Barton growled an incoherent string of profanities as he scrambled around his room looking for his ringing phone at four in the morning according to the blinking red numbers on his bedside table.

“Couch,” Natasha mumbled exhaustedly, anger evident in the single word. She buried her head between Clint’s pillows, breathing in the scent of his hair gel that lingered in the pillow cases. Clint reached between the couch cushions, feeling around for his SHIELD phone, instantly finding it where Natasha had said it was. The agent spared his partner an awed glance before cutting off the insistent buzzing.

“What?” Clint growled, his tone implying that if it were anything less than a life or death situation, there would be hell to pay. “It better be important Phil.” He warned lowly. “How do you know she’s even with me?” Clint challenged. Natasha smirked into the mattress. “Yes.” Clint responded sheepishly. “Yes sir.” He spat, slamming his phone down on the dresser. “Briefing in ten.” He explained, throwing himself face down on the bed. Natasha rolled into his arms, tucking her head into his chest. “Does that man never sleep?” he groaned into the mass of red hair.

“You never let him, Clint.” She scoffed. The archer scowled at her. “And Fury is the one who schedules missions.” She reminded.

“I’m going to kill the guy.” He grumbled, winding his arms around the assassin’s slim body.

“Phil is going to kill you if we are late.” She countered, effortlessly slipping from his arms.

“Let him.” He drawled.

“Up.” She ordered, shoving him off her. He muttered something in Hungarian, too fast for Natasha to catch it.

He got up after her, walking to the dresser where his SHIELD workout clothes were piled on top of the cold metal surface. He slipped his black cargo pants on over his boxers, pulling the grey SHIELD shirt down over his toned torso. He tilted his head slightly at his Russian partner, ‘Ready?’ Her lips twitched almost unnoticeably, ‘Yep,’ he glanced at the last name printed on the shoulder of the jacket, just below the emblem, that she had put on over her red tank top. There was something incredibly ironic about seeing the Black Widow in another man’s coat while she wasn’t on a mission trying to seduce or kill him. She ignored the intense gaze he had trained on her shoulder, stalking from his dorm and down the hallway toward their conference room with Clint on her heels.

“You’re late.” Fury noted immediately when they stepped through the door.

“Sorry sir.” Natasha responded respectfully before Clint could get his job-threatening remark in. Both agents sobered under Fury’s glare, sitting down across from their handler and boss.

“Sufaquis, Tunisia.” The director started. “Asad Munim.”

“When did he make SHIELD’s hit list?” Clint asked, brow furrowing as he struggled to remember the name.

“Yesterday.” Fury replied blankly. Relieved understanding lit Hawkeye’s eyes briefly. Natasha’s protective gaze darkened as the relief chased away the remains whatever self-loathing emotion had previously been there. “He stole an in-progress serum from the Sfax SHIELD base at 1500 yesterday.” He concluded.

“Memorize your briefs. Wheels up in two hours.” Phil added, passing each agent a sealed folder.

“Sir,” Natasha nodded at Fury, before spinning on her heel and following Clint back to his apartment.

“Tunisia?” she groaned disbelievingly.

“Haven’t been there yet.” Clint chuckled. Natasha shrugged, sitting down on the couch against the far wall and flipping open her file. Clint sat down on the floor by her legs, leaning against the base of the uncomfortable couch behind him. Pulling his bow into his lap, he began drawing it back and easing it forward repeatedly while Natasha intently memorized every fact. The muscles in his arm tensed and he listened to the familiar twanging sound of the bowstring as it snapped into place. “So Munim?” Clint prompted, eyes remaining trained on his weapon.

“Asad stole the serum to use it as a weapon. He planned to infect some of his men and set them off against SHIELD.” Natasha summarized.

“Take out his operation, get the serum back to Sfax base.” He suggested simply.

“Not that simple.” She countered. “His operation is big.”

“So we scout it first.” He amended, collapsing his bow in his hands. The Russian nodded contemplatively. “What does the serum do?” he asked distantly. Natasha locked down her emotions before answering.

“Sfax took it’s make-up from the Red Room…” the red head watched as her partner’s countenance darkened considerably. “…
when they destroyed it.” She continued. “They were trying to shorten the breaking process. The Black Widow candidates killed each other off faster than they could recruit girls. If they could encompass the… conditioning… in a poison…” she trailed off.

“Oh.” He muttered detachedly.

Clint watched her quietly from where he sat on the floor; her long crimson curls bounced at her back as she walked to his closet, pulling her duffle off the top shelf. Kneeling down in front of her partner’s weapon’s vault, she dumped her Taser disks and Widow’s bite charges in the bag along with three of her favorite daggers, her two Walther PPK/S and both her Glock 26 pistols. She rolled up her cat suit, tucking it in the bag on top of her choice weapons and zipping the duffle shut. Tossing the bag on the mess of sheets on top of Hawkeye’s bed, she looked over at Clint, bright green eyes dragging him from his near trance.

He easily got to his feet, dropping to the floor in a push up position by his bed. He slid his weapons bag out from under the bed, pushing off the floor again. Taking the same spot Natasha had occupied seconds earlier, he loaded his Desert Eagles, Beretta 93R, and M4 Carbine into the bag, ungracefully stuffing his uniform in after it. He tossed the bag on the couch, watching as it landed directly beside his bow case.

“If we go now we can get breakfast before we take off.” Clint muttered darkly, still seething from the mention of the people who had tortured his partner. She nodded once, leading the way down to the mess hall.

