THE KILLS ~ SOUR CHERRY

…

Clint knew this was going to be an exciting mission from the get-go. Not only was he still babysitting an unpredictable, volatile ex-Russian, but he was actually in fucking Russiawith a price of a million dollars on his partner's corpse. But he didn't think it'd be so fucking complicated to steal some super-secret shit from a single-story lab.

Someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. definitely had it in for him and he honestly wouldn't put it past Fury to be this vindictive. He still hadn't completely forgiven Clint for getting the Black Widow on their side. On the other hand, Coulson had seemed a little peeved that Clint had been the only one she'd talk to…

Clint was muttering curses about Russians and jealous, malicious secret agents when Natasha appeared on the dark rooftop next to him.

"What happened?" she hissed angrily.

"I could just say I fucked up, but that'd be too obvious. Alarm started up 30 seconds after I entered the building," Clint sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Trevinskia has obviously lost his mind and set the lab to detonate in…" he checked his watch "…eight minutes and eighteen seconds."

He heard Natasha swear under her breath, her jaw twitching. "I saw Trevinskia lock himself in his office," she said. "We'll need him to get into the lab." She turned on her heel.

"Red Room knows we're here too," Clint added.

If he expected a reaction from her, he didn't get it.

Thirty seconds later, they were standing over a skylight, looking down into an ostentatious office with two guards standing in front of a gigantic solid-looking metal door that'd once been hidden behind a bookcase.

"Got any ideas?" Clint whispered.

"Ideas on how to get out of the country before Red Room shows up," Natasha said dryly, "or get the fucker sitting in the reinforced steel panic room down to the weapons lab before we're it's blown sky-high?" She looked pointedly through the skylight at the huge metal door set behind a fancy-looking desk.

Clint's eyebrows rose, "Is it too much to ask for both?"

Natasha gave him an impatient look. "It might be. We wouldn't be in this mess if your clumsy ass hadn't tipped them off, anyway."

"Well, nobody's perfect, Nat," he muttered, grinning. He knew how much his cheerfulness got under her skin, which was the perfect revenge for the 'clumsy' comment.

Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to stare down through the skylight once more, the gears in her head churning.

Clint's smile grew; during the past four months, she'd bite his head off every time he called her anything other than Romanoff. But she ignored it this time. Good to see he was making progress.

"The quickest thing to do is gas the guards," Natasha was saying to herself, her eyes flicking around like a cat's. "But that doesn't solve the door. We don't have enough time to crack the code before this place goes up. Breaking in is out of the question. Explosives wouldn't work…"

"So it all comes down to a show," Clint said. He turned his precise gaze on his partner. "I believe that's your cue."

Natasha frowned and walked away toward the ledge. "Stay out of the way and give me room to work, Barton."

"Oh don't worry. I'll be watching from way up here," he smirked at the two nervous guards, feeling glad he wasn't in their shoes.

Barely a minute and a half later, a curvaceous redhead walked into the office below. Clint couldn't hear what she was saying, but he'd become very adept at lip-reading over the years. Her red lips were forming the Russian equivalent of words like, "lost control of the situation," and "called the police" and "get Trevinskia out of here."

The guards were very nearly convinced by her commanding tone; it helped that her close-fitting uniform was particularly distracting. One man actually went to open the door, but then the other stopped him, saying, "Who are you?"

Clint tsked and shook his head. Stupid man didn't know when to just keep his mouth shut. At least the Black Widow had tried the nice way first. That counted for something in his book.

Natasha jabbed the loudmouth's throat so hard he went unconscious and was holding the other guard against the wall in a heartbeat, her knifepoint just under his eye. "Do you want to open the door and live or die a painful death and give the pedophile behind that door a few more minutes?" she asked in her native tongue. "Because either is a possibility."

The guard was shaking as he punched in the code for the door.

"Wise choice," she said before smashing his head violently into the wall and knocking him out.

