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Chapter Text

Northern Kazakhstan

Clint Barton checked his watch. The meager sunlight reflected off its shiny surface weakly.

The air was crisp with a cool autumn breeze, blowing through the pine trees delicately. It ran across the wooden landscape and ruffled his short hair. The afternoon sun was desperately trying to shine through the light cloud cover, barely succeeding in spreading any light. It suited him fine. Sunlight mostly made his life difficult – it reflected off of every shiny surface it could find, getting into his eyes and it made hiding in plain sight so much more difficult. Today was perfect. It was still light out but not bright enough for him to be spotted easily.

He glanced through the scope of his rifle, making sure the weapon was assembled correctly before easing himself down to lie on his stomach. The rifle he placed in its stand in front of him, testing its mobility and its range through the scope. He was settled on the decrepit roof of an even more decrepit building, an abandoned, small warehouse in between the trees of the forest, which never got to evolve into an actual factory. When he had climbed it, he had been a little worried the structure wouldn't hold his weight, as old as it was. But aside from a little groaning a few places, it held up perfectly. From there, he had the perfect position to spy on the metal bridge some yards ahead, where the exchange was going to take place. His sharp eyes quickly found the red object he was searching for.

"Widow, I'm in position," he announced through the comm link in his ear.

"Copy," came the clipped response of his partner.

Natasha had parked her car in the bushes at the side of the dirt road by the bridge and had placed herself in plain sight for their target to see. Her face wore the impassive, cold mask of the Black Widow as she waited patiently, clad in a long, elegant coat and high heels to complete the look. Her hands were buried in the coat pockets and her breath came out in small puffs of white air, shining weakly in the fading afternoon light.

"You know, one day bad guys are gonna have to show up on time," Clint mused out loud as he checked his watch again.

"They have no respect for human life, why would they have respect for time?" Natasha's voice echoed in his earpiece.

"Do you think I could get R&D to make me a crossbow to use in situations like this?" Clint glanced at the case containing his bow to his right, his fingers already itching to use it. He had always preferred his bow instead of guns and rifles, not that his aim was any worse with either of those weapons. And they did come in handy when you had to spy on people from up high. Still, the bow and arrow had always been a big part of his life and he always felt the most comfortable and safe with it in his hands.

"I think you might be a little too attached to your pointy shafts, Barton."

"There's nothing wrong with my pointy shaft."

"Well, it's a good thing then it's not about the size." Though her face didn't change with the quip, Clint could practically hear the smirking in her voice.

"Only you could turn a genuine question into obscenity. It's baffling."

"Who do you think taught me that?"

"Ivan the Terrible?"

Whatever retort she was about to make died on her lips, as her tone changed from light and teasing to stern and serious in an instant. "Target approaching."

Clint readjusted his grip on his rifle and moved his scope further to the East as a vehicle came rumbling down the dirt road. It was a black Hummer, its windows rolled up and tinted almost completely dark, which made it next to impossible to get a facial recognition of their target. A fine layer of dust circled the black Hummer as it began its drive across the bridge.

"Visual confirmed," Clint announced. "I count four hostiles. No confirmation on Omarov yet."

The large car slowed down and came to a silent halt on the other side of the road. Two men stepped out of from the front, carrying an assault rifle each. Clint caught a glimpse of a handgun secured in a holster under their coats. He knew Natasha must have spotted it as well. After a quick glance at their surroundings, the back door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit, followed by another guard with the same weapons as the two others. This one also carried a metallic briefcase in his right hand. The middle-aged man nimbly exited the car and made his way steadily towards the Black Widow, who was eyeing them cautiously. Clint felt his heart twinge in suspicion. That wasn't their target. Aibek Omarov was Kazakh and looked it – based on the picture IDs they'd managed to obtain. This man was clearly from the western world.

"Car is empty – no Omarov. Move with caution, Widow. Something fishy is going on here."

Natasha couldn't answer, but her body had tensed at the unsuspected development all the same. It was only because he knew his partner so well, he picked up on the change, subtle as it was. His finger danced closer to the trigger as he followed the exchange down below with growing unease.

"Ms. Romanoff," Clint heard the middle-aged man's voice through the comm link easily. His voice was gruff and raspy with no noticeable accent. "You'll forgive me, my Russian is not up to date, so I hope English is acceptable."

"Of course, if you'll forgive me. I was led to believe I would be dealing with Omarov directly."

"He doesn't deal with these businesses himself, surely you understand."

Natasha's voice was both innocently sweet and professional, although the suspicion was clear in her voice as she said, "Funny, that's not what I've heard. Or what I was told."

Clint had learned a long time ago to trust his instinct. Years of living on the street, mingling and working with and for criminals, followed by SHIELD employment had taught him to listen whenever your gut told you something was wrong. Right now, it was screaming at him. The gnawing feeling in his stomach had grown to a sinking sensation that could no longer be pushed down. Something was definitely not right. And his suspicions were only confirmed when the conversation prattling on in his ear carried on.

"Regardless, I have the money if you have the device. I see no reason why we cannot carry on the transaction…"

"I was lied to. You can understand my trepidation for carrying on."

There was a small pause. Then, the man's voice echoing again, "Of course. But you can understand my employer's worry. The notorious Black Widow suddenly surfacing again, without a word or comment, to do the Devil's work and here she is, trying to strike a bargain with the great Aibek Omarov, a wanted man in many nations… So, you see his confusion. We have all heard the rumors of how you turned. Luckily, my employer believed them."

Clint felt his heart drop. Shit…

Then he had to zone out for the rest of the unpleasantries as another sound drew his attention. As the man's raspy voice chattered on, he heard hinges creaking, footsteps clanking loudly on metal railings and human voices trying to whisper above the noise. With everything they had just been told, the ominous noises were impossible to ignore – because he knew what that meant. Down below, the man started etching closer to Natasha, who stood eyeing him with cold, dead eyes. Her fingers tightened around the knife hidden in her coat pocket.

Clint risked looking away from his partner as the roof access door sprung open and black-clad men with assault rifles came pouring out of the darkness. Their voices had risen to yells and they started to aim their barrels in his direction. Clint rapidly got to his feet; his rifle quickly discarded as he reached for his bow case.

"Widow, get out of there. I've been made!" he announced loudly as he flipped out his bow. An arrow was already nocked on the string a breath later. He quickly found his anchor and a second after, the first of the armed men fell.

Through his comm link, he heard the eerie sound of the man's low voice, whispering in his partner's ear. "Tell your partner to come quietly and we won't hurt either of you."

Natasha struck without hesitation. In one fluent movement, the knife appeared in her hand and then she planted it in the man's abdomen. She twisted him around, arm wrapped tightly around his throat and violently tore out the knife. The man gurgled and spent his dying moments as a human shield as Natasha used him to cover her own body while she moved to hide behind the parked Sedan in the bushes. The bullets from the armed guards peppered her trail. She carelessly tossed her dead shield to the ground once out of range and the bullets started pinging off the car roof. She sneaked to the driver's side and retrieved the two Glocks strapped to the inside of the door. Then she began returning fire. One fell easily enough while the two others had the decency to hide behind their own vehicle. Natasha used the stalemate to twist the key in the ignition. The Sedan only sputtered weakly before dying down. A bullet had hit the engine; the black, greasy oil coloring the low grass underneath.

Muttering a curse in her old, native tongue, she reached in to collect her utility belt from the passenger's seat and strapped it around her waist, while haphazardly firing on the guards. She needed to keep them down if she had any hope of stealing their car. She heard pine needles crunching under boots, running towards her position then. She twisted her head around and saw shadows moving between the tall pines. She started firing in their direction too. Soon, they returned the gesture.

Clint heard the commotion and his partner's curses and grunts through his earpiece and knew she had hit trouble. He wanted nothing more than to come down and help but he was a little preoccupied by his own problems. He was pinned down behind a large vent on the rooftop, the armed men mercilessly showering the metal with gunfire. Clint fired arrow after arrow whenever a small respite offered the opportunity. But with every man that fell, another came to take his place. He had to get off this roof – now.

He pressed a button on his bow, heard the telltale sign of a new arrowhead clicking into place, and aimed it in the midst of the trigger-happy men. It buried itself firmly into the roof, where it beeped a single time before smoke shot out of small openings in the head. As soon as the smoke bomb went off, Clint ran for the edge. On the move, he changed the arrowhead again.

Then he jumped.

As soon as he was airborne, he twisted, arrow already loaded on the string. The grapplehook lashed onto the bricks of the building and Clint could only hope it held. It was still testing phase. The thin robe went taut and he felt himself flying towards the wall, his stomach lurching at the sudden change in direction. His right side slammed into the hard bricks and he almost lost his grip. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt his skin scrape against the wall. He was definitely going to feel that tomorrow.

With a click on his bow, the robe severed, and he dropped the last five feet to the ground.

Immediately his sharp eyes started searching for his partner. Natasha was still hiding by the car, her handguns echoing loudly in the forest as she took down man after man. The group of assailants were still etching closer, undeterred. They fired their own shots at her, but they didn't seem to aim directly at her. Instead, they shot around her body, keeping her pinned in her location while they advanced.

"Nat!" Clint yelled and started running in her direction. He nocked an arrow, the head now pointed and deadly again, and drew back the string. A shower of bullets erupted in front of him, none of them hitting home yet it was enough. With his aim now skewed, the arrow went flying wildly up into the air. Clint quickly loaded another one and snapped his head to the left where it had come from. The armed group had split up and half was now coming for him. He counted at least twenty. Not too bad. He'd faced worse odds.

Movement to his right caught his attention and another group came running at him, their rifles trained on his chest. Okay, the odds were getting worse now. He took a breath to steel himself.

Fine. If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna take as many as these armed bastards with me.

Clint started firing in every direction possible, trying to take out as many as possible before they got to him. It didn't seem to faze them. The men kept coming, like a black wave roaring and thundering towards him. It hit him soon enough. Within minutes, the men came too close for him to use his bow. He shifted to hand-to-hand instead but there were so many. His fist found a nose, a stomach, a knee… It didn't matter in the end. He was quickly overpowered. Hands clasped around his arms and forced him to his knees. He squirmed in their grasp, kicked out, bit when fingers neared his face. All he managed to do was make them angrier and hold on tighter. He desperately looked for his partner. She too had abandoned her weapons for hand-to-hand combat and for a few seconds it seemed they couldn't get a hold of her.

But there were too many. One managed to knock her against the car with brutal force. Breathless, she tried to slide away from him, but he grabbed a fistful of her curly red hair. Then he slammed her forehead against the car roof. Hard. The smack of flesh beating against metal echoed loudly as Natasha went limp. The man let go, and she crumpled bonelessly to the ground.

"Nat!"

Clint had barely yelled out her name before the butt of a rifle rushed towards his head.

Then everything collapsed into darkness.

Chapter Text

Washington D.C. - 7 days prior

Thwack.

The small rubber ball bounced off the wall. It soared through the room only for Clint to catch it effortlessly in the air. It only remained in his hand for a second before he sent it flying again, ricocheting off one wall, the ceiling and one of the clerical chairs before bouncing back into his palm. He repeated the process again and again, the ball bounding off practically every surface available in the room.

Phil watched him lazily, lounging on his own chair as they waited.

Thwack.

The ball flew past his nose and landed in Barton's hand once again. He too was sitting in a chair, leaned back with his feet resting on top of the steel table. He wasn't even looking where he threw the damn thing, simply gazing into nothingness while he repeatedly caught and hurled the small object every which way.

The door to the conference room opened with a click and Natasha Romanoff came striding in, undeterred by the purple and black rubber ball flying just past her face.

"About time," Clint remarked as he stopped playing with his ball and sat up straight, removing his boots from the tabletop.

"Some of us actually write our rapports, Barton," Natasha dryly shot back and settled herself into the chair next to his.

"I delivered my rapport two days ago. But it's not your fault – English is, what, your fourth language?"

"Alright, kids, settle down," Phil interjected. He knew those two well enough by now to know that could go on for quite some time. Sometimes it was endearing to witness – other times, it was just annoying. He picked up the two identical manila folders resting on the table in front of him and tossed it to the two agents.

"Aibek Omarov," he started and waited for Clint and Natasha to open the folders. "Didn't like growing up in poverty in Kazakhstan, so he made his fortune selling everything from kids to arms and ammunitions on the black market."

"Interrogation and extraction?" Natasha asked, her green eyes examining the ID photograph of the Kazakh man in his fifties, staring dead ahead with dark-brown eyes.

"Elimination," Phil clarified. "Take out his main facility, finances, everything he's built. Preferably the man himself as well. Cut the head off the snake and all that."

"It says here SHIELD already has operatives in several of his compounds around the world," Clint looked up at Phil expectedly. Natasha did as well, waiting for his answer.

"5 years' worth of undercover work and none of them have yet managed to move far enough up the ladder to actually meet Omarov or getting stationed at his main facility. We know he's hiding somewhere in Kazakhstan, but so far we've been unable to pinpoint his location precisely."

"Why the sudden urgency? He'll still be a prick in another five years," Clint mused aloud.

"We don't have another five years. Intel suggests he's branching out; tinkering with a new weapon – of what kind, we haven't been able to discern. Problem is he's not intending to sell. Instead, he's looking to buy a rare and expensive piece of Stark technology, to complete the construction of a disperser device. That makes me suspicious."

"So, time is against us to locate a man, SHIELD operatives haven't been able to find for at least five years before he acquires his missing puzzle piece to a super weapon that will destroy us all… Any great ideas?" Clint said.

"Omarov attends every exchange and meeting in person, which means meetings are scarce and incredibly hard to pinpoint when and where they do take place. It's made him hard to flush out," Phil explained. He had already brainstormed on the best approach. "But if he were to hear the Black Widow had acquired the missing piece and looking to sell… That might just get his attention. Agent Sorelli in the Malaysian compound is probably your best bet for getting word to Omarov."

"What about the other compounds?" Natasha asked.

"Every undercover operative stand by to blow them all to kingdom come, once you've finished your end."

"Perfect," Clint quipped and turned to his partner. "Any good plans for this? We could pull a Marrakech?"

"We'd have more luck getting Tony Stark to work for us," Natasha replied with a huff.

"Point taken. How about that second time in Norway?"

"That might work… Might be too big of a risk. Budapest?" Natasha suggested.

"If we're lucky, we'll never have to do another Budapest again," Clint muttered loud enough for all present to hear.

"Canada?"

"You're not talking about the Vancouver job, are you?"

"I don't really think that could be applied to any mission ever again… I meant the one with the Italian mob."

"Italians in Canada, it will never cease to amaze me," Clint huffed. He wiggled the rubber ball between his fingers thoughtfully for several silent seconds. "But that could work… I'm in. Canada it is then."

