Title: And if there was a plan made (then we forgot about it)
Rated: T
Pairing: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Timeline: set in the MCU, before The Avengers, and maybe after at some point
Status: In progress

A/N: It speaks highly of the chemistry between the characters that Natasha and Clint were my favorite thing in The Avengers. There's history between these two, and I just had to give it a try. I own nothing except my love for them and my imagination. Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. :)

Title from Dawn Golden's All I Want.

Fury had warned him; she was highly trained, skilled and lethal – Coulson had added that she was just as beautiful with a small, almost sad smile. What no one had told Clint was that the woman who had killed more people than he could remember from both sides was so young.

He'd seen pictures of her before, sure, because Black Widow was on the Most Wanted wall at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ, and he could easily understand why men fell to their knees for her. With her slender frame, porcelain skin, green eyes, plump lips and scarlet hair, she was definitely beautiful. He'd seen her in action, knew that her beauty was not her weapon of choice but could be just as deadly; but right now, as she was trapped with nowhere to go and at his mercy, she just looked like a child, and really, wasn't she still one? She couldn't be older than twenty-one or twenty-two.

And maybe it was because she's gorgeous – Clint knew already that it was going to be what people at S.H.I.E.L.D. would whisper behind his back – or because she looked like she had seen and heard and done too much in her young years, that he lowered his bow. He couldn't do it; couldn't shoot an arrow through her when she was staring right back at him, still and unafraid, simply waiting for him to do it. For the briefest second, Clint almost believed she wanted him to, wanted him to put an end to this, to the race and chase her life had become when she was just a teen. She wasn't scared, nor did she really fight him, no – it seemed almost too easy, how he'd found her whereabouts and followed her, and a little voice inside him kept repeating that it had to be a trap.

But her eyes told him another completely different story.

She was tired. She was lonely. She killed because it was what she was told to do, because no matter how bad the Red Room was, it was the only home she'd ever known. And it's that look in her eyes, more than anything else that pushed Clint to disobey his orders. Maybe he was being a fool, maybe she was playing him like she'd played many before and this was going to end up with a knife to his throat or a bullet through his head before he could see it coming – maybe. But he just couldn't kill a woman who looked like she didn't care about whether or not she lived, someone who believed and who had been told that she was an asset, true, but still expandable in the grand scheme of things. He just couldn't.

Clint lowered his bow, his grip still tight around it, but the strong set of his jaw and his gaze relaxed a bit, almost softening as he spoke. "They say you're the best they've got," he said simply, as if it was totally normal for them to exchange civilities and compliments.

Her green eyes widened in surprise, the first slip in her perfectly rehearsed mask. It only lasted a second before she schooled her features, and a seductive smile crept up on her lips. "I don't know what they say about you, because I have no idea who you are," she replied with a little shrug.

"Fame is only for some chosen ones," Clint shrugged easily, maybe too easily. Here he was, chatting with an international assassin, and it didn't feel any different than talking with Coulson or Hill. He shook his head lightly, as if suddenly remembering something, and he extended his hand to her, switching his bow to his left hand. "Clint Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said.

She looked at his hand, and he followed her gaze, waiting. It was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done, offering his hand to the person he had been sent to kill, but his gut was telling him that it was the right thing to do. He didn't join S.H.I.E.L.D. to be an assassin, even if it was basically the job description; killing a woman who was still a girl wasn't right. He looked up at her, saw the crease between her brows as she contemplated all of her options, from shaking his hand to throwing a blade at him, and finally, after a minute, he felt her hand in his.

She had baby skin, Clint decided; soft skin and perfectly manicured hands, a rough contrast to his calloused ones. "And…you are…?" he asked, because he couldn't keep referring to her as Black Widow as if it was a name and a title all at once.

Her smile grew bigger, revealing a row of pearly whites, but it didn't reach her eyes. Clint wondered for a second if it ever did, before chasing the thought away because why was he even thinking about her smile. "Whoever you want me to be," she said with that voice, that siren call that drove men mad for her, but it didn't work this time, not now that Clint had caught a glimpse, however small, of the woman behind the assassin.

He released her hand, and gestured for her to walk with him as he turned to leave, his eyes still trained on her. "Well, how about wanting you to follow me back to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he suggested.

