.: Chapter Five : Partners and Boyfriends :.

"Welcome to Newark International Airport, local time 5:00 am, temperature 42 degrees. Thank you for flying with us," said the captain over the plane's loudspeakers. New Jersey. He shuddered. Why anyone would ever want to live in such a gosh-awful place, he had no idea. He grabbed his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. Since he wouldn't be staying long, he'd not brought much. Had the TSA thoroughly scanned his bags, all they would have found was a pair of women's clothes and large collection of camera lenses.

It was amazing what you could hide inside those, decided the man as he made his way to the train station. Sure, taking apart and re-assembling a rifle wasn't fun, but considering the alternatives, the camera lenses would do fine. He was headed back to New York, to scout for tonight's mission. The last time he'd been to New York... well, suffice to say, it was quite a long time ago. It pained him to even think of it, mostly because he felt conflicted as to whether the memories should be good or bad.

He stepped off of the Amtrak train into Penn Station and walked out to the exhaust fumes of an overpopulated city. At this early in the morning, only a few cabs were out either driving CEO's off to an early start or bringing party animals home from a late night (and probably a nasty hangover). The man turned on his phone, checking his messages. Smirnov had told him where her S.H.I.E.L.D. babysitter had planned to take her for the day: to the gym, out shopping, and out to dinner at a Chinese place. Whoever this agent was sure had bad taste in food, he thought, but good taste in extraction places. The gym would be in the middle of broad daylight, which wasn't good for him. The shops would be too crowded, which was also bad for him. The Chinese restaurant, though, was perfect. Not too crowded, at night, and had nearby buildings with good access. He dialed the phone number for a secret phone line in a secret office building.

"I've just arrived," said the man as he walked down the sidewalks of New York.

A few miles away by the bird flies, Vasily Smirnov was just getting started on his morning paperwork. "Good. Do you need any extra help tonight?"

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine. Any description of the agent accompanying her tonight?"

"They're likely switching her security detail, and often. Her detail has been known to wear their uniforms, though, so they shouldn't be too hard to spot," said Vasily, chuckling. "Stupid Americans."

The remark should have insulted the assassin, but he wasn't American. Not anymore. So he just ended the conversation and proceeded to climb the fire escapes to find a good view of the restaurant.

Vasily put his phone down on the receiver and resumed his life as Scott Anderson, for the most part. He took out a black book, which he very much enjoyed to call his Little Black Book - it made it sound threatening, and it was - and began scribbling plans. These two assassins were costing him more trouble than he preferred to deal with. Ms. Romanoff had been good to him in the past, that is, until he never came through on his payment to her, or on his promise to keep an asset and personal "friend" of hers alive. If she hadn't found out about her bank account or ally yet, she soon would, and then he'd have more problems than bankruptcy to deal with.

He needed a plan, some way to trick them against each other. A way to kill Ms. Romanoff. The other man, well, he couldn't touch the other man - figuratively and literally - since he belonged officially to a Russian secret service branch. Smirnov set to work, keeping a slew of papers messily scattered across his desk to give the appearance of actual work in case a coworker wandered by. An idea wormed its way into the Russians head.

He walked over to the window, taking out a burner cellphone, and pretended to re-arrange the leaves in a potted plant on the windowsill while in actuality, he was turning on the bug that Nick Fury had planted there. Another cell phone rang in his office, and he began to play clips of words into the bug, occasionally doing some speaking of his own. When he was satisfied with his work, all that could be found was a Scott Anderson sat innocently at his desk, with a smile too devious for morning document filing.

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"There, so now you have yourself a sexy little cat-dress to go with your slinky little catsuit," said Clint as the pair emerged from one of the many New York shops, clad in paper shopping bags sporting shirtless models and fancy logos.

"Would you please stop calling it that?" Natasha requested irritably. "Besides, you shouldn't be talking, Mister Uniform-Tight-Enough-To-See-The-Plumbing."

"Excuse me?" Clint planted his feet in the middle of the sidewalk and gave a quick glance down to in between his legs.

