Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie or tv show in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

So most of my readers said they'd prefer to have the AU's in a separate story vein, instead of keeping them with the "Snapshots" which are all pretty much Vantage Point Universe ficlets. So here we are. If you're new to my work, I have an entire series dedicated to Clint Barton, go check it out :)

This was originally written for Clintasha Week 2016 on tumblr.

This is unbeta'd and off the cuff so all mistakes are my own and you have my apologies :) Enjoy.

AU Scenario: Clint is a hotshot Navy pilot and Natasha is a Navy nurse.

Natasha stared at herself in the mirror, sighing deeply as she took in the white uniform. It was made complete by the equally white cap pinned on top of her head.

A nurse. She was a Navy nurse.

Even a year into it, she still couldn't believe that this had become her life. Not that she had anything against nurses. The women she worked with were amazing, kind, brave women. But Natasha just wasn't cut out for this.

For one, her bedside manner left something to be desired. Left a lot to be desired actually. She couldn't even count the number of times her supervisor, Maria, had told her that telling guys to 'stop crying like babies' wasn't proper patient care.

She couldn't help it, though, it's just the way she was.

Beyond that, though, she wasn't a nurturer or a care giver. She'd been raised in an orphanage where you fought for anything and everything. And she'd learned to fight well.

When this war had started, she'd yearned – as most people had – for a way to do her part. But they didn't let women into the military. They didn't let women fight. So she did the next best thing, the thing that at least let her help those who did do the fighting.

She was a Navy nurse.

A banging on the door had her straightening, adjusting her long red hair on her shoulders.

"Natasha, come on, the new pilots just got here!" Anna, one of her house mates shouted.

Natasha rolled her eyes. Anna was only 18, she got moon eyed and drooling every time a remotely good looking Navy boy walked by her. She practically had a fit when a whole new batch of them arrived.

Most of the other girls in her house – Becky, Meredith, and Ali – they all got just as excited. It was only Natasha and Beth – who was mousey and barely spoke – who couldn't care less how good looking the sailors were.

As far as Natasha was concerned, most of them were absolute idiots who thought far too much of themselves. Especially the pilots. They thought that because they had a pair of wings pinned to their chest they were something special…that they were owed adoration.

Natasha rolled her eyes when Anna banged on the door again.

"I'm coming!" she snapped.

She checked her reflection once more – just because she wasn't cut out for nursing didn't mean she couldn't look good while doing it – and then reach for the door.

"Oh my god," Anna squealed as she all but dragged Natasha along the sidewalk.

Becky, Meredith, and Ali were all following behind them, whispering and giggling. Behind them, Beth was clutching her purse to her chest and walking with downcast eyes.

"Would you look at them?" Anna fawned, pulling down her sunglasses to peer over them at the cluster of young men moving in a herd towards the hospital, likely for medical check in.

Natasha rolled her eyes behind her own sunglasses, nudging them farther up her nose.

"Come on," she urged the bouncing teenager. "We're late."

That got them all moving. They hurried past the group of men and Natasha practically had to drag Anna now to keep her from throwing herself at the first guy who caught her eye.

In her haste, Natasha bodily collided with one of the sailors, one walking a little away from the pack and consequently in her path.

The young man stumbled and then hastily stepped aside.

"Sorry," Natasha muttered, glancing over her shoulder to meet his gaze even as she kept moving.

Amused blue-gray eyes caught hers and for a moment she felt like the rest of the world faded away. Then Anna was giggling next to her.

"Oh yes," her young friend crooned, "she's very sorry."

Natasha snapped out of her momentary daze and pulled Anna along.

"A gentleman would have left a clear path for us to pass," Natasha tossed over her shoulder.

She thought she heard a chuckle before it was taken by the breeze and they left the group of men behind them.

"Nat, you are no fun."

"I can't have fun, Anna, because you have too much fun," Natasha teased.

Anna grinned, not bothering to deny the accusation.