"So they can put me behind bars or torture me for secrets?" she said, her eyes turning dark as they narrowed at him. "I'd rather you kill me, if you don't mind."

He almost told her that he'd never let that happen then, or that the methods she was used to weren't the ones that S.H.I.E.L.D. worked with, but Clint realized in that moment that he couldn't guarantee her anything. He was asking her a lot there; to follow him into the lion's den when she had no reason to trust him, when he could be playing her because their lives were nothing but a game of chess where others more powerful were using them as pawns. "I was thinking of bringing you with me, as an agent," he added, knowing he should have started with that.

She laughed, then. Not a seductive, feminine giggle meant to be endearing and cute, but a real laughter. "Your boss will so not agree with that. Ever."

"Who said I wasn't the boss?" Clint asked in faux-hurt, raising his eyebrows at her.

"I'm the best, remember?" she said playfully, and Clint thought she looked genuinely amused by the situation. "I know your boss. You're not the first agent he sent out for me. But I bet he never expected any of you to come up with this ridiculous idea."

Clint grinned. It wasn't something that came easily for him, but for some reason, the world's deadliest assassin was making him smile and it was dangerous. Maybe it was the reason why Fury had briefed him along with Coulson; to make sure that he knew what he was getting into, that he knew his target inside out so he could counter her moves. But there was something that her file didn't say: she was an assassin, true, but she was also a woman, a person, and Clint felt a pull towards her that he'd never felt before. It wasn't because she was gorgeous – even if it did help – but because they were more alike than anybody could have expected. He remembered being wary of Coulson when the man had come to him to recruit him; he remembered not wanting to be part of a team, preferring working alone, having no one to care about and no one caring about him. It was easier this way, going through the motions, killing and risking his life, losing fellow agents, slipping into a persona and shedding the alias at the end of an assignment before becoming another one, over and over again.

Wasn't it exactly what she was doing, too?

Clint stopped in his tracks, realizing they were still in the dark alley and hadn't walked that much. "Look, I can't guarantee you anything," he started, his tone low but serious. "But I know one thing: you're more valuable to us alive than dead. And I feel like you're the kind of person who can go through torture without blinking an eye, so there's no point doing that. Come with me. Become an agent. That's the only thing that makes sense."

She narrowed her eyes at him again, this time searching for a hint of dishonesty in his green eyes, but finding none. "You really believe it's going to be that easy," she said more than she asked, disbelief in her tone. There was strictly no reason why he'd want to help her; and he had to either be naïve or stupid to think that S.H.I.E.L.D. would open its arms to the woman who had killed half a dozen of its agents. But he believed it anyway, and she couldn't figure what it said about him. "Why would I do that, anyway?" she asked. "Why would I betray my country?"

"Because it has betrayed you before?" Clint suggested softly. It seemed to surprise her, so he continued, "I'm not gonna pretend that S.H.I.E.L.D. is this perfect land where the sky is always blue. But I can promise you that they would never do to you what the KGB did."

"You really believe that," she repeated, stunned.

"You already said that," he replied with a shrug. "And yes, I do. I know that they'd never take a kid from an orphanage and turn them into a killer and brainwash them into thinking that it's for their own good," he went on, watching her as she looked back at him without showing any reaction. He knew he was hitting a sensitive spot; Fury certainly had his secrets and he only revealed what he wanted, but this part of the story he'd shared with Clint and he knew deep down that she had to remember it. Remember being a kid, happy and carefree, even if it'd been so long ago. She had to know that the hand that fed her only did it because she was useful to them. She had to know that it was no way to live.

Clint didn't know why it was so important that she agreed and followed him, but it was. For some reason that he couldn't comprehend, he didn't want to kill her and knew he'd try his best to make Fury and Coulson see things the way he did.

Finally, after a moment, she nodded her head. "Okay," she just said. "How are we going to do this?" she asked. "You have an extraction plan, I hope?"

"No, no, this was a suicide mission. You're the best, remember?" he teased. "Of course I have an extraction plan," he added quickly. "But first of all, we need to go back to my apartment."

