

Clint nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then we'd better get moving. We'll be meeting Vanko by the river within the hour."

[][][]

Clint was perched high on a building four blocks away from the rendezvous point, flat on his stomach, his sniper rifle tucked neatly against his shoulder. Through his scope, he spotted Coulson wandering the abandoned parking lot, arms crossed over his chest. Clint adjusted his viewpoint and found Bobbi in the unmarked van, fingers drumming a restless beat against the steering wheel.

Now this was what Clint could do, without a shadow of a doubt. He had the entire set up laid out before him and he could spot anyone coming well in advance. For the first time, Clint felt as if he finally, finally, was on familiar ground. If nobody showed, all he would have to do was scout out the territory. And if somebody did happen to crash the party, he could take his time, line up the shot…a whole different ball game from what he'd been going through for the past few months.

The appointed hour came and went with no signs of Vanko whatsoever. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, sending threads of golden light to shimmering across the river's surface when a small dark blue truck rolled up alongside Coulson. An older man stepped out with a graying moustache, holding a cylindrical metal tube to his chest.

The blueprints. At last. The damn blueprints everyone was fighting over. Clint watched as Vanko shook hands with Coulson, talked for about a minute then Coulson opened the van door and Vanko slipped inside. And now SHIELD had those precious, coveted blueprints.

"Ready to head out, Barton," Bobbi said. Her voice was no longer an intrusion in his head. Clint had grown used to her popping in every once in a while.

"Coast is clear," Clint replied.

The van started rolling out of the parking lot and Clint watched until it turned the corner. He waited, and waited. No one followed. He held off a little while longer then slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the ladder. Bobbi was parked two blocks over, the engine idling with a soft rumble.

Clint jumped in the front seat. "You're good to go," he said.

As Bobbi put the car into gear again, Clint couldn't help stealing a glance over his shoulder at Vanko. He was a small man, shoulders hunched, arms hugging that cylinder like his life depended on it…which was probably true in a way. So this was the man everyone was after.

"Barton," Bobbi said.

Clint turned and recognized the concern on Bobbi's face. Only then did he realize the van had slowed down slightly. Bobbi pointed and Clint followed her direction.

"We've got company," Bobbi said.

One lone headlight bounced towards them, too low to be a car. Had to be a motorcycle. And it was heading straight for them. There was nowhere for Bobbi to go. The road was flanked by warehouses on either side. But the motorcycle barreled closer and closer.

And Clint knew.

"Back up," he said. "Back up, Bobbi, get us out of here. Now."

Bobbi stepped on the gas and twisted around, but Clint hadn't reacted fast enough. He could just make out a figure on the bike, crouched low, and a glimpse of red hair peeked out from under the gleaming black helmet…

"Shit," Clint muttered.

At the exact moment Clint realized what was going on, Romanoff raised her arm and the glint of light on metal flashed through the air. Clint grabbed the steering wheel and gave it a hard yank to the right. The van collided with the side of a warehouse, metal screeching and screaming against metal, until it skidded to a stop. Bobbi struggled to reorient herself in her surroundings after the van spun out. Clint whipped around, searching for any signs of Romanoff but he saw nothing.

"Barton, what's going on?" Coulson demanded.

"It's Romanoff," he said. "I'm sure of it. She must have followed us somehow."

Coulson swore under his breath. The lone headlight popped back into view again but Bobbi was already careening down the road. A soft ping rattled the tense silence and a second later, a deafening, thunderous roar sent the van airborne. Clint caught a glimpse of the pavement as the van tipped nose down and flipped midair, landing flat on its roof. Shards of glass burst around him, falling in his hair, in his close, scratching his face. His ears were ringing, a pounding headache throbbed at the back of his skull, and each breath sent a flare of heat blazing through his rib cage. He braced himself against the ceiling of the van and blinked, fighting to reorient himself to his surroundings again as fast as possible. Bobbi slouched in the seat next to him, blood covering half of her face. Coulson…he couldn't see Coulson, seated directly behind him.

The van door scraped open. Clint managed to turn enough to see a gloved hand reach in and latch onto Vanko's shoulder.

"No," Clint wheezed. "No…"

He watched, horrified, as Vanko's unconscious body was dragged out. A spark of rage ignited in Clint's chest at the sight. After all this, he was not going to lose Vanko when he was so close to doing something right for once.

Every movement was searing agony as Clint fought to get out of the van. He worked his seatbelt free and collapsed against the van's ceiling, landing hard on his shoulder and sending a fresh wave of pain shuddering through his body. He crawled out of the window, leaving a trail of bloody handprints in the shards of glass littering the ground. Slowly, achingly, he managed to stand on his feet and took a step forward, propping himself up against the side of the van as he went.

While he was struggling to free himself, a black Hummer had pulled up a few feet away and Romanoff was dragging Vanko's limp body right to it.

"You're not taking him," Clint called, as loud as he could against the pounding in his head.

Romanoff froze and let Vanko's body slump to the ground, merciless and cold, before she turned around.

"He's all yours," she said. "Come and get him."

Clint squared his shoulders and left the support of the van. Every step wobbled and his legs trembled from the effort. Every breath felt as if his lungs were on fire. But Clint pressed onward. He was going to finish this damn job even if it killed him. He was going to earn his second chance.

Romanoff gave a slight flick of her wrist. Clint barely had time to shield his face before a small round disk landed at his feet, no bigger than a bottle cap.

And exploded.