A/N: Sorry for any confusion in the last chapter. All mentions of a ring in Chapter 3 are about the boxing ring they're sparing in. That last line was bad word choice. My bad! Thanks to the reviewers who let me know! I've updated that chapter and I think it's fixed.

However, somewhat coincidentally, this chapter actually does involve rings of the jewelry variety, but nobody's engaged and/or married.

Clint watched her storm out of the gym, yanking her t-shirt off a treadmill arm as she went. He ran his fingers though his damp hair and down his neck. She was so frustrating she made him want to scream, but he settled instead for the punching bag. He hopped out of the ring and headed to the row of heavy bags hanging from their gray steel stands. He chose one and started hitting it, feeling the rough material grating on his knuckles even through the wraps. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. They had always shared a special relationship, since the night they met. Even on their first mission, they had a certain understanding, a way of reading each other that gave them an incredible advantage in the field. And off, since neither one of the pair was particularly keen on sharing their feelings. They weren't just partners. He wasn't sure they had ever been.

What they were, well that was trickier. Clint had never tried to categorize their relationship before. It didn't seem to fit under any label he could think of. It just was. That was fine with him. Why wasn't it okay with her? They spent one night together and she freaked out! They had been binding each other's wounds and silently sharing each other's nightmares for years. Was that really so different?

He kept punching, feeling the skin on his hands splitting beneath the cloth. He didn't care. What was she so afraid of? Commitment? Loosing her job? Blowing a mission? He couldn't take it! So he had gone to Fury and asked for leave from their partnership, knowing she would do the same. Then he had met Agent Young.

"You might need those," a voice interrupted. Coulson strode into the gym, calm as ever in his suit and tie.

"I'm fine," Clint shrugged, and threw another punch.

"How about, as your handler, I'm ordering you to stop." Clint's hands fell away from the bag. He walked over to the were Coulson was waiting. The handler motioned to a nearby bench, and Clint took a seat. As Coulson talked, Clint took off the wraps, wincing as the last layer of cloth peeled away from his raw skin.

"Nice workout, I take it."

"It could have been better."

"And you could have come out with broken knuckles." They sat in silence for a moment. Clint started down at his throbbing red hands. "Fury thinks you're okay to do this mission."

"Fury's usually right."

"But not always. Clint, I know you and Agent Romanoff have a. . .complicated . . .relationship."

"It's actually fairly strait-forward. I save her ass, she saves mine. We patch each other up and get through the day."

"Whatever you believe about it, your lives are remarkably intertwined."

"I know. She doesn't. She ran."

"She may understand more than you think," said Coulson.

Clint stared out at the stillness of the gym, feeling the pulsing pain in his hands. "Maybe you should go tell her that instead."

Coulson winced. He wasn't here to make the problem worse. He tried to change the subject."I hear you're with Agent Young."

Clint shook his head clear, coming back to reality. "Yeah. She's sweet. What about you, Coulson? You had a date a few weeks back."

He smiled. "Last time we were docked in the States. Her name is Grace. She's a cellist."

Barton fell silent.

"Clint, you're angry at Natasha for running from her problems. Make sure you're not doing the same." He rose to leave. "Now get to the infirmary and have your hands looked at before you leave. And no, it's not optional."

Clint stopped by the commissary after his trip to the medical bay. His hands, now wrapped in gauze and medical tape, still stank of antiseptic. He clumsily grabbed a tray, struggling to achieve a full range of motion in his fingers, which wasn't easy considering how heavily the nurse had bandaged them. Clint grabbed plates of food without paying much attention to what what was on them. Finding an empty table, he looked down to see a sandwich, a bowl of soup, and plate of meatloaf and potatoes. Clint shrugged; worked for him. The cold metal chair scrapped against the floor as he pulled it out to sit. The wordless noise of chattering agents filled the large room.

Twenty minute later, Clint had barely touched his food. After his sparing match with Natasha, and the pummeling of the punching bag that had followed, he should be hungry. Knowing what kind of rations Shield would be sending with them to Budapest, he should be very hungry. But he couldn't make himself eat. The whole morning kept running through his head: the details of the mission, his fight with Natasha. What really tied a knot in his stomach, though, was what was coming next. He was going to have to say goodbye to Clara. They had only been dating for a few months now, but what was he supposed to say? 'Sorry babe, I'm going on a mission with my partner, who has an uncategorizable relationship with me that I doubt I'll ever share with you or anyone else, and even though I said I didn't see her much anymore, we'll be spending the next three months alone together.' That would go well. Maybe he didn't have to mention Natasha at all.

Clint mustered enough motivation to stand up and bring his still-full tray to the dish return. He was just leaving the commissary when a familiar face swung around the corner.

"We already had our little chat, Coulson," Clint grumbled.