Phil had remained silent throughout their whole thought process and had simply leaned back and watched the two of them brainstorm. There was something incredible watching them work, the way their minds seemingly synched with each other's, no need for explanations or more words than highly necessary. Convinced they were done, he stood up and began gathering the papers he had spread out on the table.

"I'll contact Sorelli, let him know his new objective. My orders are to stay here in D.C. – I'll coordinate everything from here – provide emergency extraction if need be."

"Let's see if it comes to that," Clint shrugged, and stood up. "Let's go Canada the shit out of some criminals."

He followed Natasha out the conference room with one final remark,

"Easy peasy."
--------------------------------------------

Natasha came to slowly.

She felt oddly cold, her body stiff and aching in the joints. Her head throbbed, a dull headache pulsing underneath her skull. Gently she tried moving her body, but something immediately held her back. She couldn't move her wrists or her ankles. She knew what that meant. Her hands and feet most likely tied down, and she could feel the hard surface underneath, so if she had to guess – a chair.

How original.

Moisture clung to the air, which meant she was somewhere cool – perhaps underground. She tried straining her ears, listening for a breath or a shuffle of feet. It was remarkably quiet. She concluded she was alone in the room. But that didn't mean she was abandoned. Someone was no doubt watching her. She opted to try opening her eyes. Her right felt glued shut, a dried-up crusty substance covering most of it. She knew it was blood; she could feel the gash stretching on her forehead.

With a bit of pull, she managed to pry open both her eyes. It was dark where she was, only a small sliver of light coming from beneath the iron door located in front of her. It was a small blessing, of which her pounding head was grateful. Her eyes roamed across the rest of the room, assessing her options. It was small and built entirely of rough, black stones. Not much for isolation, which was why it was so cold and damp in here. Dug into the ceiling was a steel hook, darkened with rust and wear. She made a mental note of it – it might come in handy as a weapon later. Aside from that and her wooden chair, there was nothing else in the room.

She looked down at herself. She had been stripped of her coat, shoes, and long-sleeved shirt, leaving her in just her trousers and t-shirt. They had taken her socks as well and her feet were already numb from the cold seeping into her skin. Thankfully, they hadn't removed anything else. Her hands were tied to the armrests with thick leather straps that were beginning to scrape at the skin. Her legs were likewise securely fastened to the front wooden poles of the chair, luckily her trousers kept most of that chafing at bay.

She had no idea how long she had been out so they could have moved her anywhere. She remembered fighting the guards coming out of the woods and she remembered the massive man that had managed to overpower her in the end. She vividly recalled the smell of sweat coming off him when he had smashed her head into that car. After that, everything had faded to blackness and here she was. She could still hear Clint's voice screaming her name, resonating in her ear in both the comm link as well as out loud.

It wasn't supposed to go that badly. They were supposed to make the exchange and then follow the tracker they had planted on the suitcase containing the portable disperser device, Omarov wanted. They would stake out his compound, gather what they could and then infiltrate to blow everything Aibek Omarov ever was and had to smithereens. Barton's words, not hers.

There was always a chance of a double cross, but they had both figured, with her reputation, the betrayal would be either an attempt on her life or they would leave with the money as well. Instead, they showed up, fully prepared with an assault team – a massive assault team. At that point, she had known they had to try and fight their way out of this. No faking, just pure survival. It hadn't exactly worked out great.

But Natasha wasn't scared for herself. The only fear she felt at the moment was if Clint had been captured too. She desperately hoped he somehow managed to escape and that he was coming for her. No doubt he would.

And woe any who dared stand in his way.

The door scraped open and interrupted her thoughts. Two guards – their faces hidden behind black masks – entered, fingers hovering above the triggers of the rifles. They took a stance on either side of the door without a sound. After them, followed a man dressed in a pressed grey suit. His slim, dark eyes looked every bit as lifeless at the ones on the picture, his thin hair neatly comped back and a calm smile playing on his stretched-out lips.

"Ms. Romanoff," he gently greeted, his accent pronounced in every syllable. "I heard you were looking for me.

I am Aibek Omarov."

Chapter Text

Natasha eyed the man standing in front of her warily.

He didn't seem particularly imposing. He wasn't a big man – a slim build, tall for a man of his heritage. His face were all sharp angles, yet a certain calm emanated from his person. If it wasn't for his cold, dead eyes he might even have been considered friendly.

But it was the eyes that betrayed him. Something lurked beneath – something sinister and wicked and even as he smiled, none of that seemed to reach his dark orbs. Natasha had learned to fear that a long time ago. These sorts of men always managed to worm their way to the top, never mind who they stepped on along the way. Their intellect spurned them forward and worst of all, they always believed they were in the right. They surrounded themselves with what they deemed lesser men – of which, there were many – people they could manipulate and baffle with their minds. Any who opposed them or presented themselves as a threat, they reacted with violence and brutality, all without getting their hands dirty.

Sadly, most of those ended up on SHIELD's hit list and that meant she was usually the one to deal with them. One advantage she had was at least the men of that character looked down on women and never considered they could outsmart their male superiority. Aibek Omarov would no doubt try to manipulate her and if she led him to believe he had, then she might make it out of this alive.

Or at least last long enough for Clint to think of an extraction plan.

Omarov snapped his fingers then and another chair was brought in by a third guard. This one didn't have any armrests so when Omarov sat and leaned back, he interlocked his fingers and rested them on top his crossed legs. He eyed her curiously. The silence stretched on for a full two minutes.

Then, "The infamous Black Widow. I must admit I am disappointed."

She only cocked her head at the statement, acting confused.

Omarov quickly continued in his thick accent, a small smirk stretching his thin lips. "For years, every man in my profession feared the Black Widow, cowering like frightened children whenever your name was mentioned. While you did manage to kill my man Yegor, not an easy feat, mind you, I was disappointed how easily disputed you were, when push came to shove. So, she turned out to be just another rumor. Sad, Ms. Romanoff. That is what I am; sad."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you," Natasha said, without any emotion present in her voice.

"Ah, she speaks. I know you are a smart woman, Ms. Romanoff…" Omarov said pleasantly.

Just not smarter than you, Natasha remarked dryly. She kept that thought to herself though.

"… And I also know you've corrupted the disperser device I bought from you."

It was Natasha's turn to smirk. "You tried connecting it, didn't you?"

"I did. As you are quite aware, it did not work. Now, where is the missing piece?"

"I don't have it. I didn't trust you would honor our deal, so I hid one vital component of the device. When your men attacked, I destroyed it. I'm sorry, was it an important part? It was incredibly hard to get hold of," Natasha narrated, as nonchalant as possible. She knew exactly what she had done. Her green eyes sparkled with the challenge as they met his cold, dark ones.

For a heartbeat everything was completely silent while the two of them stared at each other. Then Omarov nodded at the guard to his left, who moved forward and in the same movement, swung his fist at her face. The gloved knuckles connected with her cheek roughly and snapped her head to the right. She felt her lip split. The guard stepped fluidly back to his spot by the door.

She had angered Omarov. Good. Angry men lashed out and made irrational choices. Or so, she hoped.

The calm mask was back on his face. "Ms. Romanoff, we can make your time here very unpleasant. It all depends on your answers from here on out."

Natasha simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. The Red Room had already put her through all kinds of torture. Whatever Aibek Omarov could concoct, she had seen and experienced it all before. Omarov nodded his head again and she easily anticipated the first punch. The same guard slammed the butt of his rifle into her unprotected abdomen. The wind left her lungs with a wordless gasp. The second guard joined in then.

Together, they took turns hitting her.

Their knuckles hit primarily in her stomach and her face. Every hit added another bruise to the collection and one punch split her cheek open. It was hard to swallow the grunt of pain that escaped her lips at that point. It stopped relatively shortly after. Her headache had grown worse and now her abdomen throbbed in time with the pounding in her head, but if Omarov expected her to crack after that, he would be deeply disappointed.

Omarov had spent the small beating session still positioned in his chair, calmly watching them land hit after hit. When they stopped, he leaned forward slightly and smiled gently. His cold eyes twinkled.

"Now… Let's start with what I know. I know you deflected to SHIELD. Became their little pet assassin, sent out to do their dirty work. I know you arrived in Mongolia six days ago and drove into Kazakhstan. I also know you didn't arrive alone. I know the man who came with you; the assassin known as Hawkeye."

The mask of indifference and confidence didn't slide from her face, but inside her stomach lurched painfully. Their cover had been blown practically from the start. Somehow, they must have been betrayed or SHIELD had suffered a severe leak. No one was supposed to know the Black Widow had changed sides. If every criminal organization out there knew, then undercover work was no longer an option. It certainly made everything much more difficult. And if it was known that the Black Widow and Hawkeye worked together, it was both of their safeties compromised. And since they knew who Clint was, they would have gone to great lengths to capture him as well. Her palms grew sweaty with the thought and she clenched her fists tighter to hide it.

"So, you were clearly sent here to eliminate me. I didn't want to believe it, of course. I wouldn't believe that the fearsome Black Widow, who showed no mercy could work for someone other than herself. But alas, it all proved true."

Aibek sighed heavily once and rested his back against the backrest once again. "I did consider simply killing you. But if I am on SHIELD's radar, I must have done something terrible for them to send you. And should you fail, no doubt they will send another. And another after that. So, I must learn whatever secrets SHIELD hold. And then I will break them. Starting with you and your partner."

Natasha's heart plunged into her stomach. So, they had captured Clint. Briefly, she wondered if they were treating him the same way they were treating her and quickly shook the thought away. They were in this mess together and would get out of it together. If she could keep Omarov's attention on her, then Clint could focus on an escape plan. She had an inkling Omarov was focusing all his efforts on her anyway – he seemed preoccupied with the whole notion of the Black Widow and he figured she would break first. Huge mistake on his part but it wasn't one she planned on fixing.

"Everyone has a breaking point, Ms. Romanoff. Even the Black Widow," Omarov stated confidently and then signaled to his guards.

The left one raised his rifle and the hard surface connected with her jaw. Stars exploded in front of her eyes and everything darkened at the edges. The whole room was tipping in and out of focus and while she tried to get her bearing, she felt the leather straps loosen around her wrists. She knew this was an opportune moment to strike when the straps around her ankles disappeared as well. But she couldn't get them to cooperate. Clumsily she lashed out with a fist and felt it connect with flesh. A grunt followed and then a rough backhand snapped her head to the side.

Her world darkened.

When she could finally think again, she opened her eyes to find her perspective different from before. Her wrists and feet had been bound together behind her back with new, thicker straps. They had suspended her from the hook in the ceiling she had noticed earlier, with her head tipping towards the floor. Her shoulders screamed at the pressure of holding most of her weight, while her legs pulled painfully at her hips. The blood rushing down to her head fueled the headache tremendously. Omarov crouched down before her so she could look into his eyes.

"Now, tell me all about SHIELD."

She spat in his face, a mixture of saliva and blood, and glared defiantly. He didn't scare her.

Omarov's jaw tightened as he wiped the spit from his mouth with his hand. He gestured to one of the guards, who reached forward and handed him a knife. Omarov inspected the weapon closely, turning it over and over in his grasp. Then he looked at Natasha again. Nimbly, he slashed at her throat.

It was barely more than nick, the sharp blade slicing quickly and cleanly over her skin. She felt blood slowly seeping out of the cut. It wasn't enough to kill her, at least not instantly. She felt the blood running down her jaw and watched it splash into the stone floor. The drops lazily rolled down and one by one they hit the ground.

"It's funny how gravity works. Such a small, insignificant cut turning dangerous simply over a matter of time. It's quite fascinating," Omarov gently said. He stood up and disappeared out of her line of sight.

"We shall speak again in a few hours," Omarov's accented voice muttered in her ear. It sent chills down her spine. "Until then, Ms. Romanoff."

She heard the scuffling of feet on stone as they left the room. Then the clang followed as the door was closed and locked.

She was alone again and only her strained breathing and the gentle drip…drip…drip of her blood splashing onto the stone echoed in the silence.

Chapter Text

The pool had grown quite large by the time Omarov returned.

Natasha passed the time counting the fat drops as they had rolled down her chin and mixed with the rest of her blood on the floor. She reached drop number 19.989 when the metal door scraped across the stones as it opened loudly. She counted three sets of shoes shuffling her direction and felt their body heat as two of them stood right beside her.

She received no warning as the binds connecting her hands and feet were cut and she dropped to the ground. The air was punched out of her lungs as her sore ribs connected with the stone. Her head smashed into the blood pool and the entire right side of her hair was suddenly mattered with it. Her head was still pounding, and the blood loss made her dizzy and nauseous as she was forced upright. The blood still inside of her rushed down and for a horrifying moment she thought she was going to vomit. She tried locating a guard's shoes through her blurred vision in case it actually happened.

She could smell the perfume of Aibek Omarov and knew he was present in the room, watching her every move. She was not going to give him that satisfaction. Stubbornly, she held it down.

Unceremoniously she was dumped into the same wooden chair from before and despite her best efforts, she felt herself slump backwards. Her energy levels were depleted, and the stone room was still spinning and tipping dangerously. She could hear her heart pumping like mad in her ears and felt oddly detached from everything. The nausea had abated slightly but didn't disappear entirely. She knew she had lost a good amount of blood – enough to affect her at least. It took her some minutes to get her bearings, blinking sluggishly while everything drifted back into focus. She hated that Omarov was present for it. It meant he had seen her mask slip, if only for a few seconds.

"Now, Ms. Romanoff, are you ready to have a proper conversation?" Omarov delicately said. He had dragged in his small chair and was sitting in precisely the same, annoyingly calm manner, with his legs crossed and hands resting in his lap.

"Usually, men take me out to dinner before demanding the dessert," Natasha muttered aloud. She blamed the blood loss for letting such a Clint Barton comment escape her lips.

Something flashed in Omarov's gaze before he sighed, up-giving. "I had hoped some time alone would have bettered your manners, but I can see that is not the case."

He snapped his fingers. The two, armed men grabbed her aching shoulders and tilted her chair backwards. It clanked as the backrest hit the floor and the back of Natasha's head slammed into the harsh stone. Her bound hands were trapped uncomfortably between her body and the floor. Omarov walked around and crouched down at her head. He looked at her with a sad and somewhat disappointed look in his eyes. In his hands he held a white, dirty cloth and a hose.

"Let's start with something easy. Where is the nearest SHIELD base?" Omarov demanded.

Natasha only glared at him in response.

"Very well."

The Kazakh handed the cloth to his guards, who held firmly in place, so it covered her face.

Then the water started.

It rained down from above and soaked the cloth within seconds. A few breaths after that, it traveled into her eyes and forced its way down her throat. It ached as it ran down and just as she started choking on it, the water stopped, and the cloth was removed.

