Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.

A/N

Thanks to all who have reviewed, followed and/or favourited this story in the past week. We are nearing the end of the journey now guys, after this chapter we only have two more to go.

Hofherp, three Guests, Foeseeker, Druuu, jaguarspot and Wayang,Silver all reviewed chapter 7 so a big thanks goes to you all!

(Also to Silver, I know your username has a period in it but for some reason fanfiction didn't recognise that and when I hit save deleted the whole word so I've had to use a comma instead which thankfully worked. Fanfiction does weird things sometimes.)

As always I want to thank my beta's Midnight Star 26 and jaguarspot! They are fantastic, especially jaguarspot who proof read this chapter a second time on very short notice only a couple of days ago after I got cold feet after adding thousands of words. Any mistakes that remain are mine.

This is also the last chapter beta-ed by Midnight Star26 who was invaluable in helping me make this whole story better! Let's all put our hands together and give her a big round of applause for her efforts!

The Russian is courtesy of Microsoft Word Translator. I am still looking for a translator if anyone is interested.

Hope you all enjoy chapter 8!

Friendship is but a single soul dwelling in two bodies. Aristotle

Chapter 8: Budapest

Budapest; Hungary; July/August, 1998

Clint was on vacation.

That been said he was often on vacation in the sense of not working, but this time he was actually taking a planned period of time off at a planned destination. He didn't know just why he'd chosen Budapest, apart from the fact he liked the city, the local cuisine was good (always an important point), there were plenty of things he found interesting to do, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and though he understood Hungarian he needed more practice with speaking it. Okay, he knew exactly why he'd chosen Budapest.

Clint had booked into a respectable little motel under the name of Luc Astor, an undergraduate university student from Paris. Clint had many aliases in many different countries, complete with background stories for many of them and multiple ID's. Pretty much no one in the criminal underworld really knew who he was because of this, and Clint liked it that way. He knew his best weapon and defence against his enemies was that the assassin Hawkeye was a shadowy, enigmatic figure who no one knew much about apart from the fact he used arrows to carry out his hits and didn't miss his target. And that had worked just fine for him until the incident in Tokyo a few short weeks ago.

Clint still didn't know who those people had been as nothing they'd said had told him anything to indicate their identity, but as they had almost succeeded in killing him it wasn't hard to figure out that they wanted him dead. At least that guy in the suit who was obviously their leader had. It was the suit that made Clint suspect government involvement, your typical mercenaries and hired thugs normally didn't wear suits of that calibre, those sorts of suits were practically the trademark of feds in his experience and unfortunately he had a lot of experience with what feds wore. It was better not to ask how he'd gotten it.

Clint wondered why Mr. Suit had hesitated in taking the shot the second time. He'd had a good vantage point, and had had enough time to take the shot while Clint had been lying sprawled out on the roof, but he hadn't. He'd hesitated for some reason and as a result had only succeeded in shooting Clint in the leg. Considering some of the stuff Clint had survived in his life being shot non-fatally didn't make the top ten or even twenty injuries he'd suffered in his life.

It had only served to slow him down so that he'd had to take a huge risk by hiding from his pursuers instead of running as far away as fast as was physically possible but it had worked out in the end as he hadn't been found and he had been able to escape alive. His leg wound hadn't even gotten infected despite not being able to treat it until later and was practically healed after only a couple of weeks. Clint had always been extremely grateful that he was such a fast healer.

Those people had quite obviously wanted him dead. That wasn't anything new; people always wanted him dead or were trying to kill him. It had happened to him on and off his whole life. He knew this was one of the better times as he hadn't sustained any injuries that had threatened his life but the fact that there was a lot of people pursuing him at the moment who wanted him dead had him worried. He seemed to be attracting a lot of negative attention lately and that was never a good thing in his line of work.

The resulting stress of having to constantly be aware of what was happening around him and be ready to foil an attempt on his life no matter when it may occur was starting to wear him down both physically and mentally. He wasn't sleeping much at night and if he did manage to doze off he was tormented by nightmares that ensured the little sleep he managed to get wasn't restful.

