Chapter title from Lounge by Regina Spektor.

The next day, Coulson calls him just after he's had breakfast. He's in a hotel this time. If the Black Widow goes after Yelmilov, Clint will have to take her out. There's no point in getting an apartment.

"She's in town."

Clint nods and glances at his bow, laid out on the sofa. "Shall I tail yellow?"

"There's a function tonight," Coulson tells him. He sounds stressed. "Black tie, very fancy. He'll be there."

"And so will she," Clint says quietly.

"So will you."

"Gee, thanks. Will you be my date, C?" he grins. Coulson will hear it in his voice even though he can't see him.

"I'm out of your league," Coulson tells him, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

The function they'll all be attending is very fancy. He gets a tux delivered to his door from an anonymous source, and his shoes are so shiny he can see his face in them. He goes around the back first, through the kitchens and up to the roof where he hides his bow and quiver. He's got a vague plan in mind for getting the Widow away from the other guests, Yelmilov in particular. He's very glad he learned how to dance, especially when he arrives in the main hall and gets swept onto the floor almost immediately by an English woman with a large smile.

"Beautiful diamonds, aren't they?" she looks up at the chandelier, and Clint relaxes slightly, because she's a SHIELD agent.

"Divine," he tells her in Russian, and she squeezes his hand encouragingly.

He dances with several other women, none of whom know who he really is. He tells them he's an American with the Harrison party, and they all accept that line easily enough. He locates Yelmilov in the crowd of black suits that shift lazily around the edge of the floor, holding wine glasses in their hands and talking to each other in a never-slowing rumble. Occasionally someone will throw their head back and laugh, but Clint doesn't let anything distract him.

He notices when the Black Widow comes in. Few could ignore her. She's late, and makes a wonderful entrance. She's wearing a floor-length black dress that glitters with every movement, her hair pinned up and diamonds sparkling at her throat and ears. Her narrow eyes survey the room like an empress, and Clint feels his breath catch in his chest. She is something else.

She makes the rounds, behaves like the other beautiful women there, dances, smiles, makes small talk and sips from a glass of red wine only a shade darker than her hair. And Clint's ready when she starts moving in on the men around Yelmilov. She's smart, Clint thinks, watching as she sways with one of Yelmilov's associates, throwing back her head to expose a pale throat when she laughs. She's art in motion, and she's exceptionally good, putting Yelmilov at ease by dancing with a couple of his friends and mingling with other groups before starting towards him, purpose in her eyes. And Clint's ready.

He appears at her side with the crooked smile he's been told is his most charming, and holds out a hand. "Dance with me?" he asks in what's probably appalling Russian. This close to Yelmilov's crowd, it would look odd if she suddenly refused after dancing with so many, so she smiles and puts her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the floor.

"Beautiful evening," he says, swaying with her among dozens of other couples.

"It is," she agrees, meeting his eyes and smiling a small smile, calculated to make him try harder. He's always been good at reading people. To her, he's just an inconvenient distraction. Luckily, he knows just what to say to get her attention. It took months to get, but SHIELD has given him a phrase to say that is apparently guaranteed to catch her interest.

"The Tsar's palace is burning," he says casually, and her rhythm doesn't falter for a second, but her eyes meet his and burn. Oh, he's got her attention alright.

"You don't know what you're saying," she says in a low voice. He has to translate slowly in his head before he can reply.

"Follow me?" He wishes he knew more Russian.

It seems to be enough though, and she nods. "Let's finish the dance."

He nods, and they continue to step elegantly across the polished floor, one of her hands gentle in his, the other on his shoulder. He has no doubts that she could kill him right there if she wanted to, but whatever the phrase meant, it's holding her off for now. The music ends, they part, and she gestures for him to lead the way off the floor. He bows his head and walks her to the door he came in through from the servants' corridors. He motions for her to go first – he does not want her walking behind him out of his sight – and she acquiesces gracefully. She allows him to lead her up to the fire escape and onto the roof. As soon as the door closes behind them, he grabs his bow and slings the quiver over his shoulders. She watches, utterly calm, as he puts an arrow to the string, ready to draw back and release.

He doesn't like how calm she is. It means she believes she has the upper hand, and if the Black Widow believes that, it's probably true. Knives strapped all the way up her thighs, he imagines. And if she's this calm, it's because she's fast enough to use them on him before he can stop her. It's not a nice thought, but this isn't a nice job.

Do the job, he thinks. She's in the open, no one's watching, they're away from the guests – he should've released the arrow already. She should be dead by now. Instead, he's just staring at her. She looks back at him, and after a while she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You think you can kill me?" she asks, her Russian slow so that he can understand.

"Da."

She smirks slightly, a strand of hair coming loose from her pinned hair and blowing against her throat in the wind. It's below freezing up in the open air, but she looks as comfortable as she had down in the warm hall. Clint's already fighting against shivers. "Then why don't you?" she asks, mocking.

