Secret Santa gift for Alpha Flyer in Be-Compromised's 2015 Secret Santa Exchange.

Solitaire

Oksana Vodovatov was four years older than Natasha and they had rarely had cause for interaction: slept in different dormitories, participated in different exercises, trained with different superiors. Blond-haired, brown-eyed and lovely, Oksana had always had a reputation with explosives. She had been a highly trained pyrotechnic expert by the time she was fifteen, at which point she was sent on her first operation, blowing up a passenger train in Pakistan.

Red Room operatives, when still in their probation stage before graduation, were often sent on joint-missions with an older, more experienced operative called without formality or sympathy a big sister, of whom Oksana was Natasha's.

Natasha and Oksana were sent to Kandahar, Afghanistan. Their mark was Juma Gul, an Opium dealer whose growing business was in danger of treading on the toes of Emal Zadran – the sponsor of Natasha and Oksana's current enterprise.

The Red Room had more to do with the highest bidder than politics but the activity of the currently raging war in the area certainly gave Natasha and Oksana a handy excuse for any collateral damage. Besides, Gul, a minor Taliban warlord, had apparently done something to upset his higher-ups and was as good as awaiting his execution anyway.

"Rather," said Oksana after she had finished explaining the objective to Natasha, concisely and with simple words, "That is my mission. Yours is to stay out of my way. If you wish to learn anything, malen'kaya lisa, I suggest you watch me silently. This is a test. I should not like for you to fail it."

Malen'kaya lisa. It meant Little Fox and Natasha didn't know when or why Oksana had thought it was a good idea to give to Natasha as a pet name.

Natasha nodded tersely and silently and watched as Oksana unloaded the weapons from the bag sprawled open on the dusty bed, checking the guns and winding her fingers lovingly in the wires of the explosives. Oksana tucked two guns into her belt and tossed one to Natasha, which Natasha checked carefully when Oksana's back was turned and then tucked into her own belt.

The plan was simple. Enter Gul's fortress, set the explosives, and leave. Their full chadricovered their foreign features, most specifically Natasha's scarlet hair. Natasha knew that they would not be suspected because they were women.

The streets were hot and dusty. Natasha walked a half a step behind Oksana, head pointed to the ground, watching the older girl's feet.

They were let inside Gul's fortress by a guard, paid off by Zadran. The guard did not look at Oksana and Natasha as they passed and he left down the street as soon as they had gotten in. Oksana moved with carefully measured ease through the winding hallways until they reached the room they had picked from the schematics, directly next to Gul's conference room. Natasha could hear voices from behind the clay wall.

Natasha watched as Oksana set the explosives with delicate, rapid movements, nimble fingers twisting wires with surgical precision. Natasha watched Oksana's back as the older girl worked, confident Natasha was keeping guard. Natasha watched as Oksana set the fuse and straightened her shoulders, her job done.

Natasha pulled her gun out of her belt in a fluid motion. Oksana turned. Natasha's gun fired with a silent puff of air and the merest whiff of smoke as the bullet flew from the barrel and embedded itself in Oksana's forehead. Oksana dropped and Natasha watched the body, looking strangely small curled at the end of the room.

"You neglected to think of one thing, Oksana," said Natasha. "It was you being tested. Not I."

The Red Room expected a high level of self-confidence in its operatives, but arrogance was something they would not tolerate. Arrogance caused sloppiness. Natasha had been put in charge of cleaning up the mess.

Natasha walked back into the street, dust swirling across the road. The wind was picking up, tossing the canvas awnings on the market stands. She was almost back to her room when the rumble of Oksana's explosion shuddered through the dirty roads and echoed off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. Natasha kept walking as heads turned in surprise and well-practiced fear. She paused before entering her room to mutter beneath her breath, "Do svidaniya, malen'kaya lisa."

Barton let the cover of the vent drop. It clattered to the floor. Henchman Number Four was the first to turn in surprise at the sound. Barton had already slipped through the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling, drawing his bow even before his feet hit the ground. Natasha followed him smoothly, familiar weight of her Glock against her palm.

