This is part of my You Won't Be Alone series, set during The Ones Left Behind. For those of you who haven't read that, you can read this as stand-alone, however:

This is canon-divergent. It is not compliant with anything revealed post Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

The M-Rating is for the next chapter, but there is discussion in this chapter about human trafficking, sexual assault and child abuse.

February 2002

Clint Barton was a marksman.

He hadn't always been a marksman. His talents had been honed in the circus, responsible for many of his 'trick' shots - audiences didn't want to just watch someone fire arrows at a stationary target after all.

SHIELD had turned the shots developed for entertainment into deadly skills, and turned him into a marksman.

So despite the freezing cold, he was perched on a Russian rooftop with his bow, his eyes scanning the street below.

Losing the majority of his hearing at nine meant that his eyesight had sharpened to compensate, so he wasn't even bothering with a scope.

Sometimes he did, if he was in a proper sniper's nest with a rifle at a further distance.

He had mixed feelings about his target - under normal circumstances, that would mean he turned the mission down.

This time, however, something told him he had to be here.

Her file wasn't accurate; couldn't be, given the date of birth and the knowledge they had of the Black Widow.

And her targets were too random.

This was a woman killing for profit.

Really, in the grand scheme of things, wasn't that what he did?

A flash of red down on the street caught his eye and he took aim, slowly letting out a breath as he steadied himself.

"This is Barton," he murmured into his comm unit. "I've got her in sight."

And then … she was gone.

Clint lowered his bow, scowling down at the place where she'd been, switching off his comm as it crackled.

Coulson hated it when he did that, but his aids didn't like it.

Good thing to, as with it open, he probably wouldn't have heard the footfall behind him.

Instinctively, he threw himself to one side, just missing the bullet that skimmed past him.

She was half his size, and looked ten years younger (even though he was sure she wasn't), but she was good.

The fight was fast, dirty, and mostly consisted of him dodging her bullets. One of them skimmed his side, but the adrenaline was running fast enough that the pain didn't register immediately.

He knocked an arrow and took the shot before she could reload, and the arrow sank into her shoulder, pinning her against the wall.

Clint approached her slowly, another arrow readied. He half-expected her to rip the arrow out and keep fighting, but she didn't move, resignation crossing her face.

He froze, his heart thudding loud enough he thought she might be able to hear it.

"Well?" She asked after a few minutes. "What are you waiting for?"

Clint lowered his bow. "I'm taking the third way."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "The third way?"

"First way is I kill you," Clint said. "Second way is you kill me. Third way is you come with me. Work for SHIELD."

She snorted. "SHIELD? They'd take me?"

"If I vouched for you."

Fury would be, well, furious. But Peggy and Coulson would back him up.

"I don't think you're doing what you do because you want to be the bad guy," Clint continued. "I think you're making a living with the only skills you have."

"How do I know I can trust you?" She asked.

"Well, I could have just killed you," Clint said, shouldering his bow. "Hold still."

When he touched her injured shoulder, she flinched slightly, and he carefully grasped the arrow before breaking off the end.

"I don't break my arrows for just anyone, you know," he murmured, carefully drawing the rest of the arrow from the wound.

Just as he had intended, it had gone through flesh only, allowing him to patch it up.

"Should I feel special?" She asked coyly, resting a hand on his bicep, apparently to steady herself.

"Maybe flattered," Clint said, studying his handiwork. "Are you still armed?"

"There's a knife in my belt," she said.

He was sure there was more than that, but he sensed that that concession was her giving a little. He still took the knife off her. "What's your name?"

"Natasha Romanov," she said after a few minutes.

Clint smiled. "Nice to meet you, Natasha."

October 2002

It took months before the psych department finally agreed that Natasha was not going to turn on them all.

Privately, Clint wouldn't mind too much if she turned on some of the agents, particularly the ones who had been talking about her.

Maybe once she'd settled in, he could convince her to help out with training, and she could …

He pushed open the door to his bunk and his brain short-circuited.

Natasha was waiting for him, sitting almost demurely on his bed, were it not for the fact that she was wearing nothing but lingerie.

For a second, he couldn't speak or move, pale skin taunting him, red hair tumbling over her shoulder, brushing the tops of her breasts, barely contained in black lace and silk.

His sense kicked into gear again.

Clint shut the door behind him hastily before anyone else could see her and spun around to face the door.

"Barton?"

There was confusion in her voice.

"Get dressed," he told her in a low voice, mentally replaying his last lecture from Coulson in an attempt to get his body and mind on the same page.