"You heard me, loosen it up down there." Natasha couldn't help but give a small giggle at Clint's face. He blinked repeatedly with traces of utter disbelief marked all over his features. Then, he smiled and slowly shook his head.

"If it makes you laugh, continue," he said graciously. "I think this is the first time I've heard you do so."

Natasha quickly straightened her face, going back to her normal stoic expression. "I wasn't laughing." She grabbed Clint's arm and dragged him down the street towards the gym. "Nope, not me."

"Mmmhmm," agreed Clint. "Whatever you want, sweetheart." This sassy remark only caused the pair to laugh harder. "You know, you're not half-bad, Miss Romanoff," he said, making a point not to use a nickname. He thought for a minute and quickly added, "Aside from the whole ruthless killing people thing, that's gotta go."

Natasha snorted. "Like you weren't ordered to kill me."

"That's different."

"How?"

Clint was growing rapidly uncomfortable with the sudden turn in their conversation. He kept turning his head to glare at people as they passed, checking to see if anyone was hearing things they probably shouldn't. But, if they were going to talk about this, he could at least turn it in his favor. "Why do you do it? Kill people, I mean."

"Because I... I mean, I... um..." Natasha had to give it some thought. "At first it was because it was all I knew, when I was a kid. Then it became about following orders... and now..." She shook her head. "It's mainly personal, now. What about you?"

"I didn't choose this... it kind of chose me," admitted Clint. "I..." Clint didn't like talking about his past, to anyone, so he skipped the reminiscing and muttered, "S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me for my skills and that was that. I do what I'm told. That doesn't mean I don't have standards and reasons for it, though."

Natasha just nodded. She knew the feeling all too well. The remainder of the walk to the gym was spent in silence, neither caring to elaborate on their painful pasts, or present, for that matter.

Two hours later, a male and female could be found in the ropes of an old boxing ring. There were pictures of famous wrestlers lining the walls of peeling wallpaper. A soft light fell from the row of windows along one of the walls, while the far corners of the room remained dusty and unlit, aside from the few flickering lights dangling from the ceiling. A few punching bags hung unmoving next to a set of bleachers. The wooden floors were dusty and the finish was worn in most places. The fancy shopping bags stuck out drastically from the ratty overall appearance of the gym. The gym served its purpose of privacy, though, but there wasn't much to be said about its rugged shape.

"You can hit me, you know," Natasha said, after many of Clint's failed attempts to land a single blow. "I think we're past the point of chivalry."

"I'm just not good at this." Clint stopped circling Natasha, beads of sweat running down his forehead. His hair, once nicely flipped up, now fell messily over his brow and plastered to the back of his neck. He set to unwrapping the tape from his hands.

"There might come a day when you need it, though." Natasha pulled her hair out of a ponytail and poured some water on the top of her head.

"Like the day I came after you?"

Natasha gave small smile. "It might have helped."

"Why didn't you shoot me when you had the chance?" Clint blurted. "You had a gun, I saw it. You had me in your control and you didn't shoot me. Why."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead, turning to lean against the stretchy ropes of the ring. "You remind me of someone."

"Okay, because that's a justifiable reason," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "And you remind me of a redhead I used to date back in high school." Both agents knew he was lying, Natasha by the look in his eyes and how bad at it he was in general, and Clint by the fact that he'd never dated anyone in high school - they all thought he was too strange. Sure, he had a smart mouth and enjoyed ogling girls, but he was no Tony Stark. No girl would ever want to sleep with him. Hell, his first kiss wasn't even a real kiss, it was on a mission with Hill, and he never heard the end of it from her.

"You remind me of an old partner. He's a good... a good..." She never finished the sentence, instead choosing to replace it with another thought. "Do you ever want to disregard your orders?"

"Sometimes. Actually, I usually just do it." Clint moved over to lean on the ropes next to Natasha. "Coulson is all bark, no bite."

"Have you checked your suitcase recently?" Natasha laughed and Clint nodded his acceptance. She glanced at the ground and cleared her throat. "I know there's more to you than meets the eye," finished Natasha. "That's why. Because some people are just... what they seem. You and him... you aren't; there's something more that you won't tell me. And I kind of like that."