He frowns, then smiles slightly and lowers his bow a fraction. "You speak English, right?" he says, forgoing the Russian. "Think we could switch? My Russian isn't that great."

"Of course, let's make this all about your comfort," she crosses her arms, and he raises his eyebrows, surprised. She doesn't have a trace of an accent – in fact, she sounds perfectly American. He knows from his language tutors how difficult it is to erase accents when speaking in other languages.

"Huh," he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "What should I call you?"

"You think we should be on a first-name basis?" she asks, smirk gone. She looks displeased, maybe a little unimpressed.

"Why not?" he shrugs, not relaxing his grip on bow and arrow for a second.

"Because there are only two ways this can go."

"And they are…?"

"Either you kill me, or I kill you."

"Those are the only two options?" What the hell is he saying?

"Yes." No trace of doubt, no care at all.

"Well that sucks," oh god, what the hell is he saying? "You ever considered a third option?"

"And what do you have in mind?" she asks, supreme disdain radiating from her in waves. "We both abandon our respective masters; make a living as a freelancing double act?"

At least one of them knows how ridiculous he sounds, he thinks, and forges on anyway because apparently he has the brain and survival instincts of a suicidal lemming. "I actually had something different in mind."

"Really." Still unimpressed, okay, he can deal with that.

"Have you ever considered a more permanent employment contract?" he asks, as casual as he dares.

"With SHIELD?" she snorts. "You honestly think I'm that stupid?"

"You wouldn't've made it out of the Red Room if you were stupid," he says, mouth too fast for his brain, which runs behind and realises that she thinks he's trying to take her alive, not just kill her. And if she thinks he wants her alive, she'll be even more dangerous. He doesn't feel fast enough for this. He wishes he hadn't led her to the roof – he's in danger of losing feeling in his fingers if they're up here for much longer.

She narrows her eyes, still seemingly unfazed by the biting cold. "It's Hawkeye, isn't it?"

"When I'm on the job."

"And off?"

"Give me a chance and you'll find out." He makes a fast decision that he knows Coulson would seriously disapprove of, and lowers his bow, putting the arrow back in the quiver. In the process, he moves an arrow tipped with a tranquiliser to the front, where his fingers will find it if he needs to. He knows by now he's not going to kill her. He's too involved.

"I thought your job was killing me?" she tilts her head to one side, the diamonds at her ears swinging in the frigid wind and catching the light.

"Great thing about SHIELD," he says, smiling slightly, "more flexibility. And a great health plan. Here's the thing, Black Widow – I don't want to kill you."

"Why not?" she asks, clearly not believing him.

"Why do you think?" he asks, intrigued.

"Am I worth more alive?" she moves a hand in lieu of a shrug.

"My job is to kill you," he tells her. "But see, I think you're too good to be killed just like that."

"I'm flattered," her lips curve upwards, and he watches silently as she angles her body to accentuate her curves, so subtle he almost misses it. Oh, he thinks admiringly, she is so good.

"I'm sure," he smiles crookedly. "Look, you're…you don't…" Jesus, spit it out, Clint. He sighs. "The people you kill slowly, they deserve slow deaths. Everyone else you kill, you kill quick. So here's what I get from that – stop me if I'm wrong – you're not a robot. You actually have a heart under all of that lethal training and scariness."

"And you're just the one to crack open my tough exterior and cuddle up to my inner spider?" she mocks him openly. "SHIELD doesn't recruit their enemies, Hawkeye. Everyone knows that."

"There's a first time for everything," he argues, and sees her patience wear out in the roll of her eyes. The hand that's folded under her elbow moves, and he thinks, knife in the bra strap, obvious, as his arms move automatically, almost detached from the movement of the rest of his body. He lunges to the side as she throws her knife, so that blade misses. Another sinks into his thigh, but by then the tranquiliser arrow is already on the string, and in the time it takes her to decide to dive to the floor, he's already predicted it. The arrow hits home, piercing her side and injecting her instantly. She grunts, and he's at her side in seconds.

"Shit!" he gasps as she slams another knife – where the hell is she getting these things? – into his shoulder. He'd only seen her jerk in time to avoid getting stabbed in the throat. He kicks her in the face and she swears in Russian, yanking the arrow out of her side and spinning it in her hand. She gets to her feet, only a little wobbly, and he does the same. There was enough sedative in that arrow to knock out a bodybuilder, but the Black Widow is still on her feet. She pulls another knife from the slit in her dress and they circle each other warily. He can't put much weight on his left leg because of the knife that's still in his thigh, and his left shoulder is in an equal amount of pain. He hates being stabbed. "I'm not going to kill you," he says harshly, hands up where she can see them, "and I'm not taking you alive for interrogation. I just want to talk."