Omarov's cool gaze greeted her on the other end.

"It can stop if you just tell me," he encouraged.

Natasha maintained her harsh Widow stare. He could waterboard her all he liked. The Red Room excelled at this kind of torture – they had used it on her repeatedly. She had gotten quite good at holding her breath. Bring it, mудак.

Again, and again, the water ran over her face. The cloth stank and the smell was almost worse than the water that assaulted her airways. She held her breath time and time again and when Omarov caught on, he let the water stay turned on for longer periods of time.

She retreated into the back of her mind, let her thoughts drift on Clint and then Phil and all the good things they had accomplished together, as the water overtook her senses. She choked and coughed and wheezed every time she was allowed a respite and then it returned once more. It carried on for quite some time and Natasha stopped timing halfway through. Then the cloth disappeared, and she started coughing up all the water from her lungs. It sprayed into her eyes as she choked it up and she turned her head to the side to spit it out. This time the cloth didn't return. Instead, the chair was tilted upright again. Her upper body sagged forward against her wishes, disoriented at the rapid change. Strong hands pushed her back and held her in place.

Omarov was in front of her again, looking like nothing had transpired. He looked thoughtful and somehow smug. "I am not much for games, Ms. Romanoff," he then said. "And I have had quite enough of this one."

"I definitely agree," Natasha cut in. Her voice was rough from all the water and coughing and she winced at the sound. She didn't like sounding weak and fragile, and definitely not in front of her enemies.

"So, if you don't respond to your own pain, perhaps you will respond to his."

Scuffling echoed from down the hall. Shuffling feet on rough stone followed by a surprised shout and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh. A deep grunt. She recognized that sound. She had heard it many times – even made him utter it herself during sparring sessions.

Clint.

Natasha's head snapped to the doorway as two guards entered, manhandling the third man. Clint looked up as they dragged him in, and all the fight seemed to seep out of him. He stopped dead in his tracks as he made eye contact with Natasha. They forced him to his knees, but he never took his eyes off her. His hands were tied tightly behind his back with chains. She could hear them rattle when he moved. Blood had mixed in with his hair on the left side of his head from a gash hidden on his scalp. A couple of bruises sported his face. They had hit him, but the location of his bruises told her it had been punishment and not for information like they had done to her.

She directed her icy stare back at Omarov, all the while making sure none of the anger she felt made it past the mask she wore. She was the Black Widow, and the Black Widow didn't care about anyone but herself. They would never get the satisfaction of hearing her beg. Or of seeing that they were pushing all the right buttons.

"Now, everything I have done to you, I can do to him," Omarov said, smirking with satisfaction. "Make you watch as he bleeds and suffers."

"Do your worst," Natasha dared. She didn't even look at Clint and she knew he understood why. This wasn't the first time they had been used against each other and, assuming they made it out of this, it definitely wouldn't be the last. It was an occupational hazard, when working as a team, one they had accepted a long time ago. No matter how much it hurt to witness, they had promised that they would never break.

Omarov nodded towards one of the guards. The guard in turn struck Clint as hard as he could. Clint's head snapped to the side at the force, but he remained silent.

Omarov inspected her face; no doubt searching for a reaction. She didn't even flinch. He noticed her detached exterior and squinted with suspicion, a challenge lurking behind his calm gaze. Then he rose from the chair and strolled casually towards Barton, picking up the knife from the sheath of one of his goons on the way.

"You are resilient, Ms. Romanoff, I grant you. Perhaps pain is too meager a punishment for such … outstanding agents such as yourselves," Omarov said. He stopped when he was just behind Clint, who jerked his body in an effort to get away from the Kazakh who drew nearer. He was held firmly in place as Omarov placed his smooth hands on Clint's shoulders to hold him still, maintaining eye contact with Natasha the whole way.

"Pain comes in so many forms after all and no doubt you've experienced some. But permanent harm… that is something completely different, wouldn't you say?" Omarov reached down behind Clint's back and Natasha knew immediately what would follow.

Clint seemed to know it too and he tightened his jaw with the anticipation. A second passed and then the resounding crack echoed loudly in the room. Clint exhaled through his nose sharply and bit down the scream of pain as his finger was broken. Natasha's stomach twisted at the sound and the pain that shone in Clint's eyes, but nothing broke through her façade. Instead, she silently imagined what it would be like to snap Omarov's neck, letting that calm her.

Her green orbs found Clint's grey ones then. He nodded curtly once. It was brief and for any of the others present in the room it would have looked like he was only assuring her he could handle it. To her though, it meant she now knew what to do.

"Nothing? Do you care so little for your partner?" Omarov sounded almost surprised. But there was also amusement hidden in his voice. Like he hadn't felt this entertained in a long time. He smiled almost wickedly. He grabbed a firm hold of Clint's short hair and twisted his head upwards. Clint grunted with the action and sent a murderous glare at the Kazakh. Omarov did have the good sense to lose his challenging smile. He looked up at Natasha again.

"Tell me, Ms. Romanoff… What do you think would happen if we removed the hawk's eyes?" he mused. He placed the blade tauntingly on Clint's right cheek, etching slowly closer to his eyeball. Clint continued to stare hatefully up at the man, his jaw clenched tight. His breath came out as short, hitching puffs through his nostrils at the threat. "Who do you think Hawkeye would be without his sight?"

Omarov rested the blade at the corner of his eye, tentatively pricking the skin. Blood welled up around the point of the knife. Natasha tightened her hands into fists as Clint closed both his eyes. He couldn't hide the way his chest moved up and down rapidly in fear as he steeled himself for what to come. She took a deep breath and decided this was far enough. She would have to let him know he had broken her. Exactly like he wanted.

"Fine," she muttered.

Omarov stopped his work to look back at his captive. Macabre glee and victory broke across his face. He removed the knife from Clint's face and the archer visibly relaxed despite his best efforts. A thin line of blood trailed like a crimson tear down his face.

Omarov didn't move away. He still held one hand menacingly on Clint's shoulder to punctuate the clear threat. It was the promise of more to come if she stopped cooperating.

"Alright, Ms. Romanoff. Speak," he said, sounding pleased.

"You let him go first," Natasha demanded.

"Nat, don't," Clint warned, the first he had spoken since their capture.

Natasha ignored him, her green eyes firmly aimed at Aibek Omarov. "You release him. And I'll tell you everything. Every secret, every weakness. Just get him out of my sight. He doesn't need to be here for this."

"Natasha…" Clint interjected, his voice low and disbelieving.

"Shut up, Barton. This doesn't concern you," she roughly snapped. She didn't look at him, so she didn't see the broken face staring back at her.

Omarov looked at her for a long time, as if he was trying to discern all of her secrets from her closed-down face. He was trying to decide whether or not she was telling him the truth. The seconds ticked by as nobody moved an inch. Then Omarov broke into his vile, thin smile.

"Then we have a deal," he stated and turned to one of the guards. "Escort Mr. Barton back to his cell. Keep him there until we know she is not playing us for fools."

The two guards who had brought him in, roughly hauled Clint to his feet. He didn't try and resist this time. Instead, he just stared at his partner, his gaze full of betrayal and hurt, as he was escorted out of the room. He vanished from her view wordlessly. Omarov stopped the third guard on his way out by a hand on his arm and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

Natasha strained her ears to listen in but could only pick up the sound of his accented voice. She couldn't discern any words and instead settled for eyeing Omarov suspiciously as he sat back down into his seat. He waited until they were left alone, aside from his two original guards who had stationed themselves back into their corners, hands idly resting on their rifles.

Then he said, "I am curious. You would betray everything you stand for? For him? I do wonder if this is some misguided form for love."

"Love is for children," she harshly replied. "I have no loyalty towards him. Or SHIELD."

"So, you say. Yet you can understand my trepidation – you have worked for these people for years, as I understand it. And now, you want to just toss it all away."

Natasha knew she had to tread lightly. As casually as she possibly could, she answered. "I switched sides once. I can do it again."

Aibek Omarov huffed a laugh, mirth gleaming in his eyes as he leaned forward, intrigued.

"Very well, Ms. Romanoff… Let's talk."

Chapter Text

Clint was dragged through the damp hallways towards his cell. He kept his head low, playing the role of beaten and betrayed all the way back.

He was anything but.

Right now, Natasha was spilling all sorts of SHIELD 'secrets' to Aibek Omarov but there weren't really any actual secrets. First off, Director Nick Fury was paranoid enough to not let any agent know more than absolutely necessary – that way, if any got caught, no one would spill the beans. But agents ranking higher up in the agency, such as one Natasha Romanoff, or Clint Barton or Phil Coulson, automatically held more information. SHIELD operating procedures, protocols and security measures … The higher your clearance, the more you knew. Your ID-card couldn't magically gain you access to everything, no matter your clearance level but your knowledge was something else entirely.

But another default SHIELD had started implementing was fake intel. SHIELD had fake intel that stretched across the globe – it would turn to dust immediately when poked or inspected but it was handy in a pinch. It took at least some hours to discredit, so when you needed to stall, this was another tool in their belt to utilize. It had saved their ass a few times in the past and it was about to save it again. Clint needed time to execute an escape plan – so Natasha would stall for time, as much of it as possible, to keep Omarov and his goons distracted..

But he wanted to get her out of there quickly. They had hit her – several times from the looks of her split lip, cracked cheekbone and all the bruises and swelling. Her hair was sticking together from blood on the one side, although a lot of the water they had used for the torture had washed it all out. She had looked paler than usual and he hadn't missed the blood pool behind her when he had first been dragged into her cell. They had interrogated her to great lengths, and it pissed him off that he had been left untouched and practically abandoned while she had suffered.

Natasha could take it, he knew. But that didn't make it any easier to watch.

The two guards had his biceps in a firm grip as they escorted him past all the prison cells. The entire prison ward (which was the only part of the compound they had let him see so far), had been built of rough, large stones and three of the four walls of each cell was separated by the bricks. The fourth wall wasn't a wall at least but consisted of thick, iron bars that had been buried deep into the stone of the ceiling and floor. Clint had tried wrestling them free – old brick structures usually meant loose bars. But none of them had budged so much as an inch. Instead, he had managed to find a rusty nail lying on the floor. A quick, fake fall and he had managed to sneak it under his vest before the guards had wrestled him back up.

He would wait until they had discarded him again and left. Fewer semi-automatic rifles to contend with. So, he acted docile and compliant as they shuffled down the hall and opened his cell door. Much to his surprise though, they didn't just toss him to the floor like usual. Instead, they escorted him all the way in and threw him against the wall.

One guard pressed the back of his head firmly into the stone surface, his cheek scraping against the rough stones, while with his other hand he held the iron manacles as high up against his back as possible, locking his shoulders painfully. The other guard dug the barrel of the semi-automatic into his back, the threat loud and clear.

A new pair of feet joined the skirmish, as another guard entered his cell. The guards were muttering in his ear though it was muffled and difficult to make out. But when the third guard spoke, Clint understood enough Russian to pick up on what he said.

"Hold him!"

Clint's head was turned to the side so out of the corner of his eye he saw the man approaching, a thin syringe containing a clear liquid uncapped and held ready in his hands, ready to plunge it into Clint's neck.

Aw, hell no...

Clint didn't waste a breath.

He kicked the kneecap of the first guard, who immediately released his hold as he fell with a cry of pain. Clint then twisted out of the way as the second guard fired his weapon in response, the bullets burying themselves into the stone wall. He planted his foot in the man's stomach and then kicked the semi-automatic out of his hands. It went clattering across the floor. He jumped into the air, wrapped his legs around the neck of the now unarmed guard and they both collapsed onto floor, where Clint twisted his hip and the man's neck snapped between his thighs – Thank you, Natasha.

With his hands still tied around his back, he rolled backwards and let the momentum carry him back onto his feet. The second he was up, his world exploded into blackness as the butt of a rifle connected with his head. He was sent staggering while he shook his head to rid it of the black spots dancing in his vision.

As clarity slowly eased back, he looked to his assailant and saw the third, still intact, guard aiming the dropped semi-automatic directly at his head. He was just out of reach – far enough away that he would be shot if he dared attack.

"Don't move!" the guard barked, still in the Russian language.

Clint remained where he was, breathing heavily and glaring at the man. The finger Omarov had broken was pulsing painfully. He didn't move a muscle. The guard continued speaking in Russian, his words slurred and way too fast for Clint to pick up on what he said. He was speaking to his fellow guard, who was slowly rising with his shattered kneecap. He hobbled over, accepted the offered syringe from his colleague and wobbled his way back towards Clint, who was still staring hatefully at the armed guard. He practically growled as he could do nothing but accept the bite of the needle as it was plunged into his neck. The contents felt cold as it entered his bloodstream.

With the rifle still aimed at on his head, they at least had the decency to unlock his cuffs before they dragged the third, now dead guard out of the prison cell. They slammed the iron door violently closed as they exited.

Clint waited until they were out of sight before he gingerly touched the spot on his neck where they had injected him. The spot was tender but hardly bled. He stayed perfectly still, just listening to his heart beating in his ears and his breathing echoing in the damp cell. The minutes passed by. Nothing happened. He didn't feel any different; couldn't feel any change. He quickly decided that would have to be a problem for later. Right now, he had bigger things to worry about.

He took out the nail he had tugged away under his vest. He had spent the hours he had been left alone to sharpen and bend it enough so that it would fit inside the door lock. They had gone to great lengths to make sure the Black Widow didn't escape that they had forgotten about Hawkeye. They had placed her, tied up, in a secure prison cell, the lock hidden on the outer side of the door while they had merely dumped him in an open room with easy access to the lock. Amateurs. Though, it wasn't really their fault. People had underestimated him his whole life. He had learned to feign helplessness and simply selling himself short, to play into their beliefs. Rarely did anyone live long enough to learn from that mistake.

He was practically smirking as he angled the nail into the lock and started turning it gently back and forth. The bars made it a bit more difficult than he had first anticipated, his hand bent in an awkward position. Eventually, it clicked victoriously. Clint pushed the barred door and it opened on squeaking hinges.

The dead guard had been dumped a few feet down the hall. Clint started padding him down and liberated him of his semi-automatic, handgun and serrated knife. He tucked the handgun into his belt and pulled the strap of the rifle over his head. The blade he held in his hands. The guns he would only use in emergencies – no need to extract any unwanted attention unless absolutely necessary. The hall forked into two directions. He chose the right branch, sticking close to the one wall. He needed a map over this place. He only knew the way to Nat's cell, and from there, he had no idea what the layout of the compound was. So, he figured he would get Natasha and together they could find a way out.