"Aren't you the gentleman now?" she scoffed, following him as he led her expertly through the dark streets with a light but firm hand at her back.

They reached an even darker street where stood an old building that suited him as much as it was a place where no one would expect her to be. She'd been the Tsarina, the trophy wife wealthy and powerful men had walked with at their arm, a perfect Russian doll that would never take a step outside of her mansion – even the Red Room wouldn't look for her there.

Clint let her in, closing the door behind him without letting her out of his sight. "Alright," he called out to her as she looked around, taking in the dirty tapestry on the walls and the cheap furniture. "Weapons out," he said, walking to her.

Clint frisked her lightly, finding two knives in her garter beneath her dress, and another in her right boot. He examined her bracelets for a moment, fascinated by the cleverness of the weapon that discharged electrostatic bolts, and then found another small blade hidden in her watch, and a gun in her purse.

"You forgot one," she said, nodding at the front of her dress.

Clint gave her a grin. "No, I didn't," he said almost cockily, his eyes never leaving hers as his fingers slipped in her cleavage to reach the knife held by her bra. "Just wanted to check if you were playing me. I guess you're not."

"I could have killed you when you bent down to get the one in my boot," she stated calmly.

"But you didn't," Clint replied simply, putting the weapons inside the drawer of the small nightstand by the bed. He took off his jacket and threw it on a chair nearby, and then sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. She stood still in the middle of the room, watching him. "The bathroom's over there," he said, nodding at a door. "I'll need a couple days to get you a new passport, so you might as well make yourself at home." She made a noise, something between a chuckle and a grunt, and murmured something in Russian under her breath that Clint thought meant stupid American dog. He grinned. "You can sleep in one of my shirts if you want, and I'll get you new clothes when my contact brings us your passport."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "That sounds like one of your stupid American movies," she said.

"You've seen many movies where the hero takes pity on a poor girl and saves her life against his best judgment?" Clint teased as he got up and opened his bag, looking for a clean shirt for her.

She laughed, accepting the shirt from him without a word. "I've seen one where a man is sent to kill a woman, falls in love with her and betrays his country to save her life. I think he dies at the end," she added with a smile.

"They don't call you Black Widow for nothing," he replied easily. "How's your French?" he asked, changing the subject as he grabbed his phone and dialed a number.

"Probably better than yours," she said, going to the bathroom as she saw him put the phone to his ear.

He watched her, saw how she didn't lock the door – there's no window in the bathroom anyway, it wasn't like she could try to escape – and sat back on his bed, the exhaustion of the past few days starting to take their toll on him. At the fifth ring, a man answered. "John? What a surprise," the man greeted him.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Leo," Clint said. "How are the kids?"

"Better than your fake wife, I suppose, John," Leo replied. Coulson had introduced him to Leo under the name of John Carmichael the first time they met, and they had needed him to make them a new passport for another agent that had gone missing and who needed extraction. She had then posed as Mrs. Carmichael after they rescued her. "What do you need this time?"

"I need a new passport, for a woman. A French one."

"Name?"

"Alice Carmichael," Clint answered. He grabbed her purse, and found her ID card. "Born on May, 4th, 1982," he said, changing her birth date. "I'm sending you a picture," he said, snapping a shot of her picture in his S.H.I.E.L.D. file and sending it by text message. "Can you do something for her hair? I want it dark."

"Alice, 1982, dark hair. Noted," Leo said. "I'll have it ready in four days."

"I only have two days, Leo," Clint insisted. "And I need new clothes, and dye product. Usual meeting place?"

Leo grumbled, but agreed. "Two days. Tell Phil he owes me."

"He knows, Leo. He knows. Thank you," Clint said before hanging up. Clint then got up, and made to clean up the place a little bit. He heard the door open as he was making the bed.

"So, who am I?" she asked as she stood in the bathroom doorframe, only dressed in a white shirt of his, rubbing her hair with a towel.

"Alice Carmichael," Clint replied. "My wife. My second one, actually. I'm one of those guys."

"One of those guys?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Is that supposed to mean that you're a ladies' man, or that you killed the first Mrs. Carmichael?"

Clint rolled his eyes, ignoring her. "We'll see the details of our marital bliss tomorrow, you should get some sleep. You can take the bed," he said, sitting at the kitchen table.