That was what had led him to take some time out in Budapest. He'd never taken any contracts in this city and so didn't have any negative memories associated with being here. He was hoping that meant he'd be able to unwind somewhat because he knew if he kept going the way he was sooner or later he would either die from the strain or be killed by his enemies. The stress he was under was causing him to slip up and he couldn't allow that to happen. If that happened Clint knew he was as good as dead.

A hysterical heart-wrenching scream shatters the silence as the man lies dead on the ground, an arrow sticking out of his chest, his eyes sightless and blank, a stunned look on his tanned face. The man's wife is the one screaming, calling his name over and over hysterically, "Paul! Paul! Can you hear me? Say something! PAUL! PAUL? This can't be happening, what's happening? PAUL! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! PAUUUUL! HELP!"

Clint flinched awake violently, breathing hard as his left hand automatically reached for a knife he kept under his pillow and he was up and crouched in a defensive position on the bed with the knife at the ready well before his brain caught up with his body and he realised it was just a nightmare. With that realisation he slumped back down onto the bed, breathing hard he dropped the knife and desperately tried to stop his hands from shaking.

He didn't remember all the names of the people he'd killed and the circumstances surrounding their deaths very often, but that only meant that when he did get a clear picture it was even worse.

Tonight he'd gotten a very clear picture. The Langley's had been newly married and on their honey moon when Clint had retired Paul. His new wife turned widow, Catherine, had been devastated. The nightmare had seemed so real, but then they always seemed real, often more real than the actual hit had been. Clint sat up in bed and concentrated on breathing slowly to calm his heartbeat down; he was in a cold sweat and shivering despite the summer weather and the cool breeze drifting in through the open window.

Clint shook his head to try and clear it of the nightmare before burying his face in hands that were still shaking. It did no good; he needed to get out, fresh air was the only way he could fight the nightmares and guilt that constantly plagued him. Fresh air or running until he was exhausted were a few of the only things he'd found that helped him to focus and reconnect with reality after a nightmare. Shooting his bow also helped sometimes but that wasn't an option available to him very often due to not having the facilities to practice very much. Due to how good a shot he was if he turned up at an archery range people had a tendency to start asking awkward questions.

Looking at the clock he realised he'd barely been asleep for two hours, and that it was almost 11 pm. Clint decided to go for a jog to the twenty-four hour pastry shop he'd found tucked away in a quiet side street halfway across town. The run would help him calm down and clear his head and he could take a few detours to make it last longer.

Clint walked down the front steps of the motel wearing black jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, along with his black sneakers. He also had his knives on him, all hidden out of sight though he left his bow behind. In spite of the fact he was on holiday he rarely went anywhere without it but in this instance it wasn't necessary. Clint started to jog towards the pastry shop, taking a slightly longer route than was strictly necessary to give himself plenty of time to clear his head. He inhaled the cool night air deeply and tried to allow his mind to go blank.

Clint was jogging through a picturesque, older part of town when he suddenly heard hysterical screams coming from a couple of streets away, the screams were abruptly cut off in a way that sounded very suspicious. Clint abruptly changed his course and without conscious thought headed in the general direction the screams had come from.

He rounded a corner and found himself in a street lined with large, rambling old houses. Many of them looked run down and deserted, but a few were definitely occupied, the cars parked out front were a dead giveaway. The sweet smell of flowers hung over the street and presented a tranquil atmosphere.

But Clint knew better, the way that screaming had abruptly cut off sounded very suspicious and could mean a few things. Clint hid himself in the garden of one of the abandoned buildings towards the end of the street and waited to see what would happen next. He wasn't sure what else to do.

Clint's sharp eyes scanned everything that happened in the street, a few windows were now lit up; obviously the screaming had alerted them, but he saw no one. Clint waited a few minutes but when nothing happened he decided it was time for him to leave, before someone found him hiding in a garden. That might be a hard thing to explain to police. Just as he was going to go out the front gate he heard the loud wail of police sirens not too far away, great. He'd have to go out the back way, and hope that no one saw him in the process. Clint begun to wonder why he'd even come to check things out in the first place.

