Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the reviews and the alerts! I really hope the story keeps living up to them:)

Remembering Budapest

by Kristen Elizabeth

The director of S.H.I.E.L.D. found his master archer sitting outside of the Helicarrier's medical unit, his elbows on his knees and his blood-stained hands clasped together at his mouth. Barton didn't acknowledge his presence for a long time, but Nick Fury was damn sure not going to be the first to speak.

If the haunted look in the man's eyes was any indication, he was already in a hell of his own making. No need to add to it...just yet.

"Armor-piercing ammunition." Barton's voice was hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in the hours that had passed since the recovery team whisked him and Natasha out of Budapest. "We thought the bastard might have had it and we were right." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily. "Went straight through her vest."

"If I'd have known they were using it instead of just selling it..."

Barton cut him off. "You would have what? Sent someone else?"

"No." Fury watched the man with his good eye. "But I would have made her suit up better."

As he slowly sat up, Barton looked down at his hands. Natasha's blood was dry, but he stared at the stains as if they were fresh. "She did everything she was trained to do."

"And she's still alive," Fury pointed out. "So are you. The world is down one arms dealer. Where I come from, we call that a win."

"There should have been more of us."

"If you hadn't missed, you wouldn't have needed help."

Barton jumped to his feet so quickly and with such anger behind the movement that anyone else might have shrunk back from him. Fury just met his dangerous glare and held it without blinking. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with a pissed-off assassin and it probably wouldn't be the last.

And if his long-reaching plan ever came to fruition, someday soon he'd be dealing with people who possessed far more physical strength than Clint Barton.

"Take a seat, Agent Barton," he ordered. It took almost a full minute, but eventually the man called Hawkeye sank back down onto the low bench. "You think you're the first one of us to have a partner go down in the field?"

Barton crossed his muscled arms. "Didn't say that."

"So...what? You figure if you blame yourself enough, it'll help heal that bullet hole in her chest?"

When the man looked away in agony, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, but before Fury could say anything, one of the medics stepped out into the hallway.

"Director Fury," the man saluted. "Agent Barton. She's waking up."

Barton scrambled to his feet, but Fury held up his hand to stop him. "Hold on," he said. "There's something I need to tell you."

Her mouth felt like a desert, but the medics would only give her a few measly ice chips. It was the pain meds, they claimed, that were causing the dryness, but her body wasn't ready for food or drink just yet. It was hard to argue the point. Even just swallowing the tiny amount of liquid from the ice took all the strength she had.

She was lucky to be alive. Natasha could see it in the medics' faces from the moment she clawed her way out of the darkness. Even with the best medical care in the world, her recovery hadn't been guaranteed. Although she lived with the possibility of death every day, it had never gotten so close before.

Closing her eyes, she could still feel the bullet slamming into her body through a layer of silk and the thin layer of kevlar she'd worn beneath it. But when she tried to remember what had happened next, all she got was flashes. Red blood. Blue sky. Stormy eyes.

"Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha lifted her lashes at the sound of the director's voice. He was standing a few inches away from her bed, looking down at her like she was a curiosity in a museum.

"Tell me you're not here with a mission."

The corner of Nick Fury's mouth twitched. "When you're up to it. Tomorrow, maybe."

She nodded as much as she could; each word she spoke made her chest burn. "How did we leave things?"

"Well, you and Barton pretty much took out the bulk of the Asztalos arms ring, including Jozsef Asztalos himself, so I'm not complaining." He took a step towards her. "Next time, though, when something goes wrong, think about waiting for back-up."

"I had back-up," she reminded him. "Where is he?"

A second passed. "Agent Barton's been temporarily reassigned. He'll be working at the New Mexico complex with Agent Coulson for the next year or so."

She was too well-trained to show any emotion at this information. Agents were reassigned all the time; it was a wonder that she and Clint had been partners for as long as they had been. Still, Natasha couldn't shake the feeling that they were both being punished.

"Has he already left?" Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.

"Tonight," Fury replied. "He's being debriefed on the Budapest incident right now."

"This wasn't his fault," Natasha told him. "I started a fire-fight in the middle of the promenade. I should be the one you send away, not Clint."

