**December 1st 2009**

Clint lay awake, hunger gnawing at his stomach in a dull, unending ache. There was nothing he could do about it and wow didn't that just fucking suck. That morning he and Nat had made an unexpectedly quick exit from Brasilia and as a result Clint's stomach was almost as empty as his wallet.

The whole thing had been a freak accident. Well, accident was a strong word. He'd blown up a building, and yeah, it hadn't been part of the plan, hell the target hadn't even been in the building.

But the place was small, no more than three floors, and Clint had been pretty sure the place was deserted anyway. He should've checked first, he knew he should've. But he'd been a little carried away at the time, no time to think, no time to breathe.

The excuses hardly mattered. The point was, he'd fucked up, people died.

Nat had bought them plane tickets to Argentina. She wouldn't so much as look at Clint for the entire 4 hour trip. It was kind of funny, actually. Clint got the impression she was more mad about him fucking up their cover than the civilians he'd killed. He couldn't say he felt the same way. Hell, maybe he deserved the hunger, a weak punishment though it was.

After all, it was his fault they'd ended up stranded in Buenos Aires with no food, no money and no back up plan. It was his fault flowers now lined the street in Brasilia; a memorial to five people killed in his fuck up.

He didn't know what to do or how to fix it.

There was nothing he could do, no way to save those people, no way to stop the guilt that constricted his heart every time he thought about it.

He'd never killed an innocent person before. No civilian had ever walked into his line of fire. But now five people were dead - crushed under five thousand tons of concrete and it was all his fucking fault, all his fault and- and oh God. He was going to throw up.

Blowing out a heavy breath Clint tugged off his jacket, the air in the stuffy motel room doing little to cool his clammy, almost feverish skin. His harsh breaths echoed eerily loud in the strange stillness of the room. Beside him, Nat slept on. Or at the very least, she pretended to, her back pressed against a wall and her eyes closed. She'd insisted on the floor beside the bed as usual, batting away all Clint's protests like they were nothing. The hygiene in this place was the worst Clint had ever seen - the circus had more sanitary animal cages - but that was probably why it was so cheap.

Bandages peeked out from under Nat's blouse, wrapped around the fragile ribs Clint had broken weeks ago - CPR, so it seemed, wasn't as easy as it looked.

Natasha had been less than impressed. Now basic first aid had been added to his combat training and to his surprise, things were going well. Clint could neatly clean, sew up and properly bandage his own open wounds before the end of the first night. High on his own astonishment and triumph, Clint hadn't been thinking quite right when he'd asked, "How the hell do you know all this stuff?"

Nat had not dodged the question as he'd expected. She'd looked tired and shaken, her eyes distant as though lost in a memory. "They taught me not to put my life into other people's hands. Injuries are weakness, knowing how to heal them yourself is essential for survival." She'd seemed to snap back into focus, shaking her head a little before meeting Clint's eyes with a quiet determination. "It is important you learn."

She never told him who 'they' were.

In Buenos Aires they now huddled together in the only motel that would accept them. A nearby streetlight glared through the window and straight into Clint's eyes; a harsh orange glow - constant, irritating. He didn't move away, he didn't have the energy to. Instead he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him and put him out of his misery.

His stomach let out a growl and Clint groaned in exasperation. Hunger was no stranger to him; hell, were it not for Barney, he probably would've died from it years ago. But fuck, that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

If anything it just brought up bad memories that should've stayed good and buried. There'd been too many days he'd gone hungry because the circus didn't have enough to go round. There'd been too many weeks in his life in which he'd eaten so little his body couldn't handle solid food when it was given.

Natasha surely was hungry too, she had to be, yet she hadn't mentioned anything. Then, maybe she hadn't found the time to complain.

She'd spent most of the evening taking paranoid calls from clients; hours spent assuring them that this disaster was a one-off. Clint knew that in this business, reputation was everything - the duo of Black Widow and Hawkeye had taken the criminal underground by storm. They had the luxury of being picky with who they worked for, which was near unheard of. But with a stunt like this Clint knew he'd tarnished that impeccable record. One botched job was all it took. Things were going to be difficult from here on out and they both knew it.

Clint couldn't find it in himself to be worried, though he knew should. It was too hard. He couldn't concentrate when he was so hungry. He tortured himself with thoughts of pizza; the cheese melted and stringy and weighed down with toppings. Thick slices of apple pie, tangy and sweet and sticky on his tongue and those bitter ciders they used to sell from market stalls at Halloween. He dreamt of curry so hot it made your eyes water and ice cream so cold it left your mouth and teeth numb and your head aching with brain freeze.

Clint forced his eyes open before he could die of longing. Was that possible? Probably. Clint was sure he could make it happen if he kept at it long enough; stabbing pains shooting through his stomach.