Henchman Number One was the second to realize what was happening and his hand flew to a button on the control pad, evidently an alarm. A bullet from Natasha's gun in his hand ensured he would be temporarily distracted from calling for reinforcements. Natasha was aware of Barton's warm, tense body beside her as he knocked an arrow. She tried to ignore him, reminding herself that she didn't need to be concerned with what Barton was doing as long as he did his job.

She focused all her attention on henchman Number One instead, who choked on a cry of pain but grabbed for his gun with his uninjured hand. Natasha raised her gun to shoot him in the head only to have a hand tighten on her shoulder painfully. She changed tactics, whirling on her heel and swinging her gun hand upward. The shocked expression on henchman Number Four's face was almost amusing as Natasha's knee came up soundly into his groin at the same time as the handle of her gun cracked against his forehead.

She turned in an instant to face Number One again. He actually had the audacity to grin, gun aimed for Natasha's face.

Natasha swung her leg forward, toe connecting solidly with his outstretched hand, gun flying from his startled grasp. She executed a perfect pirouette, hand outstretched to meet the gun spiraling end over end. She caught the handle firmly in her left hand and pulled it down to aim for the henchman Number One's forehead as her right hand brought up her Glock, fingers finding their respective triggers simultaneously. Number One dropped as the dual puffs of smoke cleared from Natasha's vision, tickling her nose with the sweet smell of gunpowder.

She spun again on her toe, calf muscles tightening as she dropped to her knee, bringing both guns level with her face and pointing them straight at the nose of henchman Number Three who had thought it would be a good idea to sneak up on her while she was distracted with Numbers One and Four. Her finger had already found the triggers again but she paused, wondering what an arrow was doing already protruding from the man's neck.

The henchman collapsed, knees crashing to the floor. Barton stepped forward, already having disposed of Number Two, hand closing on the shaft of the arrow and, using the man's own backward momentum, pulled it out of Number Three's neck with a disquieting squelching noise.

Natasha realized she was still pointing the guns, now at empty space, and stood back to her feet, tucking both guns into her belt. She caught Barton's eyes momentarily and thought his expression was almost daring, as if he expected her to be grateful for something she had been quite capable of finishing herself thank-you-very-much.

"I could have taken care of him, Barton," she growled.

"I simply thank you would suffice," said Barton. Natasha rolled her eyes at Barton's back as he turned on his heel to lead the way out of the control room.

She followed his broad shoulders down the hallway, strides mirroring his own. Together they moved fluidly through the building, meeting no further adversaries, until they reached the main body of the structure, a large warehouse littered with crates and boxes, loading bay doors open and letting the yellow Nicaraguan sun spill onto the cement floor.

Barton pointed across the wide room to three figures standing by the opposite end, two more black-clad thugs and, in between their hulking shoulders, their mark: Vincente Ortega. Natasha immediately recognized his smooth bald head, sunburned from the harsh sunlight, and wideset eyes from the surveillance pictures SHIELD had provided. She didn't need Barton to point him out for her and resisted the urge to swat away his hand.

"I can't take out all three from here, not without one of them raising the alarm," Barton hissed into Natasha's ear, breath tickling the back of her neck.

"We'd better get closer," Natasha whispered back.

"The distance isn't a problem, Romanoff," Barton said, seemingly a touch defensive.

Natasha rolled her eyes and dropped to her knees, crawling ahead of Barton down the catwalk that rimmed the warehouse wall. She moved soundless across the metal corridor, dodging behind crates and miscellaneous machinery to avoid the gaze of henchmen Five and Six.

Finally she reached the end of the catwalk and the flight of stairs that led to the floor beneath. Standing at the base of the stairs, back to Natasha, was Ortega and his posse. Barton touched the back of Natasha's shoe and she glanced fleetingly back at him. With a quick series of gestures he wordlessly translated that Natasha would take out the two henchmen while he would take care of Ortega. Natasha nodded her understanding, slightly irked by the exaggerated way Barton was communicating his every word.