Twenty minutes later, Barton and Romanoff showed up on the tarmac, exactly three minutes after they were scheduled to leave for Tunisia. Their bemused handler leaned against the jet’s door, speaking hurriedly into his Bluetooth.

“Board. Now. You’re late.” Coulson snapped at his agents, pausing in his undoubtedly important conversation to punch Clint as he passed. Clint glared, habitually moving towards the co-pilots seat.

“Get some sleep.” He suggested hopefully, glancing sadly at the dark shadows under Natasha’s eyes that seemed to be permanent lately. She sighed, scrubbing a hand across her face and nodding. Silently, Natasha sat down in the chair behind the archer, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling it up to use as a pillow. The second the rumble of the aircraft started up, Natasha drifted into an addictive sleep.

“Clint!” Phil shouted, smacking the man’s chest in an attempt to get through the nearly impenetrable sound barrier he had created with his blaring music. Clint’s eyes opened reluctantly. “Barton…” Coulson insisted urgently as the young agent stared out over the Atlantic Ocean.

“What?” he grumbled.

“Natasha…” the handler began. Hawkeye read his lips, eyes widening anxiously as he ripped his ear buds out and spun out of the chair. The archer registered his partner’s whimpers and knelt down beside her writhing form. Her tear soaked cheeks led him to believe the Red Room was subject of whatever nightmare she was trapped in. “Wake up Tasha…” he plead, ducking as her shaky fist flew towards his head. He took a deep breath, dodging each of her defensive, fear-driven punches. He locked her wrists together in a death grip, pulling her onto his lap where he sat on the floor. He hugged her against his chest, tangling his fingers in her sweaty curls.

“HeT!” she sobbed helplessly in flawless Russian, freezing his blood in his veins. “Пожалуйста, нет! Мне очень жаль. Я буду сотрудничать.” She whimpered pleadingly before she screamed, waking herself up. “HeT.” She whispered, trying in vain to push away from Clint.

“Natasha,” he whispered soothingly, pushing his lips against hers when she continued to fight him. He pulled away, watching her carefully.

“Иван, он…” she panted.

“I know.” He cut her off. “What is your name?” he asked routinely.

“Hаталья…” she answered.

“No,” he interrupted forcefully. “Who are you?” he repeated, pressing his palm against her heaving chest.

“Natasha Romanoff.” She responded, accent fading.

“What do you do?”

“I kill people.” She whispered brokenly. His hands tensed at her back.
“You save people.” He corrected.
“Once the Black Widow, always the Black Widow.” Her eyes glazed over as if remembering another time she’d heard that phrase.
“You don’t even know how wrong you are.” He grumbled incredulously.

The quiet sound of the safe-house’s front door opening and closing had Romanoff sliding her laptop onto the bed and sneaking out of the crammed bedroom. Her gun remained clamped tightly in her right hand as she slipped into the small kitchen’s shadows.

“Don’t shoot.” Clint whispered gruffly, his muscled form outlined in the moonlit doorway. Natasha lowered her gun, flipping on the safety and sliding the pistol into the waistline of her partner’s work out sweats that hung loosely on her small hips. Barton eased the door shut, dropping his weapons bag on the rickety dining table. The red head ran her fingers through her burgundy curls, dropping onto the window sill across from where her partner stood.

“How’d the stake out go?” she asked quietly, doing her best to let their handler get a few more hours of sleep.

“There are a total of three entrances, seventy-two windows, six sky-lights, and three stories. Munim has three guards at each entrance at all times and twice as many agents as SHIELD.” He summarized, sitting down beside her. He looked up from his hands, observing Natasha’s face. The little moonlight that had managed to seep through the closed shutters cast shadows across the pale faced Russian’s cheeks, illuminating her eyes in way that had him unconsciously leaning forward.
Natasha scanned over her partner’s face; the same moon beam caught each line, each imperfection and each scar, a compilation of shadows that made up the archer’s story. Clint froze as Natasha’s ice cold fingers brushed down his cheek. He studied her, searching for an explanation to the odd behavior. “Tasha?” he questioned carefully. She drew her hand back, eyes remaining locked in his steely gaze. The marksman listened curiously to her quick heartbeat, countenance remaining impassive as he just listened.

The more impatient assassin was the first to break the silence, the spider the first to break eye contact with the hawk.

“How do I get in?” she continued, voice soft with crudely concealed hoarseness.

“He’s got one guard on the roof.” He replied, hawk’s eyes still boring through her like a bullet.

“Easy enough. Take him out, drop in through the skylight… you and Coulson can configure a map, feed me directions through the comm. and you can light the building up once I’m out.” She planned, voicing a vague form of her partner’s strategy.

“And if you’re caught?” he said, leaning out of her personal space and drawing her eyes back with the action.

“You blow the building up anyway.” She knew before she’d even said the words out loud that it was a useless attempt.

“In reality?” he prompted dismissively. Natasha sighed, thinking through each possible scenario. “We could do it like Buda…”

“Don’t even.” She warned darkly, glowering at his cocky smirk.

“How about Mumbai?” he suggested. “That worked.”

“You were in a coma for ten days.” She reminded incredulously.

“You got out fine.” He muttered, as if that justified anything. Worry shot through her green eyes like lightning before she locked it down and ignored his comment.

“We do it like Dublin, if I get compromised.” She concluded, moving away from the window. Natasha never heard him get up, never heard him coming, never heard his shallow breathing. Not until he had her pushed up against the wall.

