It was relieving to breathe easily in the water. The icy liquid curved around Natasha's body as she let her chest rise up and down, it no longer feeling restricted as if she were weighed down in a lake.

There were faint noises coming from outside the door. Clint must be up.

She'd left her clothes in the bedroom, substituting them for a bathrobe that was now hanging on a hook by the door. The bandages that were around her wrists were now deposited on the bathroom floor; the burning feeling of the cold on the flesh was satisfying.
When she was washing, the scars on her body covered her like tattoos.
Natasha was wary of stripping off without some kind of safety aid, so she still had a knife strapped to her ankle. She'd left her guns in the bedroom too, next to Clint's bow. The archer had been out like a light when she left for the shower.

Out.

Sleeping.

He had been sleeping.

She'd been in the shower for less than 5 minutes. Her sense of hearing wasn't immaculate but its accuracy was reliable; there had been no sound coming from the bedroom whatsoever, as far as she could recall.
Carefully, and with deadly intent, she pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out. The running water would cover any noise she made.
For now.

As she pulled on the robe, there was a knock at the door.

"Agent Romanoff, we know you're in there. Agent Barton is in our custody. There's no window in there, so you may as well come out."

The sentence was a goldmine. Whoever this speaker was, was an idiot to say the least. She (and the voice sounded female enough) had given away her status, vaguely her employer, her authority and her intel on the location in but 3 sentences. As well as this, she made the mistake of pretending she had Barton.

He might require hearing aids, but he damn well would know if someone was in his apartment.

Natasha turned the water off. Grabbing a towel, she assessed how many agents were outside the bathroom door.

"Could you give me a minute?"

Cross referencing the amount of separate shadows with different voices and breathing patterns, she totalled 7.

"Agent Romanoff, I'd have thought you would have been better prepared."

7 agents at the door. No doubt more further inside the apartment, and some on the street.

"Well you did interrupt me during my shower."

Time. She needed time.

"I'd prefer it if we'd talk face to face."

No guns, no tasers, only a knife. One exit.

"I would come out and kick your asses but the water was kind of cold, so -"

She could take the ones inside the apartment. Easily.

"The place is surrounded."

But if Barton were with them, she'd be putting him in danger.

"All the more reason to wait until I'm decent."

One exit.

"You have 2 minutes."

Or was there?

Something crossed Natasha's mind.

If they had been in the bedroom, they'd have seen her clothes. They wouldn't have allowed her time to redress. So two main possibilities: their first stop was the bathroom, or they were all pig stupid enough to give a master assassin 2 spare minutes. Either way, Barton's safety was pretty much guaranteed. But the actual number of enemy agents in the vicinity of Natasha was nothing but a guess. Clearing the apartment would be easy, but getting out without a fuss?

Unlikely.

The spy surveyed the room.

Shower curtain hanging, various towels, duffel bag on top of cabinet, first aid kit in cabinet, jacket on floor, toilet roll, plunger under the sink.
Carefully pulling down the bag, she noticed a green slip of paper sandwiched between two of the ceiling tiles. She recognised it from somewhere, from a while back. Something Clint used to do.
Opening the bag, she realised that it was Clint's and that it had plenty of items residing there. She emptied the contents of the first aid kit into it, then a bunch of medicines from inside the cabinet. Tying her jacket around her waist, and taking a firm grip on the bag, she clambered onto the sink.

Come on Barton. Give me this one.

There was a click as the agent at the door pulled the handle.

"Time's up Romanoff."

*i*

The bow was, to simply put it, as it usually was. Except, it was being utilised with its, say, tertiary feature, as Clint fully well realised while he was dangling from the 30th floor of a Spanish apartment block. He knew that his bowstring was strong enough, but he worried that the wall mounted flag pole would not hold his weight for much longer.

It had been a rash decision for the archer, but Clint trusted himself enough to know that his rash decisions would eventually work out. The sunlight was softened by the presence of clouds but was still overly bright for 7am in the morning. He had managed to get out with 2 of Natasha's guns, his bow and a full quiver of arrows - it was good for the 30 seconds he had to notice someone slip by his bedroom door. But he was struggling to find a spot to swing onto now, and he could clearly hear creaks from the metallic pole above him.

Then he saw his getaway. He would have to be quick, immensely so, and accurate too - just within his specifications. Eye on the glass exterior of the building opposite, he calculated his movements. He needed to speed up - one look out the window from the agents in the apartment and bam: reflection of Hawkeye dangling from the building you're standing in.

First things first: grounding.

Clint rooted his feet to the wall.

Good.

Next: security.

Hooking one arm around the bow, he brought it down so it wasn't balanced any longer, pivoting on one side. Clint was angled back far further than he would have liked to be. He selected an arrow from his quiver, and held it in his mouth as he tied the rope that protruded from it around his waist. Clint secured it at a pulley system that was sat on his belt. He was glad that, despite his residence in Spain the last few months, his training regimes were unchanged and the strength of his arms hadn't deteriorated. And that having a full utility belt at the ready came with the job. Now, building up momentum, he swung to have control of both sides of his bow again.

'Okay', he thought, pleased that he had managed that without too much unnecessary flailing.

Step 3: execution.

Launching himself with all the power that his legs could give him, he flung into the air. While one hand slid down to hold the bow appropriately, the other nestled the arrow into position and drew the string. As this was happening, Clint twisted his body so he could have a clear shot.