Natasha cast these thoughts aside and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before she sprang into action. She leapt to her feet, one crack of her gun meaning henchman Number Five was downed with a bullet in the back of his skull. She vaulted over the stair railing to avoid the swift retaliatory shot of Number Six, who managed to both aim for Natasha as well as use his body to shield Ortega.

Natasha cursed as a bullet clanged off the metal staircase, inches from her head. She ducked under the stairs and came out beneath them on the other side to shoot Number Six in the face.

Ortega tripped over his feet in his haste to get away from the sudden firefight. Barton launched himself over the railing of the catwalk with all the poise and self-certainty of an acrobat, swung his legs over his head before releasing the bar, tucked his knees to his chest, and tumbled neatly through the air in a summersault before he landed on one knee, bow already set on his shoulder, to let fly an arrow that buried itself into Ortega's left eye socket. The arms' dealer landed on the cement floor on his back, lifeless.

The strand of hair was still tucked neatly behind Natasha's ear. She stepped from behind the staircase to approach Barton. She made a mental note to sneak a look at Barton's file when she next had the chance. She wanted to find out where he'd picked up on some of those skills. Surely they weren't all SHIELD mandated.

Barton got to his feet and, per usual, recovered his arrow before walking up to Natasha, rather gruesomely wiping the soiled head on a corner of his shirt.

"Not bad, Barton," Natasha said.

"I'll say the same for you, Romanoff," Barton answered, grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Movement on the catwalk behind Barton's head caught Natasha's attention. In an instant she saw the glint of metal on the stairwell above them and, immediately recognizing it as a gun trained directly for Barton's head, she did the first thing that popped into her head. With a smooth kick to the back of Barton's knee, he folded and tumbled out of her way so that Natasha could shoot at the previously hidden henchman Number Seven. Her gun cracked and bullet embedded itself into his forehead. His gun slipped from his limp fingers and fell fifteen feet to clatter loudly on the floor.

Barton, lying on his stomach, looked at the gun thirty feet away and the blood that had begun to drip from the body of Number Seven on the catwalk above. He then twisted his neck to stare at Natasha.

"You know, you could have just told me to duck," he said, but he was smiling.

Natasha actually found herself smiling in return, a motion that felt so casual she almost forgot its infrequence. She stretched out her hand to help Barton climb back to his feet.

"A simple thank you would suffice, Barton."

"Stated for the record, date twenty-fourth of August, 2006, oh-nine-hundred-hours. Disciplinary meeting with Agent Romanoff, Level One, to discuss the fallout of the Trondheim Operation with senior Agent Sylvan, Level Five. Present, Agent N. Romanoff, Deputy Director M. Hill, Director N. Fury."

Natasha stoically listened to Deputy Director Maria Hill recite the information for the benefit of the recording device sitting on Director Fury's desk. She had set her face in a well-practiced expression half-way between boredom and complete unconcern. Fury was sitting behind his desk, single eye sweeping lazily over the office in a way Natasha knew was taking in every detail around him: the individual threads of her red hair, the crisp fabric of Hill's navy skirt suit, the fluttering of the papers atop the filing cabinet from the heater. Hill was sitting to the side of Fury's desk, facing Natasha, slender legs crossed one over the other and tapping against her knee the same clipboard she seemed to carry everywhere she went.

"Failure to communicate. Lack of cooperation. Incompetence. Insubordination," Hill rattled off. "Sylvan says you treated his guidance with indifference bordering on contempt. You refused to obey his orders, neglected to communicate your intentions, and repeatedly took action without first gaining his – a senior and supervising agent's – permission and authorization."