He shuffled along silently, keeping his ears peeled for any company. He turned left at a bend and heard boots echoing down the hallway ahead. It was the only path to his partner and there was nowhere to hide, so he broke into a run. His joints ached suddenly, but he ignored it. He wasn't exactly having the best day at the moment. He met his foes head on. The second the two guardsmen came into view, Clint threw his knife. It soared through the air with deadly precision where it buried itself deeply into the chest of one of the guards. He crumpled listlessly to the ground. The few seconds it took for his companion to actually grasp what had just occurred was all Clint needed. He covered the remaining few yards at a sprint and tackled the second guard roughly. The man went down with a breathless grunt and Clint used his own rifle to knock him out. Clint rose from the floor, pulling his blade out of the dead guard's chest on his way up. He used it to slice the throat of the unconscious guard. By now, a headache pounded behind his eyes. Ignorable, but highly annoying.

He carried on.

He reached Natasha. The two guards posted outside her cell were staring blankly ahead. He listened closely but couldn't hear any other guards shuffling his way, so he decided to go with the same tactic as before. He started the sprint and took aim with his knife. It flew at his target but instead of being imbedded in his chest like Clint had expected, it smacked him in his face.

What the hell...

It did create the distraction he needed though, so he just went with it. He pounced on the other guard, by grabbing hold of his shoulders as he smashed him into the stone floor. In the same movement, he backflipped onto his feet and turned to the first man. He pushed him into the wall, took a fistful of hair and slammed his head against the bricks. He slid bonelessly down to the floor. Clint spun on his ankle and punched the other guard, who was attempting to rise. He flopped down, unconscious. Clint picked up the knife he had thrown and stared wonderingly at it, musing how he could have messed up that aim. He never missed… He shook the thoughts from his head. Probably his broken finger screwing with him. Keep your head in the game, Barton.

Feeling slightly warm, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and took the keys jangling with the belt of one guard. Gingerly he unlocked the steel door. Natasha's green eyes was staring back at him from the other side, still securely fastened to the chair. It didn't seem like they had hurt her further after he had been dragged out. She smiled confidently as he moved into her cell, crouched down in front of her and began carving away the leather bindings.

"You certainly took your sweet time," she commented as he cut the final strap holding her right leg.

"Yeah, well, check-out ran a bit long."

He helped her gingerly to her feet as she rose shakingly, her limbs stiff and uncooperative from being tied for so long. She looked him over critically, her piercing gaze searching his face.

"You alright?" she gently asked.

He must look as worn as he currently felt for her to even ask. He put on his best, most convincing smile and shrugged his shoulders, nonchalant, ignoring the way the joints spiked with a pained throb. "Peachy. Ready to get out of here?"

He handed her the handgun he had liberated from one of the guards outside, which she gladly accepted.

"Thought you would never ask."

Chapter Text

The two assassins moved through the compound as stealthily as possible. They stuck close to the walls, avoiding guards where they could and quietly disposing of the ones where they couldn't.

Natasha had stolen a pair of boots from one of her guards on her way out. They weren't entirely her size and her feet slipped around inside of them, but she had tied them tight and it was much better than waltzing around without shoes. And Clint would have gladly made her take his own pair, if it meant she wouldn't have to walk barefoot.

She tossed another glance at her partner as he peeked his head curiously around a corner. He seemed a little worse than the peachy he had told her, but she had learned long ago not to trust his words on his own welfare. He constantly downplayed it - not that she blamed him, because she usually kept silent about her own injuries if there was nothing to be done. She had bound his broken ring finger to the middle one with a thin piece of cloth and the prick Omarov had made by his eye had barely bled any more. But that wasn't what was causing his sweaty skin and the light tremor in his hand, which he was trying to hide from her. He seemed slightly off, but she couldn't pinpoint why or how.

The sound of muted conversation reached their ears at the next turn. Many pairs of feet hitting the floor echoed over, and Natasha knew there had to be more than the standard two rotor they had encountered so far. They were approaching fast, and it was too late to turn around – the corridor only ran one way. They would get spotted before they had a chance to hide. One quick glance at Clint told her he had picked up on it too. They didn't even have to speak. A single nod was all the planning they needed.

Clint stood with his back against the wall, hidden from view from the approaching flock of guards while Natasha jumped into the open. She looked startled as the five guardsmen came upon her, their surprised shouts ending their relaxed banter. They immediately aimed their rifles at the escaped prisoner, one barked an order at her not to move and then they inched forward carefully. She held up her hands obediently, the scared expression never leaving her face and let them sneak closer.

The five guards clustered in the tight hall and once the front man came close enough to reach her, Clint struck.

He spun out right next to the two guards in the back. He grabbed the nearest one around the neck. He used the stolen knife to slit his throat while he kicked the rifle out of the hands on the other one. It was all the distraction Natasha needed. She planted her booted foot between the legs of the closest guard. As his face scrunched up with pain, she liberated the rifle from his limp hands and smashed the end of it into his jaw. As he swayed listlessly to the side, the two other armed men aimed their barrels at her chest.

Before they could squeeze the trigger, she dropped to the ground and swept her leg across the ground. They stumbled into each other. Their fingers left the triggers. One of them took a wild swing in her direction. She caught the hand as it soared past her chest, flipped the wrist and twisted it to the side. She held it there as she kicked the other guard in the chest, stunning him momentarily. Then she backflipped around the first guard's arm, hearing the crunch as his joint twisted. She used his weakened state to hurl his head against the stone wall.

The remaining guard got the drop on her and managed to punch her chin. Reeling backwards, she took a millisecond to catch her breath. She heard Clint's grunts of effort ringing in her ears.

Then she charged.

He threw another punch, this time completely thoughtless, and she caught it, leading his arm upwards. His side exposed, she kicked him hard enough to hear a rib crack. She spun, his hand still clenched in her grasp, until she was at his back with his arm wrenched in between their bodies. She grabbed the knife from the sheath at his waist and plunged it into his chest. She felt his body turn limp and she released her hold. He flopped to the ground, his blood seeping into the cracks of the stone.

Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest – at least to her it sounded loud. Her mind was spinning like mad and she had to place her hand on the wall for support until her senses returned. She could feel the effects of the blood loss and she hated every minute of it. She hated feeling weak.

A gunshot rang out.

Torn back into reality, Natasha's head snapped in the direction of the sound. She saw Clint with the handgun still aimed at where a guard had stood. The man was sprawled out on the ground, blood coloring his chest and the floor beneath. A tremor ran down Clint's arm and his hand shook so violently the gun fell to the ground with a clatter.

"Shit," the archer muttered as he went to pick up the fallen weapon.

As he shakily bent down to retrieve the handgun, his throat was left exposed and Natasha was finally able to discern what was wrong. She wasted no time. The second he was up, she tossed him against the wall, with one hand resting on his chest, she used the other to turn his head to the side. A small, circular bruise ringed the tiny injection site in his neck. She inspected it closely but didn't find anything to give her a clue as to what might be running through his system. She released her hold on him.

"What did they give you?"

Clint shrugged, like it didn't matter. "Beats me. Starting to feel a bit fuzzy though, so whatever it is, my bet is it ain't vitamins."

"Run it down for me. What are your symptoms?" she asked sternly. She wanted to know exactly what they were dealing with.

"So far, it's not much. Headache, a rising fever… I feel… like I'm disconnected from myself."

"That why you planted a bullet on that guy's chest?" she gestured to the dead guard at their feet.

"He pulled a gun on me first," Clint childishly defended.

She instantly saw through his attempt at humor. He wouldn't have jeopardized their escape with loud noises if he could have helped it. And that statement did cause a ball of concern to tighten in her stomach. He had pulled that trigger because he would have been killed otherwise. He could barely take on two guards, one of which he had already killed fairly quickly. Whatever they had infected him with, was affecting him badly.

And that frightened Natasha immensely.
---------------------------------------------------

Clint trailed after his partner as she led the way.

They moved in silence. Natasha was processing, he knew, and only threw the occasional glance his way to make sure he was keeping up with her pace. She was punishing him for not telling her about the injection sooner – Incredibly childish by her standards and yet incredibly effective. She had the uncanny ability to make him feel stupid and ashamed by simply refusing to speak to him. It irked him to no end.

Not even Coulson could do that.

He understood her anger, though. Especially now. He could feel his own body slowly deteriorating. He could handle it, would manage until this was done. But he knew the longer it took, the more of a liability he would become. They had no idea what he had been infected with – had no idea what was in store and how long it took before it got worse. So, he let her brood. Let her punish him with her silence, no matter how much it irritated him.

It also gave him an opportunity to keep an eye on her. He could recognize the effects of blood loss easily enough; the small breaks throughout their walk and her breathlessness. He knew she had been tortured and clearly lost a good amount of blood before he could come for her. His partner was stubborn, and no doubt knew how to push all of Omarov's buttons. He just hoped she hadn't suffered too much. So, he took to watching her movements to make sure she wasn't hiding anything either.

Plus, he got to irritate her too.

Something else that annoyed him was this compound.

It didn't have a logical structure they could follow. Everything seemed randomly placed and so far, they hadn't come across a tech or storage room – nothing where they could gain an overview of this place, find its weak spots, or their weapons. Clint missed his bow. When he had that in hand, everything seemed easier, simpler… His broken index finger throbbed at the thought. Luckily, Omarov had only managed to snap the one. Painfully as it was, he was still able to shoot his precious bow; he didn't have a preference to which hand he used. He had learned to shoot his weapon equally well with both left and right. So, in similar situations, he wasn't useless.

Although he felt useless at the moment. The way he had to slow down to catch his breath, how he had to have a hand on the wall to support him when the world suddenly lurched, how disoriented he felt. He felt warm so he knew he was running a fever and his head hadn't ceased its relentless pounding, only increased it.

He was stuck inside his own spinning misery, so it took a while before he noticed his surroundings changed. Instead of the old, cold stones, a white linoleum floor took its place. Clean, grey wall panels and a fraction of warmth started creeping back. This was definitely a new addition. He caught sight of an air vent under the ceiling, lines of pipes running above their heads, and the steady hum of a machine whispering in his ears. He looked around to see if he could spot whatever it was powering, but it seemed hidden behind the walls. But this was good. Newer rooms meant more tech and more tech meant a control room.

They just had to find it.

Natasha and Clint continued their pace; Clint feeling more hopeful and energized. They turned a corner. The hall stretched on, a couple of doors on each side. A set of double doors stood wide open to their right. Natasha practically melted into the wall as she crept along and sneaked a glimpse inside. Clint swept his eyes across the grey hall, staring at the other doors to make sure no visitors snuck up on them.

"Clint," Natasha whispered. There was something in her voice; something haunted. Her face was still staring inside the double-doored room. Whatever she had spotted, it was enough to break her punishment of silence.

He abandoned his watch and glanced inside.

It was a big, open room with the same dull color covering the wall and ceiling. No one was inside, the light switched off. Several thin beds were lined up against each wall, a couple of square machines rolled close to each. It looked almost like a large hospital room, only with a lot more beds. At first glance, it seemed like it could have been an infirmary. Except nothing was turned on, no lights, no machines and there were no doctors or medical personnel in sight. Yet all the beds were occupied. Figures lay silently, wrists tied with thick straps to the bedrail. Some looked incredibly small.

Dread tightened in his chest, as Clint etched into the room. He heard Natasha's soft footfalls follow his. He reached the first bed and looked down. His breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart constrict. Natasha uttered some Russian prayer or curse in his ear – he couldn't tell which.

On the white mattress lay a boy. He couldn't have been more than 13. His lean frame was covered by a ratty, brown blanket but it didn't hide how thin he was. He was clearly malnourished, fed only enough to survive, his cheeks hollowed out and his eyes sunken. They were closed and if he hadn't been as pale as the sheet underneath him, he might only have been resting. But his lips were blue and as lifeless as the rest of him.

Clint tore his gaze away from the dead teenager and ran it over each and every figure on their own respective beds. He didn't need to move any closer to see they were all dead as well. All covered with the same disgusting blanket, all tied down tightly. The 13-year-old in front of them seemed the oldest – Clint could discern some markedly smaller figures further down. His heart pulled painfully at the horrible sight.

Disgust, horror, sadness, anger… All of it swirled within his mind, felt it pulling and pushing until he was left breathless and dizzy.

All children… All dead…

Chapter Text

"What the hell did he do to them?"

The question lingered in the air.

Natasha didn't have an answer and part of her didn't even want to find out. All she wanted was to find Aibek Omarov and put a bullet in his head. But not before submitting him to whatever horrors he had put these children through.

When she had escaped the Red Room fully and Clint had brought her to SHIELD, she swore she would do her best to never let another child suffer under bad men. Not the Red Room, and not Aibek Omarov. Bad people hurting other bad people, bad people hurting her people… She wasn't naïve, she knew that was the way of the world. She could live with that. But when bad people started hurting children, not even as collateral damage in a fight, but hurting them for what seemed like pointless experiments… It churned her stomach.

Sadden anger clenched her heart as she stood staring down on a pale, thin girl, a mere 10 years old. Her fingers tightened around the clipboard she had taken from the holder at the foot of the bed. Almost in a trance, she tore her gaze away from the child and glanced through the information on the paper. The chart didn't tell her much. The age of the girl, her name ('Anara', Natasha noted), and something labelled exposure time along with TOD. Time of death… Natasha read it; 'TOD: 14h post exposure.'

Natasha angrily threw the clipboard onto one of the nearby tables. She turned her back to the lifeless child and quickly located her partner, staring at another child in another bed across from her. He was reading the corresponding chart to the small boy, pale and eyes closed forever like all the rest, as Natasha walked over. She noted how Clint's entire body stood stiff and his jaw was tightly clenched, while his grey eyes roamed over the paper. He was quiet. He hadn't said a word since they entered this room of death. He was angry. Beyond angry – fury and hatred emanated from his core and Natasha knew the archer well enough to know she needed to reel him in. He was good at faking and hiding his emotions, but never to her. She knew exactly how he felt. Because she was feeling all of it too. But she would use her outrage and would wait until she stood in front of Omarov before releasing all of it on that mудак. Clint would unleash it on everyone.

She gently placed a hand on his bicep, the muscle warm and tight under her fingers. It seemed to anchor him slightly as he lowered the chart and raised his eyes to hers.

"He was only 8…," Clint muttered and threw the chart angrily away. It clamored to the ground, echoing in the quiet.

"Focus, Clint. Don't do that to yourself," Natasha warned gently. "We're not exactly at a 100 %... We need to be smart. Rein it in."

Clint closed his eyes once more and took a deep breath. He let it out in a sigh, nodding his head weakly. "Okay…"

When he reopened his eyes, they were stoic, and his normally calm mask had slipped back into place. "But when we find Omarov, I'm gonna bury an arrow for each one of these kids in his chest."

