As Natasha sipped her coffee, her stomach gurgled. She glanced at the clock and realized that she hadn't eaten anything since the previous evening. She surveyed the greasy takeout places as she rolled past in the truck. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

After another five miles, Natasha pulled off at a little Mom and Pop grocery store that advertised a deli. She hung a small plastic grocery basket over arm and stopped off in the tiny toiletries section for some of Clint's razors and a new bottle of mouthwash. The merchandise was stacked floor to ceiling on metal shelves that predated the Cold War. Old-fashioned metal signs hung from the low ceiling, and the deli counter was packed. Everyone else seemed to know one another. She took her place quietly at the end of the line, right behind the two elderly ladies who were showing off photographs of their great-grandchildren. She found herself in the pet supplies section. Her eyes scanned the products. After a moment, she reached out and grabbed a bag of cat food. She dropped it in her basket before she could change her mind. The cat would help Clint cope. He liked animals. She ordered, paid, and took her purchases to the truck. Natasha wanted somewhere quieter to eat and think.

Natasha pulled the truck off the road and onto the small gravel and dirt parking pad. She slithered out of the truck soundlessly and pushed the door shut. Other than the pinging of the truck engine as it cooled down, the only sounds around her were bird calls and rustling leaves. The rusty iron gate protested at first and then gave way. She stepped carefully between the tombstones and weeping willow trees until she reached a small, shaded stone bench at the back of the cemetery. Sitting cross-legged on the bench so she could use it as a table, Natasha unwrapped her sandwich and spread out the butcher paper as a placemat. While she chewed the roast beef and Swiss cheese, her eyes traced the eroding lines of the stones that surrounded her. Cemeteries, the spy had found, made most people uncomfortable. They shied away from spending time with monuments to human mortality, making a graveyard an ideal place to be alone, unseen and uninterrupted. She remembered her last trip to a cemetery with Clint.

A few months ago…

Clint raked his fingers through his light, spiky hair and stared down at the stone. "I still can't believe it," he whispered, mostly to himself. Back from their decompression time in a safehouse, she and her partner had come to visit Coulson's grave. The first shoots of grass had popped out of the flattened earth.

"I know." Natasha inched closer to Clint, and her small, pale hand reached for his. Their fingers intertwined, and the two partners stood, silent, gazing at the final resting place of their handler. "He died in the line of duty," Natasha finally murmured. "You know that's what he would have wanted."

"I do," Clint nodded. "Doesn't mean I have to like it. Still wish I could have put an arrow in that bastard's eye."

"I think after the Asgardians get done with Loki, he'll be wishing you had."

Clint grinned slightly at the thought, as he had when she'd suggested something similar when they watched Loki return to Asgard as Thor's prisoner. "I can only hope so." He stepped forward and patted Coulson's tombstone with his hand. "Later, boss." Natasha squeezed his hand again reassuringly. Wordlessly, they walked hand-in-hand back to her flashy red sports car.

"Hungry?" Natasha asked as she put the car in gear.

Clint nodded, and then he did a fair impression of Coulson. "I know a great little Italian place."

"I bet I know the same one."

The waitress seated them at their usual table on the patio, overlooking the water. No other diners were outside. Clint poured them both glasses of sangria from the pitcher. Natasha sipped hers while Clint stared into the vibrantly-colored liquid. "He brought me here when he first recruited me," he said softly. "Paid out of his own pocket. Said that was so he knew we were out to dinner as friends, not as a recruit and his handler. Used to come back here whenever I got a promotion or commendation." Clint drained half of his sangria. "Hell, you know that. You came with us a few times." Natasha nodded in feigned understanding and laid her hand over Clint's on the table. While she trusted Coulson more than any other man she'd ever taken orders from, her relationship to him remained professional. Clint's relationship to Coulson was different. His deep filial bond with their handler pre-dated her arrival in SHIELD. Coulson didn't just recognize the potential of the circus performer turned freelance assassin; he recognized Clint, the human being. "He…he believed in me. He offered me a chance when no one else would. I'm pretty sure he saved my life. You know what I mean?"

That Natasha did understand. She met his eyes and smiled slightly. "You know that I do."

Clint's cheeks colored slightly and he dipped his head to hide a sheepish smile. He'd been doing that more lately – giving her goofy smiles at odd intervals. Natasha blinked. He cleared his throat. "So they're assigning you to Cap?"