"Did you see that pilot? He was downright staring at Nat," Ali whispered behind them as they filed into the medical building, leaving the bright Hawaiian sun behind them.

"You ladies are late, again," Head Nurse Maria Hill scolded as she appeared in front of them.

"Sorry, ma'am," Meredith apologized with a grin. "Natasha was flirting with one of the new pilots."

Natasha tossed her friend a glare that promised retribution.

Hill's dark eyebrow arched doubtfully.

"Well, Natasha, if you're so enamored with the new arrivals, you can do their check ins."

All six of them sighed in disappointment, but for entirely different reasons. Natasha hated check ins, they were boring. And she knew that Beth loved doing the paperwork and would be disappointed to miss out on it. The other four would be intensely disappointed to miss out on scoping out the new meat.

She accepted the stack of files Hill handed her and left Meredith with one last glare before heading to the intake desk

A minute later the crowd of men from outside filed in and gathered in front of her.

"My name is Nurse Romanoff, I'm going to be doing your check ins and updating your files," she greeted the crowd. "I'll call you back one at a time, until your name is called, you can wait over there," she motioned at a small group of chairs against the wall.

She looked down at the first file and called out the name.

"Barton, Clinton."

The mass of men all moved, heading for the chairs, save for one.

Natasha looked up and felt her breath catch in her throat.

Blue-gray eyes.

A dirty blonde eyebrow arched above them.

"We gonna just stand here? Or…" the young man gave her a slight smirk.

Natasha stiffened, forced away her shock.

"You," she stated blandly. "The one who doesn't know how to clear a path."

His lips twitched.

"And you," he replied easily, "the one who mows down all in her path like a tractor."

She scowled. He shrugged innocently.

"Follow me," she ordered, spinning on her heel and marching back to the nearest open curtain.

He followed her easily and when she motioned him to sit on the cot, he obeyed. She perched on the stool and looked over his file.

"Looks like you're up to date on your shots," she murmured mostly to herself.

She took in all the information the file provided her with. He was from Iowa. 21 years old. Had been in the Navy since he was 18. Then her eyebrows shot up. "Is this really your vision score?" she asked in shock.

He shrugged.

She looked back down at the file. His vision was perfect, better than perfect…literally. There was a notation next to the score stating that his eyesight went beyond the capabilities of the vision testing available at the time.

She shook her head, impressed and moved on.

Apparently he had some injured ribs that needed to be checked over.

She looked back up to find Barton staring at her.

"What?" she snapped.

He held up a hand in apology and looked away. Maria's voice rang in her head.

"Natasha, you'll get more cooperation if you're at least vaguely nice to them."

Natasha sighed and put the file down on the cart.

"Sorry," she apologized reluctantly as she moved to close the curtain. She shot him a slight glance over her shoulder. "After so long, the staring has gotten old," she tried to explain.

Barton nodded that he understood.

"Take off your shirt so I can check your ribs and then you can be on your way."

He stood immediately, resting his cover on the cot and unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed it onto the cot and stripped out of his undershirt.

Natasha arched an eyebrow at the black and brown bruising on his right side. She shook her head and came closer.

She carefully felt along the bruising, eyes straying to an old thin scar on his upper chest.

He didn't even flinch as her fingers probed the healing injury.

"You can't get mad at guys for staring at you," he stated abruptly, but quietly.

She glanced up to meet his gaze and arched a challenging eyebrow.

"You can't," he reiterated with a slight shrug as she continued to check the progress of his healing side. "I mean, you and your pack of vultures out there stare at us all the time."

She glared up at him now and he just shrugged again.

"Just saying."

She stepped back.

"Your ribs seem to have healed nicely," she told him. "And I don't stare." Then, without meaning to, "What happened?" She motioned at the bruising.

He tilted his head at her, apparently curious about her curiosity.

"I got in a fight," he admitted.

Natasha rolled her eyes, typical.