The back garden of the house was dark and full of shadows which were constantly moving. Clint breathed very softly and listening hard to every little sound as he tried to blend into the night, it was a difficult thing to do with the hearing aids and he longed for the near perfect hearing he'd once possessed. Then he thought he heard something. Clint froze before he silently pressed himself into the shadows of a bush that grew against the house and waited, breathing very softly and hoping his thumping heartbeat wouldn't give him away as he laid a hand on one of the knives on his belt.

He saw the figure in black slink around the corner of the house obviously trying not to be seen, and then pause. They turned their head, listening to the police sirens in the distance and Clint suddenly caught a glimpse of fiery red hair where the faint glow from the streetlamp fell on it. He let out a small gasp of surprise before he could stop himself, and the next second found she had a gun trained on him as she regarded him with those deep green eyes he remembered so well.

Clint said one word.

"Natalia."

She obviously recognised his voice as she peered at him for a moment before she lowered the gun slightly, only slightly but at least it wasn't pointed right at his head anymore.

"Clint? Hawkeye?"

"The one and only at your service ma'am."

She stood there staring at him for a moment before she lowered the gun a bit more.

"What are you doing here?"

Clint shrugged nonchalantly.

"I heard screams that sounded suspicious and being the good citizen I am not came to see what was happening. I guess you were the one responsible?"

The girl's eyes bore into him.

"I mean here, in Budapest?" She said sharply.

"I'm taking an official vacation. I decided I needed a break and Budapest is nice this time of year. Let me guess, you have a job to do?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Come on Natalia, I wasn't born yesterday, after our last meeting I did some research on you, it's amazing what people will tell you with the right incentive. I know who you really are Nat; the infamous Black Widow is a highly trained Russian assassin, KGB or one of their associates I believe. That fact along with what I just heard and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why you're here."

Natalia stood a bit stiffer and straighter at that.

"My name is Natasha now. Natasha Romanov. Natalia Romanova no longer exists."

Before Clint could reply to that statement they heard the police arrive in the front street. The sound of cars screeching to a halt, sirens blaring and people yelling brought them both to their senses. They were, after all, trained assassins whose lives depended on not being caught.

Without exchanging words they both moved as fast and silently as they could towards the back fence. Clint boosted Natasha up and over and then scaled it himself, landing easily on the other side thanks to his acrobat training. The two assassins emerged onto another street and started jogging up it, turning the first corner they came to and moving in the opposite direction as fast as they could without looking suspicious.

As soon as they were what they judged to be a safe distance away they slowed down and walked normally side by side. They said nothing until Clint suddenly spoke up.

"Do you like pastries?"

Natasha looked at him sideways.

"As in the kind you eat?"

Clint looked at her like she had two heads.

"What else do you do with pastries?"

Then on second thoughts,

"Don't answer that. I don't think I really want to know what else pastries can be used for."

Natasha smirked slightly.

"In answer to your first question then, yes, I do like the kind of pastries you eat well enough."

"Feel like going and getting some? I found this wonderful little place that is open 24/7. Best pastries in town they say, best in the world I think and I've had pastries in a lot of different countries."

Natasha hesitated for a moment before making up her mind. She normally left town immediately after doing a job but she hadn't had any company for ages and she kind of liked Clint.

"Okay."

Clint led the way to the pastry store and Natasha followed him meekly. After buying half the pastries available, at least it seemed like Clint did that to Natasha (he obviously had a very sweet tooth) the two assassins headed to an abandoned warehouse building not that far away where they were unlikely to be disturbed, it was also where Natasha was currently camped out. As soon as they were settled and eating the pastries Clint asked the question that he'd been dying to ask since she'd first told him.

"Why Natasha? I thought Natalia was nice, it was very different."

Natalia/Natasha sent him a glare that would kill a lesser man.

"Because I wanted to."

Clint smirked and brushed off the glare as if it was nothing.

"New wording then. Why'd you want to?"

He felt her eyes on him as he turned back to the bag and grabbed another pastry, this one filled with custard. He ignored her as he bit into the crisp outer crust and allowed the sweet custard to fill his mouth, it was delicious. Once he'd finished it he looked over at Natasha. She was watching him, a small frown gracing her features. Just as he was wondering if she would answer him she spoke suddenly.