"It's gonna be a very one-sided conversation if you've sedated me," she says, and lashes forward with the arrow. He blocks it, grabs her other hand holding the knife, and has to let her kick his left thigh. He shouts, can't help himself, yanks her close to him and smashes his forehead into hers with as much force as he can muster before his left leg completely gives out. He can barely keep upright on the slippery roof on one leg.

"Fuck!" he swears, shoving her away. She stumbles, the tranquiliser finally kicking in, and he shuffles closer, ducks a swing from the hand holding the knife, avoids getting stabbed with his own arrow, and falls to the floor so that he can grab her ankle and pull it out from under her. The heel skids on the slick surface of the roof and she falls on her back with an angry hiss. Before she can get up again he throws himself on top of her and holds her wrists down. She's not so pretty anymore, face contorted with fury and something else he can't quite put his finger on. She turns her head and manages to pass the knife from her fingers to her mouth, and he only just manages to dodge a knife to the throat. He lets go of the hand that had held the knife and punches her in the face. The knife falls from her lips, but the hand he released slams into his temple hard enough to make his head spin. "Jesus Christ," he bites out and flicks the knife out of her reach before capturing her hand and pinning it down again.

She twists, hips bucking under him, and he curls his head into the gap between her shoulder and neck just in time to avoid getting his neck broken by her legs, which knee him in the back of the head instead. She's very flexible, he thinks distantly, head aching powerfully. "I'm not gonna hurt you!" he grunts, putting all of his weight on her torso to keep her still. Her teeth snap dangerously close to his ear and she huffs as she attempts to wriggle out from under him again. One of her knees slams into his shoulders and he swears. "Not gonna hurt you, remember?"

"Liar," she breaths, mouth so close to his ear he can feel her exhale.

"Not right now."

He has to lie on top of her for another five minutes or so before she stops struggling, her movements becoming slower and more sluggish as the cold sinks into her bones. He wonders whether she's been trained to be resistant to tranquilisers, because she should've been out in under a minute. He levers himself into a sitting position once he's sure she's out cold, and the first thing he does is check her eyes and pulse. She looks dead to the world, but if he knows anything about the Black Widow, it's that he can't trust her. He shifts back, overbalances because he's still got a knife in his thigh, and falls on his ass. The snow soaks through immediately and he sighs, looking down at his left shoulder. The handle of the knife is sticking out, and it looks like the Widow invests in expensive blades. The Swordsman would approve.

"This tux probably cost more than I earn in a year," he tells the Black Widow's unconscious body. "Now it's got two knife holes in it. And I think I'm bleeding." He peered closer and pulled up the corner of his jacket to peek underneath at the white shirt. "Yeah, I'm bleeding. Ow. Christ, okay. Not the first time you've been stabbed, Hawkeye, grow a pair. Jeez." He drops the edge of his jacket and takes shallow breaths. "Ow."

He binds his thigh with his tie, grateful he didn't wear a bowtie instead, and calls Coulson after dragging the Black Widow downstairs into the attic. He's pretty sure he needs medical attention, but that can wait. He puts the knives she buried in him in his pocket and finds the one that missed him and adds that as well. He has to psyche himself up for a minute or two before calling Coulson, sliding his earpiece in with a wince of anticipation already in place.

"Hawkeye." Coulson's voice is tight, his version of worried.

"It's me," Clint says unnecessarily, and sinks down to the floor, not taking his eyes off the Black Widow. He's bound her wrists with his bow string, but there's nothing he can do about her legs.

"Is the job done?"

"Um," Clint watches the slow rise and fall of the Black Widows chest and winces. "Not exactly."

"Hawkeye."

Shit. "I need a car, and a safe house."

"What happened?"

"It's a little hard to explain –"

"Explain. Now."

Oh, shit. "Well, I didn't kill her. But I think I might be able to come to some sort of arrangement with her?"

"Explain better."

"Right." Clint runs a hand over his face and wishes he carried strong painkillers in his quiver for occasions like this. "Okay." Coulson's clearly not in the mood for teasing, so he tells him everything about his encounter with the Widow on the roof. Coulson is silent while he speaks, and doesn't say anything for a long, tense moment when he's done. "C?" Clint asks hesitantly. "You still there?"

"I'm here." Deadly calm. That probably wasn't good, but it was better than the tightly controlled anger from before. "Are you telling me that you have the target in custody?"

"Yes. For the moment. But she shook off my tranq like a pro, so I don't know when she'll wake up. I need a car and a safe house."

"What do you need a safe house for?"

"I need to talk to her."

"No, agent, you need to do your job."

"Look, just trust me on this one. Please?"

Coulson takes a deep breath. Clint can hear him over the link, and sees the deep lines between his eyes in his mind. If Coulson refuses to send the car and secure a safe place for them to talk, he'll have to kill her. But he really, really doesn't want to.

"Did you fall for her?" Coulson asks finally. Clint raises his eyebrows and then snorts.