Dazed, almost lazy in the heat and the hunger and the exhaustion, Clint looked down at Nat's beautiful, sleeping face and sighed. He pushed all thought of food aside as best he could. There was nothing that could be done until they finished their next hit. That was it. Enough feeling sorry for himself.

The rusty springs under him creaked as he heaved himself into a sitting position and Clint cringed at the sound, shooting a wary glance at Nat. Thankfully, she didn't stir.

Clint had kept his aids in tonight. He hated it, but he hated the thought of getting stabbed more. He didn't trust these people, this place, none of it. How could he? This room smelled of nothing but stale sweat, mould and the family of mice living under the floorboards. He wasn't keen on letting his guard down here, and from the knife he'd seen held loosely in Nat's hand, neither was she.

His eyes caught on an unopened bottle of cheap champagne set on the bedside locker and a smile tugged at his lips. Hey, maybe this place wasn't so bad after all. Free alcohol was a win in anyone's book.

Beside it sat one of Natasha's pistols, unloaded and stripped, clearly left out to be cleaned before they left. He studied it for a few moments, letting his mind slip into a sleepy stupor for the first time all night.

Natasha was born to wield those guns, Clint thought dopily. This life of living from place-to-place, country-to-country and leaving a trail of bodies in their wake - she was made for it. It was clear in everything about her, from the way she moved to the way she talked. She was the perfect assassin. The perfect killer.

And yet, that wasn't all she was. Clint could see something else in her; the light shining through the cracks. She had protected him, taught him, sewn him up when he was injured and fought alongside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He'd never had anyone like that before, not one, and it was nothing short of incredible.

While she may not trust him, hell she may not even like him, Clint could feel a tight knot of trust between them that tied him to her like a lasso. He would never admit to it, of course, but that was besides the point.

Wait - was that – what was that

His thoughts brought to an unceremonious halt, Clint opened his eyes with a confused frown. The dull silence of the motel had been shattered by a quiet, breathy whimpering directly beside him. It was muffled, so quiet that for a moment he thought his hearing aids were playing up on him. But no, when he opened his eyes he found Nat curled tightly in on herself, the noises escaping her even though her lips were practically zipped closed. Her breath came quick and distressed; trapped in a nightmare. Another one. They'd plagued her sleep ever since Budapest and they were only getting worse. More frequent, more intense.

It surprised Clint that water was what it took to get under Natasha's skin. Something that scared her enough to torment her in the dark. And she was scared, there was no doubt about it. Clint even had a theory it was why she'd been so determined to go to the centre of Brasilia for their last job. Nice and landlocked, no large body of water for miles. Safe.

It was strange. Clint had never known her to be afraid before. Hell, if he was honest with himself he'd always thought of her as something relentless, unshakable, an unstoppable force of nature and this... it... it made her so human that it threw him for a moment.

She didn't allow herself to scream, her lips pressed tight against any disruptive sounds she may have released. Some nights she cried. Clint didn't hold it against her but he had never mentioned it either. Honestly he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. What could he do to make it better? What kind of switch could he flick that would make everything okay? Keeping quiet seemed like the easiest option available and so that's what he went with. After all, Clint wasn't good with emotions; he could barely manage his own.

The street lamp that cast the room in a fluorescent orange glow flickered and shut off, the sun painting everything in a pale, watery yellow light. With a quiet huff Clint heaved himself out of bed, sleep no longer an option. They had to be out of this place before noon and Clint didn't want to linger, his frayed nerves alive and buzzing as he reached out a hand to nudge Natasha awake.

Nothing but sheer luck saved his face from the knife that swiped towards him, missing his nose by mere inches.

Clint didn't have time to react before the blunt hilt of the knife came back, striking him in the temple and sending him sprawling. "Fuck!" The back of Clint's knees hit the edge of the bed and he lost his balance, collapsing onto his back with a surprised oof. She was on him in an instant, stabbing the knife down in a vicious arc.

He caught her wrist just in time to send the swing wide, a huge slash appearing in the mattress above his shoulder. "Нет!" Nat shouted, her eyes wide and terrified and so vacant Clint wondered if she could even recognise his face. "нет! нет! Больше никогда. Я не вернусь к ним. Я скорее умру!" she shrieked and Clint struggled to kick her off him, her small body far stronger than he remembered. He could barely move.

He'd always had an inkling she'd been holding out on him when they sparred, but Jesus Christ.

When she attacked next it was sloppy, so unlike her that Clint could easily send her knife clattering to the floor. He felt a surge of hope swell in his chest at the slip up. Was she coming back to herself? His mouth ran almost on autopilot as he struggled to hold her still, "Hey, hey, hey Natasha, hey look at me, stop! Stop! Hey, it's me! Yeah? It's Clint. C'mon, you know me."

It was clear she didn't agree. Weapon now gone, Nat grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and pressing it over his face, leaning her weight into it. Suddenly Clint couldn't take in a full breath.