"Natalia Romanova wasn't my name. It was the name they gave me. Natasha Romanov is a name I gave myself. A new name for a new life, a life without them controlling me."

Clint nodded slowly.

"Who's them?"

Natasha looked at him hard for a long moment before replying.

"The Red Room Academy, associates of the KGB like you said."

Clint nodded slowly as his brain worked in overdrive to put all the pieces she'd given him together.

"Are they the ones who trained you? You can't be any older than me and I know from experience that to get as good as you are you have to have been training hard for years."

Not seeing the dark look in her eyes at the question he added quietly, almost to himself, lost in his own memories.

"I know that I have been; I started learning how to use a bow when I was barely a teenager and was an expert marksman before I turned fifteen. It was either be the best or get beaten and I don't like being abused."

Her eyes softened a bit at that last quiet admission.

"I understand, it was the same with me. Only it was be the best or die, we got no second chances."

Clint nodded in silent understanding and sympathy and they were both silent for a few minutes before Clint spoke again.

"So, you've left them to go at it by yourself? That's a brave thing to do."

"Yes."

Clint didn't know what she was saying yes to and didn't ask. There was silence for another moment before Natasha spoke.

"What about you Clint, who trained you? You said you started training as a teenager as well?"

"I learnt how to use a bow and arrows in the circus when I was in my early teens; one of the performers was a professional trick archer and taught me. I was in the army for a while after leaving the circus before they kicked me out and then I kind of drifted into my current job, I needed to eat."

She glanced at him, one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows raised in a question.

"A circus?"

He nodded, a wry smile on his lips at the raised eyebrow. He got the impression from her body language that she didn't show emotion very often.

"Yep, a circus. I didn't exactly have your typical American white picket fence upbringing."

They were both quiet for a minute as they absorbed each other's stories, or the little they'd told each other. Clint was the first to speak.

"You know, I think Natasha suits you better than Natalia anyway. Now I can call you Tasha for short. Much more fetching than Nat."

Natasha glared at him but the glare didn't hold any real threat.

"Don't you dare call me Tasha, birdbrain. I just might clip your wings if you do, and I don't think you'd like that."

Clint probably should have dropped the subject but was never one to back down from a challenge and had never learned to keep his mouth shut when he probably should. He was reasonably sure Natasha wasn't about to kill him. At least he was hopeful she wouldn't, not that there was really anything stopping her from doing it. Besides, if she called him birdbrain...

"Why Tasha? What's wrong with Tasha? If you call me birdbrain, I get to call you Tasha, fair's fair. Tasha, Tasha, Tasha."

Natasha stood up and advanced on Clint's position with a murderous look on her face. Clint actually cowed a little but she didn't look like she was actually about to kill him, she looked more along the lines of slightly annoyed.

"That's it, you bird brained archer! You will feel the wrath of the Black Widow!"

Five minutes later Clint was lying on the ground, helpless with laugher. Natasha had wrestled him there easily and then proceeded to well and truly tickle him, and it hadn't taken her long to find the spots he was most ticklish in. There weren't many, but she found them. It was almost as if Natasha had trained for tickle torture, which she probably had been. Tickle Torture. Clint wasn't sure if such a thing was even supposed to exist but it apparently did. He was also going to have several colourful bruises tomorrow or the next day thanks to the hard concrete floor but Clint was used to bruises.

Nat had finally let him go after he'd promised to not call her Tasha again so long as she didn't call him birdbrain. Nat was ok, but not Tasha. Knowing this woman could probably kill him by tickling him to death Clint had agreed to that in the end. It was a much safer option.

The two assassins were on their way back to Clint's apartment early the next morning, a few hours later. They'd both had fun, talking and teasing each other about nothing in particular, and climbing around in the roof of the warehouse, Natasha was almost as much of a monkey as Clint was. They were taking a short cut down an alley to get to a main road when suddenly two hooded figures rose up from where they had crouched down behind some trash cans, both of them were holding guns.

