Colombia

As the door clicked shut behind her Natasha was already halfway down the hall, her breathing unsteady and thoughts racing, blind panic consuming her. She pressed a trembling hand to her swollen lips, the feel of Clint’s mouth on hers still fresh in her mind. Absorbed in her thoughts she smacked into the solid chest of a man. Her eyes whipped up, fire sparking in their depths at her uncommon lack of perception and she inwardly cursed Barton.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, the apology feeling foreign on her lips. Her deep green eyes met the harsh brown gaze of Zane Lynch. Natasha found herself cursing Barton again as Lynch was one of her least favorite people, and she hated that she had revealed an air of weakness around him.

His sharp brown eyes stared intently at her face, lingering on her lips; noting their swollen, well kissed look, before making a leisurely perusal of her body. Natasha squirmed inwardly under his intense scrutiny, knowing she had the rumpled look of someone who had just been in another’s bed. She hoped that the trainer hadn’t seen her exiting Barton’s room.

“Is everything alright Agent Romanoff? You seem a little…” He paused slightly, “flustered.” The last word was drawled, the entendre obvious through his tone, and he smirked, obviously happy with himself. Her eyes narrowed, You can not kill him Romanoff. Phil would be so angry. You can NOT kill him, she mentally chanted the mantra, as her hands twitched to hit the bastard.

“Everything is fine Lynch.” She sneered his name, purposely forgetting to say his title, her own dig at the awful man. “I was just getting a head start on my workout this morning.” She smiled innocently, daring him to contradict her. Lynch simply made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his watch, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“At 3 am?! Well, one does not become a great agent by sleeping in, your dedication is admirable Agent Romanoff.” With that he nodded and stepped around her, continuing his way down the hall.

Natasha took a brief second to suck in a deep breath of air, and calm the riotous emotions running through her and touched her lips again, hating the flutter in her stomach as she thought of the archer. As she released the breath she started towards the training gym, knowing there was no hope of getting any sleep tonight, she always worked her frustrations away best with a punching bag anyways.
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Once Lynch heard Natasha’s barely discernible footsteps disappear down the hall leading towards the training gym, he snuck out from the corner he had ducked behind to observe the deadly agent, his mind spinning with the wealth of information he had just stumbled upon.

The red haired agent’s lips had definitely been swollen and red, her thick red curls mussed as if someone had their hand tangled in them, and her shirt rumpled, looking like it had been hastily tugged on. And if he wasn’t mistaken she had stepped out of Agent Barton’s room, as his was the last door at the end of the hallway, separated slightly from the others.

His lips curled into a sinister smirk, his boss was going to be pleased with the current turn of events, and the possible implications of a relationship between the deadly Black Widow and Hawkeye. Stepping into his room he went to his bed and located the duffel bag that contained his burner phone.

Within seconds he had a secure line connected and dialed in the number he had memorized, knowing his boss would pick up, no matter the hour. As he predicted after only three rings a soft click indicated the line had been picked up.

“Lynch, I trust you have news if you’re calling at this hour.” The deep, smooth voice came across the line.

“Yes Sir. I have just discovered something that may be of great value to you.” He paused slightly, and when no response seemed forthcoming he continued. “I found Natasha Romanoff sneaking out of Barton’s room only moments ago.” There was a few seconds of silence as the news registered.

“Natasha Romanoff… The Black Widow?” The voice asked smoothly, no hint of emotion in the tone.

“Yes. The assassin-turned-darling of SHIELD. Although no one is quite clear on the details of her past, or how she came to SHIELD.” Lynch added the last bit as an afterthought, the lack of enthusiasm from his boss causing him to doubt his choice to inform the man about this development.

“This is….unexpected. But can be used to our advantage. Thank you for your keen observations Lynch. You will continue to observe and report back to me with any further developments.”