All semblance of sportsmanship left him, survival instinct and a healthy dose of Natasha's training kicking in. His hand shot up to scratch at her face, her eyes, her hair, anything to get her the fuck off.

Something wet splattered his fingers when Natasha's grip finally loosened and Clint wasted no time. He tore the pillow from her grip and rolled them, sitting himself heavily on her stomach, knees either side of her waist to keep her trapped beneath him. "нет!" she screamed, her hands coming up to claw at his face just as he had done to her, just as she had taught him. She wasn't scared anymore, she was furious, her pale face contorted with unconcealed rage. "Отпусти меня! Отпусти меня!"

He'd never seen her careful control, her unbreakable composure so utterly shattered. She was wild and blind with anger and fear. This woman he'd only ever caught glimpses of before - the massacre in Rennes, the disastrous party in Germany. The woman who didn't waste time on precision or technique, but tore straight through anyone that dared stand in her way. Who liked her revenge brutal and bloody, warm and dripping.

Clint knew he couldn't hold her down for long. She herself had taught him at least five methods for breaking out of such a position, but he was too panicked to think of anything else. He couldn't fight her and win, he never could and that was when she was humouring him.

Clint's frantic eyes (which had, by some miracle, not been scratched from his face just yet) latched onto the bottle of champagne. Sitting on the bedside locker, minding it's own business.

An idea forming in his head, he glanced down at Nat, the bloody scratches he'd left across her face.

She was going to kill him anyway. Fuck it.

He dived forward, the movement unexpected and startling Nat enough that her attack stopped for a moment. It was enough for Clint's fingers to close tightly around the neck of the bottle. He smashed it against the wooden locker, the cheap booze spraying them both with the sticky liquid. He pressed the razor sharp edge to the vulnerable skin of Nat's neck, dangerously close to her jugular. She froze, both of them breathing hard.

Clint met her eyes, his skull throbbing in time with his heartbeat. They were both hot and sweaty and now drenched in champagne. And not even good champagne. It was a bad situation all around.

He saw the moment her eyes cleared. Shock, fear, horror bleeding into their emptiness before she looked away. She thrashed against his hold on her, twisting his arm in a way that Clint had no choice but to let go unless he was willing to break his arm to keep her there. He released her and rolled off, falling back on the mattress with a tired huff. The broken bottle dropped from his limp grip and joining the puddle of champagne on the linoleum floor.

Now free, Natasha was off the bed in an instant. She crossed the room, as far from Clint as she could manage, and he could see her hands shake as she reached out to grab her jacket and tugged it on. The scratches on her face weren't bleeding anymore but a smear of red still painted a good half of her cheek, her nails stained with Clint's blood.

Clint wasn't sure what to do from here.

A tense, uncomfortable silence hung between them. Nat looked like she was prepared for him to swing a punch. Sure, he could. But what would be the point in that? She would only win.

Instead Clint heaved himself off the bed and shuffled off, giving Nat a tight smile before disappearing into the bathroom in search of a towel. After a few minutes deliberating Clint picked the cleanest one on offer and re-emerged, towel in one hand and a tiny bottle of antiseptic in the other. He carried it everywhere he went now; a new addition to his possessions ever since his first aid training started up.

He found Nat collapsed into the only chair in the bedroom, her face turned away from him, towards the window. The chair sagged sadly beneath her, the stuffing inside the cushion long gone.

"Hey," he croaked, the word trailing off and dying in his throat, smothered by the strained awkwardness that surrounded them. Nice work, idiot.

He cleared his throat. "You wanna clean those cuts? I mean, this isn't the most hygienic place to have an open wound, y'know."

Nat shook her head, still not looking at him.

Clint shrugged and poured some antiseptic on the towel anyway, bringing it up to his own face and dabbing at the scrapes she'd left there. "Son of a bitch that burns," he hissed, his tone a little closer to a whine than he'd like to admit before he remembered this wasn't the time for bitching. "So, you gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?"

Her posture didn't change. She'd been waiting for the questions to come.

"It's nothing," she said, her voice calm, almost robotic in it's strict composure, though it didn't quite hide her slight Russian inflection. "I'm handling it."

Clint looked at his feet, the broken glass littering the floor crunching under his shoes. He absentmindedly scrubbed at where she'd hit him with her knife, the bruise already itchy and beginning to swell. "Yeah, sure looks like it."

"It's not something I can just-" Nat stopped and Clint had had enough of talking to the back of her head. He crouched in front of where she sat, her head down. Almost out of reflex Clint found himself reaching out to touch her. His hand was already in motion when he remembered what had set this whole mess off in the first place. He reluctantly curled it into a fist and brought it to his side.

"Hey, c'mon, look at me."

