**February 14th 2009**

"You're insane."

Clint was sure the almost devious smirk on his face wasn't helping to dissuade that argument, but nonetheless he couldn't fight it back. "I fail to see how I'm the crazy one here," he muttered into the phone as he tightened his tie. "If anything I'd say I'm as sane as a person can be in this situation."

Natasha's disbelieving snort echoed down the line and his grin widened. "It's still a terrible idea."

"Shut up, it's a great idea," he argued, absentmindedly fingering the fake badge in his pocket, double checking it was still there. He adjusted his shades, a grin tugging at his lips. "It's gonna be hilarious if they fall for this."

"It's going to get you killed if they don't."

"Don't be so pessimistic," Clint scolded as he marched with heavy confident steps down the apartment carpark. He hoped he radiated the same level of arrogant swagger that he'd gaged from every law enforcer he'd ever met. "I'm wearing sunglasses at night, how could it not work?"

Humming the Mission Impossible theme under his breath, Clint began climbing a set of filthy stairs; counting the levels as he went. The building wasn't well kept, falling into disrepair after years of neglect. Clint would bet the landlord still squeezed his tenants dry regardless. The offer was attractive; an apartment complex deep in the centre of Manhattan with no questions asked. For the right price, of course.

That was the reason the fledgling Ukrainian mobsters decided to run a drug cartel out of it. Clint knew the money had paid off; the Ukrainians pumped more drugs into the city than any other supplier. It had made them rich, powerful; dangerous. Too big for their own boots.

They'd started dealing to kids, 9 and 11 year olds racing around high as kites all over the city. And it had brought them the wrong kind of attention.

"Are you-"

"Shhh I'm going in," Clint whispered before ending the call altogether. He prepared himself for the shitshow he was about to jump headfirst into. Natasha hadn't felt like tagging along and Clint honestly couldn't blame her, but that left him here, all on his own. If the plan went wrong he would probably leave this place with several more holes than he had had going in.

Fuck it.

Taking in a deep breath he slammed his fist against the apartment door several times. "NYPD! Open up the fucking door!" he yelled and hoped against hope that Natasha was wrong.

Natasha was, predictably, not wrong.

Clint was panting heavily, bent double as he desperately gasped for his breath back, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Okay so-" he gasped breathlessly, gulping in another huge breath of cold night air. "-I got caught. But, in my defence-" He let out a hoarse cough. "They had these demonic little hellhounds…No I'm not kidding, fucking hellhounds I swear to God. Hey, no, what are you laughing at?! I nearly became puppy chow this is not funny!"

Natasha's laughter continued to ring down the phone. It was a pleasant, smooth sound that Clint realised he'd never heard before. He'd never been so thankful that she couldn't see the smug grin that curled at his lips when he realised 'I did that.'

"You're an asshole," he chuckled, swinging down from his fire escape. He'd clambered up it to escape certain death at the teeth of rabid mutts and had an impressive rip in his jeans to show for it. "I came to you expecting sympathy and this is what I get?" he teased, not offended in the slightest. His pistol was still a little warm from shooting the head honcho of the Ukrainian mob in the face. He wasn't sorry about it either.

There was a moment of silence in which Clint was almost certain she was rolling her eyes at him. As he expected, she ignored his comment completely. "Just come back, okay? We've got a plane to catch in two hours."

Clint sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, about that. I...kinda don't know where I am right now?"

Natasha let out a long suffering sigh that Clint wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

**March 6th 2009**

Natasha had locked herself in Clint's hotel bathroom for around 3 hours. Clint was starting to worry.

She sometimes had bad days like these, and while he didn't exactly understand, Clint had accepted them. They were both a little fucked up. To this day Clint couldn't sit inside a car without anxiety so intense he physically shook with fear; beads of sweat dripping down his face as he waited for the inevitable explosion that would blow them all to kingdom come. It never came. But that didn't make him believe it any less.

Natasha though, she was different. She barricaded herself into a room and threatened grievous bodily harm if anyone dared to go near her. Clint assumed she needed the time to have a break down, something to do with her past that he knew better than to ask about. She needed to do it alone too, he realised. The one time he'd tried to open the door she had, true to her word, nearly broken his arm over it.