"Руки в воздухе. Не пытайтесь что-либо смешно, у нас резервного копирования." (Hands in the air. Don't try anything funny, we've got backup)

Natasha barely waited for him to finish she moved. Running towards them she used her hands and pushing herself up and over the bin before wrapping her thighs around his neck and used her core muscle strength to throw him back over the bin and onto the ground. There was a loud crack and his body went limp before it even hit the ground. The other one fired off a shot which Natasha dodged before tackling him to the ground, trying to grab his gun. Going by the gasping sounds and thuds from behind her she surmised Clint was fighting as well. The number of people in the alley seemed to be multiplying. As Natasha dodged a fist and kicked a man in a very tender place she he hoped Clint was okay.

Clint hadn't hesitated when Natasha had lunged at the first man. He sensed rather then heard the man with the gun behind him and swung around suddenly, grabbing the man's arm before he could pull the trigger and dislocating it by jamming his own elbow into the top of it. The man grunted in pain and dropped the gun to cradle his injured arm to his chest. Grabbing the pistol from the ground and spinning around Clint discharged two bullets, killing him and one other man, before they were all on him.

It seemed like there were a dozen of them. Clint used all his acrobatic training and practical experience as well as whatever weapons he found at hand as he twisted around, fighting these people who for some reason wanted them dead. He heard a shot come from where Natasha was engaged in fighting three men who were twice her size; it was followed by a gasp of pain. Clint seriously hoped that she was the one doing the damage and not the other way around. He couldn't really explain it but he seriously didn't want anything to happen to her and as he fought on he really hoped that she was okay.

Natasha knocked out the last of the men she was fighting with the handle of his own gun before turning to see Clint hold a man's windpipe in a choke hold until he finally ran out of oxygen and this body went limp. He'd been the last one.

Natasha surveyed the scene with her hands on her hips; at least a dozen bodies littered the alley. Some were still alive but out cold; most however, were no longer alive. She looked at Clint and realised that he had a nasty looking cut on the top of his head. Hurrying over to him she inspected the wound. It didn't look terribly deep but was long and bleeding fairly heavily.

"Are you okay? You've got a gash the length of the Nile River on your head."

He looked at her with more than a hint of a concussion evident in his unusual coloured eyes though he appeared to be completely unaware of it, instead looking at her with concern.

"And you've just taken a bullet to the leg."

What? She glanced down at her right thigh, registering for the first time that it hurt. The bullet seemed to still be in there but hadn't hit any arteries as it wasn't bleeding heavily enough for that. It did hurt however, and she wasn't sure she would be able to run very fast with it in there, it wasn't enough to stop her but it would definitely slow her down.

Clint was already using his knife to cut strips of cloth from the shirt of one of the men he'd knocked out. Binding one around her thigh he allowed her to tie up the cut on his head. Then they looked at each other, each thinking the same thing. Clint spoke first.

"Let's get out of here."

The two of them ran as fast as Natasha could manage to the end of the alley and emerged onto a thankfully fairly quiet street. As they ran Natasha told Clint who the people were.

"Russian mercenaries, most likely sent by the Red Room to eliminate me. This is the third lot in almost as many months they've sent after me. At first they were trying to catch me to send me back, the order is now apparently elimination going by something one of them said to me. We'd best keep our eyes open as there is sure to be more of them around. It's unlikely they would stop at just send one team after me as they didn't last time. How they found me I really don't know, I was very careful with covering my tracks this time and thought I was in the clear."

As she spoke there was yelling behind them in Russian. Natasha muttered some very creative Russian swear words that actually made Clint raise an eyebrow, which was saying something as he'd learnt pretty much every Russian swearword that existed from the circus Strongman, Samson, when he was a teenager. Clint began to look around for a way to escape; he knew Natasha couldn't go too far on foot with a bullet in her leg so outrunning them was out of the question. Then Clint saw a motorbike sitting down a side lane idling with the keys in the ignition and smiled. That would do nicely.

Telling Natasha to wait right here Clint sprinted up the lane. As the bike was running Clint just jumped on and skidded around in a turn to go back to Natasha. Just as he was leaving the man who owned the bike came racing out of the house yelling, but by then Clint was already almost at the corner. Knowing the man would likely call the police and they didn't have much time to get a head start because of their Russian pursuers Clint skidded to a halt next to Natasha and held out his hand.

