A few notes on the story: each chapter begins with a flashback, it is almost completely written so updates should come every day, and I will put additional warnings at the top of each chapter as they apply.

This story is rated M for violence, mentions of past abuse, torture scenes, and later sexual content.

Please don't hesitate to review! I would love to hear what people think.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any characters/organizations/plotlines related to them. If I did, we'd have a lot more Black Widow and Hawkeye.

Thank you sherimi for the nice review - Coulson is trying to adjust (and failing). Give him some time :)

Outside of Waverly, Iowa—1992

The bouncing seven year old was a ball of energy who couldn't keep himself still. He and his brother were standing outside of the orphanage, waiting for their ride.

"Hold still," Barney ordered.

Clint and Barney had been living at the Waverly Home for Children for a year now, and despite the cruelty of the proprietor, Cole Herkel, they'd been relatively happy. Part of the state's program involved getting all of the children involved with community organizations, and through their school, Clint and Barney had been taken into the Boy Scouts of America.

Today was their first camping trip with the troop, and Clint couldn't wait. He'd never been camping before but he'd heard about it. Making fires, setting up tents, staying up late, and eating s'mores. He couldn't stand still. Not only was he getting away from Herkel for the night, but he's getting to go camping!

A car pulled up in front of the building and Clint started jumping, "They're here! They're here!"

Barney rolled his eyes and said with a fond smile, "I can see that, dummy. Grab your bag!"

Clint shouldered his backpack and sprinted to the car, grinning widely.

Barney followed at a slower pace, "Hi, Mr. Johnson."

Mr. Johnson, the leader of the Waverly, Iowa Boy Scouts of America troops, stepped out of the car and smiled at the two boys approaching him, "Hi Clint and Barney! How are you guys today?"

"Good!" Clint shouted as he swung his backpack off his shoulders and into the car Mr. Johnson had opened.

Barney just smiled at the man before climbing in.

"Are you ready to go camping?" Mr. Johnson asked.

"Yes! Are we gonna get s'mores?" Clint replied still practically bouncing in his seat.

The man chuckled as he started the car and pulled away from the orphanage, "Yes, we will tonight after we set up camp."

Clint yipped with joy, making his brother and Mr. Johnson laugh as they headed out of town.

Jackson, Wyoming—2007

Phil Coulson hung up the phone after relaying Romanoff's location to Clint.

Then called SHIELD again to arrange an evac for his agents.

Then he began to pace.

Phil Coulson did not handle his agents being in danger well.

He'd known something was wrong the moment the phone had rung. Ever since Fury had partnered Clint with the Russian assassin, Phil had just been waiting for the woman to turn against them. He was just waiting to get the call that she'd shot his agent in the back and bugged out. In this case, he'd been expecting Clint to tell him Romanoff had taken off. To hear she'd been captured and that Clint was going after her had been surprising. He remained determined to hold the Russian woman accountable until he knew if his agent was okay or not. As far as he was concerned, if Clint died or got injured trying to rescue her, well that was on her hands.

Thus began one of the longest nights he had had in a while. He spent most of it pacing and trying to see the coordinates where Romanoff's beacon continued to show. He didn't want to consider the implications of Clint's claim that she knew about the tracker. It either meant she wasn't going to betray them (which he still doubted) or that this was a trick and she had taken off, leaving the tracker behind to throw them off. If only he'd had the presence of mind to track Clint.

He shook his head at the thought, no he trusted Clint. The problem was that the man had a tendency to get in trouble on missions. The archer would definitely interpret the action as a sign of distrust, especially after everything that had happened in Minsk. And based on the archer's experiences when held hostage, he would not be happy if said tracker was found (as it likely would be). Very few SHIELD agents had trackers on them. Romanoff did simply because no one trusted her.

The sudden ring of the phone broke through his thoughts and had him scrambling over the couch to answer, "Coulson."

"What's going on?" Nick Fury demanded from the other end.

Phil sighed, "I don't know for sure. All I know is that Romanoff got captured and Barton went after her in order to take out the Green Light. That was an hour ago. At this point the storm is too bad for us to get satellite images or get in contact with them."

Silence greeted him before Fury replied, "Phil, you know Barton's breaking protocol again… Captured agents are supposed to be disavowed."

Phil sighed, "Yes, but not if their recovery is vital to the mission or if their capture provides an opportunity to complete the mission."