Today though, he knew the reason for her meltdown. It had been a pretty shit day for both of them after all.

They were in Prague, hunting some crazy lunatic who was kidnapping people on the streets and selling them on the black market for fuck knows what.

Sadly Clint had underestimated said crazy lunatic's sphere of influence and had paid the price.

They'd snatched Clint from his bed, reminding him that he would sleep with one eye open from now on, assholes. Then they'd soaked him in petrol and started pissing around with matches. Lighting one right in front of his nose and giggling in manic delight when it snuffed out, just in the nick of time. They had laughed and laughed and laughed. Like it was all some big fucking joke.

Were it not for Natasha he would've died a horrible, horrible death today.

It was almost worrying how good she was getting at saving his ass from this bullshit.

He could still smell the intoxicating fumes on him. On his skin, in his hair; still making him lightheaded even after three showers spent scrubbing until he was red raw. Natasha had burned his clothes as soon as they got back to the hotel, ruined as they were. But as Clint watched them go up in a spitting, violent flame, it only drove home the fact that he'd come this close to being a human candle. A second too late and he'd be nothing but smoke and ashes right now.

It was far from a nice feeling.

Clint wanted to go out, let the breeze blow the stench of fuel from his body and allow him to forget the experience altogether. Maybe he'd even find some petty crime to stick his nose into and shoot some motherfuckers in the head. It may prove to be a good night all around.

But he wouldn't do any of that until he was sure Natasha was alright. And there was only one way to do that.

Clint tapped his knuckle against the bathroom door. "You alright in there?"

Silence was his only answer. It was a better response than he'd been expecting - last time she'd thrown a knife into the door. Clint nodded, as though she had spoken. "I'll take that as a no."

More silence.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked, waiting a total of five seconds for the response because he already knew the answer. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll leave something out for you, yeah?"

There was no reply, but he knew she was listening. "By the way, you can take the bed tonight if you like. I'm going out to scout the area tonight, won't be sleeping much."

He knew Natasha normally slept outside on the roof of whatever building he was staying in. This was his attempt at putting a stop to that. A compromise, if you will.

This time, Clint waited. Mostly because he needed to double check the woman was still alive in there before he could go anywhere. A few long seconds later quiet noise of affirmative came through the doorway and Clint let out a sigh of relief.

"Okay. Good talk. See you later, Chatty Kathy."

When he came back in the early hours of the morning, Clint was pleased to see the sandwich he'd left out for her had been devoured with relish.

He was exhausted, his muscles burning with the familiar ache of overuse as he dropped his gun at the door and tugged off his boots with fumbling fingers. Staggering his way into the bedroom he was vividly reminded of the pretty redhead that he'd given up his bed for. Or well, he thought he had.

Natasha was curled up on the floor, both fluffy pillows and the duvet stripped from the bed and brought down with her. She was tucked into the corner of the room, all possible entrances and exits in perfect view from her position. It was a soft nest of comfortable bedding, her bright hair the only sign that she was even there under such an avalanche of white.

She looked so calm while she slept. And so fucking young.

It was a sight Clint had never been privy to before and he marvelled at just how gorgeous she was without the ever present tension in her small frame. He couldn't help but find it strange to see someone who was normally so guarded look so vulnerable. It was unsettling even.

Clint would've smiled if his brain weren't focused on the tempting sight of a soft surface to collapse onto. He barely remembered to take out his hearing aids before he dropped down, fully dressed, onto the empty mattress and slept like the dead.

She didn't stay long after that, he knew. But it was progress.

**3rd June 2009**

"You fight like an uncoordinated child," Natasha breathed, flicking her hair over her shoulder with an easy grace. "Come on. Again. Try to hit me this time."

They were coming to the end of their first training session in the alleyway behind their hotel. Clint was face down on the scorching hot tarmac of Singapore, drenched in sweat and covered in bruises, and still smiling.

"Shut up, you barely clipped me," he groaned breathlessly, a grin plastered on his face regardless of his cheek being pressed against the ground. At least it was dry and reasonably clean here. If he fell in an alleyway in America he was sure he'd come out with five exotic diseases, a worrying rash and an extra limb.

"Yet somehow, you're on the ground," Natasha said, in that unimpressed tone she saved especially for him. He felt her nudge him in the side with her toe.