30 floors.

30 floors was a fair enough margin for error.

Hitting exactly where he wanted to, the arrow gripped the roof edge of the building opposite. Clint lowered his bow and clutched the rope, the blood rushing to his head as he almost tipped upside down. As he swung to the other building, the pulley system ensuring that he did not crash into the first floor, he braced himself for impact.

Perfect.

*i*

There was nobody there.

The floor was wet, the shower had been running, and there were towels strewn around, but apart from that, nothing was out of place.

Natasha Romanoff wasn't there.

Except, she was.

Distributing her weight over 3 of the ceiling tiles, she made as little movement or sound as she could.

It seemed that the Hawk had built himself a nest amongst several pipes and wires that lay between floors. Several wrappers and chip packets littered the space, and there were a few arrows decorating the place too.

Knowing that the agents below her would (eventually) find out where she'd gone, Natasha stopped observing Clint's hiding space and shuffled as far along as she could - until she found herself under a hole in the above flooring. Once she hoisted herself up, she took a moment to stretch and look around. The 'tunnel' led into a cupboard - storage presumably - that bore a ladder in it. Clint was two floors below roof level - it made sense for him to want to explore the roof.

She took the time to open the duffel bag and take inventory. Luckily, she found a pair of jeans and an extra t-shirt in there, along with undergarments for both sexes and other products that they could both use.

Damn. He was planning for something like this.

Swiftly, she dressed and (despite the heat) put on her jacket. She dumped the towel back in the bag but left the bathrobe by the ladder. Her fingers felt into her pockets and found the silvery outlines of the arrow necklace.

"Okay Clint," she said to herself in hushed tones as she fastened it around her neck. "Let's get out of here."

Feeling the rope loosen around his waist, Clint knew he had to move fast. Crashing through the glass was less painful than he expected, and after a brief moment, he was up and looking around. The second from top floor of the relatively small building seemed abandoned, the sunlight from outside only just making the eeriness more subtle. To avoid making too much more noise, he picked the lock to the stairwell in the centre of the floor.

There was movement on the stairs heading down. They must have heard when he smashed through the glass - who wouldn't, to be fair - and now be making their way up to meet him.

He had to go to the roof.

When up there, he took a low position. And, for a second, he let his mind catch up to him.
He had 2 guns, all but 1 arrows and a functional bow. As far as he knew, no-one could tell he was -

A gunshot rang in his ears.

He was lying down in between the roof edge and service 'pod' situated on the roof - it wasn't him who was hit. Rolling into a crouch position with arrow poised, he realised that there was one more body on this roof than he thought. And it was dead.
Standing up, he caught Natasha's expectant gaze from the other building.

You okay?

Her gun was still raised.

I'm good.

They couldn't hear each other, of course. But the daylight was so that it accentuated their expressions; reading each other was easy at this point.

Now, with a gunshot echoing across the city, the Spanish police were sure to be on their way. But HYDRA wouldn't give up on catching their favourite assassins just yet.

Natasha could hear the cavalry ascend the stairs and the ladder - her makeshift barricade of boxes and a dumpster wouldn't last for long. And sure enough, there were noises now at the entrance. The bag dropped, the hair swished and the gun pointed at where the noise was coming from. On the opposite building, Clint was similarly prepared.

"You want a fight?" Natasha called. "You got one."

The first shots were always the hardest. Clint didn't want to waste arrows for close range, but using a gun came far less naturally than a bow. Sure, trained assassin and all that meant that he could shoot a target dead on from 200m away, but every time he was about to pull the trigger, he had to consciously travel back to the time of his training, to be told face to face: breathe, now find your target, okay, breathe again, now shoot. The first agents, despite being the most careless in their position, were shot in the neck. The next were headshots.

"You're going to regret smashing that wine earlier Barton!"

The shout from across the way was barely audible through the gunfire.

Just don't waste my ammo.

The spare magazines and clips in the duffel bag were noticed by Natasha, but she had a small store strapped on the inside of her jacket, so she was set for a while. Unlike Clint who played for good shots, she played a game of strategy, shooting in specific directions when necessary to hold her side of attackers off. It was a better situation, certainly - Natasha had space and the open air to play with now - but the force against her and her partner was stronger than she'd hoped. She might have had enough bullets, but too many of them were denting one agent's S.H.I.E.L.D badge before nailing someone in the throat. Traitors, sometimes, weren't worth bullets.

And that's rich, coming from me.

"Clint!" Natasha dodged the incoming bullets. She'd taken position behind another dumpster on the roof.

"Kind of busy here, Nat!"

She couldn't hold them off much longer. The scene had split into two, becoming two separate shoot-outs.

If they had any experience whatsoever, they'd probably have paid more attention to the other rooftop.

Amongst the gunfire, sirens could be heard now. This stole the focus of the agents, giving the assassins a moment to formulate an exit strategy.

"Actually, Tasha?"

The gunfire had ceased for a single second as Clint spoke. Natasha watched his lips as he mouthed a single word, shot once at an oncoming agent and then slid off the edge of the building.

Clint reeled in his satisfaction for a moment before he could give her sufficient cover.

Ladder.

Thanks for the interest shown so far!
I'll probably upload on Mondays from now on.