She frowned, then grinned. "You're still afraid I'll kill you in the middle of the night?" she teased as she sat on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "Although I'm not that easy to kill. Mostly, I need to call my boss and he'll probably yell at me until tomorrow morning, so one of us should at least get a decent night of sleep," he shrugged.

Her face softened, another slip in her mask. "Why are you doing this?" she asked in a low voice, her gaze on him not as fierce as it'd been before; just curious and intrigued. "What's in for you?"

Clint leant over, resting his elbows on the table and his chin upon the back of his hands. He gave her question a thought for a moment; he knew, deep down, that his actions didn't make any sense, and that he should have just followed his orders instead of making all of this so complicated. The question was, why didn't he? Why couldn't he do it? It's not like he'd never killed before, men and women, or stood by as others ruined lives for the greater good. But something in this woman's eyes had stopped him, something that had entranced him enough to spare the life of one of their deadliest enemies.

She was just a girl, for Christ's sakes.

"It just didn't feel right," he just said, and really, he had no better argument. Coulson was going to kill him; Fury would kill him again. But even now, as she sat on his bed, wearing his shirt, looking at him like she was pissed that he saved her or that he thought she needed saving and yet just wondering why, Clint couldn't force himself to regret his choice. "It's not like I particularly enjoy killing people, you know."

She gave him this curious look again, shifting on the bed and stretching her legs as she tucked the pillow against the headboard. "Do you want to sleep with me?" she asked, seemingly not offended by the idea, but still very curious.

A faint blush crept up on his skin, and she tried hard to suppress a smile. "That's a trick question," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I say no, you'll think I'm calling you unattractive or that I'm gay because no man can resist you. If I say yes, you'll call me a pig. I don't even know why I care about what you think." She tilted her head, a little smile playing at her lips, and Clint sighed. "Okay. You're gorgeous, and that's part of your skill set," he continued, "but I don't think you have any idea how beautiful you are. Men use you, the Red Room uses you, and you do what you're told. You think that every man wants to sleep with you because that's the only thing you know. That's why this is the only reason you can think of for me helping you."

She couldn't help it, she gasped just a little, her mouth hanging open for a second before she took control of her emotions again. She tried to sound playful and sure of herself, but none of them bought it as she spoke. "I didn't know that you had to take Psychology classes to join S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said, lowering her gaze for a moment as she couldn't hold his any longer.

Clint shrugged. "You're not evil like they all pretend you are," he said, his tone soft and gentle. "My boss thinks you were born with a knife in your hand. Your boss thinks you're a killing machine. I think that no one is meant for this life; you were just unfortunate," he finished, almost in a whisper.

"What if you're wrong, and I kill you in your sleep?" she asked, her own tone dropping to a low murmur. She sounded like she was asking the question more to herself than to him.

He smiled then, cocky again. "I'm rarely ever wrong, just so you know." He looked at his watch, and sighed again. "It's late, I really should call my boss. There's food in the fridge if you're hungry. I'm not much of a cook," he confessed.

She shook her head, slipping under his sheets – nothing like the silky ones she slept in the night before in her villa – and tucking them up to her chest as she lied down. "You never actually answered the question," she said as she turned on her side, bending her legs to her and curling into a ball.

"I'm not helping you for sexual favors, if that's what you're asking," Clint said seriously, almost offended that she would think that before remembering that she had absolutely no reason to trust him. "Now, like I said, you're gorgeous and you're actually kind of funny for an assassin extraordinaire, so, why not?" he admitted. "Happy now?"

"Actually, yes," she said sleepily, covering a yawn with her hand. "It's a nice change, knowing what people want from me for once," she admitted without thinking.

Clint gave her a look then, that had she been looking at him in that moment, she would have probably slapped him for. It was something between pity and compassion, concern and worry that he shouldn't feel for her, but that he still did. "Goodnight, Alice," he said softly as he saw her lashes flutter.

She tucked her hand beneath her cheek, already almost asleep. "Natalia," she whispered back.

"Natalia," he repeated quietly, tasting the name in his mouth before sighing again as he took his phone in his hand and hit the speed dial, waiting for Coulson's lecture and possible firing.