The giant steel door hissed and clunked a couple times before swinging open. Walking over, Natasha looked into the nine-by-nine-by-nine room… No one was in sight. She'd watched the target walk into that room barely five minutes ago. Where, exactly, could an overweight man like Trevinskia hide in there?

Footsteps thundered down the hall behind her. She looked over her shoulder at the four gun-handling men entering the room, yelling angrily in Russian for her to raise her hands.

'Show' indeed.

Back-flipping over the large desk in the middle of the room, she simultaneously disarmed the first reinforcement and sideswiped him in the temple, bring him down. The next two were electrocuted quickly with the fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. toys on her wrists. The last man was able to get a gunshot or two off before she kicked the gun out of his hand and adroitly spun around behind him. She jumped up, winding her legs around his upper arms and standing on his hips. Then, using her legs as leverage, she twisted his head around forcefully. He slumped to the ground and Natasha landed standing over him.

Hand-to-hand really was an art form in Natasha's mind.

Suddenly, there was a near-silent thump-smack! behind her. Immediately following that was a scream and the faint sound of tinkling glass.

Whirling around with her gun, Natasha saw Trevinskia staring at his wrist, which was pierced to the top of the desk by a wicked-looking arrow, a gun inches from his hand.

Natasha's mouth twisted sadistically.

With a little more crashing glass, Clint Barton fell through the ceiling to land a few feet from her. Shaking the glass from his uniform, he looked a little too pleased with himself.

Natasha looked back at the whimpering target trying to pull the arrow out of his arm. "So. Are we bringing an entire desk along, or is the target loosing an arm?" she asked.

Barton raised his eyebrows, holding up his bow for her to see as he clicked a button near the handgrip.

The arrow pinning Trevinskia to the desk whirred and the shaft abruptly detached from the head. The pudgy weapons-developer stumbled away from the desk into a wall and slid to the ground, his fingers clutching his wound.

Barton shook his head in amused exasperation as he walked toward their hyperventilating target.

Natasha rolled her eyes.

Clint bent down to look at the sweaty Russian's wrist, pulling it up to examine it. As he'd expected, the arrow had missed his bones but got too close to a major vein. He'd bleed out before they could make use of him if Clint didn't at least wrap it up.

"Why did you interfere? I told you to stay out of my way," Natasha said. She sounded a little ticked off, but not to the degree that he needed to be worried.

Clint looked at her with one eyebrow cricked upward, "Good thing arrows don't take up much room then, huh?" Without warning or sympathy, he grabbed the shaft of the headless arrow and ripped it out of Travenskia's flesh, making the Russian howl. "And how about a little gratitude?" he added, just to be a jackass. "I did just kind of save you from unnecessary bleeding."

Natasha simply holstered her gun in reply. Clint could just imagine the gory thoughts going through her head. He grinned.

"How are we doing on time?" Clint asked as he held a wad of gauze to Travenskia's arm and applied brutal pressure.

"Five minutes, but we have less than one before the rest of security gets here," Natasha said.

Their target recoiled in fear as she strode toward them. Watching her take down those four men in less than ten seconds had been entertaining for Clint… terrifying for others, apparently.

Clint hurriedly wrapped the wounded wrist, "Hauling Chubby here around, we aren't going to get very far before detonation."

"Better start running then," Natasha said, pulling Trevinskia up by his collar and dragging him toward the door.

Clint watched in amusement as the petite woman-in-progress towed the large man along like he was a child. She was much stronger than she looked. So many men underestimated her only to find themselves thrown out the fucking window with her knife between their ribs.

"You coming, Robin Hood?" she yelled as she neared the door. Her slight accent made the fictional name sound ridiculous.

"Turn left! You want to go left!" Clint shouted when Natasha was about to turn down the hall to the right.

Natasha bodily heaved her victim back in the right direction and flipped Clint off with her free hand. The look she gave him was absolutely poisonous.