"We'll discuss it when you get back. A team will be ready to handle the cleanup. Let's just hope this doesn't backfire on us, Phil. You're boy is taking too many risks and breaking too many rules when it comes to Romanoff. If he's wrong…"

Phil nodded, his throat tightening, "I know."

"Keep me posted," Fury commanded before hanging up.

Phil set the phone back down and resumed pacing. Great, now he had to worry about Clint getting in trouble again for Romanoff. He swore to himself. He was stuck here until the storm passed and he was able to get in touch with his agents. Barton had better be alive and Romanoff had better be with him, he thought.

Ranger Station, Yellowstone National Park – 2007

Natasha managed to get her partner to take some antibiotics with his soup and water, insisting that it was better to be safe than sorry. Only her threat to stuff the pills down his throat had convinced the stubborn man to take it in the end. The pills made a reappearance an hour later, along with the soup he'd managed to eat. Natasha stood outside the bathroom as her partner retched into the toilet, silently hoping that he would beat the infection seeping through his body. The cold seeping into the old house did not improve her mood. She had arranged the few blankets she'd found in the house on the floor of the kitchen and turned the oven on in the hopes of warming up the building. Her mind snapped away from her thoughts as the bathroom door opened.

Clint sent her what was supposed to be an encouraging smile when he exited the bathroom. Natasha's raised eyebrow told him he had failed in reassuring her with what had amounted to little more than a pained grimace.

"'M fine," he mumbled before tipping forward slightly.

Natasha grabbed his arm to steady him, "Like hell you are, Barton. Come on, you need to lay down, and to try to eat a little something and drink some water."

Clint found himself unable to protest as she steered him into the kitchen where she had made a small nest of blankets and helped him settle down into it.

Natasha rummaged around in the pantry and came back with a piece of bread and a glass of water for him.

He took both without a word, and under Natasha's watchful eye ate and drank before laying back into the blankets.

"You should get some sleep," Natasha said softly.

Clint didn't bother trying to protest, he merely closed his eyes and allowed sleep to overtake him.

Clint woke to darkness and vehement cursing in Russian. He blinked hard, trying to get his bearings. The swearing was coming from his left and the voice definitely belonged to his partner. He heard her rummaging around in the bag he packed and he slowly pushed himself into a seated position. His whole body felt like it was freezing, except for the knife wound in his thigh which burned as he shifted.

"Romanoff," Clint said, voice still weak from sleep. He cleared his throat and spoke again, louder, "Romanoff, I don't think its possible for a goat to do that."

A beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating Natasha's form as she held a flashlight aloft. Clint's eyes quickly adjusted to the meager light.

"Barton, the power went out and we're in the middle of Yellowstone with no way out. I think the physical capabilities of goats are the least of our worries," Natasha replied dryly.

Clint let out a deep chuckle before trying to stand. Natasha was quickly at his side, pushing him down with a stern look.

"I'll go flip the breakers," Clint volunteered as he pushed against her hand.

"Please," Natasha scoffed. "I can flip the breakers just as well as you can, and I won't risk injuring myself further in the process. You're sick, you need to rest."

He sighed as he allowed her to push him onto his back again, "Fine, but if you aren't back in fifteen minutes I'm coming after you."

Natasha nodded and left the kitchen.

Natasha shivered within the thick coat she had worn outside (stolen from Clint) as the wind and snow hit her. She didn't have any idea where the circuit breakers might be other than somewhere on the outside of the cabin. Keeping her left hand on the side of the house, Natasha began to search for the box, moving her flashlight in a sweeping arc in front of her, hitting the side of the house every few feet. It was slow going, trading through the drifting the snow and keeping her bearings within the storm.

Finally, she reached the breaker box. Balancing the flashlight precariously between her neck and shoulder, Natasha managed to force the frigid metal door open. She held the flashlight aloft again with her left hand and began scanning through the breakers for the one's that had blown. Frowning, Natasha scanned the switches again. None of them appeared to have flipped. She pursed her lips and tentatively flipped the one labeled kitchen. She looked up at the house expectantly as she turned the switch back on then cursed. The lights should have come back on, if the power being out had been something she could fix.

Muttering Russian curses to herself, Natasha returned to the house and stomped her feet, knocking the snow off hers shoes. She kept the coat on, knowing that without heat things were going to get very chilly.