“Of course sir.” The second the last word was out of his mouth the line went dead and Lynch stared at the phone for several seconds before tucking it back into the duffel and returning the bag back to its place under the bed. He smiled to himself, once Barton was out of the way there would be nothing stopping him from having the Black Widow to himself.
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He fell on the floor with a loud thump, landing in an undignified heap, tangled in the blankets, screams still echoing in his head, pain radiating through his abused body. Clint’s heart raced and his shirt was plastered to his skin, damp from sweat. He released a few shaky breaths attempting to calm his too rapid heartbeat before untangling himself from the bedsheets and comforter he had drug to the floor with him as he fell.

Tossing the sweat soaked sheets haphazardly back onto the bed he limped into the bathroom, grimacing as the movement pulled at the neat line of stitches trailing up his thigh. He flicked on the light, immediately regretting the decision as he squinted against the brightness. He pulled his dirty shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, the air against his clammy skin causing goosebumps to race over his body.

Fumbling for the sink, he twisted the knob and bent down to splash cold water on his overheated face. Standing upright again he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. His blue-grey eyes were dull and bloodshot; dark circles and several days worth of stubble accentuated the bone deep exhaustion he felt.

A flash of crimson drew his attention and he nearly groaned as he saw a trail of blood leaking from the thick bandage running down the majority of his right side, the fall from his bed most likely had popped several of the stitches holding the wound together. Clint released a sigh and peeled back the bandage, pressing his lips together as it pulled the abused skin of his torso.

As he had predicted several stitches had given way in the middle of the wound over his ribcage. His eyes found the small first aid kit Natasha had left behind when she had fled his room earlier and he grabbed it, finding everything he needed to restitch himself inside. It took several minutes to thread the needle and he cursed his shaking hands, wishing there was some of the vodka from earlier left to help steady him.

Having finally threaded the needle Clint paused briefly before getting to work restitching the deep gash on his side, his teeth clenched tightly and the needle wove in and out of his tattered skin. Finally finished he took another deep breath before gripping the thread tightly and yanking, breaking the thread. He reached for the towel hanging off the hook on the wall and wetted it in the sink before gently wiping the blood from his torso.

He tossed the towel on the floor, where it joined his shirt and the other bloodstained towel from earlier, and headed back into his room, his entire body aching and sore. Eyeing the bed with a look of apprehension he knew he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight, a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table revealed it was only a little after four in the morning.

Standing in the middle of the small bedroom Clint debated his next move, he could either go back to the medical wing and get hooked back up to all the machines, or try his luck on the run from Graley and Coulson. A ghost of a grin crossed the archer’s face at the thought of avoiding his handler and the good doctor for the rest of the day and with that thought his mind was made up.

Clint snagged the comforter off of the bed and hesitated, looking at the knife Natasha had taken from him down at the shooting range, laying on the bedside table. A hazy image of Campos’ grinning face loomed in his mind, the black knife gripped tightly in his hands, blood dripping from the tip. Before the terror took over, his mind flashed him a clear image of delicate hands reaching for the handle of the knife and emerald green eyes framed with long red curls.

As quickly as the images had appeared in his mind they disappeared and Clint shook his head, trying to clear it. He grabbed the knife before moving to his closet to grab out a thigh holster for the blade, then limped silently from the room, his destination in mind. The stairs proved to be a problem and he had to pause several times to catch his breath, sending a silent thank you up to the heavens that there were no agents to witness his weakness.

Finally he reached the top of the stairs and hesitated slightly before steeling himself and launching himself up, his hands reaching for the edge of the catwalk that led to the roof access. He let out a grunt as his hands slapped against the metal and gritted his teeth as he pulled himself up and over the ledge, feeling several stitches on his side and back give way again.

“Son of a bitch!” He groaned, closing his eyes, rolling to his back, the thick comforter cushioning him somewhat, and breathing through the pain. After what felt like a few seconds, but in all reality was probably several minutes, Clint managed to push himself to a standing position and continue limping towards the door that led to the roof.

Pushing open the door that led to the roof the archer paused allowing the cool night air to rush over him, goosebumps breaking out over his skin, and he was glad he thought to grab the comforter. He found his usual ‘nesting’ spot, a tiny, sheltered alcove tucked behind one of the mechanical sheds with a perfect view of the DC skyline.