Natasha allowed her face to display a bit more boredom, sliding her eyes away from Hill's drawn face, scanning the back wall, covered with a floor to ceiling world map. She had heard it all before, countless times since the disastrous Trondheim operation, heard it dully repeated by SHIELD PAs, chortled by Barton, heard it screamed at her with flecks of Sylvan's spit as he faced her on the Quinjet on the way back to base. Insubordination, lack of communication, the whole litany all saying the same thing: does not play well with others – something Natasha could have told them, and had, before the operation even left ground.

"We've already heard Agent Sylvan's side of it. Now it's time to hear what you have to say for yourself, Agent Romanoff," Hill continued stonily. It was evident by her expression that she was hardly interested in whatever that might be.

Disaster only in name, Trondheim had actually been quite productive as far as operations went. Human trafficker Roland Drost located, negated, eradicated. No collateral damage. In fact, the only thing that had been damaged was Sylvan's ego.

"Sylvan was unaware of the full scope of the situation and refused to listen to me when I attempted to alert him to it," Natasha said. "I did what needed to be done and took out our mark while doing it."

"Then you do not deny you disobeyed Sylvan's direct orders to remain uninvolved –"

"No I do not deny it, Deputy Director," said Natasha flatly. "Nor do I deny that I acted with the swiftness and clear-headedness the situation called for while Sylvan stood protesting and inactive by my side." She hadn't been about to stand by while Drost ran a bus of young girls off a cliff.

Natasha snagged a pen off the desk, started whirling it in her fingers, thinking about Barton doing the same thing. Barton was always doing things like that, using chopsticks, pencils, forks and knives to keep the dexterity in his fingers.

"SHIELD is well aware of your assets, Agent Romanoff," said Hill, bony jaw jutting as she ground her teeth. "But we cannot allow for those assets to be released unchecked. I know you are unaccustomed to playing by the rules –"

"Sylvan was unwilling to allow me to take action. He was distracted by his own paranoia and risked the outcome of the operation with his hesitancy."

Hill breathed through her nose. "Am I to understand you think Sylvan's charge of incompetency is unduly severe?"

"I am not the baby agent here, Deputy Director. SHIELD wastes time and resources in pretending as much," said Natasha briskly, letting her eyes flash only briefly in irritation. They were still afraid of her, afraid of what she stood for, afraid of what she could do if released to her full potential – yet at the same time strangely and irrepressibly fascinated by her. Even Hill with her crisply ironed blouse and manicured nails. Natasha knew that; she might as well use it to her advantage. "But by all means, keep your charge of incompetency. I only suggest you take a closer look at Agent Sylvan when you do."

Hill opened her mouth to retort. Two blotches of faint pink had begun to blossom on her sharp cheekbones. Fury raised two fingers silently and almost imperceptibly from his seat behind his desk. Hill snapped her mouth shut again, glanced at her clipboard and met Natasha's eyes again.

"I presume you're aware of your tumultuous standing with the Counsel, Agent Romanoff." Hill continued, face once again emotionless but eyes flashing with sharp exasperation. "Insubordination is only one small step away from mutiny in their eyes. Your behavior has only served to heighten their distrust of you and if you lose it entirely it may not be possible to ever regain."

"Might have been better if you'd just stabbed Sylvan in the back, Red," said Fury finally from behind his desk, leaning back in his chair in what would have been a leisurely position if not for the tenseness of his arms crossed over his chest.

"That can still be arranged," said Natasha, cocking an eyebrow and looking at Fury out of the corner of her eye. The seductress was a hard act to put down. It was apparent, from Hill's resulting scowl, that she was-not-amused. Fury's expression, however, was harder to read.

"I suppose you understand there's only one response to this kind of a report," said Hill flatly.

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to allow the merest glimmer of the irritation she felt show itself on her face. Bozhe, she had just come off three months of probation and was now apparently facing a suspension of however long they chose to throw at her.