Clint's eyes glinted in the light from the flashlight when she returned to the kitchen. She sighed before speaking, "In case this day hadn't been fucked up enough, we've got no power. The storm knocked it out."

Clint frowned but remained silent, brain trying sluggishly to come up with a solution.

Natasha dug through their supplies and pulled out a book of matches and some cans of Sterno. With a hiss, the first match she struck burst into flame and she carefully lit one of the cans before repeating the process. She turned to Clint, "There that'll at least give us a little bit of light and heat."

"You should take one of these blankets," Clint blurted. "It's going to get cold."

Natasha scoffed, "I've survived worse with less Barton. Anyway, you've got a fever, you need the warmth more than I do."

Clint shook his head, "I'll be okay."

"You're not okay, Barton. Listen, we've only got a few more hours until morning. The storm will have calmed down and we can get a call in to Coulson."

"But—"

"Get some rest, Barton," Natasha commanded before she flipped off the flashlight and settled into a seated position against the wall. "I'll keep watch."

Natasha kept an eye on her partner all through the night, becoming increasingly worried as he began to toss and turn in his sleep. He was clearly fighting an infection and his body was struggling to deal with the combination of injury, infection, and cold. His lack of food or water probably didn't help either.

She startled awake a couple of hours later when Clint began mumbling. She moved closer to the man, thinking he had woken up and needed something. When she had drawn close enough, she began to make out his words: "Please… Don't… I'm sorry… Accident… Sorry… Sorry…"

Natasha's lips tightened. She had never heard her partner sound as weak and frightened as he did then. He looked young as he twisted and whimpered beneath the meager blankets. It was easy for Natasha to forget that he was twenty-two, only three years older than herself. He always acted far older. It dawned on her that she really knew nothing about his past… What could make a man like him whimper and beg for forgiveness? She was not the only one with demons in her past.

"Barton," Natasha called, trying to wake him up. She knew better than to reach out and touch him based on her own experiences coming out of nightmares. She called again, louder this time, "Barton, wake up!"

The man's eyes snapped open and Natasha watched as he tried to get his bearings in the dim light from the Sterno cans. He focused on her, still breathing hard, "Romanoff?"

"You were having a nightmare," she replied levelly.

"Yeah…" he said, voice distant and eyes scanning the room almost frantically, as though he wasn't quite with her.

She blamed his lack of focus on the fever he had been fighting and the remaining images from the nightmare.

Natasha stood up and moved to the sink smoothly. She could feel Clint's eyes on her back as he watched her movements warily. She returned to his side and held out a glass of water, "Drink this. You've got a fever and need to stay hydrated."

Clint took the class from her and dutifully drank the water. Natasha ignored the slight tremor in his hand as he tipped the glass back.

"Let me check your leg, too," She said, hoping he would continue to cooperate with her.

He nodded feebly and set the glass aside before shifting with a wince to give her better access to the injury.

Natasha scooped up the flashlight and gathered some supplies for tending his would. She handed Clint the flashlight with the stern order of "here, hold this" before she began to remove the dressing. She silently thanked the Red Room for getting rid of any squeamishness she had one possessed. Peeling the back the gauze had released a nasty odor of blood, sweat, and pus. Usually blood and sweat hat little impact on Natasha, but this was nearly too much for her. She knew a healing injury would not smell this bad. It was hard to get a good look at the wound in the harsh white light from the flashlight and the slight glow of the Sterno flames. But what she could see did not look good.

The skin was inflamed around the gash and heat radiated from it, worse than from the rest of Clint's fevered body. The stitches looked as though they were close to bursting and a on at the end had actually popped out. A trickle of blood ran down the edge of Clint's leg. Natasha gently wiped it away with a small square of gauze. She picked up the scissors next to her and looked at Clint.

"I'm going to cut open some of the stitches and see if I can drain some of the blood and pus away. Hopefully that will reduce the pressure and help it heal more," Natasha said.

Clint nodded at her and raised the flashlight to give his partner more light as she worked.

Cutting the stitches didn't take long and elicited little more than a slight tightening in Clint's grasp on the flashlight.

"This is going to hurt," Natasha warned as she held a bowl next to his leg and a pile of bandaging above it.

Clint nodded, "Do it."