Natasha tipped back her sangria, sipped, and nodded. "Fury said that he's still struggling with adjusting the modern world and thinks I can help him."

Clint chuckled. "Cap-sitting. Think that's easy or harder than cat-sitting?"

Taking another drink, Natasha shrugged. "Don't know. I know it's got to be a damn sight easier than Stark-sitting." She smirked at her own joke. "Fury is sending you back out. That's a good sign. And it'll be good for you to get back in the game." Clint nodded. "You and Kim are headed for eastern Europe?"

It was Clint's turn to shrug. "We're starting in Kiev because that's where the intelligence says the targets are. From there on, it'll be up to Agent Kim and her high tech equipment to lead the way."

"You're going to be gone a while," she observed. "Who's handling the mission?"

"Pete Peterson." Clint frowned. "I don't like the guy. Who names their kid something like that, and who keeps going by that name when he's an adult? And his handshake is clammy." He gave an exaggerated shiver.

After dinner, Natasha drove Clint home. She stopped her car in the unloading zone in front of his building. Clint reached for the door handle, paused, and then turned back to his partner. "You wanna come up, Tash?" he offered hopefully.

A hint of a smile played across her lips. "Are you going to make it worth my while?"

"I've got dark chocolate, red wine, and some superspy movies we can mock."

"You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl, Hawkeye." She teased, her voice low and relaxed.

Two hours later, she took another swallow of her wine and muttered, "oh, come on" at the screen as hero made yet another unbelievable escape. Clint sat in the middle of the daybed, his feet resting on the low, scuffed coffee table in front of it. Natasha sat perpendicular to him, reclining against the large pillows against one side, her legs draped over his. "How can you watch this stuff with a straight face?"

"Alcohol. Lots of it." He held up the nearly-empty wine bottle and shook it. "More?"

"Please."

A vibrating cell phone startled Natasha awake. Eyes still closed, she reached over to the TV tray and picked up her phone. It was still.

"It's mine," Clint said softly, propping his head up on one elbow and reaching across her for his phone. She felt the rumble of his voice through her body and realized that at some point during the night, he had shifted so that they were now sharing one of the large pillows. Mere inches separated his chest from her back, and their legs were entangled. He flipped the phone open. "Barton." He mostly listened, occasionally acknowledging something being said with a "yes, sir."

When he closed the phone and dropped it back on the TV tray, neither of them spoke. His free left arm snaked around Natasha until it found her left hand. He squeezed her hand.

"You have to go," Natasha said matter-of-factly.

Clint's head bobbed once in acknowledgement. "Somebody else made a run at our targets last night. The situation's changed. Sorry to run out on you." With that he pulled her body flush against his in a sort-of hug.

Natasha's body went rigid as she became all-too-aware of Clint's muscled form molded to her own. She scolded herself. This is your partner. This is Clint. What's so different about this embrace from all the ones before it? They had posed as a couple on dozens of missions and shared a bed for both cover and comfort hundreds of times. She inhaled, exhaled, and focused on relaxing.

"You okay, Tasha?" Clint asked.

"Yes," she lied.

"You can go back to sleep while I shower and pack."

Natasha pulled into the circular driveway in front of the SHIELD office. She popped the trunk and Clint dropped his bag on the sidewalk before embracing her. "You be careful. Don't let that Captain get you into too much trouble," he whispered in her ear. Then he did something unexpected. He pressed a kiss just in front of her ear. "Bye, Tasha."

"Good luck, Clint. Kim should keep you in line. I helped train her. I'll see you soon."

Natasha leaned against the trunk as he scooped up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. He gave her a jaunty salute just before he pushed open the revolving door. She stood there another minute, turning the last 24 hours over in her head. At the stop sign, she glanced right and noticed the little black velvet box, almost the same color as her leather upholstery. She pulled into the next empty parking lot and pulled over. Holding the box gingerly, Natasha opened it. A tiny silver chain with an arrow pendant on it lay against the black velvet interior. With trembling fingers, she extracted the necklace and fastened it around her neck. Natasha flipped down the visor and gazed at her reflection in the small mirror. The silver arrow rested in the hollow of her throat, nearly invisible. She took in her porcelain skin and green eyes, staring back at her devoid of expression. Despite its horrors, the Red Room training had one distinct benefit: no one could tell by looking at her just how utterly compromised she was.