Ok! Sorry that took a while. But here's the next chapter.

Current Song: Gunslinger - Over It

Current Thought: I just brought a box of pizza to bed with me. When did I turn into a bum?

The Hawk and the Spider Part 2

They made it to Poland and Clint got in touch with Phil's guy. He was given a duffle with new clothes, passports (he had taken a moment to doctor Natasha's with a quick picture of her), maps, plane tickets, money and a new clunker of a car. He nodded to the man, said not a word more, and bundled Natasha up into the car once he had made sure she changed. She hadn't let him help her, just disappeared into the small bathroom and came out in the new, slightly better fitting clothes.

"Tell Phillip he owes me," the man said in a heavily accented voice.

Clint nodded. "That I'll do." And then they were gone.

The man, Thomas, had given Clint a map with the route they were going to take back to America written on it in red ink. They had to get to France, take the underwater tunnel to London, then take an illegal flight out of the U.K. to New York. Clint could work with that, devising different ways to get to France in his mind as he drove. He'd grabbed them something to eat an hour or two ago, and Natasha had barely eaten. He sighed. What was he going to do with her?

"You should have killed me," he heard and met her eyes in the rearview mirror. Her green irises were stony and cold, honest and conflicted. And she was eight. God, that was so messed up.

Clint gritted his teeth. "No. I think I did ok. Why? Are you regretting going with me?" he asked. She was silent and he sighed again. He didn't know the first thing about taking care of kids. He'd been the youngest and Barney hadn't done that spectacular of a job, anyway. "Are you tired?" Clint hadn't seen her sleep yet, and that was worrisome. It had been two days. "I promise you won't end up anywhere other than where we're going. You can sleep."

Natasha glared at him, her face hardening under the dirt that covered her skin. The kid really needed a bath, but Clint didn't even want to know how that was going to go. She stared at him, not saying a word, until he changed the subject. "Right, never mind. So… Have you ever been outside of Russia?"

At first, he thought she wasn't going to answer him, but then she said, "Yes. I do not know where, but I have. The places looked the same, though. I only knew they were different because the people there did not speak the same language as I did." She fell silent again.

"Natasha," Clint started. But then she met his eyes again.

"Do not give me your false pity, your false kindness. I want none of it. I need to escape. That is all you are here for." She practically hissed at him, then went back to staring blankly out the window.

Clint swallowed hard, his heart aching a bit for a child who had never gotten the chance to actually be one. He focused his eyes back on the road. An hour later he stopped for gas and when he came back to the car, he saw that she had fogged up the glass of the back window and drawn a ballerina on it before she caught him looking and wiped it away with her sleeve.

Clint hated France for a lot of reasons. One of them was happening right now. Misinformation. All of his French contacts misinformed him. Every single one of them.

"What do you mean the next train is out in three days?" he asked, seething.

"Repairs," the scantily clad woman in front of him seethed. "I'm sorry Hawkeye, but I can't do anything about that." She smiled saucily at him. "But, mon cheri, we can occupy ourselves in the meantime…"

"No," he said blankly, rolling up the window and driving away from her. She was his least favorite; a French slut with too much time on her hands and not enough people who wanted to spend that time with her. Clint shuddered.

Three days. They had three days to kill until the next train out to London. This was absolutely ridiculous. He turned up a cobbled lane and then parked in the lot of a dilapidated looking building. Clint sucked up all his courage then turned in his seat and looked at the haggard kid sitting in the back. She'd gotten about six hours of sleep in the past few days that they'd been travelling. It was exactly the same time he'd gotten, as he took the advantage of her sleeping to get some shut-eye himself.

"We're stuck here for three days," he said quietly. "We're going to be staying in this building until then. Let's go." He didn't leave any room for discussion, because the last time he'd done that, she'd thrown an argument and then refused to leave the car. Now, she followed with quiet disdain as he got their meager belongings from the trunk.

The little inn was, well, modest to say the least. Clint checked them in under their false names, claiming Natasha as his daughter to get them through with less suspicion, his French perfect as though he was born and raised in the country.

