Fandom: The Avengers

Pairing: Clint/Natasha

Summary: They made a promise to each other years ago, during their first mission together, when they were just colleagues, when there were no complicated sentiments: to kill the other one if he asks for it, if it's necessary and if there is any other option. And during a mission, one of them asks, need, begs for a bullet between the eyes. (Based on LJ prompt. Original post here: avengerkink. livejournal 5758. html?thread=6471806#t6471806)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers in any way, shape, or form.

If there's one thing that every single person knows about Natasha and Clint's relationship, it's that nobody actually knows anything about Natasha and Clint's relationship.

Nobody misses the secret looks they share together, an exchange of silent words and understandings between icy blue and sharp green eyes. There's something hidden nobody can understand. Maybe it's love, or sex, or something like that, but that seems too generic for a pair like the infamous Black Widow and Hawkeye. They're the agents that rarely take missions outside each other.

They seem to know each other's moves and words before they happen, and know just the right things to say when someone pisses one of them off. But nobody dares mess with one of them anyway, because it's hard to work with broken limbs. Nobody knows where it started, all bar Natasha and Clint, of course. And really, the beginning of their true friendship started in a parked car, in the parking lot of a hotel, in the middle of an operation.

They'd just begun working together, a tradition that would stick until the very day of their eventual deaths. But neither knew much about the other, only what they'd read on paper, and only that Clint saved Natasha from a fate that nobody would desire. Nobody knows why, not even Natasha. And it being their third mission together, things were still rather cold between them. Work-mates. Agents.

Natasha sits in the passenger seat, her head pressed against the window, her cheek cool against the glass. Clint sits in the driver's seat. Neither spoke, the only sound echoing between the metal walls being the chewing of pizza slices and clicking of Natasha's impatient , between mouthfuls of pizza, glances over at his new partner.

"You gotta' relax," he says, seeing her tense shoulders and jumpy knees. "Come on, babe. We got this."

Natasha, hating her new nickname with every fibre of her being shoots her head around and sends him a deadly glare. "Barton, it's Natasha. For you, maybe Agent Romanoff."

"Okay, sweetheart."

She sighs tiredly and turns her attention back to the scene in front of them. Nothing. The waiting game is something she had yet to master.

"You know, you're pretty good at working for the good guy," Clint says off-handedly, wiping his hands on the dash. "I think we'll be great together."

Natasha rolls her eyes, because at the time, the idea of working with Barton for the rest of her life seems something she'd rather die than do.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you're happy to have someone to whine to."

"Damn right," Clint replies, turning in his seat to face her fully, a genuine smile on his face. "I mean, Coulson's alright, but he's too busy most of the time to listen to me. And Fury doesn't care for my humour. Plus, you can never be too sure whether he's looking at you most of the time, 'cause, you know..." He makes an awkward hand gesture around his eye.

Natasha gives a small smirk at that. Clint doesn't miss it.

Budapest.

An interesting piece of gossip around the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters. They went into it as friends, but when they returned, that was when you could bottle the looks of trust between them. Nobody knows what happened. The only sure thing is that something changed between them; something that turned a pair of agents into friends with a pair of souls that twisted together in ways nobody could , there was friendship there. It was in the sarcastic quips and jokes shared between them. They would train together, do their missions and let things pass. But after the Budapest mission, everything seemed heavier. They would train together and beat the living shit out of each other. They would appear from the training center bloody and tired, but they would ignore the wide-eyed stares as she would place her head on his shoulder and they would walk together to their seperate rooms, wordless.

The moment someone was threatened, that was when the dangers started. And when that happened, you haul ass out of their way, or you take the heat. Like when Clint returned with broken ribs and Natasha all but attacked a medic, or when Natasha stumbled into the base bleeding dry and dirty, collapsing on the front door and Clint spent the day breaking things.

They were a team, and it seemed you didn't get one without the other. But the promises and secrets between the two were far more delicate than anyone could imagine, because in the end, nobody really knew what happened at Budapest.

Except Clint and Natasha.

