CLINT

"Charging . . . Clear!"

Zzzzut!

"Patient is non-responsive."

"Again, Doctor."

"Herr Barron, sir, much more and we risk compromising what is left of his brain function."

"You assured me that he could survive several more rounds on the device."

"And I was mistaken. Whatever you showed him, the trauma it has caused is almost beyond comprehension. His own comprehension, that is. I'm afraid we may have another failure on our hands."

"Ggack! Cough!" Feet scraping off the ground.

"Failure is not an option, not in this case."

"Kkak! Hhhuuuhh! Please . . . Barron, please . . . I —"

"If this man does not wake up, our entire operation may be compromised."

"I . . . understand."

"No, Doctor, I don't think you do. If we have been discovered, we will need to flee. And to flee, we will need to . . . want is the word? Downsize. When we bomb the island I guarantee you will be just far enough from the blast site that you suffer before you die. Are we clear?"

Thud. The thunk of a body crumpling to the floor.

"Of . . . course."

"So I'm going to tell you one more time. Again."

His voice is raspy and weakened, but he coughs, "Charging . . . Clear!"

There is lightning in my brain. There is lightning, and then there is blank.

"Again!"

Zzzzut! Count the seconds until the thunder. That's how far away the storm is. . .

"Sir, we're loosing him!"

"Viper!"

"Yes, Barron?"

"A mistake like this will cost you, my dear."

"Agreed, but I made no mistake. You instructed me to go dredging around the Avenger's brain for his most painful fears and memories. It's not my fault he wears his heart on his sleeve. We never expected to find such a trauma at all, and certainly not so quickly. The machine is working better than ever expected. If he dies, it's of no fault but his own."

"It will be on your head! Fix this, Viper, if you prefer not to go out like this one's girlfriend."

"Very well. I may have a solution. Charge the paddles again, Doctor, if you please."

Tap tap tap on the tablet.

"Clear!"

Zzzzutt!

Lightning, lightning in my brain. Static in my ears, pain in my chest. Pain everywhere. Pain nowhere. Noise. Voice. Natasha?

"Clint!" she screams. "Help! Clint please!" Her voice is growing quieter, fainter. She's drifting away. . . NATASHA!

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"What an idiot," says Viper. "This business is no place for a hopeless romantic."

"Brilliant, Madame, absolutely brilliant. Hearing that woman's voice in trouble gave him a jolt of adrenaline and reset enough of his memory to remind him that she did not in fact die at the hand of the Mischief God, and neither did he."

"Perhaps" says 'The Barron,' "but a close call nonetheless. We cannot risk another such episode. You will stick to more . . . traditional . . . means when you next question him Viper."

"Understood."

Everything fades. Whatever was there is slipping and I'm trapped in my own head, with thoughts and memories that are not of now. My brain takes me to somewhere I'd much rather be. At a greasy little diner booth, staring at a spider.

"Alright, alright, relax about it!" I grumbled to the guards stalking me through the lobby of the Triskelion.

"We're going to need to see some ID Sir."

"I still work here you know."

"Just a precaution Sir. New safety protocol."

"Yeah, a protocol called 'Let's All Make Sure Barton Isn't Smuggling Loki In His Coat Pocket.' "

"You're not wearing a coat, Sir."

"Gaah, it's an — you know what, never mind. This entire building is full of trained killers. In fact, I'm here to pick up the deadliest one you're got. I think you'll be fine. Me, I'm not so sure. Haven't exactly seen her in a while. I'm afraid she might be — What now?"

"Mr. Barton, Sir —"

"First of all, it's 'Agent Barton,' and secondly, are my eyes blue?"

"Well . . . yes."

"I mean, they're always blue, but are they 'sharpshooter spectacular crystal blue' or 'mind control hazy electric blue?"

"I — I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Am I free to go?"

"Just take this visitor's badge, and you're free to travel Sectors A-O."

"Thanks," I said as I snatched the badge from his hand. A few paces away, I glanced a trashcan out of the corner of my eye and whistled in the other direction as I flung the plastic ID card away. Twenty yards, and it hit the granite wall perfectly and thunked into the trashcan. Hawkeye's back ba—.

Security worm was right behind me, dangling a duplicate badge over my shoulder. "And that is why Director Fury told us to issue you two."

I took it and stalked off. That twerp must be really good at something to land him a position at S.H.I.E.L.D., but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.

