Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters in the story except Le Roux and his henchmen. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

It has been gently pointed out that my Russian courtesy of Google Translate was in a word...bad...so special thanks to Rain in the Dark for volunteering to translate for me in the future! :D

As always, very special thanks to TuningMyViola for actings as South African consultant and Afrikaans translator...

If there's anyone out there that can translate into Hungarian and/or German and is willing to translate some for me for the next story, please let me know! I want to be as authentic as possible, which I'm learning is a serious struggle.

Thanks to all my awesome reviewers! You rock my world with your words of encouragement!

Enjoy!

Last Time:

His record had been put to the test a few times over the last nine years, usually with Coulson reminding him over comms that he could hold his breath for 6 minutes and 26 seconds and that the water his head was submerged in, or that was pouring over his face wouldn't last that long.

6 minutes and 26 seconds.

Trust becomes solidified when words consistently back up by deeds- George David Miller

Tony focused on sifting through the pile of triggers in front of him. Which trigger he used, ultimately wouldn't matter, but it gave him something to focus on besides the fact that less than an hour ago he'd been forced to watch Clint get water tortured. It gave him a reason not to look at the archer who still coughed off and on every few minutes.

"Tony?"

Tony ignored him. Because as long as he ignored him, he could pretend that none of that had happened. That he wasn't locked up by crazy terrorist again, being forced to make some sort of weapon for them again, with the weight of someone else's life on his shoulders again. It wasn't happening, none of it was.

"Tony!"

Tony stopped picking through the triggers.

"I'm okay. I needed a shower anyway." The wet cough that immediately followed took a lot of credibility out of the claim, but Tony turned around anyway.

"What you are is very far from okay. How are you pulling a Davey Jones right now?"

"Six minutes and twenty six seconds." Clint stated.

"What?" Tony blinked, suddenly concerned the man was delirious.

"I can hold my breath for six minutes and twenty six seconds."

"Okay." Tony shrugged as if he didn't understand the significance of that claim.

"It's why I'm fine…because the average adult male can hold their breath for three minutes, maybe four. No one will expect me to be able to hold my breath for six minutes and twenty six seconds."

"The last time they held kept pouring for almost seven minutes." Tony pointed out bluntly. At Clint's eyebrow arch, he scowled. "I was counting."

"Which is why I coughed like I'd swallowed the ocean after they left…but I'm still fine…because I could hold my breath through the six minutes they did it before that…and the five minutes before that…and the four before that…"

Tony arched an eyebrow and Clint shrugged.

"I was counting too."

"Of course you were." Tony scoffed, turning his back on the archer's pale face. "What the hell kind lunatic is this guy? Providing motivation, my ass."

"It's exactly what he's doing." Clint tested his handcuffs, his eyebrow twitching as the cold metal cut into his wrists. He gave no other signs of pain, because he couldn't afford to right now. As long as Clint could remain stoic, Tony would be able to handle whatever happened next.

"Why? I'm already doing what he wants." Tony demanded, going back to his triggers.

"To make sure you stay focused. It's textbook. He'll probably come back in a few hours…might give us until tomorrow." Clint shrugged again, shifting as his ribs set a shot of pain through his body. He tested his lungs, seeing how deeply he could breathe before the pain was crippling. It was only after a few moments that he realized it wasn't just his ribs. The stab wound on his back was pulsing a constant ache. Great. That's just what he needed.

"How are you so calm?" Tony asked scornfully, though he was secretly grateful for the archer's cool demeanor. "When I got my own version of that hell a few years ago, I don't remember just brushing it off with an 'I needed a shower anyway.' "

"You must have handled it okay. You had the presence of mind to build that first suit."

"It's not the same. You're all tough guy and nothing phases me. I wasn't...I'm not...even now." Tony frowned.

Clint cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Tony, you built an Iron Man suit in the middle of the fucking dessert. Maybe you didn't do things the way I would have. But I can't build an Iron Man suit...so I settle for a more hands on approach." He rattled his handcuffs in demonstration.

Tony still looked unconvinced.

"I'm trained for this type of thing. You aren't. And you still managed to come out on top. So don't sell yourself short. Believe me, if I hadn't needed them to bring us here so we could find Le Roux and that weapon, I totally would have let you blast the hell out of those guys at the warehouse. But we had to do things my way this time...and my way is admittedly less pleasant..."

"No shit, Sherlock." Tony scoffed, but his shoulders were straighter and the self-depreciating look was out of his eyes.

"But it's not the first time I've done this. So have a little faith." Clint stated offhandedly.

Tony stiffened and Clint's brow furrowed.