"Are you kidding? I spoke to her once, mostly in veiled threats. No."

"Then what is it about her that is making you behave like this is even a viable option?"

"Gut instinct," Clint looks at the Black Widow. "Look, she's…better than this. I can't think of how else to explain it. Please trust me."

"You expect me to believe that you can convince her to suddenly turn around and start working for us?" They both know that interrogation isn't Clint's aim – the Black Widow would be more than capable of holding out under torture.

"Maybe. Let me try, C."

"If this doesn't work, you know it's all on you."

A blatant lie because as his handler, Coulson will get burned just as badly if this goes wrong. Clint sighs. He's going to be paying Coulson back for this for years. "Thank you. Car? Safe house?"

"The woman you danced with first is on her way up to you now. She'll take you out to her car, and I will give you an address once you are both in the car and the target is secure."

"Yes, sir."

"Hawkeye?"

"Sir?"

"Stay alert."

"Yes, sir."

Oh, they're going to have a long, painful talk about following orders when he gets back, Clint can just tell. He shifts his weight and presses his balled-up waistcoat harder against his shoulder, which is really starting to hurt now. The Black Widow is still unconscious, but he keeps his eyes on her as he waits for the SHIELD agent he'd danced with earlier to find him. He doesn't have long to wait.

She swears as she takes in the sight of the two of them, and pulls a length of cord out of her purse and ties the Widow's legs together at the thigh, knee, and ankle. "Didn't say you were injured," she says shortly, throwing a glance at Clint over her shoulder as she works.

"Forgot to mention it," Clint pushes himself upright and grimaces. "Can you carry her?"

"Yes," the agent doesn't look happy, but she manages to haul the Black Widow's body over her shoulder and straighten up. "Can you walk?"

"I can hop," Clint shrugs. She purses her lips, but jerks her head towards the door. He follows her in silence, every other step agony. They go back out through the servant's corridors, and take a dusty side exit into an alley where a car with tinted windows is waiting.

"Knock twice on the window," the agent tells him, voice strained as she shifts the Widow's weight. The Black Widow isn't big by anyone's standards, but Clint supposes she's all muscle. He does as he's told, and gets four knocks in return. He looks at the agent, who nods, and he slides into the car and helps get the Black Widow in, spread across their laps. Her head ends up on his uninjured thigh, and he doesn't take his eyes off her face in case she wakes up suddenly. It's highly unlikely, given the dose of the sedative, but he stays alert just in case.

His earpiece buzzes, and he touches it. "Hawkeye."

"Car?"

"In it. Address?"

Coulson gives him a street and two numbers and signs off without any parting words. Clint winces and repeats it to the driver. Coulson is very pissed off with him. It's understandable – he is taking a massive risk with this – but it still makes him cringe.

x

When the Black Widow finally wakes up, she doesn't open her eyes. Clint sits utterly still, keeps his breathing silent, and watches her. After a moment, she opens her eyes, and she starts when she sees him. It's wrong to feel a thrill of triumph at managing to surprise her, but he can't help it. She flexes her muscles against her bonds and narrows her eyes. They've laid her out on a bed, just a mattress, no sheets. She swings herself easily into a sitting position to match his – he's on a wooden chair opposite her – and they observe each other like cats preparing to fight.

"What is this?" she asks finally, when it's clear that he's not going to speak first.

"A safe house," he tells her. "No cameras, no one but you, me, and two SHIELD agents downstairs. We're five floors up, they're on the ground, by the way." The room they're in has no windows. It's white and bare, with cracks in the plaster and damp in the corners of the carpet on the floor. She looks around and tosses her hair over her shoulder, which has mostly come unpinned in all of the moving around. Regina Spektor, he thinks,Lounge. She's beautiful, and he doesn't ever plan on telling her that, because she's probably heard it from her enemies far too much.

"Why?" If looks could kill, he thinks, and thinks of the number of knives they had to remove from various straps on her legs. Her dress was long for a reason. One of the diamonds in her earrings was a fake, a hollow space holding enough cyanide to kill a bull.

"Because I wasn't lying," he tells her. "I want to talk to you. I obviously can't do that without restraining you, because you've stabbed me twice for trying – and thanks for that by the way, my physical wounds will heal, but the scars will remain on my heart forever – so here we are."

"What do you expect me to tell you?" she asks, bearing as regal as a queen. "I don't work for any organisation or one person anymore."

"Actually, not so interested in any of that," Clint holds his hands up and shrugs. "More interested in your future."

"Which you are going to give me options for?" Ooh, feel the disdain, he thinks. She's not bothering to pretend anymore. "Are SHEILD agents so incompetent that Fury needs to recruit his enemies now?"

"Obviously not that incompetent," he says, looking pointedly at her tied limbs and his free position. "Actually, no. This mission wasn't for recruitment. I was sent to kill you, because you've been interfering pretty seriously with our operations lately. Fury wants you out of the picture."