He nearly knocked Natasha off balance when he violently flinched as she applied pressure to the wound. Yellow and red liquid ran out of the wound and into the bowl. Natasha repeated the process, pressing down more on his leg in order to drain as much of the fluid as she could. When the would looked cleaner, she used more antiseptic and restitched it before adding a layer of bandages.

Clint leaned back against the wall, breathing shallow and eyes closed as he tried to fight against the pain.

"If I give you antibiotics and painkillers can you keep them down?" Natasha asked. "What about food?"

Clint shook his head and then winced, "Based on how nauseated I am now? No to all of them."

Natasha nodded she had feared that answer. She didn't want to make him eat if he was only going to vomit it up soon after, he was suffering enough, "I'll get some more water."

"Where did you learn field medicine?" Clint asked after drinking some water and wiping the sweat off his brow. "The Middle Ages? Seriously Romanoff, that was some of the most painful 'help' I've ever had."

Natasha rolled her eyes, recognizing her partner's attempt to throw her off from his situation using humor.

"Yes, the Middle Ages," she replied dryly. "Be glad I didn't use leeches."

Clint huffed a laugh, "Well look at that, you made a joke."

Natasha merely smirked in response, "Go back to sleep, Barton, before I decide to leave you for dead."

Clint dutifully laid back down with a slightly pained smile, "Please, if you were ditching me here you'd have done it already."

Natasha didn't bother responding, instead choosing to move to the sink and begin cleaning the tools she'd used on his leg. A few minutes later she heard her partner's breathing even out as he once again retreated to the realm of dreams. She turned around from the sink and leaned back against the counter, blowing out a breath. Clint's wound continued to worry her because it was clearly only worsening. Even if the storm had ended by dawn and they could leave, she doubted he would be able to walk. According to the sat phone she'd found among Clint's things, they still had a little over two hours until dawn.

The cabin rattled as a powerful gust of wind hit the building. Natasha moved to the front room and gazed out the window at the storm. The amount of falling snow seemed less than a few hours ago, when she'd ventured outside to fix the power. Even the wind seemed to be dying down. However, the foot and a half of fresh snow would prove challenging in the morning when they had to leave the cabin. Only Clint had decent footwear for snow, she had only a pair of tennis shoes. Sighing, she returned to the kitchen, where it was slightly warmer. She resumed her former spot on the floor and managed to sleep for a few hours.

Morning greeted the park with cheery sunlight reflecting off of the snow and bitingly cold air. Sparkling snow blanketed everything in silence, the trees weighed down by its bulk, drifts settling against the bases of the trees. The freezing temperatures did little to encourage anything to leave its safe, warm home.

Natasha jerked awake and blearily blinked in the morning brightness as an obnoxious bell noise invaded her consciousness. It took only a moment of confusion to pinpoint the noise to the satellite phone. Grumbling to herself in Russian, she grabbed the phone and snapped it open.

"Romanoff," she greeted.

"Sit-rep," Coulson's calm voice demanded.

Natasha stood and moved next to her partner as she began speaking, "The Green Light has been terminated, the bomb is disarmed and sitting out behind the cabin, and the bodies are in a shed. Barton got himself stabbed in the leg with a hunting knife, it's infected. Based on what it looked like last time I checked, he's not going to be able to walk out of here."

The hitch in Coulson's breathing betrayed his worry, despite his voice remaining even, "Is he conscious?"

"Hang on," Natasha said as she set the phone to the side.

"Barton," she called. "Barton, wake up."

Clint's eyes opened, clearer than they had been the night before, but still slightly unfocused as he gazed at her.

She picked up the phone again, "He's up now. Still has a fever though."

"Put him on the phone."

Wordlessly, Natasha offered the phone to Clint.

"Coulson?" he asked as he accepted.

She nodded and moved to pack up their things, ignoring the one-sided conversation happening. By the time Clint had closed the phone, she had repacked the bag Clint had brought.

"Evac will be waiting for us two miles east, we've got an hour" Clint said when she turned to him. "It's the closest clearing they could find where the helicopter could land. They'll take care of cleaning out our cabin and this place."

Natasha nodded, "We should get going. Can you walk?"

Clint gave her an exasperated glare, "You sound like Phil. I'm fine."

Natasha merely raised a challenging eyebrow and watched as he tried to stand. She let him struggle for a few minutes before stepping forward, "Barton, let me help you."

He started to protest but stopped when pain throbbed through his leg. Loath though he was to admit it, Clint Barton needed help. He grabbed Natasha's offered arm and allowed her to help him balance as he rose. She guided him to the table and had him.