"That's the second time you've talked about this happening before. Was it like this?" He asked without turning around.

"Well not exactly like this…" Clint replied glancing around the room as if he were comparing experiences.

"But something like it?" Tony demanded impatiently, spinning to meet the archer's calm gaze.

"Yeah, Tony, it was." Clint answered simply. "I've told you as much. Why the curiosity? I thought you and the good Captain hacked SHIELD's personnel files." He arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

"We did…well I did…Star Spangled just read over my shoulder. Your file was 60% redacted, even in SHIELD's computers. Romanoff's was about the same."

"Well, we are covert assassins." Clint pointed out. "As far as I know, there is only one full copy of my file. Fury has it in a safe somewhere along with Tasha's."

"All your file ever mentioned was incidents on missions. The details were blacked out. I didn't realize at the time that this," He gestured at Clint, handcuffed to a metal chair and still damp, "was what that meant."

"It wasn't always. Sometimes it was when I breached protocol bad enough to get written up…or got shot," His eyes grew reflective, "that happened a lot." He mused as if only just now realizing the frequency with which he tended to be acquainted with the wrong end of a bullet. He glanced at the graze on his arm thoughtfully.

"Breached protocol…" Tony stared at him with a pondering gaze, "Romanoff." He deduced.

Clint nodded.

"Fury almost fired me over that. Coulson talked him out of it and then slammed me with a two week shithole assignment in Uzbekistan." Clint scowled. "I almost got killed though, so he forgave me when I got back."

Tony blinked, shaking his head to clear it of Clint's musings.

"How many times have you been captured?"

"You mean how many times have I been tortured?" Clint corrected knowingly. "Enough to know what I can take." he deflected, "These guys," He nodded at the door, "won't even come close."

"You seem unduly confident." Tony crossed his arms doubtfully.

Clint chuckled darkly.

"Trust me, Tony; I've had way worse than these guys could ever dream up."

"That's truly horrifying." Stark shook his head in shock.

"Yeah." Clint sighed, his eyes flashing with something Stark couldn't identify. Memory maybe.

"I should get back to work." Tony cleared his throat, and turned away.

"Have you figured how to build the prototypes?" Clint asked, watching Tony work with rapt attention.

"Building the guns is easy." Tony replied. "It's harnessing and using that blue energy that'll be difficult, probably impossible for the average minded person. Of course I've never been average, so I could probably figure out a way. But something tells me creating several working prototypes of HYDRA style guns is not something that would be smiled upon by the powers that be...so..."

"Escape before it comes to that?" Clint suggested.

"Preferably…I can build the guns. It'll take me some time, but I can do it. I just need him to believe that dealing with that," he pointed at parts of the original, "would come last. I just hope you get your opening sooner rather than later."

"Trust me; Tony...I've got it under control." Clint assured.

Yeah, you've got it under control. That's why you spent ten minutes coughing up water...that's why you're handcuffed to a metal chair with a broken rib...under control my ass, Feather Head.

Le Roux visited only once more over the next twelve hours. This time Clint was on the receiving end of a fairly brutal beating courtesy of Johan.

Tony had remained uncharacteristically unanimated throughout the entire thing, alternating between glaring at Rene who held a rifle on him the whole time, glaring at Le Roux who was watching with morbid enjoyment, and wincing and flinching right along with Clint.

The archer, for his part, didn't make a sound the entire time, except to spit different Russian phrases at his attacker and occasionally taunt him in his own language. Tony didn't know what he was saying, but every time Clint said something in Afrikaans, the man beating him would look momentarily terrified and pause before resuming his attack.

After they'd left, Tony had watched Clint casually spit out a molar and a huge glob of blood.

"It was fake anyways." He'd slurred, as if loosing teeth was nothing more than an annoyance that even the most average person should be used to. And the beating he'd gotten was nothing more than child's play. The bravado fell flat, however, when Clint's eyes drifted closed a moment later and his chin fell to rest on his chest.

Tony worked feverishly while he waited for Clint to wake, organizing parts and making plans for assembly. He had just started preparing to put the first of the pieces together when Clint flinched into consciousness, rattling his handcuffs as he pulled violently at them.

"Whoa, hey, calm down…" Tony abandoned his project and moved over to him. Clint's left eye was half closed with swelling. His right was bloodshot as he scanned the room in a panic. His eyes fell on Tony and he froze. The genius could almost see the memories of what had happened play in rapid sequence through the man's mind. Clint's eyes flicked to the pile of pieces of weaponry and then back to Tony.

"What happened?" His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat immediately after speaking.

