Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. 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"

I'm glad Fury was in everyone's good graces. He can be a nononsense, hard nosed, asshole sometimes, but he cares. Whether he admits it or not.

I also laughed when a few pointed out that I've shot Clint in every story I've written so far (Though to be fair, in "Vantage Point" he got shot in Kevlar XD He did get stabbed though...as if that's better) You'll see that whole Clint getting shot all the time play out a little more humerously at the end of this chapter. And in my next TWO stories he doesn't get shot at all! I know! SHOCKER! But there's more than one way to injury a Hawkeye :D I love me some wump

Thanks to all who reviewed! :D

Last Time:

"I'll have a team in Vietnam by tomorrow and they'll be on standby for your call."

"Thank you, Director."

"Cut the formalities, Phil. It makes me feel old."

Coulson grinned at the phone as the line went dead.

"It's impossible" said pride. "It's risky" said experience. "It's pointless" said reason. "Give it a try" whispered the heart –Anonymous

"Watch your step." Natasha warned, keeping on arm wrapped around his back and one hand braced against his chest as she helped him through the doorway. She leaned him against the wall. "Wait here."

She disappeared through a doorway. He heard her rummaging through something and then she was back, a thick coarse blanket under one arm and a stack of scrap fabric probably used to make clothes at one point under the other.

She shook out the blanket and spread it across the ground in the corner and then dropped the stack of fabric on top of it. Then she was at his side again.

"Come on."

She helped him over to the blanket and tried to ignore his tightly clenched jaw and pained eyes as she helped him sit. He never made a sound though except to sigh in relief when his back rested against the wall and the tension released in his body.

"I'll be back. Don't move too much, okay?"

"Not my first bullet wound, Romanoff." He huffed a laugh. She managed a small smile and headed for the door at the back of the main room. He rested his head back against the wall, wincing at when the untreated cut on the back of his head protested the action. He shifted his chin higher so that the cut wasn't pressing against the wall anymore, and waited.

Natasha grabbed the most intact bowl she could find and headed out to the pump. She kept pumping until the water ran as clearly as she could expect it to, and then she slid the bowl under it and filled it. She kept her eyes peeled for any sign of the people chasing them as she headed back inside.

Clint hadn't moved except to rest his head back.

Natasha moved set the bowl down next to him and returned to the small kitchen, pushing aside everything on the shelves, trying to find anything she could use. She made a noise of excitement when she found more than she could have hoped.

"What'd you find?" Clint asked curiously.

Natasha pulled the prize down from the back of the shelf and dusted off the cobwebs. She held it out to show him as she moved closer.

"Vodka." She smiled.

"Can I drink some of it?" He wasn't kidding.

"One swallow. I need it to clean out the wound."

"I'll take what I can get."

Natasha twisted off the top and held it out to him. He immediately raised it to his lips and took a long drink. He coughed when she pulled it away.

"You're not supposed to chug vodka." She scolded.

He coughed again, and waved for her to get on with it.

"Let's get your shirt off." She signed, pulling him forward by the shoulders.

She reached around him and grabbed the tail of his shirt, slowly peeling it up his back and then over his head. Once she got it in front of him, he took over, pulling it off his arms and tossing it to the side. She picked up the vodka and arched an eyebrow.

"Ready?" She asked.

Clint took a deep breath, stretched his neck from side to side and nodded. He sharply blew out the breath he'd taken, his body tensing as she raised the bottle.

She poured and forced herself not to stop when his left hand shot out to grip her shoulder, his eyes clenched closed, and the tendons on his neck stood out sharply as he held back any sound of pain his body wanted to make.

When she was satisfied, she pulled the bottle back. Clint expelled a shuddering breath and blinked.

"One more time, from the back." She told him gently.

"Just do it." He pulled himself forward by his grip on her shoulder, exposing the entry wound on his back.

"Just breathe." She murmured, wrapping her free arm around his right side and pulling him to rest against her right shoulder. She poured again, holding him steady when his back arched against the pain. She set the bottle aside, and shifted him back against the wall.

"Let's not do that again." He gasped as she folded up two of the rags and pressed them into either side of the wound to stave off the bleeding.

"Don't get shot again and we won't have to." She scolded, but there was no heat in her tone. She settled more comfortably next to him. "Not much we can do to stop the bleeding except for apply pressure."

"Not quite." Clint disagreed, digging into one of his cargo pockets and producing a lighter. He held it up not exactly looking pleased. "Build a fire and cauterize it." He instructed. "Now that you've done what you can to clean it, that's our best bet so I can keep going."