Turning his back on a deadly assassin and rejecting her in the same breath was probably not the smartest move he'd ever made, but he had to look away from her.

Otherwise he was going to do something he would regret later.

"You want me."

It was less of a statement and more of a question.

"That's not the point," Clint said. "Why are you here?"

There was a moment's silence.

Maybe he had misread her.

Maybe she was about to tell him that she wanted him.

"I … You saved my life."

Or maybe he was right.

Clint sighed. "You don't owe me anything, Natasha. You certainly don't owe me that."

He heard her move, but he stayed completely still.

"I'm dressed."

Clint risked a glance, and confirmed that she was back in her SHIELD uniform (not that that didn't look damn good on her). "Good. I was going to watch a crappy spy movie. Want to join me?"

Natasha looked confused. "I don't understand you."

"No, I get it," Clint said, rummaging under his bed for his laptop. "It's our lives, so why would I watch them, right? I have a list of movies that are so crappy that they're hilarious. I keep count of how many times they would have died. Makes me feel better about myself."

"That's … not what I meant," Natasha said. "You want me. I didn't misread that."

Clint sighed. "You are a very beautiful woman, Natasha. You don't need me to tell you that. But I don't sleep with women if it's not for the right reason."

Natasha frowned. "What's the right reason?"

Clint gave her a smile. "You let me know if you figure it out."

August 2005

Strike Team Delta were a force to be reckoned with.

Sometimes though, even the most hardened professionals could stumble.

The operation had gone perfectly well, executed smoothly between several different organisations and five different countries.

Neither of them was injured.

But, as Clint listened to Coulson's debrief, he couldn't help watching his partner.

To anyone else, it would appear that Natasha was fine, maybe a little bored even, but after three years he could see the signs - the slight tightening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffness of her shoulders, the way she gripped her coffee like a weapon rather than drinking it.

When Coulson finally dismissed them, Clint tossed his own coffee cup over his shoulder, not even bothering to look (it hit the wall above the trash can and bounced straight in), and hurried after his partner.

"Hey, you busy tonight?"

Natasha glanced at him. "You know I'm not, Barton."

Fair.

She didn't have a life outside work.

Neither did he, really, but …

"I need to get off base for a bit. I've got a … safe-house. In Brooklyn. Figured I'd watch some crappy movies, order take-out. You're welcome to join me."

Natasha visibly hesitated - another tick in the 'she's not okay' column. "I'm not sure I'll be very good company."

"This mission sucked," Clint said bluntly, taking care not to let any pity or sympathy into his voice. "I'd take bad company over no company."

That got him a quirk of a smile. "Let me pack a bag."

They took the subway, rather than requisitioning a car.

"Any reason we're not driving?" Natasha asked, pressed up against him in the crowd.

Clint pulled a face. "You don't drive in New York, Nat. You sit in traffic. And then sell your soul for a parking spot."

There were a couple of guys nearby staring at her.

They probably wouldn't try anything.

She could take them even if they did.

But after the last few days, Clint didn't want her to have to.

The train took another corner, rocking a little with the movement, and Clint put an arm around her waist to hold her steady. Over her head, he made eye contact with the biggest of the oglers and raised one challenging eyebrow.

All three of them hastily looked elsewhere, and he smirked inwardly.

"You're telling me SHIELD doesn't give you a parking permit," Natasha said, once they were back at street level.

It took him a moment to remember the conversation they'd been having.

"SHIELD doesn't know about this place."

That caused her to stop for a moment. "I thought you said it was a safe-house."

"It is a safe-house," Clint said. "Or a safe-apartment, if you'd prefer. It's my home. It's safe. It qualifies."

Natasha relaxed a little and fell into step beside him again. "But they don't know about it?"

"Coulson and Carter know," Clint said. "They can find me if they need to. There are other people living in this building. People who don't need to get involved with whatever trouble might follow me home."

"But you're bringing me home."

"You're not trouble," Clint said, opening the front door. "Okay, you are, but it's a good kind of trouble."

"If you say so," Natasha said, a smile quirking at her lips.

Clint had one of the two top floor apartments and the elevator was broken (again).

Mrs Watts from the fifth floor was struggling with her groceries and Clint automatically stopped to help her, carrying the bags up the next few flights for her.

"Oh, thank you, dear," she said breathlessly. "Why the landlord can't get that damn elevator fixed … all that rent we pay - what the heck is it going towards?"

Clint hummed noncommittally. He never had any issues with the landlord - but then he was a white straight man with no kids who was never home.

He got the impression he was the kind of tenant the landlord liked.