He searched all the still bodies on top their mattresses. His eyes jumped from bed to bed and Natasha knew he was counting them. She already had. There were 28 in total. 28 dead children, tied down and murdered… For what? What was Omarov's agenda?

"We need to figure out what happened to them," she said aloud and picked up the clipboard Clint had thrown to the floor. "Start reading."

He nodded his agreement and moved to the nearest bed, grabbing the chart from the edge and began skimming the pages for information. "Name: Temir, age: 12, exposure time: 09:36… TOD: 10 hours post exposure…"

"Shamil, 8, exposure time: 15:53, TOD: 11 hours post exposure," Natasha read aloud.

They moved further into the room, bed after bed, child after child, chart after chart. They quickly stopped saying the names and ages of each one after the first three. It only fueled their anger and right now, that was not in their best interest. The two assassins gingerly went through each file, meticulously combing it through for any details.

"TOD: 2 days post exposure."

"TOD: 31 hours post exposure."

"TOD: 20 hours post exposure."

"TOD: 14 hours post exposure."

"TOD: 10 hours post exposure."

All the way to the small teenager they had encountered when they first found the room. Natasha read the final chart aloud. "Rinat, 13, TOD: 7 hours post exposure."

"They were all exposed and subsequently died some hours after, but he's the one with the earliest TOD. I think they were trying to perfect whatever they dosed these kids with…"

Natasha met his gaze, trepidation clenching her chest. "Clint…"

She never got to finish. A shrill blaring began screaming through the entire compound. A flashing red light mounted above the double doors started painting the floors and walls with crimson waves.

"Looks like time's up, Nat," Clint remarked.

"We can't just leave. Clint, not after this," Natasha argued, gesturing to all the beds in the ward.

"Nat, you said it yourself; we're outnumbered and we both feel like shit - Yeah, don't even bother," he interjected at her open mouth, ready to protest. "If we're gonna be smart, we need to regroup – preferably somewhere they aren't shooting at us constantly."

She knew he was being rational now, exactly like she had wanted. She knew that was the right course of action. But that didn't stop the gnawing urge in her stomach – one borne of hatred and fueled by vengeance and injustice. It was the one the Red Room had nurtured and fed all those years at the academy. Usually, she kept a tight grip on it. It only ever led to destruction and death. But those kids sent it flaring up again. And she would avenge this.

But right now, she knew they had to get out of here. Take a second, formulate a proper plan and then complete the mission objective.

"Then lead the way, Barton."

The hangar echoed with the loud gunshots as Natasha fired another round before retreating behind her cover.

Wooden chips flew about her face as the return bullets embedded themselves into the crate she was leaning against. Clint was crouched down behind two large metal containers, the bullets plinking off in wild directions. He was clenching a semi-automatic tightly, letting off a few of his own rounds whenever he got the occasion. Most hit their mark as more guards went down with a cry of pain, but he didn't hit with every shot either – by his standards, that was quite disconcerting. More sweat had gathered on his forehead even before they had found trouble in this hangar. Just on the other side of the large hangar door laid the open landscape and freedom. All the two SHIELD agents had to do was force their way through the surprisingly large army of guards they had accidently walked in on.

"I only asked if this was an exit. I think they're overreacting massively!" Clint shouted over the gunfire. He leaned out and fired off another burst from his own weapon.

"We need a way through before reinforcements come," Natasha yelled back. She risked a glance over her protective crate. She counted 11 men still standing, all armed with their own semi-automatic rifles. So far, she and Barton had been able to keep the guards from boxing them in but that wouldn't last. Soon more guards would arrive and then there was nowhere to hide and all of it was for nothing. She scanned their surroundings for anything that might help. Aside from weapon containers, crates and gas canisters, the hangar contained a few snow mobiles and a couple of UTV vehicles. No doubt all of them was now filled with bullet holes. Natasha spotted a crate to the next of the guards with thick black letters burned into the wood: 'CAREFUL, KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE'. An orange sticker depicting flames, labelling it as something combustible, had been slapped next to the writing.

Perfect.

"Wanna blow something up?" she called to her partner.

Barton looked at her curiously and followed her line of sight. A wry smile spread over his tired lips. He reloaded the semi-automatic with the last clip he had 'borrowed' from one of the earlier guard patrols on the way.

"You take right, I take left?"

Natasha nodded and held out her hand. Clint clicked on the safety of the rifle and slid it the short distance across the floor to her location. It skidded to a halt by her feet. At least, he wasn't foolish enough to trust his aim to throw it at her. She picked up the rifle and flicked the safety back off. Wordlessly, she counted down. Then she spun on her heel and went for the wall to her right while Clint mirrored her movements and moved to the left. There he sought cover wherever he could find it, while Natasha drew their fire. She rapid fired at the guards and then ducked behind whatever hiding spot she came across. She didn't properly aim anymore. She simply pulled the trigger and assaulted the guards with ammunition to keep their attention on her.

It was working.

The bullets they returned embedded themselves in the walls, pinging off the floor, keeping her locked down in her position. One came a little too close for comfort as it whizzed past her ear, tearing bits of her hair out as it buried itself into the wall behind her. She flowed from each hiding place to the next, moving back and forth to convince them they were still together.

Meanwhile, Clint was sneaking closer on the other end. Steadily he reached his target; he stopped inching when he was directly across from the desired crate. Then he pulled out the handgun – likewise liberated from a guard – and took careful aim. His hand holding the weapon shook delicately and his vision wavered, ever so slightly shifting in and out of focus. He could feel the sweat running from his hairline down his cheek, feeling heated and disoriented. He breathed out a hiss of frustration.

Screw it.

He lowered the gun and took a quick breath. He couldn't rely on his natural aim. So, he relied instead on instinct.

In a flash he raised the barrel and fired four shots in succession. Two buried themselves on the thicker parts of the wooden crate but the two others found their target. There wasn't any delay to the reaction. A sucking sound erupted from the crate and was followed immediately by a high-pitched whine. Then the crate erupted into large flames as it violently and loudly exploded. Two of the guards closest to the blast were almost swallowed completely by the fire while the remaining men were tossed to the ground by the resulting blast wave. Clint felt it pushing at him, a slight ringing echoing in his ears, but he was still standing. As was Natasha who came running out of her hiding place. On her way towards her partner, she slammed the end of the rifle into the head of one guard, who was shakily trying to rise to his feet. He collapsed back down listlessly.

Clint moved out into the open and to the hangar door. It was dented from the explosion, the right side of the bottom blasted outwards. Clint easily wiggled his hands underneath and pushed it upwards. With a rushing whoosh, it soared up.

The two assassins blinked in the bright morning sun, reflected off of the snowy surface. Behind them, the alarm was still screeching loudly. Natasha squinted in the harsh light, letting her eyes adjust, and examined their surroundings. The land stretched on indefinitely, the hilly landscape only dotted with occasional patches of pine trees. Aside from the blaring compound at their backs, there was not a structure in sight. A thin layer of snow covered the ground and settled on the thin tall branches of the pines. Unless it had snowed vigorously within the past 24 hours, Natasha dared assume they had been moved some hours north – very close to the Russian border, if she had to guess.

Clint relieved an unconscious guard of his rifle and his radio and together they moved into the open landscape. Natasha led the way and kept a hearty pace. She heard Clint's heavy footfalls crunching the soft snow behind her, his breathing labored and ragged.

But he stayed a steady presence at her back the entire time.

Chapter Text

About an hour and a half later, the two weary assassins trailed to a stop.

They didn't go far. Instead, they concentrated on circling around, deleting their tracks in the snow to prevent any of Omarov's men from following them. But it was only a matter of time before they were found, in this desolate terrain where the only cover was the scattered pine trees and small hills.

The crisp air had barely warmed as the day had progressed and Natasha could feel the cold aching in her lungs. She headed for a bend around a hill to provide some temporary refuge. When she halted in her tracks, Clint immediately stumbled into her. He clumsily pulled away while she kept a steady hand on his bicep, keeping him gently upright as he swayed.

"Sit down, Clint. It's alright, you can rest," she assured while she guided him down onto the pressed snow. She remained crouched down beside him, a hand firmly pressing his shoulder to alert him of her presence.

Her partner looked up at her drowsily and for a breathless second none of the sharp lucidity his eyes normally held was present. Then he blinked and some of the confusion and disorientation slipped out of his gaze again. He seemed bewildered to be sitting down as if he had no recollection of what had just transpired.

"Natasha…" he breathlessly stated.

"What happened to you, where did you go?"

His eyes flickered from side to side as he searched for an answer. Shaking his head as he came up empty, Natasha knew it frustrated him to no end. He threw his head back and exhaled sharply. For all his frustration, she just felt trepidation. It unnerved her to see him so rattled and disconnected.

"How long since they infected you?"

"Not sure – about 5 hours, a bit more, a bit less."

"That last kid died 7 hours after exposure, Clint."

"I'd like to think my stamina is a bit stronger than a 13-year-old."

"Clint…," she warned gently.

He lowered his head again to look at her, his features worn out.

"I know, Nat. But what do you want me to do about it?" he shrugged nonchalant. "I'm just… so damn tired."

"I expect you to fight.

I expect you to go out there and cover my back, like you've always done."

The corner of his mouth lifted briefly, like he didn't have the energy to hold it for longer. But it was enough. The confident spark returned to his eyes and she knew he would do whatever he could to stay by her side. He held out his hand to her.

"It would be my pleasure."

She returned the wry smile. Then she grasped his extended hand firmly and pulled him back to his feet. He staggered briefly but remained stubbornly upright, his eyes gleaming.

"Good. Because Omarov's no doubt already out there, looking for another dispersing device. And I would like to pay him a little visit before he does."

"What happened to being smart?"

Natasha shrugged nonchalant. "That was before they started shooting at me."

Clint huffed a rough laugh, "Looks like we might have to do a Budapest after all…"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Both Clint and Natasha knew they couldn't enter the compound blindly and not without some artillery assistance. And it wasn't like any of the guards carried around a map.

Outnumbered, outgunned and not exactly at 100 percent, the odds were certainly against them, but Clint wouldn't count them out just yet. They had faced worse. Okay, maybe not monumentality worse and just maybe this was one of the more troublesome pickles they had found themselves in. He did feel like hell frozen over, the sickness and pain having buried themselves deeply into his bones at this point – difficult to simply walk off. Gunshots, knife wounds, broken bones, he could handle and work through all of that. This was something completely different. The feel of illness surged through his body and he felt himself degrading little by little. And he didn't understand it, so he couldn't treat it.

It was terrifying.

He knew it was tearing at his partner too. Knowing he was slowly falling apart, and that she couldn't do anything to help him. Natasha wasn't at her peak either, the blood loss and torture without any respite to recover had no doubt left her reeling as well. And she had to keep it together for the both of them.

They had to finish this.

They had to stop Omarov before he could test out his new weapon on a larger scale. It wasn't hard to guess he planned on utilizing his dispersing weapon to spread out his toxins like he had on those local children and on Clint. To do that, they had to destroy all his research. Make it impossible for someone else to finish what he started.

The thin layer of snow was slowly seeping into his clothes, cooling the skin on his stomach as he lay on an incline, providing a perfect overview of Omarov's facility. The one they had escaped mere hours before. Natasha lay beside him, a pair of stolen binoculars in her hands as she surveyed the building below.

They had infiltrated and operated many different compounds and operating stations throughout the years. And although each one was distinctive depending upon its purpose and field, most followed a very logical set-up, with at least the basic operations within a comparable and somewhat predictable layout. Natasha reported every pattern she picked up on, guard changes and routes, layouts, her best bets at infiltration and targets inside.

The crunchy sound of snow being flattened under a heavy boot came from behind.

The two SHIELD agents gingerly turned around. Clint swallowed at the sight. A standard semi-automatic rifle of Omarov's guards were aiming at his chest while another was turned to Natasha. A snowmobile stood parked behind the backs of the two guards, who confidently inched closer.

His partner sat stiffly, not moving a muscle, barely daring to breathe.

Clint followed her lead.

They didn't want any of the armed, on-edge men to fire.

The front guard smirked as he took another step forward.

Then flames engulfed his entire body as he was tossed into the air with a screech. When he slammed back down, everything from his shins down had been torn to shreds. His colleague was thrown violently to the ground by the blast. Natasha planted a bullet in his head before he regained his senses.

"That's unfortunate," Clint remarked dryly, as the Black Widow rose to her feet. "Why doesn't it surprise me you know how to make a landmine from a bullet?"

Natasha shot the other guard, with his blown-to-bits legs, in the head for good measure when she got close enough, ensuring he was dead. Satisfied, she started stripping them of everything, gathering their weapons and radios in a neat pile.

"Instead of being sarcastic, you could thank the Red Room for including it in their curriculum."

"Even if they cured cancer, I don't think I could ever thank the Red Room for anything," Clint muttered. Tremors ran through his muscles as he shakily rose to his feet with a heavy grunt.

He waddled over, examining the pile of supplies Natasha has scavenged from both the guards and their snowmobile. The two rifles, two Glocks, some knives, a long-distance walkie-talkie as well as a another one for a smaller range, rope, Kevlar vests, ammunition for both rifles and the handguns, first aid kit… It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

Clint went over to the guard who still had his feet and began untying the laces of his boots. He tossed the pair in front of Natasha. "Those look closer to your size. Merry Christmas."

"And I didn't even get you anything," she mocked, while slipping out of the oversized boots to lace into the slightly-less-oversized ones.

"The opportunity to plant an arrow in Omarov's eye socket will do just fine."

Natasha, now in more comfortable shoes, jumped into the snowmobile and twisted the handle. It powered to life with a roar.

"Good. Then get on."

Chapter Text

It was with a sense of trepidation, Natasha parted with her archer.

They each had a part to play if they had any hope of getting back inside that building but, in his state, she wanted desperately to keep an eye on him, no matter how healthy he claimed to be.

She had squeezed his hand and leaned her cooled forehead against his hot one. Hours outside in the snow and his skin was still worryingly warm. He had told her to be careful and not hurt anyone too badly while she had warned him to not fondle with his arrows for too long.

A quick wink and then he vanished from her sight.

She made her way to the front gates, etching silently from pine to pine to stay out of sight. Her slim, strong fingers tightened around the rifle as she leaned her head against coarse bark to steady herself. She glanced out. Several guards patrolled the front gates and walls, 22 yards of open space between her hiding spot and the gates. There was no way she wouldn't be gunned down if she just made a mad dash for it.

Instead, she settled for getting their attention. She raised the rifle and peered through the scope. Satisfied with her target, she pulled the trigger. Alarmed shouting followed immediately, along with a hail of retaliatory gunfire plowing into the snow and burying themselves into the tree trunk. She felt the kick-back of the semi-automatic as it jerked with every shot she fired; the loud bangs of chambers being emptied vibrating in her eardrums. She kept returning the fire until her rifle clicked empty. Natasha remained hidden, waiting until they realized she had stopped shooting. Their rapid gunfire ceased. In the ensuing quiet, she yelled out, the Russian language rolling effortlessly off her tongue.

