Clint never missed, and he sure as hell never botched missions. He never hesitated, and he definitely never walked away from a job left unfinished.
Honestly, though, there was a first time for everything-and, to be fair, he didn't run into drop-dead gorgeous spies every day, either.
After quickly realizing he'd be woefully unable to take her out from a long distance, due to her seemingly all-knowing nature and infuriating habit of dodging here and there so that no bullet could be trained on her, Clint decided that he needed to be up close and personal, and it wasn't exactly hard, since she apparently didn't see rather handsome looking citizens in her part of town every day (she about told him as much).
The gun was out and pressed directly to her forehead before she could do anything, and her eyes, round and too bright in the shadows of the old warehouse, were filled with what he suspected was genuine surprise and...fear. He saw it there, lurking dangerously, traitorously, and his finger relaxed from the trigger of its own accord. The crimson curls of her hair had tumbled from their bun and framed her pale face, and in the darkness she looked like a fallen angel, in need of saving and desperately longing to save.
He could do it. He could pull the trigger and wipe the spattered blood from his face and go on with his day, back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and back to normalcy.
Or he could take the chance and save this girl with the young eyes and hardened features, the woman with the sharp looks and yearning soul, and take the chance and hope that she wouldn't slit his throat with the knife no doubt kept hidden at her thigh.
He lowered his gun, holstered it, and glanced at her, holding out a welcoming hand. Her expression changed into the most disbelieving thing he'd ever seen, but her eyes-this Clint would never forget-softened as she placed her hand in his and let him pull her to salvation.