"And you decided to play with your food first?" she narrows her eyes, lips thin.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says quietly. "I'm putting my neck out for you here."

"I'm touched."

"Uh huh. What do you want, Widow? You escaped from your zookeepers and you've been dancing all over the world, lending your skills to whoever you choose to accept payment from. What do you get out of that?"

"Freedom from the zoo, perhaps?" she raises an eyebrow.

"I guess," he frowns, trying to read her. "I don't know what kind of zoo the Red Room is, but we haven't heard a peep from them since you appeared on the scene, obviously working outside of their influence." She tilts her head, adjusts the line of her shoulders, body hardening, and he understands what she's thinking in a flash of understanding – to her, it looked like he was dangling a fake job offer in front of her nose in order to interrogate her. "Sorry," he says, "that's just something that interests me. I'm just nosy like that."

"What a surprise," she murmurs.

He grimaces. "Yeah, forget about it. Look, I don't want to know about your past. That doesn't concern me."

"Then what does concern you?" she asks, leaning forward, a curl of hair falling over her face. "My future? Spiders like me don't make good pets, Hawkeye."

"I don't keep pets," he says, "and neither does SHIELD. Look, you've got two options here. You either accept my proposal, or I kill you."

"Those are some great options." She flicks the curl out of her eye and fixes him with a very unimpressed look. "Do I get to hear your proposal before choosing?"

"Seems only fair," he can't help a small crooked smile. "Quit this job you're on. Leave your current target – or targets – and have a look at what SHIELD can offer."

"Why?" she tilts her head back. "What could you offer me? I'm doing perfectly well on my own. I choose my own clients, I go where I want, I do what I like."

"But do you have a great health plan?" Clint asks seriously. She narrows her eyes slightly and he shrugs. "Sorry, but yeah, while your way of doing things works for now, you have no real security. You've got to be totally alert all the time. You put yourself at risk every time you move." And right now you're tied up and at my mercy, goes unspoken.

"The price of independence," she shrugs.

"A price you don't have to pay," he insists. He pauses, runs a hand through his hair, leans back and resists the urge to tilt the chair back on two legs. "SHIELD agents get to choose their missions as well you know. And there's a lot less risk involved. I've got a team backing me up. I've got a handler on the other end of my phone I can trust absolutely. I've got funding too, and I can put all expenses on missions on the company tab, including as many doughnuts as I want. The pay isn't that bad, I get to do a job I'm very good at, and I have friends." He realises as he says it how grateful he is for SHIELD picking him up. Without SHIELD, he'd still be an army sniper, with all of the problems and none of the benefits.

"Friends?" the Black Widow interrupts his thoughts with a contemptuous look.

"Yeah," he smiles slightly. "People I can trust, who trust me, and who I hang out with socially. We have casual cocktails and general drinking Fridays. I get to relax in my downtime, y'know? Shoot some pool, watch some TV – things I don't have to worry about. And did I mention the health plan?"

"Several times." She purses her lips and doesn't say anything more. He doesn't speak either, because it looks like she's thinking it over. He really hopes she's thinking it over. "What does Fury want in exchange for this deal?" she asks finally, sounding suspicious.

"If he wants anything, I don't know," Clint rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. "I don't know if he even knows what I'm doing yet."

She raises her eyebrows. "You're offering something you have no power to follow through on."

"Basically," he agrees, "but I know they'd go for this."

"And why is that?"

"Because they trust their agents," he tells her, totally honest. He hopes she can read that. "And I know what they would get in exchange for this."

"What?" she doesn't sound pleased at all.

"You," he says, like it's obvious. "You wouldn't have to give them anything more than that. You're the Black Widow. Until now, they haven't been able to get anywhere near you. You're a living legend. Everyone knows you can kill men three times your size with your ankles, probably with your hands tied behind your back. You're a highly skilled operative. It takes years to get agents trained up to just half your standard. Look," he adds, leaning forward and never taking his eyes off her disinterested face, "you've killed a lot of people that we know about. I figure the real number is probably a lot higher. You kill people who put others in harm's way slowly. You're not a heartless monster. Think about this – SHIELD doesn't have a shady ulterior motive. As secret organisations go, we're pretty good at not being evil. I mean, SHIELD is basically all for world peace, puppies and kittens playing in harmony on the streets, that kind of thing. We're against the bad guys. You've got a serious body count behind your name. Ever thought about maybe working to rub it out a bit?"

"You can't erase blood with blood," she tells him, but she doesn't sound as against the idea as before. She sounds like she's just repeating something she thinks is the truth, but she really wants to believe otherwise. Redemption, he thinks, and knows he's got it.

"But you can atone for bad with good," he tells her quietly, insistent as he dares. If he pushes too hard, she'll retreat back into herself and just lash out. And then it'll be over.

"You really believe that?" she smirks wearily and shakes her head. They both know how childish he sounds.