"You can put your shirt back on," she told him. He turned to grab his undershirt from the cot as she moved back to where his file rested. She caught a glimpse of something on his back and shifted for a better view.

Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened.

Scars. Long, thin scars criss-crossed over his entire back.

Before she could even process what she was seeing, his white undershirt slid down, hiding the marks from view. Natasha turned back to the cart, so that he wouldn't know she'd been staring. She scribbled down a notation about his ribs and then flipped the file closed.

When she turned back, he was tucking in his uniform.

"Have a nice day," she jerked her chin towards the curtain.

He gave her a slight smirk that she didn't understand and then ducked through the curtain and out of sight.

Barely a breath later, Anna was sneaking in.

"Oh my goodness, Natasha, that was him."

Natasha frowned in confusion.

"Who?"

"That guy, the one that just left. He's the top pilot in the entire Navy! I was talking to some of the new sailors and apparently he's the best there's ever been!"

Natasha arched an eyebrow curiously. But Anna wasn't done.

"And," she went on, "apparently he got into a huge fight a couple of weeks ago. He caught a few guys attacking a girl, like attacking," judging by the meaningful look in her eye, Anna meant they'd been doing more than just slapping the girl around, "and he fought all of them. There were five of them."

Natasha blinked.

"I got in a fight." He'd said.

No bragging about being a hero. No proclaiming that he'd taken on five guys and won. Just…I got in a fight.

"So," Anna nudged her, "what was he like?"

It was then that Natasha realized that beyond the staring, Clint Barton hadn't even hit on her. He hadn't said anything lewd or suggestive. He hadn't asked her out or made her feel like a prize he was competing for.

He'd just given back sass as good as she'd given it and been on his way.

"He was...different."

She didn't see him again for a week. All the girls forced her to go out with them to a party. Though reluctant, she knew that they'd never take no for an answer. So she went.

The rest of her roommates, even quiet Beth, were off dancing before they'd even cleared the doorway. Natasha rebuffed a few men trying to pull her out to join the dancing and made her way along the bar.

That was when she spotted him.

He was sitting alone at the end of the bar, watching the dancing crowds quietly.

As if feeling a supernatural pull, she found herself sliding onto the stool next to him.

His gaze pulled away from the crowd to focus on her. Honest surprise lit his gaze.

"What's your angle?" she demanded bluntly.

His eyebrow arched and he reached for the cup in front of him.

She eyed it…it looked like water.

This guy just kept getting more and more confusing.

"My angle?" he asked skeptically.

"Don't play dumb," she narrowed her eyes. "Every guy that comes through that hospital practically slips on their own drool. You, you don't even try to make a move on me. Not one."

He shot her a teasing glance.

"Are you offended?" he asked.

"No," she defended sharply. "It's just…it was unexpected…" she sighed. "Refreshing even."

He shrugged a shoulder and sipped his water.

"Then," she couldn't stop herself from going on, "you 'got in a fight'? I know what you did. I know that you got in that fight saving a girl who was getting attacked. Most guys would wear that story like a badge of honor."

He gave her a confused look.

"Are you mad at me for not being like most guys?"

Natasha huffed.

"No."

His gaze narrowed.

"Then why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not," she insisted. "You're just…frustrating."

He grinned slightly.

"It's been said," he admitted. "I think Coulson wanted to put it as an official notation in my file."

"Coulson?" she asked curiously.

"My training officer. He actually transferred her with me…he's around here somewhere." Clint looked around, then shrugged and settle his gaze back on hers.

Natasha felt herself suddenly blushing under his piercing gaze, it felt like he was looking right into her soul. She scrambled for something else to focus on.

"You're drinking water?" she asked abruptly.

He nodded.

"Not much for alcohol," he admitted.

She found herself smiling.

"You really are different than the rest of these guys, aren't you?"

He grinned.

"That, I wear as a badge of honor."