Clint frowned. "What isn't your partner telling you?"

"It isn't anything bad, I'm sure," Natasha assured him. "Some things you can only share with certain people. I guess I'm not the one he wants to share it with. Maybe I just wouldn't understand."

"Yeah..." he said vaguely, ducking out of the ring. "Let's get going. I want to shower before we go out again."

Natasha followed in suit, realizing she must have struck some chord with her last few sentences, because Clint had clammed up with no warning whatsoever. He was probably worried about her old partner, but Natasha trusted him enough to know that her partner wouldn't hide anything dangerous from her. She shrugged it off, forgetting it entirely until later that night, at dinner.

As they sat in the Chinese place, which had become a bit of a joke over the past few days, (and although she refused to admit it, Natasha had quite grown to like the unique taste of the not so authentic food - she would know, having been to China herself many times), Natasha noticed Clint's lack of uniform. "No leotard today, huh?"

"Too tight," he replied, his mind elsewhere. He shoved food around on his plate with his chopsticks, which remained as mere chopsticks today. "Natasha, can I trust you?"

"Yes-"

"Not in the sense where I can trust you to wander the streets or whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. considers trust. I mean, can I talk to you honest and open, and not have you tear me to shreds, figuratively?" He sized up Natasha and added, "Or literally."

"I... I guess."

"I want to tell you what I wasn't telling you."

"That's a mouthful."

Clint stared her straight in the eyes. "I'm serious. What you said about only sharing with certain people-"

"Clint, you've only known me for a little over a week. Don't you want to keep that for someone you know better, who you can relate to?"

"I can relate to you," he said honestly, ducking his head to hide the red blush that spread through his cheeks like wildfire.

Natasha pleaded with him, "Let's just go home. Some things are better left untold." She flagged down the waiter to pay for the check, and when she had turned back, Clint was reading a text on his phone. "Hey, I thought this was supposed to be date night, no phones," she joked, thinking he was disappointed at her refusal to let him speak. Clint only met her gaze with a serious shake of his head.

Taking the pen, he wrote on the back of the check, Hill's been tapping Smirnov's phone. He has orders to kill you, and he likely has agents roaming the streets for us. Stand up, and tell me I've made a mistake in my math.

"Did you actually complete high school, Clint? You multiplied wrong. We should be paying forty five dollars, not fifty. Five dollars tip, not ten," she managed with a bit of an effort.

"For your information, I did fine in math," he said, dropping bills on the table. She followed wordlessly as he made his way to the dark side street the restaurant sat on. He tilted his head up, gazing at the rooftops for any snipers, but adding, "It's a gorgeous night out, look at the stars."

From the apartment complex across the street, another man was watching. He saw his partner's security detail surveying the rooftops, and reached into his bag for a bullet. That was all he would need, just one. As he turned his head to find the case, Clint spotted him and turned back to Natasha. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. Natasha was expecting Clint to tell her to run. She was expecting him to tell her to hide. The man on the rooftop was ready for either. He placed his finger on the trigger and lined the crosshairs up with Clint's temple. Then, Clint did what neither Russian was expecting.

He leaned forward and captured Natasha's lips in his own. He didn't try to stick his tongue down her throat, move his lips, or anything, much to Natasha's relief. He just sort of... lingered there for a minute, and tilted his head back an inch. "Sorry," he whispered. "But we aren't alone." His eyes shifted left, and Natasha's traced their pattern. Clint took a step back and nervously examined the ground, feeling incredibly awkward especially given the conversation over dinner. When Natasha said nothing, Clint gathered the courage to meet her face again. She was still watching the rooftops. "Natasha."

The man on the rooftop had seen many kisses in his life, never mind that, had given many kisses in his life, enough to know what had feelings tied in and what didn't. And this kiss... well, this kiss had feeling. Through the rifle's scope, he could see the man hiding his gaze from hers, the red creeping up his neck, and the way his shoulders hunched like someone who wasn't confident in what he'd just done. A trained agent would know enough to be confident and maybe even grasp the partner's hand for extra showman ship. But this man... he just stood in shame.

