William Cross had lost his cool, unrumpled look and demeanor. He found himself on his back on the floor, fleeing feet trampling perilously close to head and limbs, his invisible bubble of protection having evaporated when his device struck the marble steps beneath Hawkeye's weight. A woman's gaze met his momentarily and she screamed at the sight of his red-lit cybernetic eye. His eyepatch had come off in the tumble, but he was beyond caring about that. Somehow his plan had gone awry. He blamed that on the damned archer and, perhaps even more so, on Stark. He had a bone to pick with both men, but only one was in front of him at the moment. That would have to be enough for this evening.

Sitting up, Cross reached beneath his jacket to the holster strapped against his left ribs. The Sig P238 wasn't very large, but it didn't have to be at this distance. In one smooth motion, he drew and extended the weapon to aim at Hawkeye's unprotected head. The other man was pushing himself up on his hands and knees, trying to rise, but not quickly. It was a viscerally pleasurable moment for Cross—right up until a bare foot kicked the gun out of his hand and sent it skittering across the floor.

"Bitch," he growled, twisting himself with the agility of a man half his age, coming to his feet in a defensive stance. He was almost face-to-face with Black Widow. Yes, she was a formidable opponent, but no one was invincible. He was no novice and had greater motivation than she, as well as a trick up his sleeve—literally. A flick of his forearm slid a short rod out and into his hand. Between two metal prongs at its end, an electrical charge sparked. Without hesitation, he lunged for her.

Widow let him come, her weight shifting on the balls of her feet. At just the right moment her body bent at an almost-impossible angle so that his shock-rod would miss her center of mass. Both hands grasped fistfuls of his tuxedo jacket as she spun, pulling the lower part up and over to try to blind him and entangle his arms. The leverage was wrong; he was too big, his jacket too tailored. He shrugged the fabric back down in a rolling motion of his broad shoulders, then pivoted to his left.

ZAP!

The stick poked hard into Hawkeye's belly, discharging with an audible pop and the burnt smell of ozone. As his legs turned to Jell-O from the electrical surge he went back down on both knees. Then he grunted in pain when a backhanded swipe from Cross smacked hard into his face, knuckles meeting cheekbone, whipping his head to one side. The stunning sharpness made his eye water and blur.

Cross was moving again. A well-meaning older gentleman in the crowd had tried to "help" Black Widow, believing her to be a damsel in distress with her dirtied green evening gown and bare feet. Now he was most likely regretting his chivalrous act, though fortunately for him any physical damage would not be permanent. Even so, his good intentions had slowed her enough that Cross was able to reach his lost pistol, scoop it up, and bring it to bear on her this time. Her eyes locked on the glowing red light in his left eye socket and the icy blue orb beside it that seemed even more malevolent than the technology.

"Adieu, Miss Romanov."

The bang of the pistol discharging was not nearly as loud as if the grand hall had been empty. The fact that no one screamed was a testament to everything they had already been through that night. Hawkeye, who had regained his feet under the influence of adrenaline and sheer stubbornness, was already on the move. He grabbed Black Widow with one hand and pulled her hard against his chest, her back to his front, curling both arms around her in a tight embrace. His momentum rotated them both so that his back turned to Cross and he shielded Widow's smaller form with his own body.

Thud! Thud!

Two bullets slammed into Hawkeye's back, one high up on his left shoulder blade at just about the height of Black Widow's head, the other smashing hard over his left kidney. Most of their energy was expended into the Kevlar panels of his ballistic vest. The lead rounds failed to penetrate his skin, but it still hurt like hell. He was going to be a mess tomorrow.

When they looked, Cross was gone. A swarm of local policemen was flooding the lobby now, directing the gobsmacked survivors outside. Hawkeye gasped and his knees wobbled. Black Widow slipped an arm around his waist, and one of his draped heavily over her shoulder. They flowed out with the rest of the crowd, no one paying any particular attention to them as they walked into the cold night air. Widow got a glimpse of a worried-looking Pepper Potts in the crowd of onlookers, but not a hint of their quarry, before she turned her attention back to the task at hand—her injured partner. Around the corner, a S.H.I.E.L.D. van picked them up. Hawkeye's pale face twisted in a pained grimace and he let out a low grunt when he dropped down and leaned back against the seat.

"Get us to the safe house," Widow said after pulling the door shut, her fingers already working the fastenings on Hawkeye's vest.

"Hey!" he protested, slapping at her hands with jerky, irritated swipes of his own. "No blood no foul. I'm fine. You don't have to strip me in front of everybody."

She grabbed one of his hands and flipped it palm-up to show bloodied scrapes, looking at it and then locking eyes with him, making an "I told you so" face that he knew all too well.

"No dripping blood," he answered quietly, his crooked smile a bit rueful.

"Only because you were lucky," she said, leaning in so that only he could hear her.

The van turned a sharp corner, bumping them lightly together. He instinctively steadied her with a hand on her bare arm and then pulled it back, letting it rest on his abused belly. The movement hurt in several places, though it was more a deep muscle ache than the kind of sharp pain that signaled real trouble. "That dress is incredibly hot, but it's not bulletproof. I made the right call."

"You might have internal bleeding," she countered.

"I made the right call," he said again, his voice sounding tired this time. Glancing down, he laid a hand over one of hers, lacing their fingers together. His eyes closed and his voice was a husky whisper when he added, "And you know it."

"Yeah, I know it…"