"There is very little you can do to combat an accusation of insubordination from an agent so senior as Sylvan. Not to mention the Council's unease –"

"What Agent Hill means to say, Agent Romanoff," Fury cut in gruffly, good-eye hard on Natasha's face, and was that the faintest glimpse of an amused smile she detected behind his surly façade? "Is that we've decided it's high time you had your first solo mission."

"Bit of an oversight on SHIELD's account, huh?" said Barton, grinning and throwing his clothes into a drawer from his suitcase without bothering to fold them.

Natasha and Barton had arrived in Jalisco at the same time as Hurricane John. The rain peppered the roads in sheets, wind rattled the colorful umbrella-covered tables sitting outside restaurants, and thunder echoed against the walls of the stone buildings. They had been shown to their hotel room by a nervous, tan-skinned porter who assured them the basement would be available should the storm grow too fierce. Natasha's request for separate rooms had been denied by SHIELD.

"We might as well get some work done while we wait it out," said Natasha, sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter covering the bed, some kind of blue and green Mayan print with lots of triangular-shaped fish that the tourists would get a kick out of. "Alvarez is supposed to be living somewhere in Zapopan, the metropolitan area –"

"Romanoff, I've sat through just as many briefings as you have."

"Coulson says this one's going to take a bit of thought," Natasha answered.

They been sent to Guadalajara, Mexico to sniff out a Capos of a drug cartel who was suspected of offing a high-status politician in a drive-by shooting and invoking the wrath of the Council.

Barton shook his head and kicked off his boots, letting them tumble into a pile by the dresser. He walked across the floor in his socks and folded into an armchair in the corner, tilting it backward so it balanced perilously on its two back legs. "Coulson needs to quit worrying. We've had plenty of time for thought."

"He thinks we lack finesse," said Natasha.

Barton smiled faintly. "Find me a palm tree nine-hundred meters away from Alvarez and I'll show Phil finesse."

"So you'd like to take him out long distance, then? What do you need me to do, find a way to get him out in the open?"

"Relax, Romanoff," Barton drawled, shutting his eyes and crossing his ankles, heel atop toe. "The storm's gonna hold us off for a couple of hours…days if we're lucky."

Natasha snorted, "Lucky. I'm here to get the job done and get out. I haven't got time to watch a thunderstorm holed up in a lousy hotel room."

"At least it's got AC," said Barton.

Natasha rolled her eyes. His optimism was ingratiating, even more so because he was obviously doing it deliberately to get on her nerves. She hadn't the faintest idea why Fury thought they worked well together.

"Seriously, Romanoff," Barton's eyes snapped open. Natasha realized she had been fidgeting, foot bobbing quickly against the springy mattress, "Relax. What does the Black Widow do when she's not working, anyway?"

"Mostly catch flies to drink their blood later," said Natasha acidly.

Barton tipped his chair forward and it landed on all four legs with a thud. He perched his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "Come on. Not even Tuesday night Bridge with the girls? Poker at the bar?"

"I'm more of a solitaire fan." She tried to keep her tone light. There was no point in opening hostilities, especially not when stuck in a small hotel room with a storm raging outside the windows. They could wait until Alvarez was dead before taking shots at each other.

Barton smiled. A crooked, stifled thing.

"So you've never gone out just to have fun. To the club on your birthday, maybe?"

"I don't know when my birthday is, Barton."

"So what? Every day could be your birthday then. Maybe today is your birthday."
Natasha shook her head and stopped herself from smiling. Barton could be a real idiot sometimes.

Natasha realized that she still knew very little about her partner – for lack of a better word. Clinton Francis Barton. Codename: Hawkeye. Retired Marine. Past circus performer. The latter slightly unexpected but not unbelievable. It explained some of his more…distinctive fighting styles. All of this information gleaned from his file, which he didn't know she'd read. She wasn't idiotic enough to think Barton hadn't done the same to hers, though, so they were technically even.

But she still didn't really know him. What made him tick? What drove him to do the things he did? She could picture him grilling steaks with a bottle of beer in hand, probably wearing one of those idiotically American aprons emblazoned with "Kiss the cook".