Natasha inclined her head in agreement and took the lighter. She moved his hands onto the bandages and made sure he was holding them in place. Then she moved to the back door, and propped it open so the smoke could escape. She used broken pieces of what used to be a wooden table and got to work. Once the fire was going, a process made very easy with the lighter and a splash of Vodka, she pulled her knife from its sheath on her thigh. She carefully poured some of the little remaining Vodka over it and then flicked the lighter to life. She held the flame to the blade and watched as the alcohol ignited and then burned away. Satisfied, she rested the blade directly in the flames and glanced over her shoulder at Clint.

His head was back and his eyes were closed, but his hands were holding the makeshift bandages firmly in place. She turned back to the fire.

"You can call me Clint, you know." He offered suddenly as she watched the flames lick at the blade, heating it.

"Clint, huh?" She granted him a small, warm smile over her shoulder.

"Well it is my first name." He grinned, pulling his head forward and watching her across the small expanse between them.

"Really? I thought it was Идиот." She replied with a teasing smirk. His eyes brightening at the banter.

"Only to some." He answered with a chuckle, then his grin grew more serious. "That's what people I trust call me." He added quietly, his blue grey eyes were focused heavily on her. She met his eyes seriously.

"Clint." She repeated a slight grin curving up the corner of her mouth.

She turned back to the blade and watched it start to turn a dull red. She wrapped a rag around her hand and grabbed the handle, moving back to his side.

"Nobody's called me by my first name since I was nine years old." She revealed quietly.

She felt his complete attention suddenly tune to her even as she reached for the fabric bandages and tossed them away. She met his eyes, saw the corners of them tighten as he prepared himself, but he locked his eyes on hers.

"My parents died in a fire when I was just a baby. I was saved by a soldier and put in an orphanage, they're the ones that gave me my name. I was Natalia Romanova back then. And I was always different than the other children." She went on, intentionally keeping her eyes on his, keeping his attention on her and not on the heated knife she was bringing towards his skin.

She heard his breathing pick up and saw his jaw clench, but he kept staring at her.

"I was nine when somebody finally noticed."

She pressed the knife against the exit wound and reached forward to grip the back of his neck as he flinched bodily. His right hand clenched around the blanket he was sitting on. His left hand wrapped up the fabric of her uniform on her side. The cords of his neck were protruding much as they had when she'd cleaned the wound as he strained against the scream he wanted to, but would never, let out.

She pulled his head forward, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"Breathe!" She snapped, "And listen! Listen to my voice, Clint!"

He forced out a sharp breath, his blue-grey eyes locking on her green once again.

"I was recruited into training as a future asset for what was called The Black Widow Program. It was a branch of Russian Intelligence." She told him, pulling the knife away and sneaking a glance at the wound.

It had worked.

"I spent the next five years learning how to be a spy at a place called The Red Room Academy." She clenched her jaw, the memories surging forward. Clint was watching her closely and she looked away briefly to collect herself. "It wasn't a good place." She added simply, forcing herself to meet his eyes again, for both their sakes. Something in his storm colored gaze comforted her and she managed a smirk. "I was very good at, even though I was only a child."

She pulled him forward and against her shoulder again so she could see the entry wound.

"They did everything they could to control me." She whispered against his hair as she pressed the knife down again.

He flinched again, his forehead pressing against the curve of her neck and shoulder. She tangled her free hand in the hair on the back of his head, feeling the gash there and knowing she'd have to treat that too.

"No matter what they did to brainwash me, it never stuck, even if I let them think it did to protect myself." She went on as she pulled the knife away, pleased to see the bleeding was completely stopped now.

He sagged in relief and she helped him lean back again. He gazed heavily at her, correctly sensing there was a painful, dark story behind her time in The Black Widow Program. He didn't ask though, just like she hadn't asked for more details about Barney. Maybe they would tell each other one day.

"I was fourteen when they sent me on my first assignment." She held his gaze as she neared the end of her story. "Two years later I was named the Black Widow, the name given to the most successful, most effective operative."

"What changed? Why'd you pull away from them?" He asked roughly, breathing deeply against the throbbing pain that seemed to be everywhere.

She reached over him for fresh fabric. Clint breathed deeply through his nose, watching her tear it into strips. Her skilled hands folded a few of the strips into pads and she laid the rest across her thighs.

