A/N: Holy bejeezus this is so much longer than I intended! I swear it had plot and then…sex…all the sex…

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They work together in the field for years before they finally end up in the bedroom, but their chemistry translates amazingly well.

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Natasha is with SHIELD for five years before Budapest, four and a half of which are spent as one half of Strike Team: Delta, right alongside Clint Barton.

He's an unknown entity in her life, and unknowns are far more dangerous than anything else. James was an unknown – she couldn't read him, much in the same way she can't read Clint. Not at the beginning anyway. It takes the first year of the two of them working together as a team to accustom herself to his dry humor and self-deprecating wit; by the end of year two, they work together like a well-oiled machine and have earned a reputation among SHIELD as the two you want on the ground when things start going to hell; he is the second man she has ever trusted to have her back. Year three started bringing in the more difficult missions, the long-term undercover ops that occasionally have her questioning what's the truth and what's not, and she finds herself letting Clint under her skin even as he drops any and all masks around her, the last of their respective armors dropping away in front of the other.

The beginning of year four was Prague, where outdated intel led to Hawkeye having to get up close and personal with her mark, which led to the policie chasing them through the city streets, necessitating one of Natasha's quick hiding-in-plain-sight escapes. Clint had played along surprisingly well, seemingly unaffected by the intimacy that had brought both greater and lesser men to their knees; after Prague came São Paulo, where he had to bodily carry her from the burning building. São Paulo was followed by Azerbaijan, where the safe house was compromised and they ended up on the run for nearly a month before they find the parties responsible and SHIELD is able to pull off an extraction without causing an international incident. Abidjan followed right on the heels of Azerbaijan, and all hopes of subtlety is lost the moment they hit the ground; by the end of the week, they find themselves pinned down by the mercenary group they were sent after, back-to-back among the crumbling brick work.

Year five starts out as a series of evaluations by SHIELD doctors and psychologists to make sure she's not playing them before she gets sent on a string of solo assignments. Then comes Budapest; what should have been a simple week-long solo infiltration turned into a shootout involving multiple interested parties after a double agent was revealed to have been supplying all of the mission intelligence from the get-go in the hopes of leading Natasha into a trap. Where Clint, living up to his named, spots inconsistencies in the data and had shown up with just enough time to tip her off, a half-formed extraction plan at the ready. Where she dives in front of a bullet meant for his back. She wakes up in SHIELD medical with Clint's worried voice ringing in her head, mixing with the vague memories of her own voice spouting off in Russian and doctors calling for anesthetic, to find him seated at her bedside, fingertips inches from hers and fast asleep, Coulson seated in a chair against the wall directly in front of her bed and well in her line of vision. She swallows hard, clearing her throat before trying to speak.

"Sit rep sir?" she asks, voice hoarse and quiet.

"Bullet nicked your lung, just barely," Coulson replies, standing and handing her a plastic cup of water with a straw in it, which she accepts with a slightly shaking hand. "Any higher and it would have torn straight through. The mission was successful; the intel you gathered prevented AIM or HYDRA from getting some very valuable blueprints and the leak was taken care of." His voice is quiet and she glances meaningfully at Clint. "It took us almost twenty-four hours to get a med-vac extraction safely in place. You were in surgery about eight hours. It took you two to recover from the anesthesia. Barton's been asleep for twenty-six minutes."

"P.T.?"

"Based on what we've seen of your healing factor so far, you should be able to resume a light training schedule day after tomorrow." Her eyes drift to Clint again and Coulson sets a gentle hand on one of her shoulders. "Barton is fine, some minor lacerations and bruising aside. Get some rest agent."

Three days later, Natasha finds Clint in the mess hall, sitting alone at a corner table, a sandwich sitting untouched in front of him. She grabs a chicken salad and takes a seat across from him.

"How are you doing?" she asks.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he replies wryly, looking at her, picking at the crusts on his sandwich.

"I'll be cleared for active duty again before the week is up," she promises. "I took a look at my chart; they went a little heavy on the anesthesia." His hands freeze.

"Coulson didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"You were metabolizing the anesthesia too quickly. You woke up on the table twice, Nat." She nods slowly, taking a bite of her salad as he finally bites into his sandwich. "There was nothing about it in your file," he continues after swallowing.

"There wouldn't be," she comments around another bite.

"What do you mean?"

"Any job I had for the Red Room was usually espionage: infiltrations, seductions, assassinations. If I was injured badly enough to require any sort of serious medical care, it was taken as a failure. Our handlers had inventive means of punishment, even if they did call it training."

"No anesthesia."

"Pain resistance," the words are bitter on her tongue and she glances up to find him staring at her, a strange look on his face that evokes an unusual feeling in her chest. She shakes it off and remembers her reason for tracking him down. "I reserved the mats for Friday, and Ramirez is ready to open a pool if you're up for it once they've 'officially' cleared me. It's been a while." He stares a moment longer before responding with an affirmative and returning to his food. The feeling is still there in her chest, but she shrugs it off.