"Quickly Nat, we haven't got any time to lose!"

Natasha took one look around and glanced at her leg before taking the offered hand and climbing on behind him. Clint revved the engine and took off, hearing the cursing from the man as they left him behind. Natasha held onto Clint tightly, red hair flying out behind her.

Coming out on a main highway Clint joined the early morning traffic and sped along in the outside lane. Just as they came towards a corner a blue car sped up next to them. One glimpse confirmed that it was the Russians, as they had a gun trained on them. How had they managed to catch them up so quickly? Clint accelerated and sped away into the traffic as the Russians open fired on them creating mass chaos and hysteria. Clint began changing lanes and cutting in and out of cars almost faster than the eye could follow to try and throw their aim off. Unable to take his eyes off the road ahead he called back to Natasha.

"How far behind are they?"

The answer was delivered a moment later.

"About five cars back but coming up fast. They're good and trained for this sort of thing; you're going to have to do something really creative to lose them."

Clint thought quickly. Seeing a break in the traffic to his left he took it, screeching in front of a truck and using it to provide some cover from the mercenaries, ignoring the angry honking he received from the truck's driver. He had more important things on his mind, like not getting killed.

He was concentrating so hard on trying to lose them and keep them alive that Natasha's shout came as a shock.

"Clint, look out!"

Clint saw the car pull into the traffic ahead too late to swerve away; his only other options were to crash into it or go over it. He opted for the latter and tightened his grip on the handlebars as he prepared to do something he'd only ever witnessed someone else do.

Natasha had her arms wrapped around him in a death grip and might have even buried her face in his shoulders as he picked up even more speed before gaining enough momentum to make the bike speed along on its back wheel before he revved hard and jumped it up and onto the car. Ignoring the angry yells and the honking horns he received for his trouble Clint practically flew over the top of the vehicle and landed in front of it before taking off.

Accelerating into the traffic again Clint resumed weaving in and out of the maze of vehicles.

"Have we lost them yet Nat?"

It took slightly longer than last time for her to reply which was understandable given the circumstances.

"I can't see them; your evasion tactics seem to have worked. It might be a good idea to get off the main motorway soon though. They can't be far behind."

Clint agreed with her. Looking up ahead he saw an exit ramp leading to a more upper class residential area which wasn't too busy at this time of day and put on some extra speed to reach it, making sure to continue to weave in and out of traffic on his way there. Once they reached it Clint wasted no time in leaving the main road behind them.

They went a couple of blocks at normal speed, cutting in and out of the lighter traffic and zooming up and down side streets a few times before Clint steered down a pedestrian stairway, ending up in another, thankfully empty, street in what appeared to be a service area of town, not residential. Natasha was gripping him so hard that by this time her knuckles were white, and Clint swore in French as the landing from the stairway wasn't as smooth as he'd anticipated and he heard a muffled gasp of pain from Natasha as her injured leg was painfully jolted.

Clint thanked his lucky stars that no one had been on the stairs. He didn't want to hurt innocents if he didn't have to; he did enough of that already. Clint was feeling slightly dizzy from his head wound, and Natasha needed medical attention for the bullet wound in her leg. After riding a couple of blocks at normal speed to make sure they had well and truly lost their pursuers Clint saw a veterinarian clinic sitting on a corner and knew that it would have the necessary supplies. He dropped Natasha off at the back with instructions to get inside while he got rid of the bike. Clint wiped it down before hiding it in an alley behind a dustbin under some old sacks and going back to the clinic. The back door was unlocked and he entered, closing it softly behind him before locking it.

Finding his way to the supply room where Natasha already was Clint felt slightly dizzy and sick so he realised he must be concussed. He knew it must have happened during the fight but he had been so focussed on getting them to safety that it hadn't registered before. Looking back he was grateful that he'd been aware enough to handle the motorcycle, but then he had always been able to function in an emergency no matter how injured he'd been. As long as he wasn't actively dying he could do what needed to be done. When Clint finally found her Natasha already had the supplies they needed to treat their injuries laid out, and she gave him a pointed look as he came in.