"I do." He leans back again and meets her gaze as honestly as he can. "You'll never get an offer this good again, you know."

She looks down and frowns. They're both silent for a long moment before she speaks again. "Call your handler. I don't want to agree to a deal made by someone who can't follow through."

Clint feels the hope unfold under his ribcage like a flower blooming and nods slowly. "Okay. Let me call up one of the others to keep an eye on you while I make the call."

"You can't call them from here?" she raises an eyebrow, the corner of her beautiful lips turning up slightly, mocking him again.

"Let's not push our luck," he says wryly, getting his phone out and dialling the number the woman from the dance had given him. He knows the Black Widow's smart enough to notice the 'our' – they're in this together now, as far as he's concerned. "What should I call you, by the way?" he asks before he presses the connect button. "You never answered me before."

She gives him a cool look, then tilts her chin up. "My name is Natalia Romanova."

"That's a mouthful."

"You can call me Natasha."

"Okay," he nods and smiles. "Good to meet you, Natasha. I'm Clint. Give me a moment." He presses the button and puts the phone to his ear. "Hey. Uh huh. All good. I need to make another call; can one of you come up and watch her? Thanks." He hangs up and puts the phone away. "Okay, we're in the game, Natasha. This should be exciting."

"You've never taken the initiative to move outside of the rules before this?" she asks, amused.

"Not to this extent," he sighs. "Wasn't kidding about my neck being on the line here."

"Our necks."

He looks at her and smiles faintly. "Right. Our necks."

The agent he danced with – he needs to find out what her name is – arrives soon and relives him with a curt nod. He can't see the woman making small talk, or any talk at all, which is probably best for everyone involved. He limps down the corridor to the stairwell where he won't be overheard and dials Coulson's number. He picks up before the first ring is finished.

"Hawkeye."

"I think now's the time we need to talk to the big cheese, C."

"The line's secure, Hawkeye. Anyone who's listening will already know who we are by now."

Clint nods. "Okay. I think we need to talk to Director Fury about now."

"What did she say?"

"She says she won't make any agreements on an arrangement that hasn't been okayed by the boss."

"She's smarter than you are."

"Lots of people are smarter than I am. I'm not known for my brains."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that."

Coulson's anger is not going away any time soon. Clint leans against the wall and sighs. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. But I think she'll agree. She's not a machine like the other spiders, C. She's got a heart in there, I can tell. She doesn't want to keep on the way she is, not really."

"What does she want?" Coulson asks acidly.

"As far as I can tell, she wants to redeem herself."

There's a pause before Coulson responds. "Redeem herself?" his voice is thick with disbelief.

"I know how it sounds, but she's not like the other Black Widows. She escaped their psychotic bullshit, remember? She's something else."

"Which is exactly what makes her so dangerous," Coulson reminds him, but he sighs. "I'll get Director Fury. This had better be worth it, Hawkeye."

"If it works, it will be," Clint says, and they both know it. The problem is, they both know how incredibly badly it could go if they get this wrong.

Fury is predictably pissed at being dragged out of bed, but he falls silent as Coulson explains the situation to him. He asks Clint about the Black Widow – Natasha, as he's now calling her – and he has to go through the whole story again. "And what did you promise her in return for coming to SHIELD?" Fury asks eventually, not sounding pleased, but not rejecting it outright, which gives Clint some hope.

"A job, that's all. Same as any other agent. With all the benefits, obviously."

"Benefits?" Fury repeats, and Clint can hear his eyebrow rise.

"Yeah, y'know, job security, somewhere to safe to stay, free food – a health plan. All the standard bells and whistles."

"What does she think we want in return for her services?"

"I'm pretty sure she thinks we want to interrogate her. But, I mean, do we need to?"

"Hmm, let me think," Fury says sarcastically, "interrogate the Black Widow? Who has dipped her hand in the moneybags of more of our enemies than I care to list at this present time? Who has inside intelligence on what is probably the most well-guarded psychological and physical brainwashing facility in the world? Damn, you're right, why would I want to talk to her at all?"

Clint cringes, glad the director can't see him. "I don't think we should. I think if this works, if she comes to work for SHIELD and actually settles in, she'll start talking of her own volition."

"Unacceptable. I can't pass up an opportunity like this."

"She won't crack under torture," Clint narrows his eyes, "and she's way too smart to fall for any sort of friendly tricks."

"I can't let the Black Widow into a SHIELD facility without solid evidence that she's serious about working for me. Loyalty is a big deal, Hawkeye, and this woman hasn't shown any evidence of having any inclination of loyalty to anyone or anything but herself."

"Exactly!" Clint pauses and thinks for a moment before rushing ahead. "Sir, if you give her the facilities to help herself, she…she's not the sort of person to take that sort of thing lightly. She's got a strong compass in her for these things. She's the sort of person who pays her debts."