As I stepped into the elevator and said "Special Assets Training Floor Clearance Level 8," I couldn't help thinking how weird this all was. I tried not to think too loudly though, because I was sure there were five camera's on me doing their best to read my mind. Not that I had anything to hide, really. Even with the file Fury gave me, I was basically walking in to this mission blind. And backwards. And upside down. But as the floor numbers pulsed by, I couldn't help think it was all a joke, a false alarm. This building, and anything and anywhere sitting under the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia, had to be the safest places in the world. That's what made Fury's suggestion so frightening. But first . . .

The doors opened and I crossed the hall to the frosted glass panels on the opposite wall. "Barton, Clint," I said into the mouthpiece. "Codename: Hawkeye." The screen flashed to green and the door swung open with the tiniest hydraulic hiss. At least this place still remembered me. And well, it should.

I took in the stale, processes air of the Special Assets gym and I felt kinda home. Punching bags and sparring dummies down the center, weight training along the back wall. The tri-colored ropes of a boxing ring by the door. Blue mats with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo, in case we forgot it, and a far wall of glass, overlooking the Potomac. One of the benefits of being a Special Asset. The only one actually. Along with the lack of danger at every turn, the regular agents also have a nicer gym. Four floors of plexiglass walls and state-of-the-art everything. Rumor has it there's even a lazy river in the back. I guess they figure once you're at our level, there's no 'lazy' left. No splash, just business. And they're right. Though I'm still allowed in.

Thunk, thunk, taptaptap, THUD. Over and over, faster and faster came the sharp taps of an expert martial artist on a wooden sparing dummy, so that it sounded like very fast morse code. With the gym otherwise empty, I followed the sound and the bobbing red hair over to Natasha. One more step, and my foot fell on her section of the gird of mats. I'm so glad I was expecting . . . something, otherwise it really would have hurt. With what looked like no effort, Natasha spun on me. Without missing a beat she kept up her routine, now with me as her sparring dummy. And yes, I mean dummy, because no one else is stupid enough to walk into that. Jab jab jabcrossuppercuthookkneeelbow blockblockuppercut, front kick, roundhouse. Again, again. I stumble back as I try to keep up, matching her blows block for block. My god sometimes I forget how quick she is. But this is dummy practice, it's repetitive, to build speed and strength. If you're not careful you can get lulled into— Instead of a the block I was supposed to provide, I struck back. Natasha smiled. Like, I said, dummy. Me, not her. Of course, she was on her game, she always is.

Before I could even tell what was happening, she took me down. I landed hard on my back with Natasha straddling my chest, forearm braced against my throat. "You should have seen that coming."

"It's nice to see you too Natasha."

"Been a while," she said, adjusting her stance slightly, and very much on purpose. Those few centimeters were enough to threaten her balance, to give me the slightest hint of an opening. Naturally, I took it. I pinned her leg with mine and flipped her over, pinning her down with my elbows and knees on the mat.

"Hasn't been that long," I said. "Did you do something to your hair?" Those bright red locks were distinctly less curly than I remembered them.

"Do you like it?" she said, worming one hip toward the ceiling and positioning herself to get out of my hold. I caught her, and adjusted my arm to keep her pinned.

It didn't matter, because then I answered, "Umm . . . yeah?"

Back over we went, and this time she pinned me with one bony knee stabbing into my chest, and a hand locking my shoulder for good measure. She pushed harder.

"Uncle, uncle! I'm kinda partial to the curls."

"Hmph," she said, "fair enough," and stood, offering me a hand up. Before I could do anything else, she turned and headed for the locker room at the end of the gym. "Who shall I be tonight?"

"Yourself, preferably."

She looked back over her shoulder and gave a sly little smile. "And what should 'I' wear?"

"Umm . . ."

"Classy or casual, Clint? S.H.I.E.L.D. has a standing reservation at Il'Vascello, we could —"

"I was thinking a little more 'Mom and Pop.' As in, I was just going to wear this." She eyed my t-shirt up and down. It had a purple arrow on it. I had them custom made.

"You really know how to treat a girl, Barton," she said, swinging her hips as she walked away. "I'll be right out."

Is that bad? Was that bad? . . . Am I in trouble?

I didn't have much time to consider it, because she really meant 'right out.' The locker room might as well have had a revolving door she was back so fast, in jean shorts and a fitted white tee, that straight hair up in a sort of messy bun.

Sometimes I'm not sure where Natasha lives. I mean, I know were her apartment is, and one of her safehouses, and obviously I know where the Triskelion is, but I've never been entirely sure where she actually lives. Like, why did she have an assortment of clothes for different occasions stashed in the gym locker room? For times like this, I suppose.

