What they were thinking when they put two assassins inside a Jaeger will never be known.

For all of their different beginnings and the sometimes innocent blood their hands are steeped in, they work remarkably well together. Then again, they are partners as partners are: ranged weapon complementing close-quarters' combat.

They are part of the first generation of Jaegers, the very first wave of defense.

They are as Pentecost was in his time (the partnership behind Coyote Tango was another brought into the fold by Fury-who they still speak of as the man with the rocket launcher who lead the charge of tanks and fighter pilots; they say he still haunts that coastline, protecting it, and it might even be true) but they are different.

Where Pentecost chooses to live for a little girl lost in the aftermath of Tokyo-two broken lives gravitating together to rebuild themselves with the other's support-the Widow Hawk has a kill count and each other. They go beyond Coyote Tango's twelve missions even as they bleed and ache. Coulson watches and can do nothing. They are here to buy time as the world moves faster to build faster and better. They will hold the line as long as they can.

Natasha does not wonder if it is worth it, lifting her helmeted head to watch the blood track down Clint's lip. It patters against her face plate and spills downward as she moves.

At five kills, SHIELD missions are a memory growing distant. It's a flicker in Clint's mind sometimes, but Natasha has seen the passing of enough regimes that she is not terribly fazed. Besides, Fury is gone and SHIELD is slowly being dismantled and consumed by other organizations desperate for working components.

At ten kills, they are slowing between fights.

They move together as well as they have always done, but the Drift echos between them and lingers and it's hard to tell which old ache belongs to who. They are the old guard now and the Kaiju are increasing in strength as a hurricane builds its strength and winds.

Migraines are no longer strangers.

At twelve kills, Pentecost visits. He is freshly discharged from Coyote Tango.

Pentecost is not the only one who wishes to see them retire, depart from the radioactive heart of the Widow Hawk. The klaxon send them off to battle stations; by the time they limp home, Pentecost is gone.

At thirteen kills it is clear that they are a faltering strength.

Strong still-they have always worked well together and synched beautifully-but constant pain and the radiation wear at them. Natasha at least has the Red Room's serum, though worn by an unexpected stack of decades; even before the Kaiju Clint had already aged past what Natasha's appearance would suggest.

They spend a long time in the shooting range afterwards. It was a concession to them, for their past lifestyle; their hands are shaky now, form both frailty and strength. They've both lost weight from the nausea but their shots are still sure.

At fourteen kills Natasha knows they will not-can not-make another. Ignoring the frantic radio chatter she unhooks her suit and stumbles over to Clint. He has been unconscious for ten minutes. The kill was three minutes ago.

The Drift still echos between them. It hasn't faded completely since the eleventh kill. It tells her that Clint is slipping away.

Natasha removes his helmet first-she wants to see his face, even if his eyes are shut and the blood leaking from his nose does not stop when it meets his collar. His heart is struggling and failing. For a moment Natasha tips her head forward against Clint's, her own blood smearing and mixing with his own.

Then she releases Clint from the harnesses and eases him down to the floor. She cushions his back from the wall with her own body, holding him as he fades. The echos are still there when his pulse is gone.

In the heart of the Widow Hawk Natasha shuts her eyes and follows after.

The old guard has passed on.