"You can't put any weight on that leg."

Clint opened his mouth to protest before giving up. He hadn't been able to do more than hop over to the table.

"How's it feeling?" she asked as she withdrew the medical supplies and moved to unwrap his leg.

"Better than last night, much better than after your Dark Age medical practices," Clint smirked.

The flesh around the wound remained inflamed and hot to the touch. However, the wound itself looked better than it had last night, the bleeding had stopped and the stitches didn't look as strained.

"How does it look?" Clint asked.

Natasha shrugged, "Not as bad as last night but still not good. At this point, I don't want to mess with it."

Clint nodded.

"Before we go, you need to eat something and take some medication. You need some antibiotics and I want to make are your fever doesn't get worse, again," Natasha said as she replaced the bandages.

"Is there any more soup?" Clint asked. "I think I could keep that much down."

Natasha managed to scrounge up enough soup for the two of them, heating it in a can over one of the Sterno burners. They ate quickly before heading out towards the waiting helicopter.

Hiking through over a foot of snow in non-waterproof boots and thin socks was not a pleasant experience, Natasha discovered. Having to haul her injured partner along didn't exactly help either. She had kept Clint's outer coat for herself and stolen his fingerless gloves (they almost covered her fingers), leaving him with a fleece pullover and heavy gloves. Neither of the assassins were warm, but they weren't going to freeze anytime soon.

They'd only made it a mile out from the ranger station when Clint needed to take a break. He leaned against a conveniently placed rock outcropping, favoring his leg. His ceaseless cheerful chatter disgusted Natasha and she considered knocking him out or leaving him just to get a moment of silence. But she doubted SHIELD would be very understanding if she left him and he was too heavy for her to carry on her own.

So far most of his chatter had involved him planning what he would do while on medical leave. She hoped that his threats to make her join him for watching movies and cooking would amount to nothing. She might actually kill him if he made her join him.

"Alright," Clint said, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm tired of waiting on you Romanoff."

Better men had quailed under the glare Natasha leveled at him.

"So tell me, have you ever seen The Lord of the Rings?" Clint questioned as he looped his arm around her shoulders again and they began making their slow way towards the rendezvous point.

"Sounds like a chick flick," Natasha replied, fighting to keep her annoyance hidden. She had a feeling her partner kept up the incessant chatter just to get a reaction from her.

The man spluttered before hotly replying, "It's only the greatest fantasy movie series every made. Seriously, revolutionized filmmaking. I'm adding it to our list."

"Our list?"

"Yeah, our list."

"List of what, exactly?"

"Movies we're going to watch whenever we're on base. We really need to get you educated on pop culture."

"What if I don't want to watch?"

Clint smirked, "Now you sound like a petulant child, Romanoff. Anyway, you'll like them. Promise."

The snow suddenly surrounded Clint's body and he looked up from his new position on the ground to see Natasha standing above him wearing an evil smirk.

"What was that for?" he asked angrily.

Natasha folded her arms in response.

"Seriously? I just want to watch some movies with my partner, get to know her a little better and make sure she understands the valuable references I can make…" he muttered to the sky.

Receiving no response, Clint continued talking to the clouds, "You know, if I didn't know better I'd think she didn't like me. But I know that's not true."

A disbelieving snort broke through Natasha's desire to not respond.

"Want to know how I know? It's because she hasn't left me yet. She actually stuck around and made sure I survived the night and now she's hauling my ass through the snow to the jet. She likes me," he continued, now starting to smirk.

"Barton, the reason I didn't leave you for dead in that cabin and make a run for it is because I know SHIELD still has a tracker on me. I doubt they'd be particularly kind to me if I let you die," Natasha stated flatly.

Clint pushed himself into a sitting position and studied her for a moment before looking back up at the sky, "Yep, definitely likes me."

Natasha's angry growl only made him laugh.

"Get up, Barton, we're going to be late and the less time I have to spend with you the better," Natasha snarled as she grabbed his arm and forced him to stand.

Natasha didn't speak again until they reached the clearing and waiting chopper. Unsurprisingly, Phil Coulson stood waiting outside with the SHIELD clean up team.

Phil raised an eyebrow as he saw the two assassins walking towards him, Clint clearly depending on Natasha to keep him standing.