"You got that from talking to her twice?" Fury snorts. "I don't think so."

Clint frowns and closes his eyes for a moment. "Okay. Okay, a compromise. No interrogation, but to show you she's serious, she gives up the name of whoever employed her to take out yellow and the others. That's something we really need right now, and it's not big enough for her to take a stand over. We get the name and a seriously skilled new agent; she gets security and a way to start cleaning up her past. Everyone wins. If she gives you more information later as she gets more comfortable, it'll be a bonus, right?"

There's silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and Clint forces himself to relax. He hears Coulson's voice murmur something in the background, and then Fury speaks. "Fine. If you can get her to agree, do it. You're close by, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get to it, agent."

"Right, sir." He hangs up and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. They weren't out of the woods yet, but damn if it wasn't looking a lot clearer up ahead. He limps back to the room and opens the door. "I'm good," he says as the other agent stands with a frown, noticing the way he's leaning heavily against the wall. "Wait outside."

"Sir," she nods and closes the door behind her as Clint goes over to the chair and sits down.

"Thanks again," he says wryly, gesturing to his thigh.

"Don't mention it," she deadpans. "You spoke to Fury?"

"I did. The deal's on, on one condition."

"Which is?" she narrows her eyes.

"You give us everything you know about your employer for your current job," he says, stretching his left leg out slowly. "That's it. Everything else, you can keep to yourself. No interrogations, no interviews, no evaluations. You do that to prove you're serious, and you get to walk away from this alive, with a shiny new job."

"And if I refuse?"

Clint pulls a face. "You know the answer to that."

"I do," she nods and looks down at her bound hands, resting in her lap as casually as if she was taking tea with him instead of negotiating for her own life. "Alright," she says finally, meeting his eyes. "I accept." There's the same thing in her expression that Clint couldn't put his finger on when they were fighting on the roof earlier, and he realises that it's fear, or something very similar.

"Okay," he can't help bursting into a grin, and he pulls his phone out again. No point in walking out again now, he figures, and his leg is killing him. Fury picks up immediately.

"She accept?"

"Yes, sir," he grins at Natasha, who doesn't smile back, but doesn't give him poison-filled looks like she had earlier.

"You with her now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. You follow my exact instructions, and when I'm done you get moving. I don't care if you're injured, I don't care if you haven't slept. You go with Agent Anders and Agent Fielding and you keep her secure and in your sights at all times. As soon as you board the jet, the woman will tell us everything about whoever employed her to take out our leads. Am I clear, agent?"

"Yes, sir." His grin is gone now, and he listens seriously as Fury gives him directions to follow to the letter or so help him god not even Coulson will be able to keep Clint off Fury's shit-list. As soon as he's done, Clint is ordered to put the phone to Natasha's ear. He hobbles over to do so, and they're both well aware that she could take him down in less than a second if she wanted to, but she holds his gaze as she says, "Yes," "I am," and "I understand," to Fury, and doesn't make any shifty moves at all.

Fury hangs up before Clint can speak to Coulson again, which means he's still pissed that Clint got him out of bed, but Clint puts it from his mind and focuses on the task at hand. Agent Fielding, the man who drove them to the safe house, has found Clint a pair of crutches, and while he can't use the left one because of his shoulder, the right certainly helps with his leg. Anders and Fielding untie Natasha's legs to allow her to walk to the car, and she ends up sandwiched between Clint and Anders as Fielding takes the wheel. They'll be on a jet headed for the Helicarrier by the time dawn breaks, and Clint can't wait to get back.

x

Fury's waiting for them when they land, scowl in place and trench coat flapping in the wind. "Welcome back," he says to Clint and the other agents before turning to Natasha, still done up in her evening dress. They've removed her restraints completely now, so Fury sticks his hand out. "It's good to meet you. Hawkeye here tells me we can call you Natasha?"

"Natasha Romanoff," she nods and meets his eyes squarely. "You're Director Fury."

"I am," they drop each other's hands and he beckons them inside, out of the freezing wind. "Hawkeye, since this was your decision, you're her shadow. You understand, Miss Romanoff, we can't just let the Black Widow run around our secure facility unsupervised."

"Of course not," she agrees, inclining her head. "I assume I'll be on some sort of probation?"

"Naturally. Hawkeye will be your mentor."

"I will?" Clint stares and then collects himself when Fury shoots a glare at him. "Right, okay. Mentor duty."

"You'll shadow each other for the foreseeable future until I decide you're trustworthy enough to go solo," Fury tells Natasha. "You're relieved," he adds, glancing over his shoulder at Anders and Fielding. They both murmur, "Yes, sir," and left. "Miss Romanoff?" he pauses and leans down slightly, staring down into her eyes with his one. "I want to trust you. Understand that. Having you on my side would be a great asset, and with the information you've given us holding up so far, you're in my good books. You play this right, as far as I'm concerned you get a blank slate. But try to cross me, and I will not hesitate to end you. Do we understand each other?"