"I'm out! Do not fire!"

A rough male voice echoed back. "Toss out your weapon! Then come out with your hands in the air!"

Natasha smirked and rolled her eyes.

Men.

She did as instructed. She threw the rifle to the side where it landed in a puff of featherlight snow before she moved into the open with her hands raised high above her head. She slowly walked towards the remaining guards, all of whom had their rifles squarely aimed at her. They intercepted her halfway, where the same guard spoke up again, barking at her to get on her knees.

Still with her hands resting on top her hair, she sunk to the ground, her knees digging into the cold snow. Her green eyes tracked the guards' movements as they surrounded her. The guard who had the command, spoke into the small walkie-talkie on his shoulder,

"Sir, we got her."

She couldn't discern the reply, only the disjoined scratchy answer whispering over the radio. But she assumed he wanted her brought to him directly. And her assumption only strengthened when the guard ordered her to stand, the round barrel of his rifle hovering at her chest, his finger caressing the trigger.

Natasha's eyes hardened.
Come on, Barton…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

West of her location, Clint had snuck silently closer to a hangar, the trees covering his heavy steps. He took no chances. He didn't trust his own body to handle complicated or rapid movements like he normally could. Instead, he settled for sneaking in as close as he dared without too much gamble on his part. His secured rifle was hanging by his side in its strap, as he peeked out from his hiding spot.

There had been one or two guards on the outside of the hangar when they had made their explosive escape, but it seemed Omarov had learned from that. They had massively increased the guard count and Clint could make out at least 8 armed men circling the area.

Shit…

Gunfire echoed across the snowy landscape, coming from around the corner at the front gates. Natasha had started wreaking havoc. The men keeping sentry at the hangar tensed and Clint silently hoped some would run to provide assistance. As the universe continued teasing him, none of them moved, however. Instead, an unease settled over the guards as their fingers itched towards the triggers of their weapons and their attention shifted out into the landscape.

He breathed out an annoyed sigh. Natasha didn't have time for him to take too long. Time for a quick and slight alteration of plan then.

He sunk back into the shadows from where he had come, the gunfire whispering across the plains.

Clint returned without any stealth.

Instead, he came rushing towards the hangar, the snowmobile roaring beneath him as he ducked down to avoid the hail of bullets raining his way.

He headed directly for the large door.
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A scream tore through the still air. It was quickly followed by a large boom as something broke and tore on the western side of the compound.

Natasha smirked.

Always gotta be so dramatic, Barton.

The guards around her jerked with the sudden sounds and with their attention drawn elsewhere, she pounced. She shot up from the ground, grabbing the wrist of the one on the right, while wrapping her arm around the one on the left's neck. Securely fastened in her grip, she twisted his upper body one way while she drove her heel violently into his shin. Both bones broke with an echoing snap and she let him crumble down to the snow with a cry of pain. She turned her attention back to the first guard. With her fingers still firmly wrapped around his wrist, Natasha pulled the knife from her belt and jammed it into his side. She had strategically inserted it as to make him compliable and utterly incapacitated. She needed him to do some legwork for her.

The guard jerked and grunted, the rifle almost slipping out of his hand. Natasha made sure she had a firm grip on lax fingers as well as the rifle before she spun around, so she landed at his back, holding the tall man upright as he staggered. She pressed his fingers against the trigger. A hail of bullets came her way as she started shooting every guard within her proximity. The bullets embedded themselves into the poor guard, using him as a human shield, while she etched closer to the gate. The large guard sagged quickly and soon his feet stumbled. He was too big for her to hold up for much longer. It didn't matter – she was close enough.

Natasha tossed the dead weight to the ground.

Then she leaped onto the next one.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clint threw himself from the snowmobile seconds before it collided with the hangar door.

As the vehicle continued its rapid course, Clint abandoned ship and rolled into the snow to safety. He heard the loud impact as it crashed through the door along with the screams of the guards it took out on its way through. Clint slowed to a stop, his already-abused body protesting at such a move.

He raised his head and through blurred vision, the flames of a busted door and the unmoving shadows of limp guards on the ground drifted into focus. Clint heaved himself onto shaking feet with a pained grunt. He cautiously inched closer, the rifle held at the ready if any dared move. When a few started rising, Clint quickly dispatched them with as many bullets as it took. It still annoyed him that his reaction time was so slow and that his coordination was practically nonexistent.

He huffed in frustration as he moved through the large, gaping hole in the hangar door. The smoke stung his eyes and the arid air tore into his lungs. He stepped over a dead guard, half-smooshed under the keeled-over snowmobile, as he made his way through the hangar. In the far distance, the shooting had silenced, and Clint knew Natasha must have entered the compound.

With that knowledge, Clint started his descent back into Omarov's lair.
---------------------------------------------------------------------

The alarm had started blaring again.

Its angry, red colors crisscrossed the walls and floor and the loud screaming blasted Clint's ears. It made it annoyingly hard to concentrate. He was breathing hard as he rounded another corner, relieved to find it empty for once. He had dispatched his fair share of guards by now and it had taken its toll. His hands hadn't stopped shaking for the past 20 minutes and he knew he had over-exerted himself well beyond his limits. Yet he continued to push on.

The compound had completely descended into chaos.

Guards weren't where they should be half the time, some dead, others having abandoned their posts and wandering aimlessly about, fidgeting nervously. Some of it was his doing. He had destroyed whatever he had come across but armed with only knives and guns it was limited what he could accomplish. He needed to find the armory. He needed to find Natasha too. She was no doubt causing her own amount of trouble somewhere. But they needed to coordinate. And locate that damn armory.

Instincts and experience guided his movements through the compound, making turns left and right until he found himself in front of an iron door, a keypad shining next to it.

Clint swept his eyes across the hall. Satisfied that he was alone, he shrugged nonchalant before blasting the keypad to pieces. He heard a slight groan from the door as the keypad frizzled and popped. He grasped the handle and started pushing. The door slowly etched open. With a final look at the halls, Clint slithered inside, closing the door behind him. The light inside flickered on. The SHIELD agent smirked.

His hunch proved right.

The room was a storage compartment, filled to the brim with boxes of ammunition and weapons of every kind; rifles, handguns, grenades, explosives, detonators, knives, heaps of ammunition and gear. All of it seemed haphazardly thrown in there, strewn randomly around the large room. It was definitely used more as storage than the actual weaponry. But it suited him fine. No one came to bother him as he took the liberty of browsing through the entire armory for anything useful. His eye caught sight of the heaps of C4 on a pallet.

That would do.

He grabbed a backpack from a pile on his right hand. He began stuffing the C4 blocks into the pack, briefly contemplating how many settings he would need to bring this compound, along with the whole disgusting operation, to its burning knees. He stuffed that backpack to the brink.

After that, Clint went in search of detonator wires and triggers. He rambled through the shelves and pallets, sampling extra ammunition and weapons. He tucked them away on his belt and hid as much as he could on his person. He was rummaging through a shelf when something to the left caught his eye.

"No…"

It couldn't be…

There, practically tossed onto the ground was his precious bow.

His quiver was resting right next to it, full and restocked with arrows, along with Natasha's Glocks and her utility belt. He felt furious they had simply discarded it like it was nothing more than another simple weapon they could use in their arsenal. But that feeling was nothing compared to the elation of being reunited with his beloved bow. It was silly, he knew, but it was a part of him; an extension of himself, never truly whole without it. It disgusted him that Omarov and his goons had defiled it by throwing it away like trash.

He smirked at the lovely sight.

"Come to papa."

Chapter Text

Clint felt empowered as he stepped over the limp form of a guard, an arrow planted in his thigh as well as one in his throat.

Two shots to take him down – that had been hard to swallow but with the way his vision kept blurring in and out of focus and the constant tiredness threatening to pull him into the beckoning darkness, he accepted the minor miracle of only two tries.

His palms were sweaty as his fingers were wrapped tightly around his bow, a new arrow planted on the string. He didn't have the strength to keep it taut, his hands trembling if he held it for more than a few seconds. So, he settled for keeping it ready, allowing the calmness coming from the feel of the cool alloy to seep into his heart.

He focused on the simple act of pulling back the string and launching his arrows; one by one. Aim, pull back, relax. Release. He let the routine overwhelm and take over his senses, lolling him into a stupor that kept the dark at bay. He gritted his teeth against the pull of pain as he fired another arrow. The pointy end embedded itself firmly into the chest of one guard. He went down with a gurgle as Clint moved on to his buddies. Too close to fire again, the archer opted for catapulting himself onto the nearest one, burying a serrated knife into his chest as they both went down. Knowing there was a third guard with a fully functioning handgun somewhere behind him, Clint didn't hesitate. He threw his body backwards, feeling his back slide across the floor. As he came to a stop, he looked straight up at the third man. He had pulled the bowstring taut and let the arrow sail into his chest, inches away, before the other man had a chance to fire his weapon.

As the guard slumped to the floor, Clint used the wall to pull himself back to his feet. He felt the tremors running through his legs. He kept a firm hand on the cool wall and let it guide him around the next corner. Instinct prickled at his senses, the word danger screaming in his head. He had an arrow nocked in the next breath. He was ready to let it fly. Until his instinct told him something else. It wasn't an enemy standing in front of him but a certain redheaded assassin, her looted guns aimed squarely at his head.

Natasha.

She was breathing heavily as recognition dawned in her eyes at the same second and she lowered her weapons. Her posture lacked some of its normal confidence and it was slightly bent from exhaustion and overexertion. She looked stretched thin – more so than when they had split up outside the compound. A few more cuts and bruises littered her already abused face and blood had run down her right arm from a bullet graze. He suspected he didn't look much better, so he let his inspection go unsaid.

He let the string relax and lowered his bow. They met in the middle of the hall and without a word, Clint unclipped her utility belt and thigh holsters, her preferred Glocks securely fastened in each, from around his waist. Natasha's eyes twinkled with excitement as she tossed the stolen handgun away to accept her gear.

"I took the liberty of restocking the ammo," Clint commented as she began fastening the belts around her own waist carefully, her fingers moving nimbly along.

"You've extended it."

"You calling me fat?"

"Don't worry, Barton, I know it's just big bones." She sent him a teasing look, the smirk on her face obscured by the blood from her split lip, yet the challenge remained abundantly clear.

"Next time you can retrieve your own damn weapons…"

"So, I trust this means you found the armory?"

Clint opened the zipper of the backpack to reveal the blocks of C4 and detonators stocked in there. A few were already missing from the stolen explosives. As he had made his way from the weapon storage, he had managed to place a couple if he came across any walls, he deemed to be supportive of the compound structure. He had also stacked the heaps of ammunition he hadn't managed to carry around another explosive device within the storage itself, a bit more potent than what he carried with him to add a little more fuel to the potential fire.

"Apparently, they follow building regulations, so there was an emergency map with fire exits… Unfortunately, they didn't bother with the "set explosives here" instructions so we'll have to go with gut feeling."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Natasha muttered as she liberated the archer off some of his weapons equipment and double-checked her Glocks, relishing the familiar weight of them back in her hands.

In unison, the two weary SHIELD agents continued their hunt through the blaring facility.
----------------------------------------------------

"How many do you think's in there?"

Clint was crouched, his back resting against the wall. His partner was in a similar position, a closed door in between them and limp guards scattered on the ground by their feet. She clicked in another ammunition clip.

"No way to tell. Feels like they're all running headless by this point," Natasha supplied.

"Don't put too much into that; I wanna do the same when I see your face." Clint winked as a response to the burning glare thrown his way. He steeled himself while he tightened his hold on the smoke grenade on his hands.

"Ready?" he asked.

Romanoff nodded.

"Happy New Year," Clint declared as he smashed open the door and tossed the grenade inside.

It clanked while it rolled and collided with the floor. All was quiet for a fraction of a second. And then all hell broke loose. The grenade exploded in a haze of smoke, shouts and confused screams echoing out from the grey mist. Natasha didn't hesitate as she threw herself into the fog, her outline quickly disappearing from view, but the fire from her Glocks lighting up like fireworks in a cloudy sky.

Clint trailed in behind her, letting the fight envelop his senses. The smoke burned but most had cleared by the time he entered the room. Years of partnership and trust had finetuned his sensitivity to his partner, so he knew exactly how Natasha moved and where she was as she pounced from one unfortunate soul to the next. He went in the opposite direction and kicked at the knee of the nearest guard, who looked ready to fire at the swirling outline of the Black Widow.

As the man cried out when his knee dislocated and crumbled under his weight, Clint moved in for the kill. He snapped the guard's neck with a twist of his upper body. Before the limp body had even hit the floor, he flowed onto the next. He collided heavily the thick-chested guard as he barreled into him. They crashed into a heap on the floor. Clint, landing on top, smashed the butt of his gun into the man's head before he had a chance to gather his bearings. The archer had an arrow nocked on the string in the next breath.

He fired of two shots in rapid succession, aiming for the two nearest guards. He went for the biggest target; their chests.

Both arrows missed.

Ignoring the deep, aching feelings of despair, anger and endless frustration, he switched to good old fashioned violence. He utilized the same tactic as before. He dove into the closest living thing, this time with an arrow grasped firmly in his hand. He planted it squarely into the guard's chest while they tumbled to the ground. The partner had fired wild, uncoordinated shots at the SHIELD agent in an attempt to bring the threat down, but before he could get in another try, Clint swiped his legs out of from under him. Then he pulled out the arrow from the dead guard and buried it into the other's throat. The guard drew in a gurgled breath, blood running from his mouth down his cheek and coating Clint's fingers still wrapped around the arrow's thin, metal shaft.

He tore to his feet, nearly tumbling back down as the dark room tipped dangerously and his head spun. The small lapse of concentration and movement nearly proved fatal. The only reason the bullet bit into his arm and not his chest was the guard who had fired was still dazed from the smoke grenade. Clint immediately made sure he couldn't correct his mistake.

A fist slammed into his face, snapping his whole head to the side. Stars erupted before his eyes. He felt himself tilt and stagger with the blow. No respite came as the guard with the handy fists moved in. Clint managed to block the punch sailing at his cheek but not quite the other jab, which collided with his exposed ribs. He grunted as pain flared in his side, his nerve endings seemingly on fire with every hit, every jolt, every impact he suffered. Everything ached and reverberated through his failing, crumbling body. The constant sleepiness, the plain feeling of being so goddamn tired, made his movements sluggish and sloppy and it allowed the guard in front of him to get in more blows than Clint would normally tolerate. He did manage to get in a few hits of his own though and the man was tiring too.