"Where the hell did you learn to drive a motorcycle like that without getting yourself killed?!"

Clint sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Remember the circus I told you I was a part of?"

Nat nodded.

"Yes."

"In my later years there one of the acts was a motorcycle act; I used to help them with looking after the bikes and in return one of the guys, his name was Lefty, taught me how to ride one. He was a crazily good stunt rider and I'm a fast study. I think they had done something illegal and were hiding from the law because they were seriously too good at what they did to work for a small travelling circus like ours for no reason. They could easily have made more money elsewhere."

"What happened to them?"

"They left the circus not long before I did. There was a huge argument with the ringmaster; I think they wanted more money, he said no and so they left. I don't know what happened to them after that."

As Clint finished his story his brain registered that Natasha was holding a pair of scissors and he suddenly felt very wary.

"What are you doing with those?"

"We need to treat our wounds. You first, head wounds are more serious than bullets in legs are. No arguments. Now sit."

Clint opened his mouth to argue but she cut him off.

"I said no arguments. Now SIT!"

Clint's mouth snapped shut and he did as he was told. It was a much safer option, given who he was dealing with and the fact that she was holding a pair of scissors and he wasn't. Natasha removed the makeshift bandage and carefully began cleaning his head wound while Clint did his best not to wince. She spoke to him about nothing in particular as she cleaned his wound, her voice carrying a slight trace of a Russian accent. She finished the job and Clint interrupted her.

"How bad is my head?"

She regarded him with a serious expression.

"It's bled a fair bit but is clean, and not as deep as I initially thought it was. I really think that it needs stitches though."

Clint snorted.

"No way, I hate stitches. Now you sit down and let's see to that leg of yours. And no arguments from you either!"

Natasha obediently sat down on the chair he'd vacated. Clint removed the makeshift bandage and carefully cut her blood-stained black jeans before he rolled them away from the bullet wound and examined it. The bullet hadn't hit anything vital but the wound was very messy all the same; getting it out was going to hurt like hell.

"The first thing we have to do is remove the bullet."

He glanced at the supplies she'd laid out. Selecting what he wanted after a moment of deliberation Clint turned back to her.

"This is going to hurt." He warned. "There's not much I can do about that I'm afraid. Are you ready?"

She just nodded, her face tight.

"Do it."

Ten minutes later Natasha's leg was clean, stitched and bandaged, the bullet having been removed. It hadn't been too bad, and the pain numbing cream Clint had found in one of the cupboards helped a lot. Once she was cleaned up she insisted on stitching Clint's head, and satisfied that she wasn't about to die and feeling very drowsy, he let her. Thank goodness for pain numbing, antibiotic cream. After cleaning up the place, wiping down everything they'd touched and taking some antibiotic tablets that despite being meant for animals would work until they could get something stronger, the two assassins left.

After stealing a pair of pants off a random clothesline nearby for Natasha to wear as hers were covered in blood and cut, they 'borrowed' a car that happened to be sitting just around the corner and went back to Clint's motel room, leaving the car at the end of the street. They stumbled into the lobby clinging to each other, laughing and acting like they were drunk so people wouldn't realise they were so unsteady on their feet because they were injured. It was around three am in the morning and their ploy worked perfectly; there was pretty much no one around but the staff who after a quick glance didn't take any more notice of an apparently drunk couple staggering into the hotel at that hour. Due to their performance they managed to make it to Clint's room without incident.

They spent the next few days there, recuperating. They ordered food to be delivered right to the door and took care of each other's wounds. By the time a week had gone by Natasha's leg was almost completely healed; it would leave a scar though it wouldn't be very noticeable. Clint had gotten over his concussion after a few days and against Natasha's protests had taken his stitches out. Fortunately he was still healing well in spite of that. The two assassins were perched on the roof of the motel watching the sun set over the city almost a week later when Clint asked an unexpected question.

"Would you like to be my partner?"

Natasha looked at him like he was insane.

"What?"

Clint smirked.

"Don't worry, I meant my partner in crime, so to speak. Interested?"

Natasha thought hard before finally shaking her head.