Natasha chuckled and slid off the stool, feeling an unfamiliar giddiness sweep through him.

"Mr. Barton, against my better judgement. I'm going to agree to dance with you."

Barton turned on his stool and regarded her with a smirk.

"Well, Nurse Romanoff, with an offer like that, how can a guy refuse?" He slid off his stool and held out his hand. "Call me, Clint."

She took his hand and felt herself smile.

"Call me, Natasha."

Three weeks later…

"I'm telling you," Clint insisted, "nothing beats that feeling of being in a cockpit with nothing but thousands of feet of air beneath you."

Natasha smiled, leaning into Clint's side as they walked along the beach.

"So you've always wanted to be a pilot?" she asked.

He hesitated, hand tightening where it was woven with hers.

"No," he admitted. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be in the circus."

She snorted.

"You're kidding?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"Nope, even lived the dream for a few years before it all fell apart. Then the war happened and I joined up."

"So how did you end up becoming the best fighter pilot in the Navy?"

He shifted his gaze to look over the water as they walked.

"Phil thought I had good reflexes and then he got a hold of my vision test. Forced me into a cockpit. He says I picked it up pretty fast for a guy that had never even driven a car."

"When can I meet him?" she asked. Clint talked about Phil all the time, like he was family instead of a superior.

"Soon," Clint promised.

Natasha nodded.

"So nothing beats the feeling of flying, huh?" she challenged as she pulled him to a stop and moved to stand in front of him. His eyebrow arched curiously. "Not even this?"

She leaned up and pressed her lips against his. It wasn't their first kiss; she hadn't managed to hold out on that past their second date. Clint just…had a way about him that she couldn't resist. That she didn't want to resist.

He wasted no time wrapping his arms around her and deepening the kiss. She found her own arms going up over his shoulders.

When they finally parted, he was smiling.

"No," he agreed. "That definitely beats it."

She smiled, thinking of her roommates all being out tonight. Every one of them had a date, even Beth. She grabbed Clint's hand.

"Come on," she started pulling him along. "I can think of something else…that might even beat that."

Three months later…
December 7, 1941
7:40am

"You are so frustrating!" Natasha shouted as she followed Clint through the house. He yanked his t-shirt over his head as he went.

Five sleep mussed heads almost simultaneously peeked out of their bedroom doors.

"Sorry," Natasha muttered, shoving against Clint's shoulder to get him to go outside. "Go back to sleep!" she snapped over her shoulder and all five heads disappeared back into their respective rooms.

"Why are you doing this?" Natasha demanded as she tightened her robe around her body and glared at him across the small patch of grass that was their front yard.

"Natasha…"

"No," she snapped. "You don't get to say what you said in there and then say my name like that, like nothing happened!"

"I don't get to say what?" He finally snapped back. "I don't get to say 'I love you'? Why? Why can't I say that? It's true."

"No it's not," she argued. "It's only been three months, Clint."

"Actually almost four," he corrected sharply. "Why is it so crazy? Why is me loving you so hard for you to accept?"

"Because 'love' is for children, Clint. It's a stupid childish notion," she shot back.

He strode across the lawn towards her, wrapping his hands around her arms, but not harshly. There was a gentleness in his hands that she'd grown used to over the last few months.

"Who was he, Natasha? What did he do to you?" he asked quietly.

She cut her gaze away.

"Who?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Whoever the asshole is that broke your heart," Clint clarified bluntly.

Alexi's face floated through her mind, but she forced the image away.

She opened her mouth, maybe to confess the truth. To tell him about Alexi like he'd told her about his childhood, about Barney, and about how Phil had saved his life.

But he suddenly stiffened, looking up and away.

"What is…do you hear that?" he asked as he let go of her arms and turned fully away, looking up at the sky.

She heard it too, planes, a lot of them.