Their room on the other hand, was absolute crap. There were two beds, barely standing on the wooden legs they had under them. It was disgusting and shitty and he hated the thought that he had just gotten Natasha out of a dump like this and was forcing her back into it.

"Sorry, but it's only for a few days," he said apologetically in Russian as she sat down cautiously on the bed.

"I've slept on worse," she said blandly, laying down and turning on her side. She stayed like that for a few hours before Clint was sure she'd drifted off again. He left the room quietly, making his way down to the market he'd spied earlier and picked up a few things to eat and a couple of bottles of water. It was a few hours later when he walked into their room to a gun pointing at him, point blank.

Natasha was shaking and livid, her eyes wild and angry. Their bags were packed and by the door, their beds made, everything pristine. Clint dropped the bags he carried with him and dropped to his knees so he was level with her again. She was panting, her eyes darting wildly to the bags he had put down and then his face.

"Natasha, Natasha put the gun down. Please put the gun down," he said as soothingly as he could, his voice low, his words none-threatening. "Please."

"You were gone," she said adamantly. "You left me alone. You said you were taking me away to somewhere better and you left me alone, in this dump. You left." Her words were sharp, her voice shaky. "You left. You left." Her eyes were filling up with tears and Clint felt like the world's worst hero.

She must have been terrified waking up alone after trusting Clint enough to leave with him. Shit, but he had definitely fucked this up. Natasha was shaking in fear that once again she'd been left, just like those assholes had done to her, he bet. To train her, maybe, see how she could do alone for a few days, weeks, months. He didn't know. And at this rate, he never would.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I'm sorry. I went to get food, I didn't leave. I wouldn't leave. I promised Natasha. I promised. I don't break my promises, they're all I've really got in life." He took the gun from her small hands, gently, watching her face, hoping against hope she wouldn't break down and cry.

Instead, she grit her teeth and then bit her hand. She bit it so hard blood stained her teeth when she pulled it away from her mouth. She then smeared her bloody hand on the wall and then looked at him expectantly.

"Promise me," she said, half vulnerable half don't-fuck-with-me. "Promise me."

Clint nodded, taking out a knife and slicing his hand before smearing his blood on the wall beside hers. "I will take you somewhere better," he said. "I promise. On my life, I promise."

"And I won't kill you," she said, deadly serious so that he felt ice in his veins. She could have killed him. She could have tried. She hadn't. That had to mean something.

He nodded and she nodded back, then he unpacked his spoils and they ate in silence, each sitting on their respective bed.

Clint woke up to Natasha sitting up in her bed, right where he left her, eyes wide and red rimmed, shadows like bruises smudging under her eye sockets. She was pale and haggard and merely nodded to him as he sat up.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked gently.

She shook her head, as though he was the stupid one. "I watched." Natasha nodded to the window and door, a highly paranoid look on her face. "I had to watch. Make sure no one came."

Clint swallowed hard. "Well, now I can watch. You should sleep a little."

She eyed him wearily. "You won't leave?"

"I won't leave."

"Good," she mumbled turning over. And then she was out like a light.

Clint sat there and shook his head, sliding out his phone and dialing a familiar number. He couldn't shake this awful wave of sadness that hit him when he thought of the fact that she had found the need to keep watch. In an inn room. She thought someone was going to kill them. Still.

He didn't even know if the person he was calling was awake. It was pretty late in New York at this time…

"M'ello?" he heard mumbled and Clint felt a bit bad.

"Sir? Should I call later?" He was going to be up for a bit anyway.

Suddenly he heard rustling and creaking. "Clint? Where are you?" Phil said, his voice no longer scratchy from sleep.

"France," he said blandly. "Trip's delayed by three days due to construction." He stifled a yawn. He was going to sleep for forever when they got back to New York.

"Ok. Be careful."

"How's things on your end? Fury reaming us yet?" Clint asked.

Phil gave a tired chuckle that made something in Clint's chest ache and said, "Not yet. I'm telling him the whole story tomorrow since he's starting to get worried that you've gone AWOL."