She did, raising her head just enough that the protective curtain of red hair fell away. Her expression was so haggard with guilt, resignation, that Clint could hardly believe this was Natasha. The same Natasha who handed him his ass regularly. The scratches on her cheek were shallow, barely below surface level. One was deeper than the others, dried blood black against her pale skin. Clint did his best to hide his shock, but from the look on her face he was unsuccessful.

Clint offered her the towel as a sort of peace offering. "Go on. You got blood all over your face. I can't have you going around lookin' like that."

Nat stared at him incredulously for a moment before taking the towel and scrubbing it against her face without complaint. "Your head is swelling," she finally offered, her voice no less clinical but just a little softer.

Yes, Clint had no doubt it was. He could feel it throb as it formed a solid blue lump just above his temple. He would have a black eye tomorrow too which was just fantastic. Hey, maybe Nat would lend him some of her makeup to cover it up. In the meantime, though, he just snorted. "This is hardly the time for insults."

"You know what I mean, idiot," she replied and, yes, there it was. That tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. He loved that smile, no matter how little he saw it.

"Hey, again with the insults, Romanoff. Words hurt too, y'know."

Clint was just teasing but he should've known that the elephant in the room could only be avoided for so long. Nat was quiet for a long moment before gritting out. "I'm sorry. For - for hurting you. I didn't mean-."

"So you don't know what your doing, then?" he asked, intentionally cutting her off because an apology from the Black Widow wasn't something he could handle right now.

She held his stare, refusing to break eye contact. It felt more like an interrogation than a talk between friends. Like a mission debrief from a loyal soldier. "I'm conscious of my actions, but I'm incapable of stopping myself. My only objective is to eliminate my target, whatever means necessary."

Clint raised an eyebrow, trying to digest that. "So...I was...your target?"

Nat shook her head. "No, of course not. But I thought you were."

He stared at her with a bemused expression. Everything had been far less confusing when she was just swinging a knife at his face. "Right...that...makes sense."

Nat opened her mouth and then hesitated, shutting it again. She was stalling, wondering how much she would tell him. Clint wasn't overly surprised that she was hiding things from him, - honestly, what was new? - but what did surprise him was the small pang of hurt in his chest at the thought.

It was a rare day that Clint Barton gave a shit about anyone. And if he did, it certainly wasn't like this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually cared about another person's life. What they'd gone through to get to this point. What made them who they were.

But, as with so many other things, Nat was the exception. She was the only constant in the ever changing shitfest he called a life. Of course he cared. It felt like he had no other choice but to care.

Well, that and the fact that attacking him with no warning and apologising for it afterwards really tended to give his curiosity a boost.

"The people who raised me, trained me. They did - they're my target." She made it sound like this was a completely normal occurrence for her. Maybe it was. "I just - I wasn't awake enough to tell what was real and I thought -" Nat stopped, biting her lip before she shook her head and dropped her gaze. "It doesn't matter. I'm handling it."

"So you keep saying," Clint said frowning, filing the information away for later. She clearly didn't want to talk about these people, whatever they had done. He wanted to know more, so much more, but he didn't have the right to ask.

Clint wasn't really sure how these conversations were supposed to work. He didn't know what signs he should look for that would spell out 'THIS IS OKAY'. But when nothing else was forthcoming he just did what he always did and went with the first thing he could think of to fill the silence. "This kinda thing, does it happen a lot?"

At that Nat looked up a little, like she hadn't been expecting the question. She shook her head. "I normally feel when my control starts slipping, get away. But it's been worse since Budapest, and you surprised me," she said, spitting out the word 'surprised' like it was a dirty curse. It was the most emotive she'd been since the fight.

Another strange thing about Nat seemed to click into place in Clint's head. He remembered the hours she spent locked behind bathroom doors, demanding to be left alone and being elusive and vague when she came back out. This was the big secret. The answer to what went on behind closed doors.

Clint wondered if it would be better if those doors had stayed closed.

"Well, I swear I won't make the same mistake twice," he promised, finally straightening out of his crouch. He did his best to adopt the same casual tone he always used, but it was hard when the air around him was so heavy with unspoken emotions. "Lets get outta here and get some cash already. I'm fucking starving."

He moved to find his guns and suit up, his hands working on muscle memory while his mind whirled with everything he'd just learned, all the questions he had. It took a few minutes but by the time he was ready to go Nat still hadn't moved from her seat, staring out the window at the early-morning crowds.

Clint nudged her and handed her her pistol, now cleaned, put back together and ready for action. "C'mon, Nat. I'm gonna buy a pizza the size of my head, let's move it."

She seemed to give herself a little shake before she nodded, slipping her guns into their holsters without another word. She stood, striding towards the door with her usual confidence like nothing had happened, nothing had changed.

It was dumb, but Clint got the feeling everything had changed, for better or for worse.

And knowing his luck, Clint could guess which he would get.