"We did."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because Lee and Stoneford are almost through with mission prep for you."

"Great."

"And apparently there is an item missing from storage."

"That's not my problem."

"Does J6924-A ring a bell?" Coulson asked, reading the item's classification number out of the file in his hand.

"No." Clint tried to step around, but his handler blocked his path. Coulson turned the file over, showing him the picture inside.

"Perhaps you'd recognize it better as these."

Clint stopped. "Oh. Come with me." Agent Coulson followed as Clint wound his way through the helicarrier to the Senior Field Agent's quarters. He selected his door from the long hallway and held up his ID. Inside, his room was almost exactly as Shield had issued it: king bed, nightstand, dresser, desk, table exactly where maintenance had put them, right down to the plain gray comforter on his bed.

"I like what you've done with the place," said Coulson.

"I'm not here much," Clint replied. "And when I am, I'm up there." He nodded to the ladder running up the metal wall of the room. It came out on the deck of the carrier, on a perch away from the bustle of the runways. "It actually gets pretty quiet when we're not in the air," he said as he crossed to the dresser. He opened the top draw and felt around. Reaching far into the back, he shuffled through some folded shirts until his fingers brushed against the soft touch of velvet. He pulled out a tiny black drawstring bag, throwing it at Coulson without a second thought.

Phil smiled. He opened the string and tipped over the bag. Three shimmering rings tumbled into his palm with a soft clank. One held a large diamond. The other two were a matching set of white gold, smaller of which had five tiny diamonds set in the band. All three were scratched and worn from battle.

Clint wasn't looking at his handler. "I'd forgotten I had them. How did you know?"

"You were the last person to sign them into storage, after a mission with Agent Romanoff."

"Not our last mission," he huffed.

"No, just the last one when your covers were married."

"You'll have to be more specific Coulson. We wear those damn things a lot. Hell, Shield issued us a matching set."

Coulson paused. The storage log was only part of the story, but he considered his word choice. "And I know you. It's sweet that you kept them."

"Well you won't have to worry about that anymore."

"You had a reason."

"Yeah," said Clint, "a reason that no longer applies." He marched out of the room without another glance at Coulson, trusting that he'd find his way out.

He'd forgotten about those stupid rings. Then again, he and Natasha weren't supposed to be partners anymore, so why would they have even crossed his mind?

He made his way down the hall, barely watching where he walked. Silently he was kicking himself for taking them in the first place. Why had he? When he signed them back in, why had he slipped them into his pocket instead of putting them away - again? It had become a sort of habit. At least Coulson had saved him the embarrassment of having one of the storage gremlins track him down. Not that this encounter had been much better.

Clint wanted so badly to return to the gym and beat out some more of his frustration, but he was not about to risk another scolding from the infirmary nurse, or worse another lecture from Coulson.

Clint checked his watch. It was just past 1400. He still had plenty of time before the plane left. He might even get a full night's sleep. Clint let out a half-hearted chuckle to himself; that was unusual. Still, he wished it were morning. He wished he could just dive into the mission and leave all this insanity behind him. Not that that was likely, being partnered with Natasha. And he still had to deal with Clara. Better get this over with.

Clint let his feet lead him to the training rooms. His steps echoed through the rounded metallic hallway. He stood there, trying not to let his mind drift as he waited for Clara's hand-to-hand session to finish. One by one, sweaty, exhausted junior agents filed out the door. Clara came near to last, chatting with another woman, a friend she had introduced to Clint once. They had been recruited at around the same time.

"Clint!" she said when she stepped into the hall. She pulled her straight blonde ponytail away from her damp neck and flicked a stray lock of hair away from her sharp face. "I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow night."

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Uh, sure" she said, and turned to her friend. "I'll catch up with you Anna."

"About tomorrow night, there's been a . . . change of planes. I got pulled for a mission."

"That's ok; we'll reschedule."

He took his head. "It's not that kind of mission, Clara. It's deep cover. I'll be gone a while. Months."

Her face fell. "Clint, I. . . When do you leave?"

"Soon." He gently kissed her lips. "I'm sorry."

He left her there and turned down the hall, wishing that the plane was leaving even sooner. On his way nowhere in particular, Clint's eyes caught on a wide double door at the end of the training deck. Perfect, he thought as stepped onto the rubbery surface of the indoor track. Coulson couldn't chew him out for running laps, and Clint seriously needed to clear his head. He threw his sweats to the side and started out, feeling the tension in his mind release with every pounding step and disappear into the shock absorbers below.

When he couldn't feel his legs anymore, Clint left. Ignoring the chatting agents passing him on their way to the commissary, he made his way back to his quarters. After a short shower, he flopped into bed, disappearing into the darkness until his alarm went off at 0430.