"They did you like Fight Club until you spit out a tooth and passed out." Tony told him, casually crouching in front of him, trying to play off the torture session as effectively as Clint seemed to in the past.

"How long have I been out?" Clint's voice was getting stronger, and he gingerly stretched his jaw, relieved it felt nothing but bruised.

"About six hours."

"Well damn."

"That was my thought." Tony crossed his arms. "I was about to start assembling." He announced, trying to change the subject.

Clint eyed the havoc Tony's work ethic had created in the room.

"You've been busy."

"Well I thought about sitting back, getting a massage and a latté, but their masseuse was…horrendous…all big arms and Call me Helga…" his voice took on a deep German accent with the words before returning to his normal tone, "and their latté's probably have goat milk or something in them…gross…so I figured I'd just do this instead." He held motioned at the pile of pieces.

Clint laughed a little at Tony's babbling, finding it oddly comforting. He eyed the pile absently as Tony returned to it.

"Tony?"

"Yes, dear?" Tony replied easily, starting assembly.

"We need a reason for them to let me out of this chair."

"That's gonna be hard to swing." Tony glanced at him, "You're plan to make the natives restless was a little too effective. They're afraid to let you out of that thing."

Clint frowned. He'd never admit it, but Tony had a point.

"Then I'll have to give them a reason to think I won't be a threat."

"Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Because it probably won't be pleasant…"

"Do you have a plan?"

"Half of one…but you're not going to like it."

"Do tell." Tony drawled as he continued fitting pieces together.

"They'll have to go another round with me for it to be believable."

"Is there a particular reason you can't just suddenly grow faint and convince them now?" Tony demanded. Barton had been right, he didn't like this plan.

"No way Le Roux would buy it, not all the sudden like that. He didn't become the leader in black market arms dealing by being an idiot."

Tony was silent for a moment.

"You do realize that's a terrible plan, Feather Head."

"Yeah…well it's the only one we've got."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh, you have a plan?"

"Well…half of one." Tony hedged.

"Let's hear your half a plan." Clint's eyebrows arched in amusement.

"I create an actual weapon and kill Le Roux with it."

Clint blinked.

"That's a terrible plan, Metal for Brains. I have no doubt you could build the gun, but Le Roux never comes in alone. By the time you put him down, his men would put you down...and then they'd put me down...and that's an outcome we're trying to avoid."

"Well I did say it was only half a plan."

"The bad half apparently."

"Well you can't expect me to do all the work. What use have you been? Huh? You've been sitting around this whole time." Tony shot back with a huff.

Clint couldn't help it. He smiled.

Tony turned back to his work and smiled too.

"You know..." Clint cocked his head thoughtfully, "building a real gun might not be a completely bad idea...not to use on Le Roux...because that just wouldn't work out in our favor...but you'll need something for defense until you get your case back...what would you use for ammo?"

"I could melt down some of this stuff...rig up some sort of cast for bullets..." Tony suggested, staring at his pile of discarded pieces contemplatively.

"What about the HYDRA gun...?" Clint hedged.

"What about it?"

"Could you activate it?"

Tony turned to look at him, then at the HYDRA weapon that currently laid in pieces.

"You do know who I am, right? Of course I could, but I'd have to alter it's make up. Essentially create a new weapon from the old parts. Whatever they did to disable it was pretty effective."

"Could you find a way to get the energy output under control? So you know...you don't take out a wall."

"Undoubtedly...but it might not be stable and I can't really run tests in here. We'd have to go on faith..."

Clint smirked.

"I'm okay with that...I think you've got a side project there, Metal Head."

"See...working together is good. Our two crappy half plans are now one crappy whole plan."

"Pepper's going to kill me for letting this happen again." Tony sighed as he worked on reassembling the HYDRA weapon.

"At least she's not a Russian assassin with more knowledge on how to kill a man than the devil himself." Clint shot back.

"You think Stalin will be mad too."

"She'll be furious. She gets pissed when I scare her…usually calls me nasty names in Russian."

"Huh…Pepper usually just lectures me and then kisses my boo-boos better." Tony smiled sadly, wondering if he'd ever get to hear another Pepper lecture again. He'd grown very fond of them.

"You'll get back to her, Tony."

"Yeah, I know."

"You will."

Tony looked up and met the archer's eyes. He couldn't help but believe the sincerity he saw there. He only hoped he could return the favor for the archer and the Russian time bomb.

"You realize if we do get out of this alive, you're the one that's going to explain to the women why we let ourselves get captured. Stalin may understand, be proud even, but Pepper…prepare to face a fury you've never faced before." Tony warned ominously.