"Our program took contracts like they were business deals whether they involved a threat to Russia or not. And eventually I got tired of being controlled." She told him quietly as she gently placed two pads on each of the cauterized holes. "I had broken away several months before you came for me and started taking paying contracts on my own. I anglicized my name and have gone by Natasha Romanoff ever since in an attempt to distance myself from my past and foolishly hoped that would be enough. I didn't know they had found me. And then you happened and everything changed." She smiled, and carefully tied together several long strips. She then wound them tightly around his body, firmly pressing the pads into place.

She sat back assessing her work before meeting his eyes again.

"So I guess I was a child that had to learn to survive too."

Clint remained silent for a long moment, just watching her.

"Maybe that's all people like us ever are." He finally commented.

"Yeah." She sighed, turning away to take care of the bloody rags on the ground next to her. She froze when a rough, callused hand was suddenly on her cheek, turning her head back.

"I need to look at that cut." Clint whispered. "You could have a concussion."

"After I clean that gash on the back of your head." She promised, her cheek burning from the heat of his hand, for some reason she didn't want to push it away. Something in his eyes shifted and he drew back slowly.

"How about I treat you first, then you can treat my gash." He insisted.

"Fine." She wasn't willing to argue over it. She turned again, picking up the soiled clothes and tossing them towards the back door. They'd have to burn them once all the wounds were treated. They couldn't leave any trace.

She returned to his side and folded one of the remaining strips into a pad then turned the Vodka bottle over on it. The drink was nearly gone, but she knew there would be enough for her to clean his gash before it was empty.

She held out the wet pad to him and he accepted it. She swallowed when he slid his free hand into the hair at the back of her neck and gently pulled her forward. She winced as he carefully cleaned away the blood on her temple and sterilized the cut on her head.

"Wish I had stitches for you." He stated quietly, leaning forward to blow on the cut to try and sooth the sting.

"That's okay." She assured, her breath catching slightly at his close proximity. She raised her eyes to meet his, startled to find him already looking at her. "Done?" She asked, her throat suddenly try.

"All clean." He smiled slightly.

"You're turn." She forced herself to put some distance between them, even though some part of her didn't want to. She refused to acknowledge that her hands were trembling slightly as she folded another piece of fabric and used the last of the Vodka to wet it.

He leaned forward obligingly when she raised the wet pad of fabric. He tilted his head forward and she leaned closer, rising to her knees so she could see the gash. Blood had matted the hair on the back of his head and stained it a rusty red color. Either his pain sensors were dulled from what he'd already been put through or cleaning the gash just didn't compare to getting a bullet wound cleaned because he didn't even flinch as she cleaned it.

She barely stopped herself from jumping when he spoke suddenly.

"Does this mean I get to call you Natasha?" He asked quietly.

She froze, drawing back slightly and consequently giving him an opening to raise his head and meet her eyes. She had never heard her name spoken with quite that tone before. There was respect mixed with something like reverence. But there was something else, something she couldn't identify. And it was all spoken with that soft, rumbling, intense tone of his.

Something made her meet his eyes and suddenly she wanted to hear him say her name again.

So she nodded to answer his question and like he could read her mind, he repeated it.

"Natasha."

He murmured her name like a whispered prayer. Before she realized what she was doing, her lips were pressing against his. The kiss was almost gentle, could have been considered sweet and it ended only a few moments later. She pulled back to find her hands tangled in his hair and one of his buried in the hair at the base of her neck.

She breathed.

He breathed.

Then his eyes darkened with something she'd seen in the eyes of many men in her life. But there was more in her archer's eyes than had ever been in those of the men she'd seduced. Clint Barton felt something for her. Clint Barton wanted more from her than anyone else ever had. More than anyone else had ever dared. More than she ever thought she'd be capable of giving.

The most surprising to her, though, was that she knew her eyes were a reflection of his in that moment. Because she realized suddenly, that she wanted the same thing from him. She had wanted it for some time now, but had been too afraid to admit it, even to herself.

Clint knew his eyes were giving away everything racing through his mind right now, but he didn't care. He could see the same thoughts reflected in her impossibly green eyes and something like hope soared through him.

"We shouldn't." She barely whispered.

"No." He agreed in the same tone, but he didn't move his hand and neither did she.

"It would change everything." She added, searching his eyes. For what, she didn't know.

"Yeah it would."

They breathed.

"Tell me what you want, Natasha."

A whispered prayer on his lips. And she was done. She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his, more firmly this time. He responded with equal vigor, pulling her bodily towards him.

Natasha shifted, gently running her finger over a circular scar on Clint's right side.