She shielded her eyes from the early morning sun as she stared up at the sky with him. The first plane to come into sight was too far for her to even decipher what kind of plane it was. But next to her, Clint's entire body tensed.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"It can't be…" he muttered, dropping the hand that was shielding the sun from his eyes. "Natasha…"

Then they both froze, watching in horror as a bullets erupted out of the plane, tearing into something in its path. A few seconds later something dropped out of the bottom of the plane and Natasha found herself gripping Clint's arms so tightly her fingernails were cutting into his skin.

"Is that…"

Clint cut her off, turning sharply and gripping her arms tightly even as an explosion rocked the world around them.

"Get inside, wake up the others and get to the hospital," he ordered.

She nodded.

"Where are you going?" she demanded when he started to turn away.

He turned back and crushed his mouth against hers. Then he pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

"Those are Jap planes," he whispered. "I have to get up there," he told her. He kissed her one more time, desperately. "I love you," he stated firmly.

And then he turned and jogged away, flagging down a passing car full of other pilots.

She watched him go, mouth hanging open slightly, then she snapped into action, running up into the house where the others were already scrambling around frantically.

Natasha smiled wearily at the sailor who she'd just hooked up for a blood donation.

"I'll be back in a minute to check on you," she told him gently.

The fighting had stopped hours ago. Now they were sifting through the damage.

Anna appeared next to her, looking as exhausted as Natasha felt.

"Any sign of him?" Natasha asked.

Anna shook her head sadly and gave her a short hug.

"He'll turn up, Nat. He's the best pilot in the Navy."

Natasha could only nod, throat tightening.

"Natasha?"

Natasha turned sharply, recognizing the voice.

Phil Coulson, the man who might as well have been Clint's father, was standing a few feet away.

Natasha moved towards him immediately.

"Did you find him?" she asked, ignoring the catch in her voice.

Phil shook his head. Natasha looked away, blinking away a betraying wetness in her eyes.

"I talked to another pilot though, that said they thought they saw a plane start to go down in a field a good ways inland."

Natasha looked back at him, hope igniting in her chest.

"I was going to go find the crash site…see if…" he trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Can I come with you?" she asked desperately.

She couldn't just wait here. She had to do something. If he was out there, hurt, she needed to go to him.

Phil gave her a warm, weary smile.

"That's why I came, my car is out front."

She nodded, turning to Anna who was waiting a few feet away.

"I have a blood donor behind that curtain, will you take him?"

Anna nodded immediately.

Natasha turned back to Phil.

"Let's go."

Clint woke abruptly.

He forced his eyes open, a groan of pain rising in his throat as the world came into focus around him.

His chest hurt. And his head, God, his head…

Numb fingers ghosted against a nasty gash on his temple and he winced.

It was then that he realized he couldn't breathe…

He fumbled with his harness, needing to release the pressure of the restraint.

Once he was free, he took a deep breath, only to cough when his battered chest protested.

Grimacing, and increasingly concerned about the fact that he couldn't seem to think straight, he decided to try and move, to go find help.

He looked around, found his cockpit cover shattered around him. So he climbed, more fumbled, his way free. He meant to climb down from the downed air craft gracefully, but in the end, he was just a sprawled heap on the grass.

The world spun around him and he couldn't bring it back into focus. When the gray that was shadowing his vision started to turn black…he couldn't fight it.

"There!" Natasha pointed at the mass of twisted metal she could see at the other end of the field they were driving by.

Immediately Phil jerked the wheel and drove them into the tall grass.

The time it took to cross the field felt like a lifetime. She leapt out of the car while it was still slowing to a stop.

"Clint!" she shouted, looking up at the mangled cockpit. But it was empty. "He's not here," she told Coulson, eyes scanning the area now. Phil was climbing up onto the wreckage, muttering about how no one should have been able to put this plane down safely with the amount of bullet damage it had suffered.

Natasha felt a wave of helpless frustration well up in her and she moved, ready to search every inch of this field for a clue as to where the missing pilot had gone.