Clint blinked at him, imagining Pepper yelling and threatening him with a frying pan or something similar. The image was as funny as it was terrifying.

"I'll make her some spaghetti…then she'll forgive me." He shrugged.

Tony considered for a moment.

"You know, I don't know what it is about that stuff. She'd kill for it. Nearly skewered me with her fork once to get at it before anybody else." He revealed with an offended huff.

"Woman has good taste, Tony." Clint shrugged again. After a beat he added, "In food at least."

"Ha…ha…" Tony drawled, glaring at him. "I should have known you wouldn't flirt that close to a compliment without a snarky comment waiting in the wings."

"And here I thought we were getting to know each other." Clint shook his head in mock disappointment.

"I'll know for next time and wait for the other shoe to drop before I start being touched."

"What happened to the money?" Tony asked after an hour had passed. They'd talked amicably, tossing taunts and insults back and forth, for a good while. It was entertaining, they'd both realized, to exercise the sarcastic parts of their vocabulary without the purpose of riling each other up. They'd quieted after about 30 minutes though, Tony focusing on his work and Clint contemplating his plans for escape silently.

The archer blinked now, clearing the haze that had fallen over his eyes and focusing on Tony. Absently he wondered if it had gotten hotter in their little room. He arched an eyebrow at the billionaire's question.

"What money?" Clint replied with a confused frown.

"The money you made while you were a dirty dealing assassin. You know, before SHIELD." Tony clarified with a glance over his shoulder.

"Encrypted bank account." Clint revealed vaguely.

"How much?" Tony couldn't help but ask; he didn't know the going rate for an assassin ten years ago. He was curious.

"There was about 30 million when I joined SHIELD...with ten years of interest." Clint shrugged.

"When you joined SHIELD? You mean you don't spend it?" Tony gaped, "You have well over 30 million dollars and you don't spend it?"

"It's blood money, Tony." Clint frowned. "I haven't touched it since Phil recruited me."

"So you're just going to let it sit there, getting bigger, and never use it."

"I didn't say that." Clint smirked, "If the unpredictable happens and Tasha and I have to start over. It'll help us do that."

Tony shook his head in amazement.

"So you and Romanoff…" he wondered.

"What?"

"You two are…" Tony questioned cryptically, motioning with his hand vaguely.

"Are what, Tony?" Clint asked, enjoying the frustration blooming on Tony's face.

"You know...together…in a relationship. Like me and Pepper? Set to run off together one day and apparently buy your own island."

Clint's storm colored eyes grew contemplative as he considered Tony's question.

Tony, for his part, had wondered about the two master assassins for some time now. They were sleeping together, that fact was obvious. But he couldn't tell if the two had anything beyond that. They both kept their emotions so tightly guarded, even around the team. Now seemed like as good a time as any to ask. He knew Steve knew something, because he never seemed as baffled by the couple as the rest of them. But the super soldier was better at keeping secrets than the CIA, so he wasn't revealing anything.

"It's not really like you and Pepper." Clint finally replied.

"What do you mean?"

"You two…what? Talk about getting married someday? Having little Iron Mans running around?"

"Someday...yeah…but nothing's on a timetable." Tony shrugged.

"Me and Tasha…we've never talked about it, not once, and never will. Never talked about kids either."

"You don't see yourself ending up with her?" Tony guessed.

"Tony, I plan on spending the rest of my life with her, but we're assassins. There's no picket fence, no little Hawkeyes and Black Widows in our future. Our lives will end in blood. That's just the way it is. We both accept that, and swore to make the most of the time we did have. My rainy day fund will probably never get used..."

"You do realize that's not only intensely melodramatic, it's also only one possibility. You two may be assassins, but you're the best at what you do. Who's to say you won't make it to retirement age?"

"Who's to say we will? Tony, every time we take a mission from SHIELD we have to accept that there are two possible outcomes: we die or we survive to try the odds again. Living like we do, accepting that tomorrow might not come. It helps us be content every day. If I die tomorrow, my only regret will be that I didn't get to tell her goodbye. You can't grieve a future you didn't expect to get anyway."

"I don't know whether that's incredibly sad or incredibly stupid…" Tony stared at him bemusedly. "Either way, you're story is a tragedy waiting to be written."

Clint shrugged, unconcerned, glancing down at his bloody wrists and testing them against the handcuffs.

Tony watched him for a moment. He decided, standing there with half a gun in his hand, that he was making sure Clint got back to Natasha, no matter what it took. Maybe their story was a tragedy, and maybe they never would buy their own island and retire in peace with 30 million dollars plus interest.

But that ending wasn't coming today, not on Tony's watch.