She didn't stop when she reached me, she just sauntered on out the door.

I'm definitely in trouble.

I hustled to catch up and followed her down to the parking garage.

I started drooling a little bit when I saw her car parked in one of the closest spaces, all sleek and black and gorgeous.

"Can I drive the Corvette?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Fine, can you drive and I just ride in it? It's so pretty." I went to stroke it, but she slapped my hand away.

"Don't touch."

"You learned that from Phil."

She shrugged. "Where's the Challenger?"

"She doesn't exactly do well on road trips," I said, which is true, but also a lie, because my flight to the twilight zone leaves from D.C. tomorrow, and I wanted my baby parked safe at home while I'm gone.

"Then how did you get here?"

"Oh, you know, took a train. Then a bus. Then a Fury Wagon," by which I meant a S.H.I.E.L.D. car.

"Good." Natasha crooked the corner of her mouth in a teasing smile, winked and swung into the little black Corvette before I could say 'ditched.' She sped off and the purr of that car was enough to make a grown man cry. (But I didn't.)

Tires screeched and Nat pulled up behind me, finishing her loop around the garage. She popped the door and I scooted into the passenger seat.

"Feeling a little passive aggressive, are we?"

"I have no idea what you mean," she said innocently. "Where are we off too?"

Natasha slowed the Corvette to a stop a few blocks from the diner. " 'Mom and Pop' might be surprised."

I wasn't listening; I was still stroking the seats of the car, breathing in that delicious leather smell.

"C'mon," she said, and dragged me out along the sidewalk. We walked quietly along the sun-dappled street until she said, "How's New York?"

"You know, big. Apple-y. Definitely better without that big hole in the sky. Stark's new tower is pretty much finished. You'd really never know what happened there." I paused, pursing my lips as I looked for something else to say. "Um, how's D.C.?"

Natasha threw her hand up and gestured at the street. "You know."

"How's Rogers?"

She faltered a little bit, which was the goal. "He's . . . interesting. Though I'm not exactly his favorite person." I raised an eyebrow. "We don't exactly see eye to eye."

"No one but an NBA player has a shot at seeing eye to eye with Captain America."

Natasha pursed her lips, stifling a little laugh. "We have, er, different views when it comes to morality."

"He's a boy scout; you're — "

"A bad guy. That's what he seems to think."

"I was going to say a spy," I said. "Oh, great, the diner's right up here. Speaking of Rogers, he recommended this place, and he is the authority on authentic old fashioned diner food."

Any joy I had managed to wriggling into Natasha's face disappeared at the sight of the dumpy little whole-in-the-wall diner across the street. We walked in and maybe it was just the glow of the old neon, but I swear she went a little green.

I felt a little bad for her. I would have loved to take her to Il'Vascello, but we couldn't exactly go to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number one restaurant for what I was about to tell her.

We slid into a booth so slick with grease I was able to draw a little smily face with the tip of my finger before Natasha wiped it out with a curt little remark about fingerprint security. Even all of that top secret KGB training wasn't enough to hide the expression on her face, which was pursed as though she's been forced to eat a particularly sour candy. By the time our food came, she wasn't even trying. She unrolled her fork and poked at a cherry tomato in disgust.

I, on the other hand, was having a wonderful time.

"Mmm . . ," I mumbled through a mouthful of burger. "Mmmmm. Mm, mm, mm." The patty was juicy and crumbled in my mouth, the bun was toasted just so, the sauce the perfect balance of sweet and tangy. I no longer felt quite as bad about dragging Natasha in here.

"Enjoying that burger?"

"Iz so 'ood! 'Oo 'ant a 'ite?"

"I'll pass," she said now examining her deflated lettuce as if expecting that to be greasy too. "Clint, what are we doing here?"

" 'ight!" I said with a big swallow, chasing it with a gulp of chocolate shake (which was not as good as Park's, but pretty close) followed immediately but another massive bite of burger. Who knew when I'd be having one of these again?"

" 'o, I 'ave this mission, 'or 'ury.' 'ig 'eal, 'uper-'ecret."

I'm not sure how much she believed me at first. Granted, I'm not sure how much she understood, but I swallowed again and stared at her and she seemed to be paying attention.

"I just," I cleared my throat, "I just wanted you to know."

She smiled, a real honest smile. Natasha grabbed a napkin and reached across the table, wiping a dribble of secret sauce from my chin. She knew better than to ask question about where I was headed or why, so she asked the only one that sometimes comes with an answer.