Then she caught sight of the bottom of a boot peeking out from the behind the destroyed plane.

"Phil!" she shouted even as she ran. She saw a leg next, then a torso, then… "Clint!" she went to her knees next to him, fingers immediately going for his neck, checking for a pulse.

Phil appeared at her side, eyes wide and worried.

"He's alive," she announced, relief so powerful rushing through her that she nearly passed out right there. "He's alive."

"He's hurt," Phil observed. "We need to get him back."

Natasha nodded, hands fisting in Clint's shirt.

"I'll get the backseat cleared," Phil decided. "Then we'll move him."

She nodded again and Phil was gone.

Natasha dropped her head down to rest against Clint's.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I…" the words caught in her throat and before she had a chance to make a confession to a man that couldn't even hear her, Phil was back.

"Let's go."

Natasha nodded and shifted to help when Phil threaded his arms beneath Clint's knees and shoulders. She supported the pilot's head as they moved and then she climbed into the backseat first, letting Clint's head rest in her lap.

"Just hold on, kid. Just keep fighting," Phil whispered to Clint before climbing into the driver's seat and speeding back towards the road.

Natasha rolled her neck wearily, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face as she checked Clint's face for the millionth time in the last two hours since they'd gotten him cleaned up and settled into this bed.

Miraculously, other than broken ribs, a busted knee and a major concussion…he was okay. Better than most people would be after a plane crash. Though, according to Phil, Clint had somehow managed to more land the plane than crash it, despite it being mangled by bullets.

Now they were just waiting, hoping that he would wake up.

Wearily, she dropped her head down, resting her forehead on the mattress next to his hand, which she kept gripped in her own.

She started to drift, the merciful oblivion of sleep teasing her from just out of reach.

"You sleeping on the job?"

Natasha froze. Then slowly raised her head, looking up to the source of that voice, that familiar low rumble.

Half-lidded blue-gray eyes were groggily looking back at her.

"Hey," he greeted sleepily.

"Hey," she replied around the emotion that was trying its best to choke her.

One of his hands went for the bandage on his head and she moved quickly, catching it in her own.

"Leave it alone," she scolded, but she didn't let go of his hand.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, a faint grimace creasing his features before it faded.

"Phil," she told him. "Phil found you. He didn't stop until he found you."

Clint frowned a little, looking confused.

"But…" he trailed off.

"What?" she asked.

"You were there," he told her. "I heard you."

Natasha shifted, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"You could hear me?"

Clint frowned again, another grimace of pain fleetingly crossing his face.

"You apologized," he met her gaze then. "Why? Why did you apologize?"

She shifted, chewing the inside of her lip.

"Natasha…"

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. How did he do that? How did he say her name like that, like it was a whispered prayer?

"I was sorry," she started, then opened her eyes and looked down at him, "that I yelled at you."

He nodded slightly, accepting her answer.

Natasha hesitated and then tightened her grip on his hand.

"I was sorry," she went on, taking a deep breath, "that I didn't say it back."

She felt him go completely still next to her, barely even seemed to be breathing.

"Say what?" he asked quietly.

Natasha gave him a slight glare. He couldn't just make this easy for her?

"Hey," he defended. "I said the actual words. The least you can do is say them back."

Of course he wouldn't make it easy for her.

"And besides," he went on with an infuriating little smirk, "I'm injured. You can't get more romantic and cliché than a hospital bed confess-"

She silenced him by kissing him.

She pulled back a moment later.

"You talk too much," she accused.

He huffed a slight chuckle.

"It's been said."

"I love you," she stated abruptly, almost forcefully. He blinked and then smiled.

"Well that's good, cuz the whole unrequited love thing is way overrated."

"Clint?" she sighed, waiting for him to arch his eyebrows in question. "Stop talking."

He smirked.

"Make me."

So she did.

Drop me a line, if you would. Even if you already did when this was originally posted in Snapshots :)