"What about you, Barton? Go out with the guys on the weekend, toss back a few beers and a few girls?"

Barton chuckled. "When I get the chance."

"Too busy keeping your bow sharp?" said Natasha.

"SHIELD doesn't just send us out to off people, you know," said Barton, shrugging. "So far that's all you've been assigned, but just because they're still feeling out your talents. I've been on plenty of protective details, some reconnaissance work, even a rescue operation every so often."

"Protective details, huh?" said Natasha, leaning back on her elbow. "So you weren't just getting close to Jabari Sekibo so his bodyguards wouldn't suspect you when he turned up dead in the bathtub?"

Barton paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

Natasha almost smiled, "I never forget a face."

Finally Barton cracked a smile as well, looking wry but resigned. "So, that was you in Zimbabwe, huh? Should have recognized your work."

"Sorry I messed up your job. Hope you didn't get in too much trouble with the boss."

"Slapped me on the wrist. Nothing too bad," said Barton. "To tell you the truth, SHIELD hadn't quite made up their own minds on whether or not I was there to protect Sekibo or shoot him in the jugular. I should probably thank you for making up their minds for them."

Natasha nodded slowly. She examined the light blue, patterned wallpaper around them. The light above the bed flickered. She wondered if they were going to lose power. Maybe the whole building would collapse.

"So what's the deal, Romanoff?" said Barton guardedly. "What made you turn to that kind of work? Was the pay really that good?"

"I might ask you the same question," Natasha snapped.

Barton shrugged. "I don't think I ever really had much choice."

"And you assume I did?" Natasha didn't know why she was feeling so defensive.

"Sorry," said Barton and it seemed like he might have actually meant it. He continued, voice level like he was reciting lines from a play rehearsed many times. "Before I joined SHIELD I did some freelance work. I'd like to consider some of it vigilante justice but…I don't know. All I'll say is it's a relief to have SHIELD calling the shots now."

Thunder blossomed in the sky. Lightning cracked across the dark clouds, casting sharp shadows across the room like the flash of a camera. The light flickered again. Natasha looked at her fingers. She needed to trim her nails.

"There were different…triggers," Natasha said slowly, feeling each word carefully on her tongue, unwilling to say too much but feeling curiously unable to stop, "hypnosis and I think I remember some drugs. Mostly it was all we knew. We had to kill to avoid being killed. It fostered a…perverse dedication."

"Triggers," said Barton, "like what? Words, phrases, pictures?"

"I don't know," said Natasha and shrugged. "At least I don't exactly know what mine were. The Red Room weens you off of them after you've reached a certain level of…compliance. But I suppose they might still be there, even if they stopped using them. I don't know if they might still work or not."

"Doesn't that scare you, not knowing what they are, when they'll appear –"

Natasha cut him off, "That maybe someday while playing solitaire I'll draw the Queen of Hearts and I might accidently shoot you in the head? Honestly, Barton, I'd be more afraid if I were you."

She was suddenly aware she had said too much. Barton had a curiously pacifying effect on her. She hadn't quite realized how much she was spilling. Irritation at herself flared to life in her stomach.

"What about you, Barton? What are your triggers?" She asked it softly, not quite meeting his eyes, hoping he'd be more inclined to share if he didn't think this was an interrogation.

Barton grinned at her slyly, in a way that told her the game was up. Damn. He looked away, and leaned over to the floor, digging in the open mouth of his duffle bag. Thunder clattered outside the window. Rain pounded against the building like hundreds of knuckles knocking on a door.

"So…solitaire," said Barton, extracting a deck of cards secured with a rubber band from his bag and looked up, smile seeping in his eyes. "Ever played double?"

"No, Nick. The answer is no."

Natasha swiped at the strands of hair stuck to her forehead with sweat but didn't pause in her workout to look up at Director Fury, who was leaning against the wall of the private training room that Natasha much preferred to the large gymnasium. She didn't like a whole lot of people watching her as she trained – a lingering habit from the Red Room perhaps.