She startled awake hours later, sweat dripping down her spine as she gasped for air. Reaching out for her weapons, she didn't find any as her fingers brushed her bare skin instead of her garter at her thigh. Shaking her head, Natalia lifted a hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes and brushing off her hair that had fallen over her eyes during her sleep, slowly coming to her senses. First, she noticed that she wasn't wearing her silky black dress anymore, but a man's shirt that smelled like cheap washing powder and a faint hint of cologne. And then she saw him, still on his chair and in a position that had to kill his neck, his bow and arrows and gun in the other corner of the room, nowhere near him if he needed them – if she attacked him.

He trusted her.

Why?

Natalia contemplated lying down again and trying to sleep, but she knew she couldn't. During the day, it was easier to focus on the mission and her target, but at night, hundreds of memories raced in her mind and she had absolutely no idea if they belonged to her or not. She'd been so many different women in her life that she never quite felt whole, like a real person; no memories of her family or her childhood – she even doubted that Natalia was her real name. But ever since she was a kid, thirteen or fourteen maybe, she didn't even know, she had been unable to spend a night without waking up in cold sweat, nightmares plaguing her, and the ever sensation of blood gushing on her hands.

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. She only knew three things about him: his name was Clint Barton, he was an agent with S.H.I.E.L.D., and he had spared her life when everything in him should have told him not to. The rest she could only guess. He was young; older than her, but around thirty only. He could be cocky, but it was just a façade because deep down, he was gentle and sweet. He was also an idiot, for sparing her and believing that he could just bring her over to S.H.I.E.L.D. like a teenage boy introducing his girlfriend to his parents for the first time. He was not meant for this life, either; Natalia just knew it. He cared too much; it would be his downfall someday.

She didn't trust him. But then again, she had never really trusted anybody before.

She wanted to feel gratitude towards him, felt like it was how she was supposed to feel, but all she felt was confusion and a faint anger. She hated not understanding, and Clint Barton's actions tonight made no sense whatsoever. He said he'd bring her over to his boss, that he wanted to make an agent out of her, and he was here, sleeping soundly with her in the same room, unarmed and unafraid – and she still didn't trust him. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Trusting people was a weakness, and Natalia wasn't weak; she couldn't afford it.

So why was she padding softly on the floor to him, giving his shoulder a light pat before taking a couple steps back and calling out his name? "Barton," she said, once, twice. No answer. "Clint?" she tried again, shaking his shoulder.

This time he woke, and that's when she realized how different they were. Had he tried to wake her up, she would have surely attempted to choke him; but here he was, slowly emerging from sleep and blinking his lashes at her. "Natalia," he said lowly, his voice still husky from sleep. "What, you – do you need something?" he asked as he sat up straight, stretching tired, sore limbs.

Another difference. Something completely new, that Natalia wasn't used to at all: someone caring about her. She stood there, staring at him, and not saying a word. Shocked.

Clint frowned, standing up abruptly, hovering around her. "Natalia?" he repeated. "Is it okay if I call you Natalia?" he asked, lifting a hand to her before letting it fall at his side, rethinking his move. "I mean, Black Widow isn't really much of a name…"

She smiled despite her best effort not to. "You can have the bed. I'm not tired anymore," Natalia just said, taking a seat on the other chair.

His brow furrowed, and Clint gave her a concerned look. What was it with him, she wondered. "You don't look like you really slept," he replied, taking in her tired features. Without her make-up, she looked completely different. Not any less gorgeous; just tired, and younger. In the dim light of the apartment, it felt as if she had let her walls down, probably not even realizing it as she looked back at him, exhaustion completely pulling her under as she nodded her head weakly. "That bed's big enough for two people. After all, we're married," he teased lightly.

Here was another thing Natalia knew about Clint Barton: he was funny, even if she would deny thinking it until the day she died. He was supposed to be her enemy, he had been sent to kill her, but here he was, making her laugh as if they'd known each other forever. It was refreshing. Dangerous, but refreshing. She followed him to the bed where he took the right side, just lying on his back with an arm thrown over his head, and she curled on the other side like she had before. It should have felt weird – it didn't.