"This one." She decided.

"You should recognize that one." He smirked. "You put it there three years ago when I was trying to save your life."

She lifted her chin to rest on his chest and smiled.

"Ah."

"Yeah, ah." He chuckled. "My turn."

He ran his hand down her bare shoulder, brushing his thumb across a long thin scar on her shoulder blade.

"This one."

She craned her neck to see it, even though she knew which scar he was talking about.

"Knife in Romania." She explained. "It was early in my career. I wasn't quite so good at convincing people of my point of view."

"We both know you've gotten better at that." He teased. "Your turn."

Her eyes went first to the knife wound on his upper right chest, but she didn't ask about it. She knew the story now and wound never ask him to repeat it, because the raw pain his eyes when he'd spoken of his brother's betrayal was something she never wanted to see again.

Instead, she traced her index finger over a relatively thick, several inch long scar on his chest just inside his left shoulder. By her judgment it was three maybe four years old. Which meant it happened not long before he was sent to kill her.

"This one."

"Bullet, believe it or not." He answered immediately.

"Really?" She sat up on her elbow, looking at the scar fully. It didn't look like his other bullet scars, and he had several to compare with.

"Yup. Needed surgery to get the bullet out and repair all the damage it did."

"How bad was it?"

"Lodged in my shoulder blade and tore through all the muscles and tendons between it and the entry point. Almost never fired my bow again."

"How did you recover from that?" She wondered, staring intently at the scar. She vaguely remembered noticing that he favored that shoulder at the oddest times during their initial meeting three years ago in France. It was almost as if he would be completely fine then the littlest tweak would cause him pain.

"SHIELD has the best doctors." He shrugged a little. "And I've been told I'm fairly stubborn."

"Fairly?" She challenged with a laugh.

"So maybe a stronger term is necessary," He admitted, "The point is I recovered and handle my bow just as well now as I did before the bullet tore everything up."

"How did it happen?" She asked curiously, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking down at him from her propped position.

"Saw a red dot on Phil's chest." Clint explained quietly, "Didn't even have to think about it."

"You stepped in front of it." She mused softly. "Like you did for me today."

"I'm reckless like that." He murmured, his fingers trailing down the curve of her spine.

They stared at each other for a long moment before she broke the silence.

"Your turn."

"This one." His fingers stopped their trail on her back and rested on a scar an inch to the left of her spine. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as she remembered.

"Bullet." She revealed.

"To the back." His eyes darkened in a way she instantly identified. Protectiveness.

She nodded.

"Someone I thought I could trust." She paused to shift her position, laying back down on her side and resting her head on the crook of his right shoulder. "I couldn't." She added needlessly.

"What a pair we make." He sighed, she watched his hand drift to rest on his new bullet wound. He was in pain, she knew, but he didn't complain. Didn't let it show. Her eyes went back to the cluster of three scars on his right side. One, he'd said, was from her. Another, she knew was from their last mission before being assigned this one. She focused on the third, it was nearly the oldest bullet wound she could identify, there was only that was older, right above his left collar bone, it was white with age. She focused on the third of the cluster again.

"What about that one?" She asked, brushing her thumb across it.

"Second mission with SHIELD. Council decided I needed a trial by fire and if it weren't for Phil I'd never have made it out."

"You get shot a lot, do you realize that?" She shook her head in amused exasperation.

Clint inclined his head in agreement.

"People keep trying to kill me. I think the more fascinating part is that I'm still alive."

"I think the fascinating part is that no one has tried harder." She teased, tilting her head to look at him.

He huffed a laugh.

"Romanoff from left field."

End of Chapter 7

Awe aren't they sweet...in an assassin, we compare scars as pillow talk kind of way... XD I tried to keep it from being too mushy, but still show how much they already care about each other, even this early in their relationship.

By the way, never cauterize a wound like that. I'm told it can be done, but only in extreme circumstances when there is no other option. I thought this qualified.

Finally, you'll be pleased to know my next story is coming along marvelously. I've finished half of it. I'm hoping to be finished by about Monday. We'll see. I have an all day teacher-training thing on Saturday and have to move my little brother in law on Friday...so we'll just have to see how things shake out.

Reviews make me happy!

Here's your preview

He drew one of his last precious arrows and pulled the string back to his cheek. Pain flared in his side and spread across his body, but he didn't lower the bow. He'd fired with worse.

"Ready?" She whispered, her eyes asking the question she wouldn't ask out loud. Was he okay?

"Let's kill some bad guys."