"It's about time you brought a girlfriend home, dear."

"Oh, Nat's a coworker," Clint said, giving Natasha a smile over his shoulder.

"She's a pretty girl," Mrs Watts said in the voice of elderly people who think they're whispering. "I wouldn't hang around too long on that if I were you."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mrs Watts," Clint said, carrying the bags into her kitchen for her. "Goodnight."

Natasha was waiting in the stairwell, smirking. "I am a pretty girl."

Clint grinned. "Sorry about her."

Natasha shrugged. "It's nice that your neighbours like you."

Clint just shook his head, leading her up the rest of the stairs to the twelfth floor.

His next-door-neighbour's young daughter was sitting outside her front door.

"Lost your key, Katie-Kate?"

She popped her bubblegum. "No. They're fighting again."

Clint winced sympathetically. "You'll have to go in some time."

Kate shrugged. "Yeah, but not yet." She tilted her head curiously at Natasha. "This your girlfriend?"

"No," Clint said.

Kate grinned. "Good, cause she's way too pretty for you."

Natasha laughed, and Clint feigned offence (feigned because he agreed with her).

"Thanks kid." Clint gave her a serious look. "They haven't stopped by curfew, you knock, alright?"

Kate nodded, and he unlocked his door and led Natasha inside. He wasn't surprised in the slightest when she went wandering through his living room.

"Does she knock a lot?" She asked curiously.

"Her parents don't give a crap," Clint said flatly. "She doesn't like being in there when they're fighting but she gets in trouble if she sneaks in after her curfew. So if I'm home, she knocks, and I go and complain about the noise."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. "They care more about a stranger's complaints than their daughter's comfort?"

"Like I said," Clint said, "they don't give a crap. Drink?"

"Whatever you're having," Natasha said, examining his bookcase. "And bring the bottle."

"That was a given." Clint grabbed a couple of glasses and a bottle of vodka.

She came to sit beside him on the couch, taking one of the glasses as he filled it. "To taking down scumbags."

Clint smirked, touching his glass against hers. That was a word she'd picked up from him. "To kicking asses."

Natasha downed her glass and filled it up again. "That was a very … satisfying mission."

It was.

SHIELD was multi-national so in theory they were apart from politics - at least, that had been Peggy's goal initially - but Clint still wondered how many of his targets would not be his targets if circumstances were even slightly different, if he lived in another country, or the last election had gone differently.

When the targets in question were responsible for the trafficking and sexual exploitation of thousands of young women, things really were black and white.

Clint sipped at his drink - Natasha had the constitution of someone five times her size, but if she was going to be drinking like that, one of them should definitely stay sober. "You okay?"

"You worried about me, Agent Barton?" She asked, a little coyly.

"Yes," Clint said bluntly. "Not least because you've just turned into Agent Romanov. Can I have Natasha back please?"

Natasha blinked, the mask falling away again. "I'm fine."

"One more time with feeling," Clint said. "Tell me to drop it, and I will. But you've been off since we got back. Since before we got back, actually."

Natasha sighed. "I was promised crappy movies and take-out."

It wasn't technically telling him to drop it, but he knew better than to push her at this point. He grabbed the remote and started channel surfing.

At some point, pizza was ordered, and they fell into a friendly debate about the best toppings, which turned into a discussion about the worst meals they'd had on a mission.

At half-past nine, there was a soft knock on the door, and Clint paused the movie to go and answer it.

As he'd expected, Kate was still in the hallway and there was still loud shouting coming from the other apartment.

He went and hammered on their door, causing the voices to fall quiet.

Mrs Bishop answered, her eyes a little red-rimmed, and he almost felt sorry for her. "Oh, Mr Barton - I'm so sorry, did we disturb you?"

Kate slipped past her and she didn't even look down at her.

"I'm sure that it's important," he said flatly. "But it has been a spectacularly long day."

"Of course," Mrs Bishop said hastily. "We'll … It's not … We won't disturb you again."

"Thank you," Clint said. "Have a good night."

When he returned, Natasha was staring into her glass in a way that worried him. "She's lucky."

"Who?" Clint asked.

"Kate," Natasha said. "How old is she? Nine?"

"In a few weeks, yeah," Clint said.

"When I was that age," Natasha said softly, "I had already killed three men, and the Red Room had already trained us to use our bodies as weapons, and no one cared."

Clint sat down next to her again. "This mission did get to you, didn't it?"

"No one cared," Natasha repeated. "The Red Room was government-funded. The KGB knew damn well what they were doing; they didn't care. Where was our multi-national rescue mission?"