Vasily had said nothing about Natasha having a boyfriend, and this is clearly what this man was. That, or a very skilled S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, one with more experience than himself - and that would be a lot. But this Clint man wasn't carrying a gun, nor a uniform, crossing out that option. Shooting him would be a crime, since he was a mere civilian, even if it did make the man feel better. He stepped back from the rifle and surveyed the pair on the ground, shaking his head in disbelief. He accidentally kicked a few rocks causing a racket on the silent street, but it didn't matter. This was no longer a mission; it was personal now. He saw Natasha's head turn toward the rooftops, likely in response to the sound of the pebbles, a response triggered from her years of training, years he had spent training her.

"James," whispered Natasha. She watched as he disappeared into the shadows, his back now turned on the couple, before once again returning her attention to Clint. Tears fell from her eyes as she mumbled, "James," over and over. Clint wrapped an arm around her and led her back to their shared apartment.

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"What was that supposed to be?" screamed Natasha. She slapped Clint flat across the cheek.

Clint rubbed his throbbing cheek. "I could ask you the same thing! You know him?!"

"You kissed me!"

"He was going to shoot you! Would you rather have a bullet through your skull?" Clint kicked the door shut and pursed Natasha into the center of the main room of their apartment.

Natasha crossed her arms. "Ohhh, sure, and that's all that was? Trying to prevent an asset from getting shot? It had nothing to do the fact that you've been prancing around me like a love-struck doe for the past few days?"

"You think I was flirting with you? Ha, you wish lady! For your information, you're not even pretty, let alone my type." Clint clenched his jaw and his eyes drilled into Natasha with cold stare.

"Good, because you should know that Bucky and I were in a happy relationship until you had to go and ruin it! You want to know why I didn't kill you? Because I thought you were different. I thought that maybe you weren't like all the other asshole S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who only cared for a paycheck or for getting with hot girls, but I was wrong. You're just like them, and I should've shot you when I still had the chance." With that Natasha stormed into her room and slammed the door.

The words stung like lashes from a whip to Clint. He most certainly was not in it for the paycheck, and to be called an asshole by someone he'd been ready to fully trust? It pierced through his heart like a burning steel knife. Clint buried his head in his hands… How could have things gone so wrong so fast? How was he going to explain this to Coulson? And mostly, why could nothing ever go right for him? He slumped down on the couch and sighed. This was not going to end well on behalf of any parties.

Natasha couldn't – or refused to rather - sleep. Clint's words kept nagging at the recesses of her brain. He was going to shoot you. Bucky wouldn't do that, would he? He couldn't, no. They'd been together for too long. Unless... Natasha sat up quickly, the mere idea of something that horrible creeping over her the way quicksand slowly pulls you down. She threw on some clothes and opened the door to her room as quietly as possible, cringing a bit when it creaked. On her tip-toes, she snuck into Clint's room and picked up his phone. Well, it wasn't his personal phone, but rather an S.H.I.E.L.D. issued contact device, and lucky for her, it had a few useful resources on it, such as tracking software and a top-secret classified phone tap from Smirnov's office.

Natasha was long-gone by the time Clint had woken up to get his midnight glass of water and do his "prisoner check". Cursing himself for being so stupid, he pulled on an S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and grabbed his phone, which he promptly opened to call the situation in, only to discover that Natasha had forgotten to close out of her search. He wouldn't need help with this one; it would probably be more of an afternoon soap opera than prime-time crime show. Sighing, he pocketed his phone and gun, slammed the door a little harder than necessary, and started jogging down the street.

James Barnes angrily scrubbed at his rifle, alternating between rubbing the pieces of it with a dirty cloth and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Natasha had been in New York less than a week, and she'd already found a replacement for him? Smirnov hadn't mentioned anything about new relationships. She could just rot in a S.H.I.E.L.D. prison, for all he cared, if that's how she was going to treat him - like he didn't matter to her. Half-drunk and unusually cross, a harsh contrast from his normal level-headed personality, Bucky didn't take notice to the sound of his hotel room door opening.

A gun's safety clicked and a female voice said, "You thought you could go behind my back and kill me, did you?"