"No."

Now it was Clint's turn to stare.

"Why not? We've just proved we make a fantastic team. Separate we are great, together we'll be unstoppable, the infamous Hawkeye and Black Widow."

Natasha just shook her head.

"It's not that, it's the Red Room. They may have failed to kill me this time but I know them and they won't give up. They'll try again and again and won't rest until they eventually kill or capture me; I don't want you to have to deal with my problems. I don't want to endanger you."

Blue-grey eyes looked into deep green ones, reading them, looking for something. Natasha gazed right back, and finally Clint gave a small sigh and dropped his gaze in defeat.

He understood what she was saying; she knew the life of an assassin was hard enough without added problems. She didn't want him to have to carry her demons as well as his own. He could understand that, the demons in both their pasts were ugly. There was something that he had to know first though, something that had been on his mind for ages.

"Why did you help me in Prague?"

She glanced at him quickly before turning away to study the fading orange of the sunset. Clint waited patiently for her to answer, and when she did it wasn't what he'd expected, not that he'd known what he expected her to say but it wasn't this.

"I don't really know. In Moscow, you were the first person to lay eyes on me that didn't want to use me for some ulterior purpose. You were immune to my charms and I felt you saw straight through me, saw into my very soul and knew what I was thinking, yet you didn't take advantage of that. When I saw you in Prague I knew I couldn't just leave you there, I had to do something. I'm still not sure why I did, but I did. Does that answer your question?"

Clint though what she'd said over carefully before his lips quirked into a small smile as he looked over at her.

"Yes; it does."

Natasha almost smiled back before frowning.

"Why did you help me a week ago? You probably saved my life, I'm not sure that I would have been able to get away from those mercenaries by myself."

"You would have thought of something, I'm sure of it. What I did was no big deal."

Natasha frowned harder.

"How is saving my life not a big deal? Honestly Clint, I owe you one."

Clint shook his head immediately, looking scared at the thought.

"No you don't, you helped me in Prague remember? You helped me out when I needed it and I helped you get away from those mercs. I'd say we're pretty well even in the owing each other department; as far as I'm concerned you don't owe me anything Natasha, the debt you think you owe has already been repaid."

Natasha looked out over the city and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Fine, if that's what you want to do."

Clint sighed.

"I just don't want you to feel that you owe me Nat, please just let's call it even."

After a long moment it was Natasha's turn to sigh as she turned her head to look at Clint with more sincerity than he'd ever seen on her.

"Okay then, neither one owes the other anything. Happy?"

Clint nodded and they both resumed watching the fading daylight, it was a fair while later when Clint spoke again.

"Is it okay if we're still friends? Just friends, no strings attached and nothing expected beyond what we already have. I think that I would like that, I've never actually had someone I could call a friend before."

Family didn't really count especially when they'd never cared that much about you to begin with.

Natasha turned her head and deep green eyes looked at him, her long curly red hair framing her face and looked redder than ever as the last rays of the setting sun touched it. Then she smiled a genuine smile that lit up her whole face in a way Clint had never seen happen on anyone before. All he could do was stare in wonder at the beautiful sight before him.

"I've never had a friend before either." She whispered as she gazed into his eyes, traces of a Russian accent clouded her next words. "Yes, I think I'd like that; to be able to call you my friend."

He felt a matching smile surface on his face that he didn't bother suppressing. He'd never known someone to do to him what Natasha did just by smiling. As the smile grew wider, he looked deep into her eyes, and whispered in her ear in a soft tone that completely melted her, something that no one in her life had ever succeeded in doing.

"I'm glad to hear that, Natasha."

End of Chapter 8

The motorbike chase scene was heavily inspired by The Bourne Legacy.

Who doesn't love Clintasha? In my universe it was in Budapest that Strike Team Delta was born, way before either of its core members were a part of SHIELD. That being said it won't be the last time we see Budapest. I hope you'll all tune in next week as we find out what Phil has been up to all this time apart from pulling his hair out;

Chapter 9: Choices

For those who want more of Phil the next chapter is very heavily Phil-centred. So, what do you think of Strike Team Delta's origin? Please let me know!