On the top of the cold Hungarian building site in the rain one night, the two waited, huddled together silently. They listened for the sound of voices that would indicate the exchange of major mob deals hidden in the night. The two tucked away in the shadows, the cold winds numbing their fingers and making their lips tremble.

"Hey Nat," Clint whispers, his voice all but lost in the winds that whipped around them.

"You never did tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Why you chose Black Widow as your superhero name."

Natasha rolls her eyes, and folds her arms over her chest. "We're not superheroes, Clint."

"You know we are," Clint replies with a smirk. "It's more fun to think of it that way."

Shifting her body to face him, a mischievious sparkle gleams in her eyes. "You know Black Widow spiders?" She waits for Clint's curious nod to continue. "Well, when they've finished mating," She leans in slightly, not missing Clint's rather confused stare. "They eat the male." She leans back again, watching an amusing variety of expressions flicker across the agent's face.

Clint clears his throat quickly, his eyes dropping to the ground below them. "So what, do you eat guys after you fuck 'em?"

"No, of course not." Natasha shrugs. "It just seemed fitting." She reaches out a pokes her elbow against his arm. "Come on, Hawkeye," she says, rolling the name on her tongue. "What's up with the bird thing? I mean, I know you're good with a bow and arrow, but it sounds a little self-pretentious."

Clint shoots his head around. "Good? Come on, I'm the best you've ever seen. Besides," He shifts in his position, feeling the rain sink in through his clothes and run down his skin. "I didn't come up with it. It was given to me."

"Oh, do tell."

Smirking, Clint shakes his head slowly. "Another time, babe. Our targets have arrived."

Both fall silent and watch below to the muddy ground. Black clothed figures stand in the rain and talk in hushed voices. Both agents listen quietly translating the talk of native tongue in their heads. As expected, things quickly get violent, and fights break out. It lasts for about an hour, before the figures disperse and quickly leave. Clint and Natasha remain in the shadows, their mission not to get involved, but to listen. They stay like stone until all have gone, leaving one twitchy, bloody figure on the ground, groaning in pain. It's hard to watch. As Natasha shifts behind Clint, moving to help, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her back. His hand moves to her mouth, silencing her. When he's sure she'll stay like this, he reaches behind him for his bow. Natasha is quiet as he draws an arrow back, and shoots it into the dying figure's head.

No more pain.

"Clint," she says later, when they're sitting in a hotel room as undercover lovers on their honeymoon. (Why anyone would want to honeymoon in Budapest is beyond her.) She's wrapped in a garnish dressing robe, her wet clothes from the stakeout on the ground in a damp pile.

"Yep," he mumbles, not taking his head up from the reports he's filling on the desk.

"...Earlier, when you..." She's not quite sure how to explain this. "When you shot that guy."

Clint looks up then, the pen in his hand being placed back down on the wooden surface. He turns in his seat, giving her his full attention as she continues. "I, uh, ...I just thought that was good of you." Her eyes flicker towards the ground. "Nobody deserves to die like that. I mean, he probably did bad things, but still."

Clint gave a small shrug, and replied in a quiet voice. "It just didn't seem fair, that's all."

"Even so." She looks up, and they meet eyes. The weight of the space between them is heavy as she speaks. "I was thinking, and I need you to listen to me for a moment. I really need you to understand."

Clint rises from his seat and walks over to where she's sat on the bed. He sits next to her, and watches her face carefully. "Okay. Talk to me."

"I think, that if you or I ever get to a point like that...beyond the ability of fixing..." Her sharp eyes remain still on his. "I think we should have an understanding."

He knows what she means by this without saying a word. He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about this himself. And secretly, the thought of dying in a messy heap on the ground scares him. Dying alone and in pain seems like just about the worse way to go. She must think that too.

"Nat," he reaches forward and grasps her hand in his. "If this is something you really want, then I'll make a deal with you."

"It is, it really is," she says, digging her fingernails into his skin. "I can't die like that, Clint. I won't."