Pepper must be rubbing off on him, because all he could think about was how much those two insane assassins belonged together and he was going to be damned if a black market arms dealer in a country Clint hated was going to be the reason they didn't get a chance at a private island paradise.

Damn Pepper and her damn chic-flicks.

Tony had returned to silence, giving Clint a chance to rest his eyes without the aid of unconsciousness. He glanced up when the man blinked awake only ten minutes later. Obviously sleep wasn't going to come easily. He could tell Clint was hiding how much pain he was in, for Tony's sake no doubt. What the archer needed was a distraction.

Tony was good at those.

"So I told you mine. Now you tell me yours."

Clint blinked; sure he'd heard the man wrong.

"Come again?"

"The reason I fight. I told you mine. What's yours?"

Clint blinked again, trying to see if Tony was serious. The genius just held his gaze, genuinely interested.

"Because what the hell else am I gonna do?" Clint finally admitted after several long moments.

Tony's brow furrowed as he shifted one of the pieces of the gun.

"Care to expound?"

Clint looked away, his eyes going to the very small air vent in the ceiling. It kept the air from growing stagnant. He wondered how big the air duct in the ceiling was. He wondered if it was big enough for him to hide in.

"Clint?" Tony prompted.

The archer sighed, weighing his words carefully before he spoke them. His eyes never left the air vent.

"There is no one reason why I do what I do...there's a lifetime of them..." He blinked, his eyes growing distant, "I do it because I've seen too many innocent people hurt or killed, and I want to kill the scumbags in the world before they can up that number..."

He would never tell Tony that he, Clint Barton, was one of those innocents once upon a time.

"I do it because even though the Army turned on me the moment I didn't live up to their standard, I still want to protect the people in this country..."

He would never tell Tony that he'd hated everything about the United States military after they'd arrested him. Then he'd met Phil and found something to fight for again.

"I do it because in the single year I was a mercenary after the Army and before SHIELD I killed more people than most assassins would in three lifetimes. So I've got a lot to make up for..."

He would never tell Tony that for the short time he'd been an assassin for hire, he'd hated every minute of it. The idea of killing for money was so weak. And a seven year old Clint had once promised himself he would never be weak again.

"Maybe it's just because I'm too damn good at this not to do it. What else can I do, but this? What else could I do that wouldn't be a waste?"

He would never tell Tony that he never wanted to do anything else, even if it killed him one day. He had a purpose as a SHIELD agent, as an Avenger. He fought for something, every day, and it kept him grounded. Without that focus, that purpose, he was afraid he would disappear into the shadows he loved so much. He was afraid he would become the person he was after the Army, before SHIELD, and there would be no Phil Coulson to pull him back from the edge, to keep him from becoming one of the men he sighted on the other side of an arrow.

Tony listened quietly, unaware of the dark memories behind each reason. He was quiet for a time even after Clint fell silent, the archer's eyes inexplicably on the air vent. Perhaps wishing he could disappear into it, as he often did the ones back at the tower when he wanted to get away and not be found. Finally, Tony cleared his throat.

"A lifetime of reasons..." he mused quietly, "You forgot one. Something I've noticed from personal experience."

Clint's eyes finally shifted from the vent to focus on him and he sat, waiting.

"Strength. Strength to do what's right, no matter the personal cost. Isn't that why we're here?" Tony motioned around their prison. "Because you wouldn't let me walk away from what was right? What we had to do, even though you knew what would happen?"

"That's not some special strength Tony. I had a mission, that's all."

"If that's what you think, than you're an idiot and that IQ of yours is a fluke." Tony shot back firmly. "I don't know where along the way, you decided you weren't worth anything but the weight of your arrows, but Clint, every one of those reasons you just gave me...I don't know anyone that could accumulate that many reasons for doing good, without being strong as steel. Anybody else never would have made it past the first one."

Clint blinked at him, baffled by the words the billionaire was speaking. He'd never known Tony to compliment someone ever.

"What the hell, Tony?"

Stark shrugged, clearing his throat.

"I have a heart..." he tapped his arc reactor, "and I am capable of a compliment. I just don't do it unless conditions are extreme and as you can see," He motioned around the room again, "beyond extreme. So don't get used to it. Once you get us out of this mess, we'll never speak of this again."

Clint chuckled. He'd accept that reasoning. But he guaranteed he'd hold those words over Stark's head until the day he died, and he'd bring it up. Often.

End of Chapter 7

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"And what are you going to do? While I do all the work?" Tony demanded.

The grin turned to a dark smirk.

"First…I'm going to find my weapons…then…I'm going to kill every last one of them."