“You got shot twice in Dublin.” He rasped in her ear.

“You nearly got killed in Mumbai.” She countered, steadily holding his intense gaze. He dropped her eyes and dropped his arms from where they had previously been leaning against the wooden wall on either side of his partner’s face. “What did you see in there, Clint?” she asked knowingly, reaching up with her hand to thumb across his cheek.

“Me.” He replied sadly, pushing her hand away. Natasha waited patiently for an explanation while Clint paced. “They’re just kids in there, Nat. Late teens, early twenties maybe. They don’t want to be there but they don’t know how to get out. I had Phil, Tasha. They don’t have anyone.” She crossed the room, reaching up to wind her arms around his neck, kissing him without warning. He relaxed against her body, kissing her back as if he didn’t know that he’d ever get to again; with the Black Widow he was never sure.

“Are you compromised?” a voice thick with sleep asked from behind them. Clint pulled out of the kiss, arms remaining locked around Natasha.

“No.” Clint answered confidently. Phil nodded, one by one tossing his agent his iPod and tennis shoes.

“Good. Now go cool off. We have work to do when you get back.” The handler instructed, turning into the kitchen and immediately gravitating toward the coffee maker.

Natasha spun away from Clint’s chest, eyeing him warily. ‘You’ll be fine by yourself?’ The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. ‘I’m always fine.’ She raised one thin eyebrow. ‘Seriously.’ His forced arrogant expression softened as he took off out the door with ear-buds in place and Bon Jovi already blaring into his ears. ‘I’ll be fine.’ In the five years she had known him, Clint had always used music and running as an escape. Loud music could always calm him down, even when Phil and Natasha couldn’t.

Natasha waited until the door slammed shut behind her partner before joining Phil in the kitchen and swinging herself onto the counter behind him. She watched while he sloppily poured coffee into two mugs. Phil leaned backwards to reach the refrigerator handle, taking the milk off the top shelf and closing the door again. A small amount of coffee sloshed over the side of the cup with the careless amount of milk Coulson dumped in. Then he slid his cup out of the way, moving over to what Natasha assumed was hers. The SHIELD agent reached up into a cupboard above the stove, pulling down a bottle of something the Russian recognized all too well. The vodka splashed into the cup, making Agent Romanoff smile slightly.

“Thanks.” She offered sincerely when Phil handed her the doctored cup of coffee. He raised his mug to her in response, leaning against the counter opposite her in the small kitchen.

“Anytime Romanoff.” They both sipped their coffee in silence for a minute before Coulson spoke again. “You’re good for him.” He admitted suddenly. “He’s… happier with you around.” Natasha froze, eyes glued to the older man. “And I could be wrong Romanoff, but I think… you are happier with him around too.” He hedged. Natasha thought over everything this man had ever done for her, everything he tried to do to gain her trust and she decided that she owed him this much.

“I am.” She whispered honestly. Coulson’s eyes widened in surprise. Natasha paused for a minute, staring into the cup wrapped in her hands. “And call me Natasha.” She said before taking her coffee and disappearing into the bedroom.

Hawkeye kept the scope of his M4 Carbine trained on his red head partner as she somersaulted and snuck across the roof of Asad Munim’s base. He kept an eye on her, laughing quietly when she straightened to her full height, pulling the zipper of her cat suit down a little further. He listened to her flawless flirting and rehearsed pickup lines through the comm. The Tunisian man drooled after her, falling victim to her beauty like every other man before him. He never saw the black clad arm that shot away from the Widow’s side, snapping his neck in one fluid motion. Clint watched her back with sharp eyes as she soundlessly dragged the dead guard to the corner of the roof where he would be hidden in the shadows until morning. But the hawk and spider would be long gone by then.

Natasha cracked her foot down on the skylight, shielding her eyes as the glass shattered under her black heels. She lowered herself into the window, gritting her teeth when the rough edges of the glass bit through her gloves.

“Six foot drop, Widow.” Clint reminded her when he saw her red hair disappear.

“Yep,” she grunted, letting go. She landed in a crouch with a barely audible thud as she hit the ground. “Coulson…” she prompted, hiding in the shadows of the storage closet.

“The lab is two floors down. There’s a stairway down the hallway, four doors to the right of where you are.” He read off the map.

“You’ve got a visual, Hawk?” she checked as she crept towards the closed door. Clint hummed an affirmative response in her ear as she slipped into the hallway. The Russian Assassin stuck to the shadows until she reached the staircase.

“Hostile around the corner.” Hawkeye followed the Black Widow’s figure closely through the thermal imaging scope.

Clint’s warning patched through to her comm. just as she rounded the corner, coming face to face with a brutish guard. Natasha smiled seductively before unloading a Widow’s Bite charge into the man’s sternum. She lunged forward, catching his body before it could hit the ground.

“Neutralized.” She told him as she continued up the stairs. Waiting for Phil’s directions, she paused at the door to the first floor.

“Once you are out that door, hang a right. Third door needs an access code.”

“4375.” Hawkeye added in.

“There’s a guard at that door though, take him out and move in. Hawkeye’s got a clear shot through the window.” Phil reminded her needlessly.

“Now or never, Widow.” Clint spoke gruffly.