"You know I'm not going to beg you," said Fury levelly, arms cross over his wide chest.

Natasha turned her eyes on the speed bag hung in the corner of the room, walled in mirrors so she could see herself and Fury on every side of her. She began rolling her fists in a rhythmic pattern, hitting the bag with a sound like faraway machine gun fire.

"Then this is an order?" she asked, breath coming fast but even up her throat.

Fury shifted against the wall. Natasha glanced at his good eye briefly through the mirror on the opposite wall. "Let's put it this way. You should see this as a highly compelling suggestion from your superior."

"But I'm allowed to say no?" said Natasha, raising her eyebrows, giving the bag one last swat before stepping away and toward the rack of free weights in the corner.

"Yes. But I won't say you won't regret it if you do."

Natasha laughed, sharply with no real amusement. She hefted a weight into the air over her head and then slowly brought it back down to chest height, and then up again. "I don't do teams, Director."

"Trust me, Agent Romanoff, that's something I'm well aware of."

"That's been the way it's been almost since I got here." Natasha changed the weight to her other hand, repeating the exercise.

"You know," Fury said and there was almost something like amusement in his rough voice. "Sylvan still doesn't like you. Thinks you made him look bad."

"I don't like Sylvan, either. And he's right. I made him look very bad." Natasha set aside the weights and dropped smoothly into a split on the ground, arching her arm over her back to touch the tip of her toe.

"All I'm saying is to give it some thought."

Natasha switched to her other leg. "I work with Barton or no one at all."

Clint was off in New Mexico somewhere, monitoring a tricky situation involving a hammer suspected of some intergalactic type mystique. UFO mumbo-jumbo like that always seemed to take place in New Mexico. She hadn't seen him for months. God, she'd forgotten how much she could miss him.

Natasha peered under her arm at the mirror to lock gazes with Fury. The eyebrow over his good eye was raised. "Barton will be on this team."

"Good for him," Natasha quipped. She jumped back to her feet, circled her shoulders in their sockets to loosen up.

"I'm only asking for the best, Agent Romanoff." She could feel him staring at the side of her face. She arched her back to stare at the ceiling, bent at the knees, coiling her muscles, and then released, tucking her knees to her chest so she spun through the air in a tight summersault. She landed back on her feet, inches from her launching point.

Fury was still staring at her. She pushed her hair out of her face.

"Yes, and you want us along with Stark? I'm an assassin not a super hero. I don't do cover photoshoots for People magazine."

She walked over to the corner of the room where there was a control panel set into the mirror. She pressed the right buttons and a mechanical whirring sounded in the room as the back wall of the training room curled upward into the ceiling.

"That's why we need you, Agent Romanoff. We need someone to keep Stark grounded. You and Barton can take care of the intelligence side of it while Stark can deal with the press tours."

"Press tours?" Natasha spat, finally looking at Fury head-on as the wall ascended fully into the ceiling, revealing a long shooting range previously hidden behind the mirror. Fury accepted her gaze with a familiar frown. "What is this, Nick? If you're trying to get rid of me then at least find some quieter way of doing it that won't involve pasting my face on the front cover of every international newspaper."

"I'm not trying to get rid of you," said Fury gruffly. "The world's becoming a strange place, Agent Romanoff. And it's gonna get a helluva lot stranger before it gets any better. People need to know they're safe. I aim to give them that. And it's up to you whether or not you want to be part of it."

Natasha raised a hand, palm outward. She was frowning. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck. "Don't start on me, Director. You're sermons don't work on me anymore. I don't need to hear about the dangerous world from you. You don't have to tell me about avenging the world's sins."

She stalked over to the corner where she had stowed her gear and snaked her holster around her hips. She didn't look at Fury but she could tell he was about to speak so she continued, whirling around to face the roughly human shaped target at the end of the shooting range. "You don't have to tell me, Nick. Besides – avenging. What sanctimonious bullshit is that?"