She wanted to ask him how things had gone with his agency, but Natalia didn't want to disrupt his sleep. She waited a moment, and when she realized he wasn't sleeping, she tucked her head on her hand and looked up at him. In the now dark apartment she could just barely make out his shape, the fall and rise of his chest as he breathed, and she felt her eyelids flutter close again, as if lulled to sleep by the sheer presence of another human being in the same bed. Natalia resisted the pull, though, and spoke. "So…what happened?" she asked. "I didn't hear any yelling."

"Oh, there was, trust me," Clint chuckled softly. "But I know Phil. He gets angry, but only because he cares. He knows I'm an idiot, but he's there for his agents no matter what." He shifted, turning on his side to look at her and locking his gaze with hers – his eyes adjusted to the dark a lot quicker than hers did, and now that they'd been introduced properly, she knew he had to be the one they called Hawkeye. "He said I was an idiot, but he listened. He understood."

"Understood what?" she couldn't help but ask, because she for one didn't understand anything at the moment.

"That you're just a kid," Clint sighed, his breath warm as it fanned over her face. "That we can't kill people and then pretend we're the good guys in this story." He paused for a moment, and the room was so silent that Natalia could hear him flick his tongue on his chapped lips before he continued. "You didn't have a choice. You followed orders."

"And you disobeyed yours," Natalia countered.

"Yeah, I did." He turned on his back again, pulling at the sheets and covering them both. "I've killed more people than I can count. But this is the first time I've felt like by doing so, I wasn't any better than the enemy we're supposed to fight against," he confessed. "Phil got that. Fury will be a lot less understanding, but nothing Phil cannot handle."

"Phil?" she asked over a yawn.

"Phil Coulson. He's my handler. Don't call him Phil," Clint warned her. "I only call him Phil behind his back. He's a good man. Makes sure his agents are alive and well. He's the kind of man who will make sure you're eating and sleeping after a mission going south, even if he always looks like he reads the How To Be A Perfect Agent guide every day for fun. He'll be good to you."

"You say that like I'm a puppy looking for a new home," Natalia said, trying to sound light as she felt a pang in her chest that she couldn't quite explain.

"Sorry," Clint apologized, yawning, too. "What I mean is that he won't look at you like you're any different from another rookie. Not now. Not anymore. And he'll plead your case with Fury. He won't let anything happen to you."

She shifted uncomfortably, the pang in her chest tightening, making it hard to breathe normally. The more he spoke, the more anxious she felt; he kept talking like he was going to hand her over to Agent Coulson and Director Fury, like she was nothing but a bargain, and it hurt. Inexplicably, after everything she'd been through, this hurt a hell lot. "You won't be there," she stated as the realization dawned on her.

He turned on his side then, his hand seeking hers in the dark. She felt her pulse beat faster as his fingers closed around her wrist, and she felt so stupid, really, because here she was, lying in bed with a man who had been sent to kill her and she's all flustered about the brush of his hand on her skin. "I'm not gonna disappear after I drop you off," he promised. "I bet Coulson and Fury will give me a lecture for about a week. But…I work better alone. And so do you, I suppose," he continued. "I'm not sure I'm the most qualified agent to train you."

"Why?" she asked, and immediately hated herself for it because it made her sound childish and weak, and it was already bad enough that he saw her as a kid.

He seemed to ponder it for a moment before he answered her. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "We'll see."

"We'll see," she echoed him. "What's the plan?" she asked, changing the subject, choosing a more practical and less emotional one.

"We're getting you a new passport, so the KGB can't track you until we're on American soil. You're my new French wife, and we're going back to the U.S. after our honeymoon. Our contact will bring us everything we need in two days, and we'll fly back right away," he said. "Until then, we're staying in here."

"Sounds easy."

"Yeah. I do this every day," he said cheekily. "Now you just need to try not to kill me until then, and everything should go smoothly."

"I'll try," she replied, nuzzling her face deeper in her pillow, sleep lulling her in its arms.

Ten minutes later, she was fast asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other loosely clenched around his shirt.