“Going in.” she said finally, moving her hand away from her earpiece. She opened the door, barely wide enough for her to squeeze through, shutting it softly behind her. She stuck close to the wall until she was directly across from the lab entrance, doing a back flip to avoid being caught by the cameras. She wiped the blood off the fingertips of her gloves, punching in the code on the number pad. The pen light at the bottom blinked green, unlocking the door. She pushed the door open, shooting the guard with her pistol before he could look up. The Black Widow pushed through the double doors, guns drawn as she automatically counted the armed men in the room.

“Hello boys.” She drawled flirtily; Eight men. They looked at each other confusedly, then back at the beautiful armed red head.

"من أنت؟"

‘Who are you?’ The man closest to her asked.

"من تعتقد أنا؟"
‘Who do you think I am?’ She replied playfully, twirling a strand of burgundy hair around her finger. The men’s eyes glazed over helplessly.
وقال "ما يجري هنا من؟"
‘What is going on out here?’ another voice boomed, a voice that did not belong to one of the men in front of her. A man that Natasha immediately recognized as Asad Munim stalked into the room with a M60 machine gun looped around his neck. Nine men.
"أنا فقط حصلت على فقدان كل شيء."
‘I just got lost is all.’ Natasha replied innocently, switching safety off on her gun. Asad stared at her for a tense moment, wondering how the girl had gotten into his lab.
Moments later two of the men on the opposite side of the room crashed to the ground with arrows protruding from their necks. The second Natasha heard the quiet twang of the bow string in her ear she spun out of the way of a bullet that Munim had automatically fired, shooting at the man closest to her. She dropped into a crouch in front of the next man, shooting him in knee and kicking him in the face as he doubled over. She straightened up, punching the assailant in the throat when he hit the floor. Another arrow was fired through the window, and another fell dead. Four men. They circled around her, gun barrels burying themselves in her chest and stomach. She started to raise her hands in what the targets perceived to be surrender until she whipped her gun into Munim’s temple, eliciting protective responses from his men.
Clint watched the fight down the shaft of his next arrow, choosing the man with whom he had the clearest shot. The bullet hit his partner’s attacker between the eyes, just as Natasha knocked another gun away from her, punching him in the nose. Hawkeye watched horrified as Natasha curled over, her breathing becoming staggered in the comm.
“Sit rep.” he growled.
“Hit.” She gasped, kicking the gun away so that Clint could shoot without worrying the gun would go off. An arrow speared through the last guard’s neck, killing him within seconds.
“Where’s Munim?” Clint asked calmly.

“Unknown.” She breathed after looking around the destroyed room.

“Get out of there, Widow. I’ll finish the job.” He ordered, already knocking a grappling arrow.

“I can do it. I’ve had worse. I can do this.” She repeated, breathing growing increasingly labored as she did her best to staunch the bleeding while holding tight to her gun.

“I know you can. But you don’t need to do this alone anymore.” He whispered. “Let me help you.” He froze, waiting for her reply.

“I don’t need help.”

“I know.” He laughed. “But its ok to ask for it sometimes.”

“I’m waiting just outside, Romanoff, can you make it?” Coulson interjected, making up her mind for her.

“Yes.” She answered dejectedly. Clint smirked, firing the arrow onto the roof of the base. The grappling hook caught and Hawkeye pulled it tight. He jumped off the roof, flying towards the wall. His feet hit first and he shimmied down the rope until he was level with the window he had previously been shooting through.

He landed noiselessly on the floor of the lab, giving the room a quick once over to make sure it was clear. Satisfied, he hurried over to the only desk in the room, shuffling through the papers spread over the table top. Red strobe lights started flashing, accompanied by a blaring alarm. He knew he had minutes before the backup filed into the room to eliminate the threat; him. He could hear the many, many pairs of footsteps pounding down the hallway, making him search even quicker. He cursed as he heard the army of footsteps outside the door just before the door slammed open, cracking against the wall. He turned around, met with the sight of at least fifty men, all armed with M60 machine guns. Clint reached for the quiver strapped to his back, picking the arrow he knew would take out the most men with one shot and choosing to ignore the consequences.

Clint fired the arrow, ducking down as it exploded. The sonic boom bounced off the metal walls, piercing Hawkeye's hardly shielded ears. He collapsed, acknowledging one thing before the blackness enveloped him; He couldn't hear anything. Not even the ringing he expected to hear after the explosion.

Natasha staggered into the cool night air, her handler lunging forward to steady her before she fell. Phil looked her over, wincing at the dark red liquid that had spread from the hole in suit. Keeping a firm hold on Natasha’s shoulders, he led her to a tree, a safe distance away from the chaotic base, and sat her down against it.

“Barton sit rep.” Phil barked as he pulled the zipper down on the black cat suit, peeling it away from her blood coated abdomen. He blew out a curse at the amount of blood that had painted her pale skin crimson. Natasha forced her eyes open when Clint’s answer didn’t sound in her comm.

“Hawkeye.” She echoed, waiting a few tense, painful seconds for an answer that never came. “Barton.” She growled louder.

“Clint!” Phil yelled desperately, pressing his hands against his agent’s bullet wound. She gasped, hands closing into fists.

“Go.” She murmured quickly, eyes shutting either from blood loss or pain, Phil couldn’t tell. Even through the haze the Black Widow could hear Coulson’s quickened panicked breathing.

“Security code – 86632, requesting a secured line.” There was silence for a minute as Phil waited to be transferred to Fury. “Director, I’ve got Romanoff bleeding out and Barton’s status is currently unknown. Requesting immediate medical evac.” He recited. “Romanoff.” He called. “Natasha, hey.” He forced a smile when her eyes opened a fraction. “Fury’s sending backup. I’m going in after Barton. Stay conscious. I’ll be back.” He informed her quickly, taking her hands and pushing them firmly against her stomach. She nodded, opening her eyes wider.

