So this is a thing now, a place for me to put the random one shots that wont leave my head. Not entirely sure what this is, I wrote it half asleep at 3am but we're going with it. This one follows the same verse as I'm glad you're alive, maybe a prequel? I don't know. You don't have to read either of them for the other to make sense however certain things may make more sense if you do. There should be updates to this fairly regularly but then again it's me so we will see. Please follow and favourite if you enjoy and want more or check out my profile for more stories on Strike team delta because they're awesome. Obviously I do not own these characters or anything Marvel.

Coulson walked down the bustling corridor, this stormy face parting the waters like the red sea. The newer, greener recruits were terrified, the stories they had heard about the infamous handler and his agents coming to the forefront of their minds as they edged towards the wall, attempting to make their discomfort discreet. The older more experienced agents backed away as well, knowing the look on his face meant trouble. Sitwell chanced a fleeting smile, mentally praying for whoever had angered his friend when he received no response from the usually mild-mannered agent. Eyes followed him in his wake, looking to see where he was headed. The agent reached his destination shortly, slowing in front of a door bearing the name Agent Sanders. There was no hesitation as the door was pulled open and swung shut with a resolute bang. No one envied Sanders, yet no one doubted he deserved it. Coulson was protective, and deadly when the need arose, but he was well known for being fair. The soundproof door masked the sounds coming from inside and no one was wishing otherwise. Coulson was downright terrifying when he was angered, and no one needed to be dealing with terrified recruits this early in the morning. One thing was for sure though, Sanders had fucked up big time.

Meanwhile in S.H.I.E.L.D.S medical ward…

Natasha heard her partners breathing falter nearly imperceptibly before she saw him still, attempting to keep up the facade of sleep.

"It's okay,'' she said, seeing him jolt but then relax at the sound of her voice. "We're in S.H.I.E.L.D." her voice was slurred slightly, and her accent was creeping in but considering the amount of pain she was in and how bad a concussion she was sporting, she felt like she could let herself off. His eyelids flickered for a moment before opening to reveal the familiar shocking blue eyes.

"How you feeling?" She asked, closing her own eyes to the glare of the lights now she had confirmed his presence in the land of the living.

"High as a kite." came the response. She heard his bedsheets rustle and immediately knew what he was looking for. "He left a few minutes ago, presumably to chew out whoever that intel came from. Talking of which, apparently somebody neglecting to mention the fact that there is a known Hydra stronghold nearby can be added to the list of things that make him do 'The Face'."

"Was"

"Sorry?"

"There Was a Hydra base nearby. Now it's a crater." There was a moment's hesitation before he continued. "Tasha. Take the damned painkillers, they try to force them down you for a reason you know."

Dammit, even drugged and concussed she shouldn't have put it past him to notice, he was called Hawkeye for a reason after all. "You know I can't" She said in a small voice, hating herself for her vulnerabilities. "What made it obvious?"

"The accent that normally only comes through in extreme pain or when you haven't slept for a week, you're slurring when painkillers don't usually do that to you. Also, Coulson left you, alone, he would never do that if you were doped up and I can't exactly blame him after last time."

"I wasn't alone, I had you."

"Yeah, an unconscious me, fat lot of good that's going to do against the widow."

She sighed. "I never needed them before S.H.I.E.L.D. and I don't need them now. They are a weakness." She opened her eyes, squinting against the blinding lights but avoided looking in his direction, unable to face the eyes that seemed to bore into you and see all you ever tried to hide.

"And we're sure that's the reason?" His voice wasn't judgemental or probing and she was once again eternally grateful for the man named Clint Barton.

"Me and Russia have a long history of disagreements, always have and always will. And as usual, Russia wins. Me not being completely under my own control would be a very bad idea right now, trust me. I might know the difference between morphine and the Red Room, but the widow doesn't." She had given up trying to cover up her accent when Clint pointed it out which felt kind of contradictory when talking about hating Russia, but it couldn't be helped.

Just as Clint opened his mouth to reply, Coulson walked back in and the subject was dropped, thought knowing her partner as she did, it wouldn't be for long. Their handler looked alarmingly pleased at something compared to the usual mother hen expression that would reside on his face at their bedside. She didn't envy the person who had been in charge of the FUBARed mission that had nearly cost them their lives. Coulson was protective over his strays.