He arranged the large comforter and settled himself into his makeshift nest, his body aching and protesting the movement it had taken to get to the roof. But the archer tuned out the pain and took several deep breaths of the night air, and listened to the low rumblings of thunder from the approaching storm.

Clint settled deeper into the plush comforter, noting with delight that it still held the warm vanilla scent that was Natasha, he allowed the lethargy to wash over him and surrendered to his body’s command to rest. For the first time in weeks the archer slept peacefully to the lullaby of crashing thunder.
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The rapid fire sound of flesh slapping against a punching bag echoed throughout the empty training gym. Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Dodge. Jab again. The agent was a veritable blur as she weaved around the punching bag, each jab a little more vicious than the last, her frustration not alleviated by the usually calming activity.

Her mind kept wandering; she could still feel Clint’s lips on hers, could still see the raw desire and vulnerability in his blue-grey eyes. The way he had breathed her name, like a benediction, kept running through her head. Natasha felt like the rug had been yanked out from under her, the tight shield she kept around her heart weakening with every time she locked eyes with the damaged archer.

Anger welled up quickly, the safer, less foreign emotion pushing out the softer feelings whirling inside her. The Russian assassin embraced the cold bite of the anger, something she had grown accustomed to during her strenuous training in the Red Room.

Don’t go there Romanoff. You’ve had enough memories for tonight. But try as she might her riotous mind started down the dark path her thoughts had started her on.
………………………….

The prick of a needle in her arm made her want to flinch, but Natalia knew if she showed a single sign of weakness there would be hell to pay. So the young red head stared resolutely at the dingy white ceiling, ignoring the doctor moving around her.

The doctor depressed the plunger on the needle sending a cool liquid rushing through her veins. Within minutes molten fire raced throughout her small body, as her muscles spasmed and contracted due to the serum that had been injected.

Every sensation was amplified, the chill of the steel table sank into her bones, the brightness of the overhead lamp seared into her eyes, the stringent scent of cheap antiseptic and the coppery tang of blood flooded her nose, causing her stomach to roll uneasily. Her ears rang, the soft scratching from the rats in the walls nearly deafening.

She bolted upright, arms straining against the restraints attached to the table, trying to escape the flood of sensation, a silent scream trapped in her throat. A large hand wrapped itself around her delicate neck, pushing her back onto the table.

“Lay still Natalia.” A sharp voice barked as she bucked against the hand holding her in place on the cold steel surface. The voice struck deep within her, bringing flashes of flames and the acrid scent of smoke, and pure terror rampaged through her system. She went instantly limp, hoping desperately the man would not punish her for her disobedience.

“She appears to be progressing nicely Ivan.” The voice of the man holding her down floated through the quiet room, waiting for the other man’s approval.

“She will be the perfect weapon. Up her dose of the serum, I want her ready for training tomorrow.” A chill of dread slithered down the small girl’s spine, in training it was kill or be killed.
…………………….

A particularly hard jab to the punching bag ripped Natasha from the dark memories swirling in her head.
She let her hands drop to her sides, the abused knuckles scraped and bloody, and shook her head at the irony, the small timid red head that Ivan had brought in quickly became the most skilled and deadly pupil the Red Room had ever seen.

The deep rumble of thunder brought her again to the present, and she cursed herself for her continually wandering mind. Stepping down from the mat, she reached for the towel she had draped over the back of a chair and pressed it to her abused knuckles, embracing the welcome sting of pain, allowing it to ground her.

Glancing at her watch the numerals glowed up at her. At only a little after four AM she still had a little time to get cleaned up and catch some sleep before she would be expected to report down at Barton’s bedside in the infirmary and give Coulson a rundown on the archer’s mental state.

Blue-grey eyes, full of hope and hunger flashed through her mind, and she could feel her heart softening. A quick mental shake rid herself of the image, and Natasha knew she had to harden herself or risk falling under the archer’s spell again, and she knew she couldn’t afford the distraction of feelings. Resolve strengthened, the former prodigy of the Red Room strode from the gym and disappeared easily into the shadows heading back to her quarters.

Notes