Phil sent his injured agent one last worried glance before slamming his hand against the door and bolting through it the second it crashed open. Coulson muttered each turn to himself as he raced around, looking for the lab. The hallway that he knew to lead to the room Clint had last been seen in was full of unconscious armed soldiers, blocking the path to the door that had been shot off its hinges. He climbed over the bodies, trying to keep from stepping on them all but anywhere there wasn’t a body there was a hand, or a gun, or foot. The floor was completely hidden. He reached the door, immediately scanning it as quickly as he could. He finally saw Barton, curled in on himself in the fetal position as close to the wall as he could be. Scaring Phil the most was the realization that Clint was conscious. So why hadn’t he answered?

“Clint!” Coulson hissed from the doorway. Clint remained unresponsive. Phil jogged forward dropping to his knees at Barton’s back. He reached forward, tapping him on the shoulder. The reaction was quicker than Phil would’ve thought possible. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself being smashed into the wall, with the shielded eyes of Clint Barton burning holes into his face, and the edge of a knife blade cutting into his throat. Phil remained stone still, waiting for Clint to realize it was him. But the archer never moved, his breathing only picked up as he stared. “Clint, drop the knife.” He prompted. The marksman’s usually calm eyes filled with fear faster than Phil had ever seen. The knife clattered to the floor and Clint reached up with his hand as if he was going to touch his hair but then he seemed to think better of it. Coulson watched, scared, as the usually calm and collected kid scrambled around the destroyed room, never saying a word.

He stood hunched over the desk, knocking countless things off the counter before he found a pen. He ripped open a binder, tearing a piece of paper out with frightening ferocity. Phil watched, still frozen against the wall, as Barton scrawled something onto the paper. Phil struggled to decipher the nearly illegible writing that Clint held up for him to read and when he did, the only thing keeping him from panicking was the lost look on the kid’s face. Barton pointed to his ear to confirm what Phil had gathered from the written explanation.

“Can you read my lips?” Phil spoke slowly. Clint nodded once, visible tremors running through his body. “It’s gonna be ok. You will be fine.” He moved his lips slowly in sync with the promise he was making. Clint looked down and away, leaning heavily on the desk.

“Natasha,” Clint mouthed suddenly, taking off in the direction Phil had come.
Clint found her blacked out where their friend had left her. He fell to his knees, looking over his shoulder with a betrayed expression directed at their handler. “You left her.” He accused soundlessly.

“She asked me to.” Phil mouthed back. Clint turned back to his partner and tried shaking her, he tried poking and slapping. But she remained unconscious. He took a deep breath and looked at her absolutely colorless face.

“Wake up, Tasha.” Clint begged loudly. Phil gaped at him; he hadn’t said a single word out loud until then. Her name being called, accompanied with the constant shaking, dragged her reluctantly into consciousness. He smiled at her when her now dull green eyes opened, tucking a strand of long blood red hair behind her ear and brushing his knuckles against across her pale cheek.

“Clint.” She gasped in recognition. “Are you ok?” she slurred, eyes closing in exhaustion. Her words had been too slurred for him to read her lips. He rubbed her arm, once again getting her eyes to open. She narrowed her eyes at him, angrily trying to focus through the impending haze.

He let the walls fall so that she would figure it out. He watched her study him, denial fighting against her weakened defenses.

“Sonic arrow.” She deduced, moving her lips slower and trying hard to form each sound better so he could follow her. She had seen the guards rushing past her as she was searching for Phil and she knew Clint well enough to know that if he believed something could save the mission, he would do it, paying no attention to the consequences. That paired with the way he seemed to be straining his eyesight to compensate, lead her to believe he’d used the arrows meant only for long distance KO’s.

He nodded brokenly. She took a deep gasping breath, hoping to stay conscious for a few more seconds. She reached up, tangling her hand in his hair. He tried not to lean into her, no matter how much he felt he needed the contact.

“Idiot.” She mouthed carefully before the blackness washed over her again.

Clint slid his arms under her, holding her tightly as he rose to his feet. He leaned with back against the tree, waiting until his head stopped pounding so hard. He opened his eyes again to face Phil holding his arms out to take the dying girl.

“I’m deaf, not broken.” Clint snapped wordlessly.

Clint knew. He knew that he was deaf. He knew there was no point in hoping he wasn’t. He was angry. And scared. Not that he’d admit it. But with Natasha, he’d never have to.

“Agent Barton, we still have to run countless tests and your partner won’t be…” the unfamiliar voice faltered the middle of the sentence, and Natasha assumed Clint had silenced the poor doctor with one of his terrifying glares. She heard the faint sound of the door opening and closing from across the room and recognized the quick footsteps of the ever stressed Phil Coulson. “I’m sorry, sir. He just won’t listen.” The obviously new doctor defended, frustrated.

“I’ll take care of him Taylor, thanks.” Phil replied, walking closer to Natasha’s hospital bed. The young doctor huffed, his uniform dress shoes making even clicking noises on the linoleum floor.

“I know you’re awake Tasha.” He told her, his voice louder than it should’ve been because he couldn’t hear himself. He hadn’t said much since the mission. Only the occasional spoken word to his handler and the more frequent conversations with Natasha he had with her before she had passed out.