Natasha manages to ignore the feeling until their next assignment, where they end up posing as a married couple on vacation in Italy to catch the attention of an overly amorous successful businessman suspected of funding AIM operations in Europe. The mission was a simple honey pot trap, and "Mrs. Waverly" seduced the lonely businessman, her "husband" interrupting them mid-seduction. She got the mark alone, the two of them got the information and then they handed him over to the waiting SHIELD team without a hitch.

What they hadn't counted on was the mark's security team checking in on their employer an hour ahead of schedule. The managed an exit without any permanent damage done to the hired goons and were safely ensconced in the safe house by the time Clint noticed the blood trailing down Natasha's arm. He grabs her wrist without thinking and quickly finds himself flat on his back at her feet; his reaction is an automatic counter, wrapping his legs around her waist and flipping her over his head, using the momentum to land on top, straddling her waist.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Natasha snarls.

"You're bleeding!" he snaps back, leaning slightly to the side to inspect her arm.

"What?" Natasha turns her head to find him gently pulling at a small tear in the arm of her shirt, the sleeve now stained red. "I didn't even feel it." She mutters, sitting up, bringing the two of them face-to-face, inches apart. They both freeze, Clint's eyes flicking down to meet hers, hands still on her arm.

"In Budapest; why'd you do it?" he whispers, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lips. Natasha doesn't have an answer, just the sudden urge to lick his lips herself. So she does. She leans in towards him, and it's as if he received some sort of signal, or maybe it's just from the years they've worked together, because he meets her halfway. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth and catches it between her teeth as his hands slide up, pulling the elastic from her hair and tangling in her curls.

She tugs at his jacket and his hands disappear from her hair long enough for her to shove his jacket down his arms. As soon as he's free of it, his lips are back on hers and Natasha lies back on the carpet again as his fingers make quick work of the buttons on her blouse at the same time that her hands are nudging at her pants, pushing them down to her ankles before kicking them off. He pops the last button on her shirt and she grabs his arms, rolling her hips and shifting her center of gravity against him, forcing him to the side so that their positions are reversed and she's now straddling him, sliding her shirt down off of her arms. One of Clint's hands cups the back of her neck, pulling her in for another heated kiss, the other expertly opening the clasp on her bra and removing it as her hands find his belt buckle, sliding it from his belt loops quickly and unzipping his pants, shoving them over his hips with his underwear. His hands slide down to her hips, catching the waistband of her underwear and dragging them down until they're caught around one ankle. He gasps into her mouth when her hand closes around his erection and she smiles against his lips, wasting no time in sliding down onto him, both groaning at the sensation of him filling her. She rolls her hips, nails biting into his shoulders, and he flattens his feet on the ground, using his new leverage to thrust up in time with the figure eights Natasha's drawing with her hips.

Clint's hands wrap around her hips and he sits up, changing the angle. Natasha feels the muscles in his legs tense and she wraps her legs around his waist as he surges to his feet, slamming her back against the wall and pressing deeper into her, almost flush against her. She leans back against the wall, head tipped back and one of Clint's strong hands at the small of her back for extra support; she scratches at the peeling paint while using her new position to roll against him, meeting his hips as they snap forward until her orgasm crests, her entire body tensing with the feeling. Clint is still moving, shallow thrusts riding out the final waves of her orgasm by the time her body relaxes, and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself up to capture his lips, teeth scraping against his lips as he toes off his shoes, stepping out of the pants and underwear twisted around his ankles before turning around towards the bed. He drops, landing with her knees hanging over the edge, a hand cushioning her head as he picks up pace again.

They meet thrust for thrust, one of Clint's hands sliding down to grasp Natasha's leg, drawing it up over her shoulder, changing the angle of penetration and drawing a sharp cry from her lips in the shape of his name. She can feel the muscles in his neck tense and coil where her leg is resting, his pace stuttering against her hips, and she knows he's close so she snakes a hand in-between their bodies to circle her clit. Her second orgasm has her arching up against him, her vision going white while she's clenching around him, trying to draw him to his climax as well. His breathing catches and he stills for half a second, half a second in which his muscles tense and she knows exactly what he's going to try next. So Natasha drops her leg from his shoulder and rolls so that she's on top, hands pinning his wrists as she starts to ride him, hips moving in maddening little circles while he tries desperately to stop the shallow thrusts of his hips in response to her movements.

"Shit Natasha!"

"Come on," she soothes, breath hitching in her throat.

"Not…don't have…condom," he manages to gasp.

"We're good," she insists, clenching around him again until he gives up, hips bucking against hers as he finally lets go, spilling inside of her. She releases her grip on his wrists, collapsing forward onto his chest.

"Jesus," he pants, wrapping one arm around her waist. She hums in agreement, pressing a chaste kiss against his chest, right above his heart.