"Neither can I." He looks down at their entwined fingers. His voice is heavy when he speaks again. "...Okay. If one of us ever gets to that place, where nothing can be done...the other must agree to end it."

"No guilt or regrets," she continues. "Just doing what we promised we'd do."

"Sounds like a deal." They shake on it, never fully grasping the weight of their deal. Never really predicting the pain it would cause in the future. But it didn't matter that night, because they both felt better for it. As she begins to pull her hand away, Clint leans forward suddenly, and presses his lips against hers. Firm. Desperate. When she doesn't pull away, he releases her hand and brings his up to tangle his fingers into the curls of her hair, pulling her close.

That's not the only way they seal the deal, of course, and the night is spent in a tangle of sheets and whispers of each other's names like prayers. In the morning, as they lay together, limbs entwined and hands clasped together, Clint can't bear to bring up the deal they made.

Instead, he asks, "You're not going to eat me, are you?"

Deals are funny things. We forget about them completely, and sometimes, we are reminded of them everywhere we go.

Natasha and Clint never forgot. In the glances between passing eyes and hidden in their words, it was there, like an old joke that taunted and teased them. As the years passed and their friendship grew, they both hoped it would never come to it. But even still, between the worries and the nerves, neither never spoke a word about it. Their missions, naturally, became more severe after joining The Avengers.

As nothing more than humans, they fought hard to keep up with their team. The injuries were more prominant, and there were more trips to the medical center. But they always came bouncing back, and the only real reason that one of them hadn't died yet is because the other simply would not allow it. The deal seemed to fade into the background, becoming part of a plan that seemed it would never arise.

It was a hot, sunny type of day that every person in New York would be walking around in, if it hadn't been for the metallic drones destroying as much as they could. It was the standard game plan, where Hawkeye took his place, nesting on one of the building rooftops, firing arrows into the heads of enemies. Black Widow was down below, fighting side by side with the Captain and Thor. Clint can just hear the faint roars of the Hulk in the distance, and he can spot the red and gold flashes flying the comms, it was all talk.

"How's things on the West side, Mr Stark?" Steve would ask casually.

"Lookin' good, Cap."

"There's a fleet headed your way down South," Clint informs.

"I need someone on Tenth," Stark orders. "There's civilians trapped inside the station."

"I got this one," Natasha breaths, before the faint buzz of the radio rings again in their ears.

Clint never once doubted the abilities of his friend. He'd seen too much of her work to think that anything could ever take her down.A few hours later, when the last of the drones had been disabled and the city was at peace once again, the team celebrates. Hearing the cheers of triumph over the comms makes Clint smile. He reaches up and flicks to Natasha's radio, grinning into the speaker.

"Guess we got 'em again, right Nat?" Silence came from the other taps on his earpiece. "...Nat?" After another wordless response, he turns his back against the sky, speaking in a clear, firm tone. "Black Widow, do you copy?...Nat?...Natasha! Answer me!" He waits. Switching his radio back to the group network, he can hardly hide the slight frantic tone in his voice. "Is Natasha with you?"

A pause comes from the other line. "Barton, we thought she was with you."

Those few words are enough. Clint rips the earpiece away in panic and throws it on the ground. He is down the stairs and streetside in moments, his eyes searching for the flash of red hair that he could normally see so easily. Something hard and cold forms in his chest as he begins running towards her last known location. He runs so fast that it feels like his legs are burning, and he can feel the muscles tearing, but he never stops. "Natasha!" he cries over the ruins. When he finally reaches the station, he stops breathing.

The entire building seems to have collapsed into itself, clouds of dust and dirt still rising into the sky. He only pauses for a second, before he sprints through what's left of the entrance and into the dark, broken shell. The first thing he notices is that there are no bodies. Natasha must have got everyone out. He takes it to be a good sign, meaning that she is no longer here. But his heart is still beating at a hundred times a minute and he can't seem to make his fingers stop trembling.

"Nat?" he asks quietly into the silence. "Natasha, if you're in here, for christ's sake, answer me."