Clint nearly laughed, but he opted for silence as he ran after her. There was hope for Natasha Romanoff yet. She might still be violent and grisly-minded, but she was definitely getting better at acting her age.

"Please… please, don't kill me," Trevinskia was mumbling in terror as he was forced to jog down the empty hallways. "I'll pay you whatever you want… please…"

"Stop talking or I'll feed you your own testicles," Natasha growled in his ear before pushing the man to move faster.

"Well aren't you just as sweet as cherry pie?" Barton chuckled sarcastically from behind her.

"I'll do worse to you, Barton, if you don't shut up," Natasha threatened without looking around at him. The bastard just did not have any self-preservation skills, did he?

She could feel the smirk on his face as he stared at the back of her head, but the arrival of eight heavily armed men prevented her from punching him right then.

Half of the men had arrow shafts sticking out of their necks or bullet holes in their faces before the assassins had to take cover. Natasha found herself in the room across the hall from Barton and Trevinskia.

"Chubby's been shot!" Barton yelled to her as he peered around the doorframe. "Better make this quick!" A round of submachine gun fire exploded the wood near his face, making him flinch out of the way.

Natasha whipped her head around the door, barely getting a read on their assailants' positions before she had to retreat again. "Cover me!" she shouted. Without a second's pause, she darted from cover and sprinted straight down the hall.

"Fucking hell!" Barton bellowed behind her, walking out into the hall. He dropped his bow and drew his handgun, shooting repeatedly into the walls in front of the enemy to keep them from shooting her.

Natasha sailed around a corner and divested two security guards of their weapons before they even knew she was there, kicking the legs out from under one of them. He hit his head pretty hard and wouldn't be getting up.

The remaining guards standing in the opposite hall had aimed their guns toward her. Natasha grabbed the guard still standing and thrust him in front of her; he twitched against her as the bullets lodged in his body instead of hers.

Barton appeared then, snapping the front gunman's arm clean in half. His boot made solid contact with the second man's knee. His fists and feet began moving in rhythm, causing a strange sort of harmony with the sound of his hits and his victims' cries of pain.

Natasha watched, surprisingly entranced by the intricate, rapid pattern in his movements. Is that what other people saw when she was beating her prey into pulp? If so, it was easy to see why her image was a source of fear.

When all the opponents were finally motionless on the floor, Clint paused, breathing hard, and turned to see Natasha staring at him with a weird look in her eyes.

After a moment, she turned to walk back where they'd left Trevinskia. "You could've just shot them," she said over her shoulder.

Clint froze momentarily, and then followed her, the adrenaline still high on his brain. "What the hell was that?" he asked wildly.

She looked over her shoulder at him but didn't slow down, scowling. "What?"

"You don't fucking run into enemy fire like that!" he answered, pointed down the hallway in demonstration. "It's a good way to get us killed!"

Natasha huffed, rolling her eyes, "In case you haven't noticed, it's an occupational hazard." She disappeared through the doorway where they'd left Trevinskia.

Clint's jaw clenched. Oh, now she gets a sense of humor?

He took one giant breath, bent down to grab his bow, and followed her into the room, deciding that now wasn't the time to knock some sense into his reckless partner.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Natasha stated, crouched over their target. "He won't be conscious for long."

Clint looked at his watch, "That's ok. He just needs to make it two more minutes."

Natasha flipped her hair out of her eyes and looked up at him with annoyance, making him smile in return. "You going to stand there all day or help me?" she snapped.

Clint's smile only grew but he leaned down and grabbed the large man's arm, putting it around his neck. Natasha did the same with his other arm. Trevinskia groaned, his head lolling onto his chest as they pulled him to his feet.

"Weapon's lab is just around the corner," Clint grunted, leading them out the door. "Come on."

Trevinskia was bleeding all over her and his goddamn cologne was too strong. Not to mention he was heavy.