"Do you know when you'll be back?"

"No."

We both know this game too well. We know that "when" is more or less synonymous with "if."

We lapsed into a kind of weighted silence, but, being the master of awkward conversations, I wasn't about to let it last. I started telling her about my daring exploits in New York since I'd gone back up there, embellishing my tales with one specific and daring goal: to make the Black Widow laugh. It's not an easy mission, should you choose to accept it, but the reward is always worth it.

In the back of my mind, as I watched her squint her eyes with laughter as her body convulsed and tears threatened to roll from her eyes, I couldn't help feeling a bit like King Arthur. I always feel like some glorious victory's been won whenever I can make Natasha laugh a laugh that's not bitter or sarcastic or short-lived enough to be covered by a cough.

When she'd stopped laughing enough to breath again, I even goaded her into taking a sip of my milkshake. At first she looked over her shoulder, like she was expecting Fury to show up wearing one of his best frowns, but nobody made her drink that much. Soon she was back to stifling her smiles, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to do something I knew perfectly when Natasha would not like. She was laughing, and full of much more sugar than her body's used to.

My fingers fumbled for the thousandth time with the gift bag pinched between my knees. In her shock over the kind of place I'd dragged her into, Natasha hadn't noticed (I hoped) me smuggle it in. The velvety jewelry case shivered under my fingers. Man I hoped this'd work. I didn't exactly have the easiest time in getting it. See the guy I asked, a respectably shady character who's made some trick arrows for me in the past, had a little trouble believing that this time I wanted an arrow on a necklace. Though I was off my rocker, but really, who doesn't these days?

At first he tried to send me to a jeweler, but I finally convinced him that this necklace was going to need to be special. And secret.

He warmed up even faster when I showed him how much I was willing to pay him in untraceable cash.

Like I said, respectably shady.

And really, in the back of the back of my mind, behind King Arthur and behind the sound of Natasha's laugh, which I always try to preserve for as long as possible, I'd been fretting over whether this would work at all. What if she wouldn't take it? What if she didn't figure it out? Of course it made sense to me — it was my plot — but what if it was actually too stupid to be made out by anyone else? Or worst of all, what if she though I was just using her? Once she'd figured it out, I mean. What if she didn't believe I was sincere when I told her that in our business it's hard to feel good, but around her, and especially right then, I always feel better?

But there was nothing I could do now but have a little faith.

She paused and narrowed her eyes, examining me, when I reached over the table and took her hand. We don't normally do this sort of thing.

"Natasha, I um . . ." I started, wishing there was some shake left in the bottom of the glass. "I got you something. Now, don't freak out, but I want you to take it. Please."

She went stony and stiff. "Clint —"

I placed the little bag gingerly on the table and slid it a few inches toward her, so it left a little trail in the grease. She made to pull her hand away, but I grabbed it firmly.

"You want out you're going to have to lock my wrist."

Whether she truly wanted me to keep her hand there, or she felt it would be suspicious to wrench my shoulder out of its socket right there at the table, I can't entirely say.

She grabbed my hand a little tighter, but said, "I can't — We don't — Why would you — "

"You —" I though over my words carefully, "you're my safety net."

She stayed still, and I pulled the big black jewelry box out for her.

"I don't want — "

I straightened the little white bow with my free hand. "Tasha, please. This is important to me."

Her hand made to take the box, but it stopped as quickly as it started. To anyone watching, it must have seemed like strangest encounter they'd ever seen. To me, it seemed painfully normal. Natasha's . . . oh let's face it, Natasha's so weird when it comes to personal interactions. It's like she spent so long learning to be other people that she panics when it's time to be herself. I had just hoped . . . I had hoped she would take the necklace when I gave it to her. I have even hoped she'd be happy about it. Maybe even agree to try it on. I shouldn't have expected any more than what I got.

Barton, you dummy.

It wasn't exactly hard for Natasha to tell I was disappointed, so we walked back the car in silence. She dropped me off, and I wheeled around as soon as the Corvette was out of sight, launching over garden fences and tromping over some poor kid's sandbox, hoping that since she had a fairly roundabout way to drive, I would beat her back.

The tar lot outside her building was dark and still. I climbed up and pried the screen away from her living room window, opening it as far as it'd go. I could have just left the little gift bag sitting on her coffee table, but where would be the fun in that?

Out on the tar, as the purr of the Corvette rustled the street, I raised my bow and grinned.

It was only on the plane that I'd realized what I forgot.