Natasha unceremoniously dumped Clint on the ground in front of Phil and looked at her handler, "He's all yours now."

She stalked away and climbed into the helicopter, ignoring Clint's curses as he tried to pick himself up again.

"What'd you do to her?" Phil asked nonchalantly. Clint couldn't be too hurt if he was able to curse so fluidly.

Clint looked mildly offended as his handler helped him to his feet, "Why do you assume I did something?"

Phil merely raised an eyebrow.

They flew the helicopter out of Yellowstone, to a small airfield where a jet sat waiting. The flight back to the New York base passed in relative silence, Phil and Clint occasionally talking while Natasha sat in silence, just watching them interact. She was still trying to figure out why Barton had come after her, despite protocol saying he should have left her. And even more confusing: her own choice to stay with him through the night and day. Yes, she'd told him it was only because she was still tracked, but she could disable the tracker easily enough…

Everything she'd learned in the Red Room said she should have left, that joining SHIELD was the right choice in order to save her life, but she should cut and run as soon as she had the chance. She didn't though. Something made her stay. And if Natasha was being honest with herself, that reason was sitting in the back of the plane with a knife wound in his leg. How had that annoying man managed to worm his way through her defenses and get her to want to stay, to want to be better? She didn't know the answer, and she was almost afraid to find out.

As for why he'd thrown protocol out the window and gone after her, well he'd said it was because they were partners. Natasha had never had a partner who actually saved her before. Who actually cared. No, her experience with partner work in the Red Room had been less than pleasant. Half the time, they were trying to kill each other, and the other half she ended up stuck with an older spy or soldier who had permission to do whatever they wanted to her. Could she really trust Barton? He had certainly proven himself so far. Hell, he'd gone so far as to actually trust her. Maybe her decision to stay with him meant that she was considering him her partner too…

One thing was for certain, she owed Clint Barton more than she could ever repay.

Natasha blinked slowly as they began their descent to the SHIELD base, pulling herself away from her thoughts and back to the moment. The two men across from her in the plane both straightened as well, preparing to disembark. Natasha noticed that Barton's expression looked pained, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the wound in his leg. Coulson had glanced at it and (at Clint's insistence) decided that it could wait until they got back to base before giving it more medical attention.

Sanders from medical met the trio in the hangar with a wheel chair, frowning when he saw the way Clint was leaning on Coulson as they made their way down the ramp.

"Barton," Sanders said sternly. "What did you do this time?"

Clint rolled his eyes, "You act like I wanted to get stabbed… I don't need the wheelchair, Sanders."

"No? Then take five steps on your own," Sanders challenged with a smirk. "I'll let you walk to the infirmary if you can."

Clint grimaced and tried to take a step without Coulson's aid. He stumbled and would have crashed to the ground had Natasha not grabbed his arm with a long-suffering sigh and a raised eyebrow. He merely glared at her as she dragged him over to the wheelchair and pushed him into it.

"I'm fine…" he muttered under his breath.

"Sure you are," Natasha said in her most patronizing tone. "That's why I had to half-carry you to the helicopter and why you spent most of last night with a high fever. You're fine."

Sanders shook his head as he led the way out of the hangar and towards the infirmary. Clint continued to grumble as Phil wheeled him through the halls. Sanders gestured to Natasha when she started to split off from the group. "I'm assuming you're the one who gave him medical care?" he asked.

Natasha nodded, "I didn't do much beyond stitch him up, give some painkillers and antibiotics, and take his temperature."

Sanders gave a curt nod.

Clint snorted, "She's leaving out the part where she used medieval medical practices to torture me!"

Natasha nearly rolled her eyes but explained in response to Sanders' questioning look, "In the middle of the night the wound was very swollen with pus and blood, so I drained it."

Sanders smirked and turned to Clint, "What? You can't take a simple draining? And here I thought you were some sort of badass."

Clint's glare only intensified while Coulson fought a smile of his own. It was nice to know that his agent was okay enough to snark at the people around him. And the fact that Romanoff seemed to be responsive to his behavior, well that just about blew Coulson out of the water. But he knew that Clint had this annoying way of getting people to like him if he tried. And boy was Clint trying with this one.

AN: Thank you for reading, please take the time to review if you liked it, hated it, have questions, any review makes me happy.

Preview of Next Chapter: She frowned as she read the message, "SOS need help can't get a hold of Phil please come #842 door code 90735."