"We do," she says, not flinching away. "Sir," she adds after a second, and Fury's lips twitch with something that is far from amusement.

"Excellent. Hawkeye, report to medical. Miss Romanoff, you go with him. Agent Coulson will find you there."

"Yes, sir," Clint nods. Fury strides ahead, but Natasha keeps pace with Clint as he hobbles along on the crutch. "Don't worry about his little speech," he tells her as they walk. "He's given it to everyone at some point."

"Has he given it to you?" she looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

"Sure," Clint fails to hide a wince as his left foot brushes the ground. Keeping it elevated is almost as bad as walking on it. "Good thing medical's on this floor. Stairs would be a bit much for me right now."

"No elevators?"

"Nah. Apparently it's for some sort of technical reason, but I think Fury just likes to keep us fit, running up and down all the time."

They walk in silence the rest of the way, and Natasha comes in and watches silently as he's scowled over, scolded, and fixed up with a brutal efficiency that's both proud and angry – the kind only medical staff can manage. They ignore Natasha for the time being, even though they probably already know who she is – gossip travels lightning-fast on the Helicarrier. When they finally deem Clint fit to re-join the ranks of the other bumbling idiots who get themselves torn up just to torment the medical staff (he's convinced that's how they view the agents, nothing else explains the sheer level of exasperated condescension they manage to project every time someone comes in with an injury), they try to put him in a wheelchair, but he manages to get away. Natasha follows him with a look on her face that's equal parts amused and baffled.

Clint stops so suddenly when the door opens automatically that he almost loses his footing. Natasha doesn't seem startled at all, which makes sense, because she has scarily good reflexes. Coulson stands absolutely still, eyes narrow and displeased.

"Hi," Clint says finally, sounding more nervous than he'd like. "So, Natasha, this is Agent Coulson. He's my handler. For this mission, anyway. Coulson, this is –"

"Natasha Romanoff," Coulson says pleasantly, stepping forward past Clint to shake Natasha's hand. "A pleasure to meet you. Would you object to having a full medical check-up? It's standard procedure."

"Not at all," she says calmly. Coulson smiles and looks at Clint.

"Wait here," he says sternly, and escorts Natasha back inside.

The corridor outside of the medical centre is wide, with a space opposite that serves as a waiting area. Clint limps over and lowers himself slowly into one of the metal chairs to wait for Coulson. He hopes that he won't have to go to Coulson's office, which is a floor down. He's already dreading the three flights of stairs he'll have to tackle to get to the residence floor where his room is.

Coulson comes back out five minutes later, and crosses the floor immediately to sit in the seat on Clint's right. He doesn't look at him once. Clint does his best not to cringe. Neither of them says anything at first, and then Coulson opens his mouth. "Contrary to what you may believe, just because you are a solo operative with a unique skillset, that does not make you the centre of the world."

Clint looks down at resists the urge to twine his fingers together. "I know."

"Really?" Coulson sounds as calm as he always does, like they're discussing nothing of great consequence. "You certainly haven't behaved like you know. Your actions have potentially endangered everyone in this facility, to say nothing of your own life. You couldn't just do the job. You had to get creative. Do you have any idea what will happen to you if it turns out that you've made the wrong call?" he looks at Clint, who keeps his eyes down. "Losing your security clearance will be the least of your worries. And what about me? You're not the only one putting their neck out here, you know."

"I know," Clint says quietly, and turns to meet Coulson's eyes. "Thank you for trusting me on this. Seriously. I know the way I handled this mission wasn't exactly great, but I'll do whatever you want to make it up to you."

"If this goes badly, you won't have a chance to make it up to me," Coulson tells him.

"It won't go badly." Clint swallows and sits up a little straighter. "Would you have followed through on my call if you didn't trust that the Black Widow could switch sides?"

"I didn't go through with this because I trust her," Coulson says in a low voice. "I decided to do this because I trust you. I just hope for both our sakes that you're right."

The door to the medical centre opens and Natasha steps out, still in her evening dress. Coulson turns away from Clint as if they hadn't been speaking and gets to his feet. "We need to get you some clothes," he says, not looking back at Clint as he levers himself awkwardly to his feet. "Would you like a uniform or something more comfortable?"

"No civvies," Clint tells her helpfully. "Not here. But the women's casual uniforms are nice. Or you could wear a tracksuit, I guess. Everything has the SHIELD logo on it, so it's all uniform, really."

"I…" she frowns, looking momentarily lost. "I could wear the casual uniform?"

"Okay," Coulson nods amiably and takes the corridor to the right, nodding for Natasha to follow. "Let's take you downstairs, get you fitted up. Do you mind if we dispose of your dress?"

"No."

"Hey, guys!" Clint hops after them as quickly as he can. "Wait for me! I'm meant to be mentoring or whatever, remember?"