"I'm looking for something," he whined unconvincingly.

"And what would that be?" she asked, humouring him.

"I uh- I dropped my dignity around here somewhere. Give me a minute."

Natasha breathed out a laugh at that and Clint's heart soared at the soft, unexpected sound. She nudged him once again, more persistently, with her foot. "Get up, Barton. You're not funny."

"I'm hilarious," he chirped, springing back onto his feet and settled himself into the fighting stance she'd shown him over an hour ago. He crooked his fingers in a 'bring it' gesture with a cocky smirk on his face that he knew she would smack off. "Come on, you know I like it rough."

For that, she found a new way to send him flying onto the tarmac hard enough for bloody scratches to appear on his knees and palms. Clint didn't care.

The humid heat made his black vest top cling to his skin and he was panting by the time he pulled himself up once again. Natasha looked as unruffled as was possible in such a heat wave - her hair tied back into a loose bun and a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. Clint was impressed she could even keep those things on, his own having fallen off after his first jarring meeting with the ground.

Natasha's knuckles were red and a little raw but she wasn't hitting him as hard as he knew she could. The thought made him smile and he earned a punch in the gut for his trouble. "Again," she barked, wiping away a bead of sweat from her forehead. She was a strict, but effective instructor. By the end of the session Clint was able to smoothly execute all ten basic techniques she'd shown him. Drilling them into his head and muscle memory with repetition and the threat of a painful landing if he failed.

Clint doubted this was a conventional teaching method, but hey, whatever works, right?

As a reward for all the blood, sweat and bruises they both somehow ended up at street vendor who sold some kebab-like things. The very smell of them made Clint's mouth water, his stomach growling with an unexpected hunger. He couldn't care less what it was made of. The chicken was slathered in a sauce so spicy it could probably burn a hole through your tongue if you left it long enough. Clint was in love.

He even bought himself a second one from the delighted vendor, after demolishing the first in less than 2 minutes. Natasha gave him an exasperated roll of her eyes, but didn't argue.

He wished she had.

Clint spent the rest of the day with his head stuck into a toilet bowl, vomiting his guts up, his stomach churning and his throat burning like acid. He complained loudly about the dangers of unidentified street food and how unfair it was that he got food poisoning and Natasha didn't. She, predictably, ignored him.

"Whole thing's a fuckin' conspiracy," he groaned into the toilet in a dejected tone. "Fuckin' universe is workin' agains' me I swear. Can't even eat a fuckin' kebab without-" He retched for a few moments, his entire body shaking with it. "Ugh, tha's some bullshit right there."

Natasha scoffed and rolled her eyes at his dramatics, but regardless she did sit with him for a long time. Well, it felt like an eternity for Clint, but in reality it was probably less than half an hour. She offered him sips of water and, when it became clear there was nothing left in his stomach to sick up she threw him into bed like an unruly child.

Groggily he pulled out his hearing aids and handed them to her, watching as she delicately set them to the side before leaving again, no doubt heading for the window. The weather was good here, boiling hot during the day with a pleasant cool breeze during the night. Perfect conditions for a nice sleep under the stars.

"Wait," Clint called, far too loud as he threw a pillow and blanket at her head. She caught them easily. The blanket was a warm, fluffy burgundy thing he'd found in a charity store for a dollar but Natasha was staring at it like it was a fucking live grenade. She looked up, confusion and something else he couldn't quite read in her expression. He grinned sleepily back. "Sleep here if you want. Won't do nothin'," he slurred, struggling to stay awake long enough to speak. "So long as you don' snore."

His piece said Clint let out a yawn as he rolled himself over, snuggling in tighter to the blankets. After a few short minutes he passed out, snoring softly as he slept.

She wasn't going to kill him it seemed, so forcing her to sleep on the roof every night was a measure he was willing to drop. From the look on her face she wasn't so thrilled by the idea, but Clint didn't mind. Baby steps and all that.

But to his surprise when he woke up in the early hours of the morning he found her asleep in her little nest of blankets once more.

He felt something flip in his stomach at the sight and promptly headed to the bathroom, deciding it was his chicken kebab coming back to haunt him.


A/N: Are you enjoying this story so far? :)