She does answer him, but it offers no relief. And the sound of her quiet whimper makes Clint's heart drop to the ground and his body freeze in fear. But soon he finds himself digging into a pile of rubble, the stone and brick cutting into his hands and drawing blood. He sees her hand first, but doesn't dare touch it. And when he's uncovered most of her body, he's glad he didn't. The sight is horrifying.

"Shit," he knows she could have been like this for hours, under the rubble and stone, pale and cold. Her eyes flicker towards him, creased with pain. He places his hand on her waist, drawing it back quickly as it's met with a pool of warm and sticky blood.

A large plank of ripped metal sticks out of her stomach like a sword. "Hold on, Nat. Hold on," he mutters, reaching up to his comms. A sickening feeling of stupidity washes through him as he realises that he left it behind. Today was the first time he's ever done something like that.

"Clint..." she murmurs, the words falling from her lips in a tired sigh.

"Don't worry, they're coming." He's not sure who he's trying to assure at this point. The decay is deadly silent, all except the sound of her laboured breaths. He silently prays that they'll be here soon. Sliding down, he leans against the remains of a wall, and tries to lift her head onto his lap. She gives a sharp cry of pain, which makes his heart stop, but eventually, she's leaning against his side, and it's the best they can do. He twists his hand into her hair, the other rubbing small circles into her cheek. "Hang in there for me, Nat."

The minutes pass slowly, and Clint keeps turning around, expecting to see someone who can help. But nobody shows. "What's taking them so long?" he spits. Natasha releases a coughing fit, lasting for far too long. Clint grips her tightly as blood trickles from her lips. He knows these things too well. She needs help now.

"Clint," she gasps, her hand wrapping around the fabric of his uniform. "I can't-"

"Don't worry," he cuts into her words, frantic and on the edge of breaking. "We'll be back at base soon, and you'll be in that horrible medical office, getting better and eating their shitty foods, right babe? You understand?"

Her eyes shut tightly, her teeth grinding and she rides out another wave of pain. "Clint, you know what this-"

"No," he says firmly. He can't hide the lump forming in his throat as his voice snaps out quickly. "Come on, this is nothing, this is-" His voice falls short and his eyes drop to the wound. This is unfixable. Anyone could see that.

Despite the pain, Natasha still manages to give him the same look she has all these years. "...You promised. We...made...a deal."

"Nat, this can be fixed," he lies. "I've seen worse, really."

"Damn you," she snaps. Her hand grips the fabric tightly. "...Please." Her pleading tone is weak. "It hurts, Clint."

He can't. Clint looks up and watches the door hopefully, wishing he'd never agreed to this. Wishing he'd never made that stupid deal all those years ago. But he is bound forever by his word, and a promise that he made to a friend who needed him. Who needs him now. Glancing down to her pale skin and pain twisted face, something inside him clicks. Like auto-pilot.

"Tell me that you want this," he whispers quietly. "Make me believe you."

A dry laugh escapes her lips. "You...know...why," she gasps. Looking up, she catches his eyes in a deep stare. Her lips tremble for a second or so before she breaths out, "I'm tired...I'm done. You are too, Clint." A shaky hand moves down as she weakly grasps her gun against her hip. She holds it out to him, but he stares for a moment.

Mindlessly, he reaches out and takes it from her cold hand.

Pulling back the safety, he leans down and presses his lips softly against her forehead. He only then feels the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. He knows he needs to say something.

But how can he think of saying anything to the woman he owes his life to a million times over?

He swallows back the lump in his throat and manages to force out something weak. "I'll miss you." A hand reaches up and presses lightly against his cheek. Natasha gives him a small smile, full of love and warmth that seems so familiar to him.

"You know how much I love you, Clint."

Clint can't speak anymore. He can't open his lips for one second, as all that would come out is cries and protests. So instead, he raises the gun to the side of her head, his other hand rubbing her shoulder softly. Lovingly. He just has time to make out the whisper of Natasha's "Thank you."

Then he pulls the trigger.

And everything he ever had that was worth having is gone.