“Hi.” She croaked, pushing herself up on her elbows. Clint winced, waiting for the instinctual reaction her body gave to the action. She hissed, collapsing back against the pillow as she struggled to keep her breathing regular. Clint watched her, straining his hearing to hear something, anything even when he knew it was futile. For the week she’d been in a coma, he had been giving himself a splitting headache trying to hear something aside from the bass beat of his music and the boom of his exploding arrows. He refused to think of what being deaf could mean for him. “Stop trying so hard.” She advised slowly.
It was harder for him with other people that weren’t Phil or Natasha. He had spent more than enough time with them to memorize the way their lips moved when they formed certain words. On the other hand, with people he did not know, like Dr. Taylor, he had to work harder. It was getting exhausting.
He sighed in response, dropping his head into his hands. His shoulders shook with repressed sobs, making Natasha’s heart crack a little bit, seeing him so mentally exhausted, so lost, and so angry. She gritted her teeth, sitting up slowly and ignoring the searing pain that spread from her abdomen to the rest of her body like a fire. She reached forward with a careful hand, closing it around his bicep. His head snapped up, and he glared half-heartedly at her for moving. She brushed it off, tilting her head so that she knew she had his full attention.
“Can I make it any easier?” she had slowed her speech down dramatically, giving him a break. He shook his head, letting his eyes close for a minute. Natasha waited patiently until he looked back at her. She tugged lightly on his hand, pulling him onto the bed beside her. She slid her other hand up to his neck, waiting for him to decide on the neck move. He leaning forward, kissing her forehead, and trailing kisses down the side of her face before letting his head fall onto her shoulder. Natasha ignored the jolt of pain that came with it, just holding him until he composed himself.
Coulson waited patiently, occupying himself with reading Natasha’s medical file to give the Agents’ as much privacy as he could in the small SHIELD recovery room.
Clint pulled away after a minute, supporting Natasha as she leaned back against the pillows but keeping a firm hold on her hand.
“You got lucky, Natasha. If the guard had held the gun at any other angle the bullet would’ve buried itself in your spine.” Phil told her, speaking slowly for Clint’s sake. She nodded blankly; it didn’t matter if her partner was still suffering. Phil sighed, expecting nothing less. He dragged the desk chair closer to his agents, looking back and forth between Clint and Natasha with solemn looks. “Clint…” he started. Clint scowled, looking away so he wouldn’t have to ‘hear’. Natasha fixed him with a heavy look, eyes flitting toward Coulson and Clint reluctantly turned his attention back to Phil.
“You need to let them run their tests Barton.” Phil chided. Clint stared at Coulson’s mouth carefully, eyes narrowing when he figured out what Phil had said. Natasha figured it out before Phil did; he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to be told he couldn’t be Hawkeye anymore. He didn’t want to be told he couldn’t be Natasha’s partner anymore. He didn’t want to lose his job. He didn’t want to be treated differently. And he didn’t want to be worthless. Not again. The Russian watched all of those fears cut through his eyes like lightning in a storm, tapping the back of his hand with her thumb to gain his attention.
For a blissful moment, Clint drowned in the intensity in her bright green eyes. The same eyes that told him more than Natasha ever could. ‘You won’t be.’ She assured him with a silent promise. He took a deep breath and looked back at Phil again.
“Ok.” He agreed hesitantly, voice hoarse from lack of use. Phil nodded, getting up and leaving the recovery room to find Dr. Taylor.
Clint sat unmoving beside Natasha’s thigh, watching mutely as three different SHIELD doctors dragged instruments for his hearing tests into the small room that he had refused to leave. One at a time the agents rolled in an audiometer on a metal cart and another computer Clint had been told was used for the speech test. He watched the three men file out of the room, stiffening when Dr. Taylor came through the door. Taylor shut the door gently behind him and locked it, turning on each of the machines. Natasha’s knuckles brushed subtly across his lower back, ‘Relax.’ His shoulders slumped slightly as he registered her silent message.
Taylor pulled the closest machine over to the hospital bed, watching Clint with a wary gaze as if he was waiting for the archer to run. The doctor flipped open the laptop that sat on the desk to his left. Clint watched blankly as the audiologist’s fingers flew across the keyboard for a minute before he turned the computer screen towards the marksman.

‘This is the pure tone test. It’s gonna tell us which frequencies of sound you can or can’t hear. Raise your hand when you hear the tone.’
Clint nodded, taking the blue and red headphones that were held out to him. Dr. Taylor fumbled with the dials and switches on the audiometer, raising an impatient eyebrow at Barton when he hesitated with the headphones. Clint slipped them over his damaged ears, glancing with concealed nervousness at Coulson who leaned rigidly against the wall, watching each of Taylor’s moves. He nodded confidently at his agent, catching the storming worry in his eyes. Natasha held her breath, feeling the tension rippling in the air around her partner. She rested the back of her hand against the small of his back in a subtle show of comfort. It was all she could offer with the prying eyes of the young doctor on them both.
Clint’s hand remained in his lap for the majority of the test, excepting the deep tones that matched those of the ones he could feel through his headphones when he listened to his music. All eight pairs of eyes in the room flitted across the screen with the Hz and dB readings that scanned across the screen. Taylor switched his jaw as he motioned for Clint to remove the headphones once the test had ended.



Taylor slid the audiometer to the side, pulling the SRT into its place. He handed a different headset to Hawkeye, watching tiredly as he secured them over his ears.