Natasha wondered, not for the first time, why the hell they were on this mission. Some other team without a Russian history probably wouldn't have tripped the wires or alerted Red Room and the theft would've gone off without a hitch. But no. S.H.I.E.L.D. thought it'd be wise to send the Black Widow back home with Hawkeye in tow and see if they could keep it together.

Whoever assigned the missions was either a moron… or some stupid level of genius. It was probably Coulson. Definitely Coulson.

"Here we are," Barton said, stopping beside the lab door. "Hey buddy!" he yelled, smacking Trevinskia behind the head. "Feel like helping us out?"

Natasha rolled her eyes and dropped the man's arm, leaving Barton with all his weight. She expected him to complain, but Barton didn't even seem to be struggling holding the obese Russian up.

Grabbing Trevinskia under his jaw, she forced him to look up at her. "If you get us into the lab, you'll walk out of this alive. Do you understand me?"

Trevinskia's watery eyes widened and he nodded weakly. He looked to a little keypad in the side of the door, which Natasha immediately went for.

"7…52…190," Trevinskia mumbled.

Natasha hurriedly punched in the numbers and an array of biological scanners appeared in the door.

Trevinskia finally lost consciousness, making Barton grunt with exertion as he held his dead weight. Natasha didn't comment on it, slapping Trevinskia's palm to the scanner. When that was done, she helped Barton maneuver the man's face in front of the retinal scanner and then held his eyelid open. And finally, the door opened.

Grunting a little, Barton lowered Trevinskia to the ground while Natasha hurried into the lab. Things were a mess; everyone sure had left in a hurry.

"We've only got one minute, Nat," Clint told her. "We don't have enough time to get the files."

"I know, I know!" Natasha said severely, shoving a stack of folders away from the only computer in the room and plugging a portable hard drive into an outlet. "See what you can do about the explosives!... And stop calling me 'Nat!'"

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes and marched over to where he knew the TNT was rigged to a set of missiles. Leaning his hands on the table, he stared at the jumble of wires for a few moments, his eyes hard.

It could possibly kill them if they didn't start running right now. Was this information really worth risking their lives?

Stupid thoughts.

Clint mentally punched himself in the teeth and then walked over to the supply closet, opening the door wide. On his way back, he grabbed a pair of pliers from the counter along one wall. He wouldn't have enough time to completely disarm the TNT, but he'd have a better chance of separating it from the missiles.

With half a minute on the clock, Natasha suddenly appeared at his elbow. "It needs another sixty seconds to download."

Clint laughed sourly, his face shinning with perspiration, but didn't answer her. He needed to concentrate.

The red numbers were getting smaller before Natasha's eyes. Her heart started to race, but she didn't react when the timer ticked down to 15 seconds.

She had no idea what Barton was trying to do; he was just going a lot slower than she liked. But again, she didn't react, knowing she would only harm the situation.

8

Barton carefully pulled a small device linking some wires together from the inside of the missile, trying to breathe steadily. Natasha resisted the urge to yell at him.

5

Barton began clipping wires left and right, following some system unknown to Natasha.

2

He suddenly spun around, throwing the timer, plastic explosives and a handful of wires into the open janitor's closet.

Grabbing her arm, he dove under the table.

Natasha didn't need him to lead her, hitting the floor immediately.

The explosion was loud enough to make her ears ring and hot enough to make her skin rise in gooseflesh. She heard the ceiling around the closet collapse, and then the fire alarms went off, sprinklers starting their rain over the top of them.

Natasha opened her eyes to see Barton staring at her while he panted and water dripped down his face. The knowledge that she was still alive… because of him… for the seventhtime now… made the debt she owed him seem even more real. She began to think she'd always be in debt to him. Especially at the rate things were going. She didn't know if she liked the idea of being in debt to him forever.

Barton started shaking his head. "Next time," he said, "you're going in first."

Natasha resisted the peculiar urge to smile.

"Let's find a way out of here that doesn't involve getting chased by Red Room agents, shall we?" Barton asked, jumping to his feet and offering her his hand.

Natasha didn't take it.