It all felt surreal, the weight of the ring on her finger, the warmth of his hand in hers as they stood at the airport, the perfect picture of wedding bliss. When he bent his head to kiss her as the man with her passport in his hands took too long, Natalia felt herself tiptoe to reach him, and linger just a moment more than necessary before the man at the counter coughed and handed her her passport back. People always get embarrassed by public displays of affection, he taught her as they took their seats in the plane. They spent the entire flight holding hands, and at some point, her head fell to his shoulder as she dozed off.

Here was another thing she knew about Clint Barton after three days with him: he was too good to be true. She had to be tread carefully around him, because no one was this kind; no one was ready to put their job in jeopardy for someone else like that.

When they landed, a car was waiting for them. Clint held the door for her as she slid in the backseat, and she sat near another agent who tried to cuff her the moment Clint climbed in. "No," he said roughly, giving the man a dark look. "She's not a prisoner."

"It's okay," Natalia relented, understanding the fear and suspicion – finally someone who was acting adequately towards the Black Widow.

"No," Clint insisted. "I didn't bring you here so they'd chain you again," he said firmly.

That's when she felt the angry confusion falter, only to be replaced by what could only be described as warmth, this sheer warmth brought by human interaction, closeness and care. It wasn't quite gratitude yet, but for the first time in her life, Natalia felt tethered to the world by another person.

The warmth faded as soon as they stepped into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ and she was sat at a table, and Clint was made to leave the room. She gave him a look, pathetic and weak, silently begging him to do something, anything, even though she knew he'd already done everything in his power and beyond. Things were now in the hands of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table, and who intimidated her more than the man who had aimed an arrow at her in a dark alley three nights prior despite his bringing a plate of salad and fries. "I bet you must be hungry," he said, and his voice was a lot warmer than she'd expected. "Barton's known to eat everything he finds and leave nothing to others."

"He made pancakes," she said, because hell, if he was going to talk to her as if they were friends, then so would she.

"Ah," Coulson said, amused as he stole one of her fries. "Barton's a good guy," he noted.

She nodded her head as she started eating. "He seems to be. He said the same about you."

"I bet he also told you he was better off alone, and yet, here we are." Coulson paused for a moment, watching her with an almost fond look. "You're not asking about what's going to happen."

Natalia shrugged. "I figured that if this food was poisoned, I wouldn't have to," she replied.

Coulson laughed. "I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't originally…well, shocked over Barton's update. But he's one of the best agents I've ever had, and I trust his judgment. He thinks there's good in you, and I'd like to believe that, too." He looked her in the eye and she didn't blink, staring back into the older man's eyes, and she saw what Clint had told her, the concern and care Phil Coulson had for his own.

And he was looking at her the same way.

"I'm ready to tell you anything," she offered. "Anything you want. And I'll do whatever you want, too."

"Why?" Coulson asked, and though Natalia had expected him too, she hadn't been able to come up with an answer. Not until now.

She looked up at the glass wall behind him, knowing that Clint had to stand behind it. "Because it's the right thing to do."

Coulson smiled, and this smile told her she had passed the test. He took another couple of fries from her plate before getting up. "Well, I think we're done here. Agent Barton will lead you to your room. Take a shower, get comfortable. We'll talk again later. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Miss Romanova," he finished as he left the room.

Clint entered the room as Coulson left, a somewhat proud smile on his lips. He led her to her quarters, and even if some agents glanced at her on their way, it didn't feel like they feared her or begrudged Clint's decision and Coulson's acceptance. No, most of them were just curious to see the Black Widow up close and live to tell the tale. She spent a moment taking in her quarters, nothing like the fancy universe she had evolved in for years, but still so much warmer and cozy. Maybe this was it…home.

Clint sat down on her couch, pulling up papers Coulson had given him. "We need to fill these up," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "We?" she asked, wanting to make sure she'd heard him well.

"Uh-uh," Clint nodded, leaning against the back of the couch and propping his feet on the coffee table. "Even if you'll be under Coulson's orders, I'm gonna be your supervising officer for a little while."

"So you're not leaving?"

He gave her a smile. "Not yet," he replied. "Okay, so, first things first: I need a name," he said, tapping his pen against the paper.