Bucky spun around, reaching for his rifle but realizing its parts had been strewn about the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed from jet lag and crying, and his mouth was pressed in a thin line. Natasha could still make out the look of betrayal that glittered in his teary eyes. "Natasha, what are you talking about?"

"Don't pull that bullshit on me, James," she said, inching closer, gun still drawn and face clenched in hatred. "I heard your phone conversation with Smirnov, and I know what you had planned."

"My plan to save you, that is?" retorted Bucky. "I try to extract you from S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, and this is how you repay me? With absurd accusations and a new boyfriend?" Bucky took advantage of Natasha's sudden confusion to dash for the back-up pistol he kept in his bag.

"This only proves it then," Natasha said, regaining her composure, holding her own gun steady and staring blankly down the barrel of Bucky's gun. "Go ahead then, take your shot."

"Bad idea." Both Russians turned their aim to the doorway, where Clint stood, with his gun drawn as well. Upon seeing the amount of firepower in the room, he said, "Woah, relationship issues, I take it? I'm going to just stay over here then, don't mind me." He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame, dropping his gun hand down to his side in a non-threatening gesture.

"Um?" managed Bucky, motioning with his gun towards Clint. "Why is your boyfriend here?"

"I'm not... we're not..." Clint made a thrusting motion with his hips and puckered his lips, then shook his head. "No." He drew his gun again and walked towards the confused Bucky. "See, but the real question is, who are you?" He circled around the brunette, studying the taller male.

"Agent Barton, this is James Barnes, he was my partner," Natasha filled in, running one of her hands through her hair. This wasn't how she'd imagined the two males meeting.

"Bucky," he said shortly.

"-and James, this is Agent Barton, he's been watching over me the past week. He was the one sent to kill me."

Bucky's knuckles turned white as he gripped the gun tighter, preparing to add pressure to the trigger and send a bullet through Barton's skull. The corner of his mouth twitched in anger on behalf of Natasha.

Clint whistled. "When you put it that way." He sized up Bucky. "So, you're the assassin, then?" He cocked an eyebrow, shifting his aim towards Natasha then back to Bucky. "Okay, I'm just going to be honest and say that I have no idea which one of you to point this gun at right now."

Bucky gave a blatantly fake, sweet smile and sourly added, "Well then, the feeling is mutual."

A/N: Sorry for the almost two week wait! But, it's a long chapter because I couldn't find a good place to break and I hope it was worth it. Enjoy the chapter guys :D Please review and make me happy - I want to write better, so you guys can enjoy it better. Help a brother out!

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ Below is my rant about New Jersey, you don't have to read it. ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Fun fact: I actually wrote the airport scene in Newark's arrival terminal, because we were picking up my brother from a flight. So, it's pretty darn accurate.

I'm from New Jersey so I'm legally allowed to bash its reputation. And Newark Int'l. And like every part about it. (No, to be honest, I love this state and nobody actually pronounces it Joisey). I hope you guys caught the reference to the Captain America movie where Bucky said to Steve, "Oh, you're from Paramus now? You know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form, but seriously, Jersey?"

I suppose it's only fair, because I hate Harlem (we go there for track meets) and basically every part of New York City. Too busy for my taste and too popular. Besides, my 8th grade science teacher was from Brooklyn, man was she a biatch. The only "bad" part about Jersey is both Sea Girt (Jersey Shore house) and Camden (gangs and et cetera). Ugh, and don't start me on the Turnpike. That's literally the highway to hell.

However, I can say that our beaches are really nice, and we don't speak with horrible accents, nor do we act like the idiots on Jersey Shore do. And, hey, Sebastian Stan (actor who plays Bucky) went to Rutgers, which just amuses me because he's the one saying the Jersey line. Rutgers is actually 20 minutes from my house, and it's so fun to go to their sports events. Football's the best though. My trainer occasionally brings some of our farm's horses up to the games for the mascots. It's quite fun!

Anyway, point is: JUST... STOP BASHING MY STATE GUYS. IT DOESN'T SUCK. You are now educated on daily life in Jersey.