Fury sighed. "That's right. I don't have to tell you. You already know all about keeping your legers clean, don't you? You've been in the avenging business since you got here, Red. Whether or not you'll admit is of no effect."

"The answer is no, Nick," said Natasha firmly. She pulled her Glocks out, checked them, and then stuck them back in their holsters, one hanging on each hip. "You're wasting your time trying to convince me."

"Alright, Red. I won't argue with you anymore."

"Good."

"Consider the subject dropped, then."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Sure, Nick. Sure." She ducked rapidly into a roll and came out of it with both guns in hand, already squeezing the triggers. She discharged all rounds into the target in front of her, smell of gunpowder tickling her nose, silenced shots still echoing in the confined space.

After her guns were empty she turned her head and saw Fury had left. She was alone in the room, her reflected image staring at her from three walls, guns smoking.

And she told herself months later, sitting in the cramped cockpit of the Quinjet with dried sweat sticking her hair to her forehead on her way to Calcutta to collect Banner, that she was doing it for Barton.

"Your partner will meet you at the hotel," Maria had told Natasha before departing from the hanger aboard the Quinjet. All through the flight Natasha had wondered who it was they were going to stick with her this time. Barton was not yet cleared for active duty after the Loki incident so she knew it couldn't be him.

The hotel room was empty when Natasha let herself inside, escorted by the porter with her bags. SHIELD had never been one to chintz on their operative but the Hilton was still quite impressive and Natasha looked at the plush king sized bed jealously. Maybe, if all went well, she'd get the operation over and done with a little time to spare. The hotel had a fantastic spa. And a particularly tempting dining service.

It was supposed to be an easy op. Get-in-take-'em-out kind of arms trafficking bust. Fury had some kind of stupid idea of letting Natasha relax after New York. Natasha didn't need to relax. Besides, if it was so damned easy than Natasha should have been able to take care of it by herself. There was no reason to have to saddle her with some kind of inept greenie for a partner.

She had the porter leave her bag on the bed and she focused on getting unpacked. She peeled the lining out of her bag first to detach her weapons from where they were strapped to the side. She stuck her guns in her side holsters, hidden by the loose-fitting blouse she was wearing.

It was midsummer in Costa Rica and the sun was filtering through the silky curtains covering the floor to ceiling windows. She had passed a pretty sweet looking pool on her way into the hotel.

Someone knocked on the door. Natasha whirled around.

"Just a minute," she said. It was probably just her partner, whoever that was, but she placed a hand on her hip anyway, inches from her holster in case she had to grab her gun. "Alright, come in."

The door swung open and Natasha smiled. She let the merest sliver of surprise shine through her eyes – just enough so he could be sure he wasn't unwanted.

"Clint," she said and Barton grinned at her, slouched in the open doorway.

"Hey."

Clint's face was etched in familiar lines. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. He looked whole and healthy. There were still wounds there – Loki and Coulson and everything that had happened in New York – but it was Clint, and he was there, and he was safe. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue gray.

Natasha crossed the room in four strides and Clint knocked the door shut with the back of his heel.

"Damn you," she said and launched herself into his arms.

Clint caught her with his firm, familiar grip and she could feel his heart beating in his chest against her breasts. He laughed. "Good to see you too, Nat."

"What are you doing here?" she said, slightly rougher than she had meant to. She stuffed her face into his shirt, breathing in the musty scent of his aftershave.

"I got cleared for duty sooner than expected," he answered. "I worked it out with Fury to surprise you."

"Yeah, well, damn Fury too," said Natasha.

Clint laughed. She felt it run through his body and vibrate through her own chest. "Happy birthday, Nat."

"It isn't my birthday, Barton." Natasha detached herself enough from his arms so she could look up at his face, weathered and tired but so wonderfully close to hers.

"For all you know," he said, and pressed his jaw against hers, speaking against her lips, "it could be."

Fin.