Clint used his bow to block a kick and then a punch. He twisted, leaving the guard's torso open. He planted his foot in the exposed abdomen and the man wobbled backwards. It left a perfect opening. Clint nocked an arrow, pulled the string taut and let it fly. Only a couple of steps away, it was impossible to miss, even in his current state. The arrowhead sailed into the guard's chest, where his legs buckled, and he slithered to the ground with a thump. Clint didn't have a chance to relish the moment.

Something heavy slammed into his body and he felt himself hurled into the hard floor. The air was pushed out of his lungs and his bow clattered out of his grip. Knuckles connected with his cheek.

Once.

Twice.

His ears were ringing as blackness danced in his eyes. As everything slowly started to clear, he felt strong hands wrapping around his throat. His hands desperately flailed around as his air supply was violently cut off. He choked and sputtered in a failing attempt to draw in a breath. The darkness returned and started creeping in from the edges of his vision. He stared up hatefully at the guard straddled on top of him while his hands patted his side. He could feel himself slipping away when finally, his fingertips grazed the tip of a knife. Fumbling, he wrapped his shaking digits around the hilt. He thrust it into the sensitive flesh of the strangler's stomach. The man released his strong hold on Clint's windpipe with a cry and slid to the side. Clint tore the blade out from his stomach and jammed it into the guard's throat.

Clint left it in there. He coughed haggardly as precious air once again flowed freely into his lungs. He remained on the ground for several minutes, pain and misery running through his limbs. No one else came to attack him and it was only when his heart was no longer pounding loudly in his ears that he realized it was because there was no one left.

When he could find the strength to rise, he took stock of the situation. The floor was scattered with limp bodies, either dead or unconscious. A large dark television screen was nailed to one wall, taking up almost the entire space, no picture currently filling the pixels. Elongated metal tables took up the middle of the room, computer screens and keyboards littering the shiny surfaces. This was definitely some sort of control room, like they had suspected.

He caught sight of Natasha. She was standing leaned over one of the computers as she fished out an USB plug from her utility belt, inserted it in a port and began typing away. One of her Glocks was in its holster, while the other rested on the table next to the keyboard.

Clint slowly wobbled over, careful not to drag his feet too much. As he moved in closer, he could properly see his partner. Sweat had mattered her hair, the curls lifeless and clinging to her forehead. She was breathing heavily, her upper body bent awkwardly over the keyboard and it was only when he saw the blood coloring the left side of her shirt he understood why.

"Nat?" he gently prodded.

Her sharp green eyes snapped in his direction, scrutiny clear in her gaze as she examined him. He crossed his arms defiantly in front of his chest and raised his eyebrows questioningly, knowing he didn't come across as relaxed and composed like he wanted. But it did the job.

"I'm fine," his partner reassured. "It's just a graze."

"No," he quickly countered and pointed at her arm. "That is just a graze."

Natasha sighed heavily, staring at the computer screen in front of her without really seeing. "Fine… The bullet went through. Didn't hit anything vital; I wouldn't be walking otherwise. I can manage."

The corner of Clint's mouth twisted upwards briefly, in a sad amusement. "Now doesn't that sound familiar."

"You don't get to have all the fun," she turned back to him with a somber smirk. The archer didn't miss her attempt at hiding the wince whenever she moved.

Clint knew he wouldn't get anywhere. He didn't exactly have the moral high ground at the moment to flaunt it in her face. He settled for shoving an office chair in her general direction with a pointed look and went in search for a first aid kit. He smiled wryly when he returned and saw her solidly planted in the chair, while she worked. Nice to know she still had same manners.

He settled into his own chair, when his legs threatened to give up under his weight and pulled up the hem of Natasha's shirt to inspect the wound. The entire lower part of her abdomen was covered in red and the blood had run down to coat the pant leg a shade darker. He pressed a thick wad of gauze onto the gaping hole and held on tight, even as he felt Natasha instinctively squirm and her muscles tense at the sudden onslaught of pain. She worked her jaw and the lines around her eyes tightened, but other than that she remained silent and continued transferring documents to the USB she had inserted in the computer.

"He donates to charity," she commented casually as she rummaged through the files and accounts. "Children's hospitals and orphanages."

Clint huffed humorlessly, his trembling hands slowly getting coated in her blood. "Classic narcissistic behavior; you can get away with crime as long as your pockets are deep enough. I'm still keeping the arrow with his name on it."

"I would be disappointed if you didn't," Romanoff stated.

Clint gently eased the third blood-soaked gauze away from the bullet hole and to his relief saw that the ebb of blood has stilled somewhat. Natasha had been right – the wound itself was a clean through-and-through with minimal damage done. What concerned him was the immense blood loss following such a trauma – abdominal gunshots always bled profusely, and she hadn't exactly had a normal blood volume to begin with. He threw the soggy wad to the ground and replaced it with a new square that he taped to the damp skin and began wrapping a bandage tight around her stomach to keep it in place. He ignored the way his hands violently shook during the process and though Natasha's sharp, worried eyes observed the action, she at least had the decency not to mention it.

When Clint was done and leaned back heavily in his chair, disconcerted with how exhausted he was after that simple act, she couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer.

"How you're doing?"

"'Just a graze'," Clint commented with a shrug. At her unamused, pointed stare, he continued "Aren't you supposed to be hacking?"

"I'm multi-tasking," she quickly shot back. She leaned forward and placed the back of her hand on his boiling forehead. He couldn't help relishing the feel of her cool skin against his burning one. His partner eyed him warily, though she didn't speak.

Instead, she opted for returning her attention back to the computer screen in front of her as it beeped. "See, no need to fuss. All his funds have now been transferred to his precious charities and SHIELD have successfully retrieved all his assets."

"And his other facilities?"

"I sent our friends there a little message," she nonchalantly said, the playful spark in her eyes suggesting it was everything but 'little'.

"Then I do believe Omarov has an appointment we don't want him to be late for."

Natasha led the way out of the control room, determined, practically moving like a hound tracking a scent. Clint trailed behind her. He told himself it was to keep a watchful eye on her.

He denied the small voice whispering in his mind, telling him it was to keep her from spotting his unsteady, swaying wobble and the way he shook his head to clear the sleepy cobwebs engulfing his muddled thoughts.

He was tethering at the edge of the dark precipice that constantly threatened to drag him down and swallow him whole. He knew he didn't have long.

But he would see this through to the end. Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

The tension was palpably suffocating inside the large room.

The entire office space held their collective breath as they waited. Clammy hands kept clenching and relaxing as the guards readjusted their grips on the rifles, all aimed at the locked double doors. Gunfire and small explosions thundered and boomed from the outside, etching constantly closer.

Aibek Omarov sat with his back rigid and his hands splayed out on the teak desk in front of him. His face displayed no emotions while his dark eyes never left his secured doors. His jaw was tightened, and his shoulder tensed with every boom that echoed in the compound.

One of the guards by his side, a stocky man with a firm grip on his weapon and anxious features broke the smothering silence. "Sir, you should leave while you have the chance."

Omarov didn't look away from the door as he picked up the handgun resting on the desk and shot the man in the chest without a flinch. The guard flopped to the ground, dead. None dared moved a muscle.

Silence stretched and expanded until it once again swallowed the office space, only broken by a nervous, labored breathing.

Agonizing seconds dragged by.

Then, the thick double doors burst open with such force that one of them hung loose on the hinges. A cylindrical device rapidly sailed through from the somewhere outside the hall, where it rolled and clinked onto the cold, hard floor. With a hiss of air, smoke poured out from the small device and quickly filled the room with the choking, grey haze.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

A knife cut through the air as it sailed through the doorway. Its hilt slammed straight into the eye of one of the nearest guards. The room exploded into chaos, as Natasha came roaring out of the mist a breath later. She pounced onto one guard, who had been staring dumbfounded at his partner, being smacked in the face with a knife. She planted her Widow's Stings on his neck, the electricity crackling as it ran through his system. As he crumpled to the ground with gurgled cry, she leaped onto the next one, using the knife Clint had thrown in the guard's face to stab him in the throat.

The remaining guards started firing whenever they saw a flash of movement through the lingering smoke, fear driving their instincts instead of rational thought. Natasha used it to her advantage. She jumped, using the gained momentum to slide across the floor, towards the nearest guard. She kicked out the legs from under him and he went down with a surprised yell. When he crashed down to her eyelevel, she quickly seized him by the throat, hold his body to cover hers and aimed his weapon at his fellow guardsmen. Four rapid shots took down the rest of the guards. Natasha then snapped the neck of the last remaining man, who she had used as a human shield.

An eerie quiet enveloped the room as the smoke steadily dripped onto the floor, evaporating from the air. Natasha breathed heavily, her lungs aching for a proper breath while the gunshot wound in her side screamed at the sudden abuse. She steadily ignored all her throbbing, persistent hurts as she took the gun from the dead guard's holster and rose to her feet.

She made sure to keep her movements controlled and steady, never faltering for a single breath. There was still one person alive within this room, and he was still sitting frozen in his office chair, maintaining eye contact as Natasha stalked slowly in front of his desk. Omarov maintained his exterior of calm, collected indifference, but Natasha saw right through his lies. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were bone white, a vein throbbed on his forehead and his normally stoic, dead eyes were wallowing in a defeated and furious despair.

Natasha didn't even bother hiding the smirk that spread over her lips, as she stopped before the broken-down criminal mastermind, the gun aimed directly at his head.

"What? Disappointed to see me?"

Omarov, for his part, still clinged to his shattered façade as he leaned forward with a small, triumphant smile. "Where is your partner, Ms. Romanoff?"

A millisecond passed between them. Then the answer sailed past Natasha's head, before firmly burying itself into the wall a few feet from Omarov's tall backrest. She felt the wind of the arrow caressing her red locks as it travelled inches away from her messy hair. On any other day and any other situation, she wouldn't have reacted. But this time, she couldn't help the muscles in her back tensing up when it came close. She just hoped Clint hadn't noticed it.

Instead, she focused on the look of surprise and disappointment that was painted on Omarov's face, as he eyed the black arrow quivering in his wall. She savored every second of it. Her grin grew wider. She relished in the fact that Omarov knew he had lost. Even better, he knew it had been her doing.

"You know, if you keep wearing that disappointed scowl, your face might set that way." Natasha couldn't help the remark flowing past her lips. No doubt, Barton was glowing with pride somewhere behind her.

"Are you going to shoot an unarmed, innocent man?" Omarov retorted, his voice rough.

The urge to smile completely evaporated from Natasha's mind at the statement and she allowed her cold anger and resentment to slip into her eyes. "Don't bother. We saw your twisted, little experiments in your basement."

"They were necessary," the Kazahk stated in an even, determined tone, his face turning grave.

"I can't imagine any reason for that to be necessary."

"Have you ever watched someone die of starvation, Ms. Romanoff?" Omarov's gaze suddenly turned urgent and haunted as he leaned forward in his seat. Natasha tightened her grip on the gun handle. "It is neither glamorous nor a worthy death.

"We were poor, growing up. My baby sister never made it past the crib, and my mother went hungry most days to make sure I was fed. Slowly, I could only watch as she faded away, while I grew stronger. She made it till my eighth year. I witnessed my mother die of starvation. On that day, I decided I would never go hungry again."

Omarov's eyes bore into Natasha's own, as he talked, growing ever more agitated and resolved.

"We're too many people on this planet. People starve, wither, and kill; men, women and children alike, yet our population continues to rise by the year, undeterred. Epidemics, catastrophes, diseases… All of it made to keep us in check. I will make my own epidemic. Cleanse our world as it has been done before. Then no 8-year-old boy will have to watch his mother starve before his very eyes, just so he could live."

"Is that what you told to the 8-year-olds before you dosed them with poison?"

"They were all dying anyway… I gave their deaths meaning."

"How noble. Sacrificing your trafficked children for the greater cause. You'll forgive me if I don't share your sentiment. Somehow, killing thousands of innocent people over your childhood trauma doesn't agree with me." Natasha's trigger finger itched and tensed. She wasn't entirely sure why she hadn't pulled it yet.

Omarov sneered at her statement. "Innocents? No one's innocent. Certainly not you, or your partner. I might kill thousands, but millions will live on, and the world will be better for it."

He leaned forward again, his eyes twinkling menacingly. "You see, Ms. Romanoff-"

His sentence cut off abruptly. An arrow imbedded itself deeply into his right eye socket. Omarov let out a startled, choked gasp as the force of the impact forced his body back into his chair. The life snuffed out of his features an instant later. His face grew slack and his lifeless limbs sagged towards the floor.

Natasha whipped her head around in surprise.

Clint stood in the rigid, firing stance, his bow clutched tightly in one hand while the other still lingered around his ear where he had drawn back the now lax bowstring. For a moment, he remained steady and lucid. Then he faltered.

He shakily began lowering his bow. A tremor ran down his arm and he dropped his precious weapon with a loud clatter. He didn't even seem to notice as he swayed dangerously on his feet. Natasha tossed her gun to the ground and ran over to catch him as he toppled to the side. Her side burned as she precariously held his weight in an attempt to keep him standing. If he collapsed, she wasn't sure she was strong enough to heave him back up.

"He was droning on…" Clint muttered in her ear. He turned his tired, worn-down eyes towards her, something flashing in them that she couldn't immediately identify. "… and you let him."

Natasha reached down as slowly as she could without losing her grip on her partner and fumbling grasped his dropped bow in her free hand. She would be damned if she left it behind. "Just buying you some time. I promised you could put an arrow in him, remember?"

Clint's eyelids sagged further, as he let his head loll tiredly on his shoulders. He mumbled, "How nice of you."

A small part of Natasha sighed with relief. If he could still banter with her, no matter how quiet, he stood a chance.

"You have the detonator?" she asked. Clint nodded his affirmative and gestured towards his pants pocket. "Good. Then let's get the hell out of here."

Natasha steeled herself. Then she hoistered Clint up, one arm slung around her shoulder which she kept in a firm grip. Clint barely managed to get his feet under him, stumbling with the simple task. But she knew he gave all he had to help her. He stubbornly fixed his gaze towards the doors and their exit.

Together, they staggered away from the limp, dead form of Aibek Omarov.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Natasha stared hatefully at the compound below, taking in the last details.

She had continued to walk until she was absolutely certain they were clear of the blast zone. She had walked until she could no more, and she had felt Clint go almost completely limp in her grip. When he had started to slide away from her, she knew it had to be far enough.

They were on a small hilltop underneath one of the pine trees, overlooking what remained of Omarov's compound. Smoke billowed out from several places in the building already, small fires were burning around emergency exits and dead men lay scattered in the snow along with their weapons and ammunition. It looked pitiful from their vantage point, small, insignificant and not containing 28 dead children and a psychotic, soon to be dead and buried, criminal mastermind.