‘Repeat any words you can hear.’ He typed out for the silenced SHIELD sniper. Clint nodded again, staring at the ground as the second test began. After the third or fourth word, Clint’s eyebrows knitted together in useless concentration. Frustration clouded his features halfway through the test when he hadn’t been able to catch any of the automated words, followed soon by anger, and finally, self-loathing. The sight of his torment made both Phil and Natasha’s hearts beat a little faster.

The moment the test ended, Clint slammed the headphones down on the metal cart, hard enough that the other three people in the room heard a soft crack, and stalked out of the room, running his hands nervously through his hair.

“I’m going to go over the results.” Taylor interjected, slipping out of the recovery room before the door could slam closed.
Phil watched the door, contemplating whether or not he should go after the kid. The handler knew who Clint really needed, but she was currently confined to her bed.
“Coulson…” Natasha held her hand out to the man, fixing him with a knowing and insistent glare. Phil took a deep frustrated breath, squeezing his eyes shut before walking towards her and clasping her small hands in his, helping only because she asked for help, something the Black Widow didn’t do very often.
“Phil.” He corrected before easing her off the bed, maintaining his hold while she gained her balance. He handed her a small pile of Clint’s folded clothes he had brought for her when she woke up. He averted her eyes while the injured red head dressed in her partner’s loose clothing. “Be careful. If you can’t find him in ten minutes, come back.” He instructed, already feeling guilty for letting his shot agent chase after his angry agent. His eyes snapped over his shoulder when he heard Natasha’s sharp intake of breath from behind him. She wavered dangerously, shirt still hanging from her right hand. He immediately turned away again. “I can help.” He offered innocently. Natasha sighed.
“Ok.” She agreed reluctantly. Phil held her gaze as he held his hand out for the shirt, draping the oversized workout shirt over her head. “I’ll be back.” She promised, disappearing into the hallway.
Clint’s head snapped up from where he had previously been fixed on the city below when familiar green eyes blinked in his peripheral vision. His countenance grew darker still when he saw his stark white partner leaning heavily on the bar that surrounded the roof. He growled a curse, jumping up to catch her before she fainted. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, sitting her down on the cold cement.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, watching her cough, with a shaky hand to her undoubtedly torn stiches. She ignored him while she slowed her erratic breathing. He exhaled angrily, taking her free hand and lying it over his heart. Her fingers curled into his shirt, feeling his thumping heart below her palm. “Good?” he checked after a minute. She nodded. Clint studied her mouth, waiting for her to speak.
“Clint…” she started.
“No, Tasha. Please don’t.” he interrupted. She watched him carefully, knowing he would tell her on his own. “It was torture, Nat. I knew what I should’ve been hearing. And I tried. But I couldn’t hear anything.” He whispered hoarsely, a hidden plea for help though he’d never ask for it.
Natasha wanted nothing more in that moment then to help him – but she couldn’t. She wound her thin fingers in between his calloused ones, lifting their twined hands to her lips. He felt her short breaths blowing across his knuckles before her lips pressed against their fingers. He tightened his grip on her hand, getting to his feet and lifting her with him.
He helped her down the stairs, supporting most of her weight while she applied pressure to the stitched wound that was bleeding steadily through the shirt.
Clint glared at the anxious looking handler as he eased Natasha backwards onto the hospital bed. He wrenched up the shirt, grimacing at the bloody mess the gauze had become. He spun around to raid the medicine cabinet, running straight into Phil when he turned around. Phil held out clean wrappings to him, smiling weakly.
“Thanks Phil.” Clint mumbled. Phil understood the double meaning behind the words and nodded in acknowledgement.
Clint turned back to his tired partner, helping her sit up so he could unwind the bandaging around her stomach. The clean white gauze was stained within seconds of being secured to the cold skin of the Russian. Clint sat down next to her again, arm resting directly beside hers.
It was a few minutes before Taylor reappeared with a stack of papers and a grim look on his face.
Phil took the papers with a slightly visible tremor to his hands as he read over the report. Clint froze completely, not even breathing when Coulson paced away, running his hands impatiently through his hair. Clint knew the older man had tried to keep his cool for the younger agent. But he could already see the gut wrenching look that he knew would twist Clint’s features within seconds of reading the report. He handed them to Barton, looking at him reassuringly before backing away.
Hawkeye scanned through the sheets of paper, the only words he understood in the mess of Hertz measurements and decibels were typed at the top in bold black letters:


















































Audiogram Test Results – Agent Clint Barton
80 dB Hl – 80% Deaf

The papers floated to the floor, and Clint turned his head to look at his red head spider with the most broken and heartbreaking look Natasha had ever seen on his face. Anger, frustration, horror, sadness, self-hatred, self-deprecation – more emotions than Natasha was capable of counting – stormed in his cloudy eyes. She fought back her own emotions and stared right back at him with a calm and convincing look,

‘You’ll be ok.’

Clint pushed her hands off of his shoulder, running from the room. Natasha and Phil watched him go with a sad look, the twenty four year old girl letting her head fall into her hands.

“I’m going to go talk to Fury. Maybe he can…” Phil trailed off, shaking his head as if he had no idea what Fury could do. SHIELD required an agent’s hearing to be a minimum of -10 to 20 dB. Coulson left the Russian alone, briefly thinking that Clint would be angry if he knew Phil was leaving her alone again.