Clint didn't answer, but poured her another drink.

"I lost my virginity when I was eight," Natasha said flatly. "They wanted us to be prepared for anything that might happen, so they raped us over and over again until it didn't bother us, and then they sent us out to fuck and kill. As soon as we hit puberty, they cut our tubes so we couldn't get pregnant. And I don't even know if I want kids, but they took that away from me, and it's not fair, Clint - why did it have to be me?!"

It was the most she had every said in one sitting about her past. None of that was in her file, he knew, even though he could have taken guesses at some of it, and it made him want to vomit, but he wasn't going to.

He was not going to make this about him, even if he did want to dig up everyone involved in the Red Room and kill them (again, if necessary).

"I don't know," he said gently. "I don't know, Natasha. What happened to you was … awful. And you're right; it's not fair."

She set her glass down again, just a little too hard judging by the sound. "I have never had sex with a man because I wanted to. Just me. Not the Widow, not a job, not a mark, not a … training exercise. Me."

Clint gave in to his gut instinct and covered her hand with his own. "If I could go and hunt them all down, I would. You ever want to go on a hunting trip; I'll back you up."

Natasha managed a small smile. "There isn't anyone left. I made sure of that."

That was the Widow's smile, and it still sent shivers down his spine.

He raised his glass to her. "Then may they rot in hell."

Natasha's smile widened and became more genuine. "Those girls will be okay."

"They will," Clint said, although it hadn't been a question. "They'll be looked after."

"When I started at SHIELD, Peggy told me that I wasn't obliged to have any kind of sexual contact with anyone if I didn't want to," she said. "I didn't understand what she meant. But those girls … I just …"

"She always tells me to treat myself with the same consideration I would give anyone else," Clint said. "I'm not very good at it."

Natasha stifled a yawn. "I should get back to base."

"Stay here," Clint said, before he could think better of it. "I can take the couch. It's a crappy neighbourhood after dark."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "It's me."

"Yeah, and I don't need to be bailing you out tomorrow," Clint said with a grin, taking the glasses back to the kitchen.

He was only partly surprised when he turned around to find her right behind him.

"You're sure you don't mind?" She asked softly.

"Of course not," Clint said immediately, because she would take any hesitation as confirmation of a lie, but something in her voice worried him.

He was right to, apparently, because she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

Clint had kissed and been kissed by quite a few women over the years, and he knew the difference between a woman who wanted him and a woman going through the motions.

Natasha, unfortunately, was going through the motions.

He didn't want to, but Clint made himself push her away. "Why?"

Her brow creased. "Why what?"

"Why are you kissing me?" Clint asked.

Natasha sighed. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said bluntly. "You're my partner and my best friend. I'm not risking that if it's not for the right reason."

"What is the right reason?" She asked, sounding frustrated. "Look, I just … I've never been with anyone who cared, Clint. Maybe I want to know what that's like."

Clint bit back a groan. Someone, somewhere should give him a medal, really, because resisting her was the hardest thing he had ever done. "Nat, it's been a really crappy few weeks, and …"

"Having a crappy few weeks does not make me incapable of making decisions," Natasha said, her eyes flashing.

"Of course not," Clint said immediately. "Of course it doesn't, but … Look, Nat, can you look me in the eye and tell me you definitely won't regret this tomorrow?"

Natasha hesitated. "No," she admitted softly, and he breathed a small sigh.

"Get some sleep," Clint told her, squeezing her arm. "We've had a couple of long days, and I'm definitely not sober enough for this."

Natasha managed a smile. "Fair enough."

Clint showed her to the bedroom and then went to make the couch a little easier to sleep on. They could probably share the bed - they'd done it enough on ops - but everything was just a little too raw tonight.

Tonight, he couldn't promise himself that he wouldn't end up wrapping her up in his arms, or nuzzling against her neck, or wake up to find that his body had betrayed his secret desires.

Rejecting her tonight was difficult; he had no idea how he would manage if he woke up with her perfect body pressed up against him.

"Clint," she called from the bedroom door.

He glanced over, praying that this wasn't attempt number two, but she was at least dressed - albeit in one of his old shirts that only reached halfway down her thighs.

His body twitched at the sight, something primal and possessive stirring deep with in him, and he gave it a whack on the nose with an imaginary newspaper.

"Nat?"

"I just wanted to say …" she seemed uncertain, which wasn't like her at all. "You're a good man. Probably the best man I've ever met. And sometimes I really, really hate that about you."

Clint cracked a smile. "Don't worry, Nat; sometimes I really hate that about me as well."