"The only mission you have for the foreseeable future is to recuperate as fast as possible." The director took a step back. "I'm going to need you soon, Natasha. Don't let me down."

When he was gone, a medic stopped by with some ice chips and a hypodermic needle full of a medicine that sent her right back into the arms of unconsciousness.

Even though he'd taken a shower and changed his uniform, whenever Clint looked at his hands, he still saw Natasha's blood. Maybe he always would. He doubted that even being sent thousands of miles away from her would make him forget that he'd nearly gotten her killed.

The jet that would take him to New Mexico was scheduled to leave within the hour. His one bag was already packed, not with mementos or personal trinkets, but with the tools of his trade. He'd even included the stained uniform he'd been wearing when he'd carried Natasha's lifeless body to the helicopter that had lifted them out of Budapest.

Nick Fury might have been able to keep him busy for his last few hours on the ship, but the man had never expressly forbidden Clint from seeing Natasha before he left. It might very well be the last time he saw her for a long time. Not one to waste an opportunity, he slipped out of his empty quarters and made his way back to the medical bay.

The guard on duty was a friend; he let Clint into the recovery ward without hesitation. As most of the medics were off for the night, the room was quiet, save for the soft sound of Natasha breathing.

It was a beautiful sound, maybe one of the most beautiful he'd ever heard. She was alive. She was safe. He hadn't ruined everything he loved.

Clint approached her bed and smiled at the sight of her flaming red locks against the starched white pillow. Reaching down, he touched one silky curl, gently stroking it.

Her eyes flew open at the contact, but when she instinctively tried to grab his wrist, she cried out in pain.

"Nat! It's me...it's just me!" Her heart monitor was going wild and Clint could have killed himself. What had he been thinking, sneaking up on her when she couldn't defend herself? "I'm sorry, Nat. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, a testament to just how much he'd managed to hurt her with his carelessness. "Clint?" she wheezed. "What are you...what are you doing?"

"I just..." He searched for the right words. "I needed to see you before I left. They're reassigning me. New Mexico."

"I heard." She blinked a couple of times as her heart rate slowed down. "It's my fault."

Clint shook his head. "No, Nat. Not at all. It was me. I fucked up. I missed the shot."

"It happens." Natasha ran her tongue over her bottom lip. "I messed up, too. Didn't wait for you...just went for the bastard."

He was quiet for a second. "You remember, then?"

"I remember this." She weakly gestured to the large bandage peeking out from the blanket that covered her body. He swallowed. Inadequately covered her body, he should have said. He could see every line, every curve, every fantasy he'd had for the past five years. "It's not something you forget."

Clint nodded in agreement. "And after?" He hesitated. "Do you remember what happened after?"

She looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

It was impossible to read her face sometimes, the downfall of loving a woman who had been trained to be emotionless, but she didn't seem confused, like she was trying to remember, but couldn't.

In fact, he had seen this look on her before when they'd been caught trying to sneak sensitive government files out of Macau. She'd given their interrogators this same blank look in response to their questions while he worked to undo his restraints.

It was better, he told himself, that his ridiculous declaration of love went ignored. What had he expected would happen? She would wake up and announce that she loved him, too? Then what? They would get married and have babies and live a so-called normal life?

No, it was definitely better this way. Their lives had never been and would never be normal. And while the sex would have been incredible, partners who cared too much about each other were a liability to everyone around them.

She'd made the right call and now it was his turn.

"Nothing," he finally said. "It doesn't matter now." With one hand braced on the metal frame of the bed, he leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. They lingered there for a second before he could force himself to draw back. If he'd looked down at her, he would have seen that her eyes were closed as she savored the moment.

But he'd already pushed away from her, his eyes on the bare wall. It made it easier to walk away.

"Take care of yourself," he told her when he reached the door. "And look out for whatever idiot you get stuck with while I'm gone."

"Clint." Hearing his name on her lips made him stop in his tracks. Instead of turning all the way around, he angled his head just enough to acknowledge her. "Stay in touch?"

He smiled ruefully as he pulled the door open. "No guarantees, Nat."

TBC