"Tell me how that goes," he said back. And then, "Seriously though, thanks. I… I know this isn't a call that anyone ever really makes, but I just couldn't-"

"I get it Clint. I really do. Stop explaining yourself, especially to me." Phil was silent and then he asked, "How is she?"

Clint sighed tiredly. "Sleeping now. She stayed up all night because she thought she had to keep watch. I mean, what kind of monster sleeps while an eight year old sits up and watches out for danger? I have no idea what happened to her to make her the killing machine she is, but I have this weird feeling that she has an awesome reason."

"Jesus," Phil said. "I don't even… Adults I get. But when you do that to a child, that's crossing a whole new line."

"Yeah…" Clint said, watching the little body on the bed across from his. She wasn't sleeping soundly, tossing a bit in her sleep. He didn't know what to do. Not really. Didn't mean he couldn't try. "Hey, Phil. We'll be home in a few more days. Try to settle things out with Fury, yeah?"

"Yeah," Phil said. "And be careful."

"Yes mom," Clint said, already getting off his bed.

"Barton I'm not kidding. Don't get yourselves killed over something avoidable."

"I know," Clint said softly, because he got it. They were all taking risks. What was the point in them if he was going to throw their lives away like an idiot? "I get it. I gotta go."

"M'bye."

"Bye."

Clint hung up, tossing his cell onto his mattress, then he walked over to Natasha's tossing form and went to his knees by the bed. He rested a hand on her back and rubbed in circles while singing Hey Jude in Russian.

She stopped moving and whimpering after that.

London was a busy place, cluttered and muggy. Clint made sure Natasha kept close as they walked to the airport. It was a bit hard, seeing as he was trying not to touch her, since she liked to flinch away from his touch. And then the weirdest, most amazing thing happened. She grabbed his hand then pointed curiously off to the harbor.

"What is all that – that blue?" she asked, tugging his hand.

Clint was shocked for a moment. Her voice hadn't changed and she was only tugging his hand, letting go for a minute before grabbing it again. But it was a start.

He looked to where she was pointing. "All the – Natasha, that's the ocean."

She looked at it longingly then and Clint's chest hurt again. "I've never seen the ocean before," she said quietly. "It's beautiful."

And at that moment, Clint didn't care if she chopped his head off, he scooped her up into his arms and against his chest, holding her close and letting her put her head down on his shoulder with a tired sigh. "C'mon kiddo, let's go."

She didn't say a word.

"Please explain to me again what exactly happened Agent Coulson," Fury said, pacing his office. "Please. Because all I keep hearing, and I don't know what you're hearing, but all I keep hearing is that you let Agent Barton get away with not killing one of the world's deadliest assassins and let her travel back here with him." He spun on his heel. "Is that what you're telling me Agent Coulson?"

Phil grit his teeth. He had no patience for this bullshit. "Yes, sir. That is what I'm telling you."

Director Fury collapsed into his seat. "Why the hell did you let his crazy ass do that?" Fury had his head in his hands. "Just out of curiosity?" Phil felt a bit bad. The hit on the Widow had come through the Council. Fury was going to get shit for this. A lot of shit.

"Apparently she's an asset, Director," Phil said patiently.

"Of course she's be!" Nick said, his head flying up. "If we could talk to her and convince her to come to our side. But we can't! You don't convince a grown woman who kills people for a living to come to the good side. What are we going to say? We have cookies?"

Phil froze in surprise. Fury had said 'grown woman'… which meant he didn't know… which meant the Council had known… "Well, sir," he said slowly. "That might convince her."

Fury's head swiveled to look at him. "Are you mocking me, agent?"

"No sir."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

"Nothing," Phil said adamantly. "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm saying this: the Black Widow, known as Natasha Romanov is eight years old. Sir."

Fury stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. He got up from his chair then and walked to the door. "You're dismissed Agent Coulson. Excuse me."

By the time Phil got to the door, Fury was gone.

Kay. Clint is back in the states with Tasha in the next one. And Tasha meets Phil. Oooooo! Let's see how that goes, yes?

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