Natalia took a look at herself in the large mirror in her room, staring at the clothes Clint had Leo buy for her and her dark hair. She'd been unmade and remade once again, but it hadn't been painful or violent this time; nothing she couldn't shed at the end of the day, though she didn't particularly want to – except for the hair, she liked her red hair. She thought for a moment, before she said, "Natasha. Natasha Romanov."

"Natasha," Clint repeated as he wrote it down. "I like it. I'll need your signature on these," he added, handing her the file.

She took it, and wrinkled her nose as she tried to read his messy handwriting. "You spelled it wrong," Natasha said. "Romanoff. That looks American."

Clint grinned. "Well, you're American now, Agent Romanoff," he shrugged, making no attempt at fixing his mistake. "Okay, so, tomorrow's your medical examination. Just regular stuff. I can stay with you if you want," he added when he saw her eyes widen.

"I'm not a child," Natasha replied, too petulantly to make her point as she sat on the other end of the couch, kicking his feet off of her coffee table with her own.

"Of course you're not," Clint said, holding his hands up in defense. "But our nurse is a vicious woman. She pretends to count to three before she stabs you, but she always stabs you at two," he said, embellishing a shudder.

Natasha rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian about him being a baby and holding his hand at his next medical examination. "So, is this some sort of quarantine?" she asked, gesturing vaguely to the room. If it was, then Russia had a lesson to take from America about taking prisoners.

Clint shook his head. "Nope. I have quarters just like these down the hall. I have an apartment, too, when I don't want to stay here, but there's no use going there when I'm just here for a couple days before leaving for another mission," he added. "Tomorrow afternoon, we'll go to accounting. They'll open a bank account for you, and you'll discuss your salary and all. The day after, we'll see if you need anything for here. We're meeting with Fury after."

"Should I be scared?" she asked, not feeling any dread, though. She had become a traitor and fled her country, painting a target on her back for the Red Room; Nick Fury couldn't be any scarier than that.

Clint laughed, that good-natured laugh she had already gotten used to in the span of the last three days. "I'll be more scared than you, I can tell you that," he replied. "Mostly he'll look you in the eye for a minute to see if you're really in, because of course Coulson and I have to be morons to do this, and then he'll send us back here. We'll start training next week."

"I don't need training," Natasha said, a little upset that Clint Barton, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. that she had never heard about before, could tell her she needed it.

"I didn't say you needed it, Natasha," he said easily, as if calming her down and countering her fits of temper was the most natural thing for him. "But I do. I've seen you work alone – I need to see how you work with a partner."

Her eyes widened again, and Natasha curled her legs to her, wrapping her arms around her knees as he tilted his head to her, their eyes locking. "I thought you said you didn't like working with a partner."

"I don't. Things always get messy," Clint said. "But, it's not every day that you bring a rogue Soviet agent home and ask your boss if you can keep her. You had to know they wouldn't send you alone on a mission. At least, not for now."

Natasha looked at him with curious eyes, trying to see if he was bothered by the situation. If he was, Clint didn't let it show. They were good, these S.H.I.E.L.D. agents; if Coulson blamed Clint for his decision, he hadn't let it show either. She didn't know if there would be consequences of his disobedience for him, but he seemed to be ready to face them, for her. That was new, too. "So…does that mean we're partners?" she asked, tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth.

"I guess so, yeah," Clint replied, turning fully to her. "Partners. We could be friends, too, if you wanted, but partners seems to be a good place to start." He extended his hand to her again, just like he had the night everything had changed. "Agent Clint Barton," he said, bowing his head a little.

Natasha smiled, a small, almost shy smile, and shook his hand. "Agent Natasha Romanoff," she said, tasting the words in her mouth. She'd been Elena and Katrina and Anastasia and a hundred others, claimed by some, owned by others, and it felt good to finally have something that was supposed to be permanent.

"Well, how do you feel about going to my room to drink over this, Nat?" he suggested as he got up, offering her his hand. "I think I have vodka. This will probably not end well for me," he said with a smirk.

"Now you're making sense, Barton," Natasha said, accepting his hand even if everything screamed in her head not to.

(It wasn't until they'd emptied a bottle that she realized he had called her Nat. It took her another to realize she didn't mind.)

to be continued