Natasha pushed the button on the small detonator device in her hand.

For a heartbeat, only the tweeting birds and snow crunching under her boots echoed.

Then the building before her eyes disintegrated with a deafening boom and a plume of smoke. The heatwave rushed towards her and struck her face. Another, louder explosion followed shortly after, as the fire reached the ammunition stores. It was succeeded by another, and then another until the sky was swallowed up by the thick column of black smoke that rose from the remains of the smoldering building. Angry, orange flames greedily burned and ate through the still-standing walls, the roaring inferno a stark contrast to the pristine white snow surrounding it.

"Did you do it?" Clint's muttered voice was so low, Natasha almost missed it. She turned to where she had propped him up against the tree trunk. He seemed utterly spent, too tired to shift into any other position than the one she had placed him in, his chest heaving with every wheezing breath. His exhausted eyes languidly tried to focus on her.

"I did." Natasha crouched down next to him in the snow, dread and concern clutching painfully at her heart.

"Good…" Clint mumbled, his eyelids growing heavier by the second. "'s good, Nat…"

His eyes slid completely closed as he slumped further down.

"Clint?" Natasha searched his face as she grabbed his shoulder. She squeezed a single time. "You gotta stay awake. I contacted Phil – he's on his way. Just a little while longer."

His head lolled weakly to the side as his eyelids fluttered briefly. Then they closed shut.

"Clint?" She shook him gently at first. When he didn't respond, she dared do it harder.

"Clint!"

No matter how hard she shook him, slapped his cheek, threatened, begged or ordered him to wake, he remained unresponsive and limp. The only sound was that of his ragged, labored breathing as he struggled for every breath of fresh air.

Natasha pulled him close against her chest, wrapping her arms around his body and rubbing her hands on his arms to keep him and herself warm. The cold temperature had already numbed her body and her movements quickly grew clumsy and shaky. Exhaustion overwhelmed her senses and sleep pulled at her thoughts.

It should have been concerning.

As should the realization that her wound had re-opened and blood was steadily covering the bottom of her shirt and her pantleg. But the cold dulled every painful sensation and her instinctual panic. All she wanted to do was go to sleep.

Natasha's eyes drifted shut as she remained on her curled position, her dying, unresponsive partner cradled in her arms and her blood dripping rhythmically into the white, powdered snow beneath.

Chapter Text

Natasha slowly rose from the depths of oblivion.

It was warm and fuzzy at first.

Soon though, feeling settled like a thick, choking blanket over her. Her body felt heavy and aching. Worst of all, was her left side. It burned with every breath she took and every involuntary movement. The consistent throbbing was no strange, new feeling. She had enough bullet scars to know what gunshot wounds felt like.

Her mind was spinning rapidly, memory fragments swirling before her as she struggled to put together the pieces. She remembered explosions and violence, a sense of urgency and fear driving her instincts forward until suddenly it slammed into her like a ton of bricks. Aibek Omarov's smug face floated in her mind, grinning madly as she desperately ran to save her partner. Anger and worry fueled her resolve as she began clawing her way towards full consciousness.

Little by little, sounds and sensations came crawling back. She felt the rough linen of the sheet under her fingers, the warming touch of a blanket pulled up to her chest, her head resting gently on a fluffy pillow. She also felt the aching pull of stitches and bandages tight around her lower ribcage, her bruised body protesting at the simplest of moves and the sharp plastic of a nasal cannula, supplying her with rich, fresh oxygen, digging into the insides of her nostrils. Monotone beeping filled her ears, her own heart beating steadily along with the rhythm. The sheets rustled as she adjusted her body. She couldn't quite hide the moan that escaped her lips at the painful movement. She heard the legs of a chair scraping along a floor, the shuffle of clothes against skin as someone moved closer.

She gently pried open her heavy eyelids.

A man's blurred face filled her field of vision.

Clint?

Her vision flickered and cleared. Phil's concerned face drifted into focus.

"Natasha?"

"Ow," Natasha answered with a grimace as she blinked fully awake.

Phil seemed to deflate like a balloon as he uttered a relieved sigh at her response. He sank back down into the padded chair next to her bed. Natasha took the opportunity to glance around. She was in a single hospital room, with a two persons couch as the only furniture other than her bed and Phil's drawn up chair. A small, dark flatscreen TV hung on the wall.

She examined her exhausted looking handler. His features were drawn, tight lines around his lips and eyes that only appeared when he was deep in thought or exceedingly worried. Given her recent memories, the latter seemed the most likely and her heart sank like a stone.

"Clint?" she delicately asked.

Phil eyed her warily, his solemn gaze searching her face, although for what she wasn't entirely certain. He knew there was no beating around the bush – she wanted the honest truth. Eventually, he heaved a deep sigh and answered, "Still here. He's in the next room. He hasn't woken up yet, but he started breathing on his own yesterday."

Natasha allowed herself to close her eyes as she processed the information. Clint was alive but given Phil's current dejected look that was about the only good news. Her heart clenched at the ambivalent feelings that pulled in each direction. When she opened her eyes again, she didn't need to ask for a further explanation. Phil beat her to it, as he continued,

"SHIELD doctors finally managed to figure out what Omarov injected him with. They found trypanosomes in his bloodstream – it's the parasite causing sleeping sickness. It appeared modified somehow, designed to become a fast-acting bioweapon. They're currently working on synthesizing a cure, based on Barton's bloodwork as well as the files you managed to transfer."

Natasha nodded steadily, her thoughts constantly drifting back to Clint's deteriorating state and how she could do nothing but bear witness to his degradation.

"Are you going to tell me what happened out there?" she eventually asked, her piercing green eyes settling hard on Phil. She knew it wasn't his fault, but she had to direct her frustration somewhere. Phil could take it.

"Agent Sorelli got fished out of the sea by Malaysian law enforcement, evidence of torture. Somehow, they must have gotten suspicious. They must have tortured him until he broke and told Omarov of you and the exchange. What else he managed to share of SHIELD intel, I don't know. By the time, we got to his body and figured that out, you had already vanished from our radar."

Natasha silently digested the information. She hadn't known Sorelli, only heard mention of his name once or twice, but the loss of an agent, especially such a brutal death, always reminded her of the precarious line they walked every day in this job. One she had rarely bothered with as the Black Widow, but since her deflection to SHIELD and subsequent partnership with Clint, it had begun to pop up more frequently. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it.

"I want to see him."

She didn't have to voice to Coulson who she meant. She had expected him to deny her request or at least attempt talking her out of it, given how she had almost bled out. Instead, he surprised her after a beat of silence when he calmly said,

"I'll see what I can do."

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Despite Phil's promises, it wasn't until the next day Natasha was allowed to leave her bed.

He was reduced to simply observe as Natasha was carefully easing herself into the provided wheelchair, her jaw tightly set as her abused body no doubt pulled and screamed at the slow movements. She had been allowed to change her hospital scrubs to a pair of loose-fitting pants and a large shirt. Natasha had sent him a grateful look as he had brought the clothes.

With her approval, Phil pushed the wheelchair the short distance down the hallway and into Clint's room. Natasha said nothing during their short journey, and likewise remained silent, her face stoic and impassive as she got wheeled closer to her partner.

Clint was in much the same state as yesterday when Phil had last seen him. The archer was unconscious, his eyelids clenched shut and tight lines etched into his face as if he was stuck in a painful nightmare. The blanket that covered his body was tousled and wrinkled, like he had been tossing and turning beneath it. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, but much like his red-headed partner, the cuts and bruises were a heavy contrast on his pale face and exposed arms. Clint's eyes were ringed in shadow, and occasionally his breath would hitch like he struggled taking in enough air, before faltering and then relaxing again.

Various hospital equipment stood gathered on the other side of his bedframe, where a heart monitor was steadily beeping and keeping track of his vitals. Phil cast a hated glare at the ventilation machine, with its clear, blue plastic tubes curled on top. Rationally, the doctors had told him Clint wouldn't need it anymore but had kept it close by in case he suddenly crashed. And Phil absolutely loathed the sight of that machine and the fact that Clint might need to be put on it again.

The handler pushed Natasha's wheelchair all the way to Clint's bedside, so he was within her reach. Natasha's eyes never once left her partner's still form. Once settled, she placed a delicate hand on top of Clint's limp one, careful of the oximeter clipped onto one of his fingers, her green eyes searching his lax features.

Phil suddenly felt like he was intruding, as was often the case with the two agents. He knew Natasha would need the privacy, just to absorb the sight before her. So, he made up an excuse.

"I'm gonna go grab some coffee," he quickly muttered and made for the open door. Just before he exited, Natasha's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Coulson?" When he turned his head expectedly towards her, he saw a small, fragile smile playing on her lips. "Thank you."

He nodded, heart clenching at the sentiment notion and closed the door on his way out. On his way down to the cafeteria, his mind drifted again to Kazakhstan and the terrifying state he had found his two operatives in, a smoldering mess of a building off into the distance.

Clint had been nestled in Natasha's arms, listless and pale except for his haunting, wheezing breaths, while Natasha had been almost as white as her surroundings with the blood coating the snow a deep crimson. She had aimed her gun squarely at Phil's chest when he arrived, a wild, incoherent look in her eyes. It was only when he got near enough, and she seemed to recognize him as friend and not foe, she had dropped her weapon. Phil recalled how he had had to wrestle Clint's lifeless body from her grasp and convince her to let him go. She wouldn't do it to anyone other than him. He remembered the sinking feeling of seeing Natasha collapse onto the ground, when she finally felt safe, and the alarming dread of holding onto Clint, who remained so unnaturally still and unresponsive.

Coulson shook his head to clear away the despairing thoughts. Natasha and Clint were both safe and alive and would remain so. And right now, that was all he could hope for.

He spent some time aimlessly wandering the cafeteria and then the vast hallways to give as much time to the two assassins as he could give. Eventually he settled for making his way back up. A warm cup of coffee for Natasha in his hands, Phil grasped the doorhandle to Clint's room.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he glanced through the window. Inside, Natasha had risen from her wheelchair and stood leaned over Clint's bed. Her hands were gently cupping his sleeping face, while her forehead rested against his, her eyes closed. Phil could clearly make out the despairing calm that came whenever you were stuck in a situation like this; where you could only wait, hope, and see. Reluctant to disturb whatever peace Natasha managed to gather from Clint's unresponsive presence, Phil carefully uncurled his fingers from the doorhandle.

Instead, he settled for standing watch, turning away any who dared to approach the hospital room and the two assassins inside.

Chapter Text

"Will you sit down before you pass out?"

Natasha resisted the urge to get up to manhandle Clint into either the chair pulled up to her bed or into the wheelchair he had arrived in. He looked deathly pale still, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated and the shadows under his eyes and his tired gaze betrayed the deep fatigue still lingering in his body.

But after nearly reopening her gunshot wound after so many visits to his room, it was by silent agreement that Clint would travel to her room and not the other way around, as soon as he had been able to stay awake for more than two minutes at a time.

It had been a huge relief when he had finally blinked open his eyes and rasped a short, "Hi, Nat…" a few days ago. She hadn't voiced it to him, but she had felt like a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders then and there. Despite what she had been told, his unresponsiveness had only served to strengthen her memory of how he had seemed to slip between her fingers in Kazakhstan. Of how she had been terrified he had died in her arms in the cold snow. Of how she was convinced she had officially lost him forever. So, when he woke up and immediately recognized her, it tore apart the stone that had weighted down her heart. Despite how his pallor had gone as white as a sheet and how he started swaying whenever he was standing up for more than five minutes, he still insisted on moving whenever he could, much to Natasha's frustration.

Clint stopped fiddling with the wires of the TV on the wall opposite of her bed and staggered back to the plush chair. He flopped into the chair, leaned back, and placed his socked feet onto the wheelchair in front of him. That he didn't argue with her further cemented her belief that he was nowhere near ready for even that meager kind of activity.

Sitting opposite of each other, Clint's sharp gaze seemed to roam over her face, as if he was pondering or searching for some kind of answer. Natasha savored the look of lucidity that had returned to his eyes.

"What, Barton?" she eventually commented, as he remained silent.

"You flinched," he simply stated. His voice was light, but a quiet hurt lingered somewhere behind the words.

Natasha only needed a second to understand what he meant. Back at the compound, when she had stood in Omarov's office, Clint somewhere behind her in the hallway. He had fired an arrow, meant as a dangerous promise to the Kazakh crime boss. It had flown straight past her, but she had flinched as she had felt the wind of the shaft passing by. Something she had not done since they first met.

"You know I trust you," she countered.

"Just not when I'm half out of my mind," he teased gently.

"You're always half out of your mind, Clint," Natasha shot back with a wry smile tugging at her mouth. Just as quickly, she let it disappear and her voice turned somber. "This time you were fully gone."

Clint's eyes fell at the statement. He understood what she had meant – that he had scared her good this time. That this had been too close a call. He agreed with a muttered, "Yeah, I kinda was."

The silence stretched on between them, as both Natasha and Clint were caught up in each their own memories. Then Clint broke the tentative quiet. "At least tell me Omarov died pitifully."

Natasha frowned. "You don't remember planting an arrow in his skull?"

It was Clint's turn to frown, his brow creasing in confusion and discomfort at not remembering his own actions. "I did? You sure it was me?"

"I don't know anyone else able to bury an arrow in a guy's eye socket from that distance."

"Well, then that bastard got exactly what he deserved. Glad I was able to help," Clint muttered. Some of his trepidation had vanished from his features, of which Natasha was glad. He didn't need to carry around the frustrating burden of missing memories, on top of everything else.

"It's too bad you missed the explosion, though. It was quite spectacular," Natasha added with a confident smirk.

Clint jumped at the opportunity she provided. To forget, just for a moment. "I bet it was. Given I placed most of the charges."

"Feeling left out?"

"All I'm saying is, wait until I'm awake next time."

"If you ever were, I would."

"Ouch…"

Their banter flowed easily between them, washing away the deep-seated feeling of despair and urgent desperation of the last many days. Later on, they would talk about all the things that happened out there on the snowy plains of Kazakhstan, of how it had all gone so wrong and of the pointless deaths of so many innocent children. For now, the two assassins allowed the small respite to distract them from the troubles that haunted each of their minds.

Phil walked in on them some hours later, Natasha sitting leaned back into her many pillows and reading a book Clint had brought her, while her right hand absentmindedly fiddled with the archer's hair. Clint was sound asleep by her side, slumped back in the wheelchair rolled up next to the bedside with his head resting on the edge of Natasha's headboard.

Phil quickly and quietly turned on his heel.

Sometimes it was best to let resting assassins lie.