Director Fury didn’t even flinch when the door to his office cracked against the wall and a completely crazed looking Agent Coulson paced into the room, stalking back and forth in front of his cluttered metal desk with his hands pulling at his already short hair. Fury closed out of the audiology report that had shown up in his inbox minutes earlier, and started following Phil with his eye.

“You can’t fire him.” Phil finally said, dropping into the chair and slumping forward.

“I know.” Fury replied. Coulson didn’t hear him, lost in his own panicked thoughts.

“He has nowhere else to go, Director.”

“I know.”

“If we kick him out he will be just as lost as before I found him.”

“I know.”

“There’s got to be something you can… Wait – what?”

“Agent Coulson, I’m not a sentimental person. You know this. But you and I both know I’m rather attached to those insane partners. They drive me absolutely crazy, they’ve torn apart my base more times than I could ever hope to count, they scare off my agents, are constantly trying to kill each other, they make it their job to make my life harder than it already is, they spend seventy-five percent of their time on my base sneaking out of medical and making the nurses cry and they are in constant need of a babysitter, but Phil, they’re part of this team.” Fury explained. “And I will do everything in my power to help that archer keep his job.” Phil blinked blankly at his boss, processing the admittance.

“I… What did you have in mind, sir?” Coulson asked simply after a minute of silence, pierced only by Phil’s uneven breathing. Fury slammed a dull colored file folder down in front of Coulson, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his chest.

“I have no intention of letting one half of my best partnership walk away, agent.” he concluded lowly, walking out of the room with his black trench coat flaring behind him.

Phil flipped open the file, thumbing through the hearing aid blueprints, pages and pages of notes on ways to make the device smaller, water proof, indestructible, undetectable, contacts lists of SHIELD’s best mechanics and scientists. Leave it to Fury to compile this much information within the hour. Coulson’s mind was suddenly completely occupied by hope.

Clint tilted his head back against the trunk of the tree he was sitting up against, one knee pulled up to his chest as he observed the few people who were restless or romantic enough to stroll around Brooklyn Bridge Park late at night. He imagined the sounds he knew he should’ve been hearing; the quiet sound the wind made on the water just a few yards away from where he was. The faint sounds of people laughing he would’ve been able to hear just before the giggles would get lost in the wind he could feel whipping against his rough face. The occasional sound of a dog barking could usually be heard as its owner walked by, deep in thought.

But all Clint Barton heard was deafening silence. It made him want to scream – anything that had the possibility of breaking the quiet bubble encasing his mind – but he didn’t. It made the infamous Hawkeye want to cry thinking about the things he would never be able to hear again. He would never hear Natasha’s genuine laugh when he was lucky enough to elicit the rare sound from her. He would never hear her smooth seductive voice that he had fallen so deeply in love with. He would never hear her heartbeat again on nights when one or the other woke from a nightmare. Worst of all, he would never again hear her tell him she loved him. Still, he didn’t cry, only remained completely still, staring up at the stars that were invisible due to the endless city lights.

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Phil approach, carefully so as not to spook the assassin. She focused on anything other than the music blaring into her ears through the headphones. Romanoff struggled in vain to hear anything over the booming bass beat of the music, finding it beyond frustrating. Phil stepped forward and pulled the headphones away from her ears.

“You’ll damage your hearing.” Phil muttered blandly. She shrugged. “What were you doing?” he asked, expecting the silence he got. “You wanted to know what it felt like.” He guessed. Her eyes flitted toward him and he knew he’d been right. “I borrowed sound cancelling headphones from the shooting range.” He admitted shamelessly.
“They won’t fire him.” She said with forced coolness.
“No?” he responded warily.

“No. I told Fury I’d walk away with him without a second thought.” She said honestly.
“Would you really?” he asked.
“Would she really what?” Clint interjected suddenly. Natasha spun around to see Clint leaning against the door frame in the shadows dressed in his usual cargo pants and SHIELD tee shirt. Natasha looked down at the tennis shoes and instantly knew he’d been running.
“Walk away if they fire you.” She answered without hesitation. His eyes widened in surprise.
“You wouldn’t.” he replied darkly after working for a minute to figure out what she’d said. “I wouldn’t let you.” He walked forward until he was standing in front of her, chest to chest. “SHIELD is your life Tasha.”
She shook her head.
“You’re wrong.” She said slowly. She splayed her palm out on his cheek, staring him dead in the eye. “You. Are. My. Life.” She drew out each word so he could read her lips easier.
She knew those were one of many things he needed to know. She wasn’t good with feelings and words but she would try – for Clint.
Clint reached up and took her hand in a death grip, staring her dead in the eye as if his life depended on the connection. Threading her fingers through his, Natasha led Clint towards the bed, neither agent acknowledging Phil as he slipped out. With their hands still fused together, Natasha sat down on the bed, pulling Clint in after her. She watched him, flinching internally at the heart wrenching sadness in his eyes. The partner’s sat still, just looking at each other until Clint broke down, leaning forward and tipping his head onto Natasha’s shoulder. Her long crimson hair curtained around his face, and he just breathed in her scent; something else aside from her scars that told who she was. The strawberry shampoo was muted by the ever present smell of gunpowder, sweat, vodka and occasionally rubbing alcohol after a day in the infirmary.
Natasha froze curiously as the hand that was previously tangled in her fiery curls trailed down the left side of her neck, over the curve of her shoulder, past her clavicle and coming to a stop as soon as he felt the faint resounding thumps of her heartbeat. She bent her head to kiss the hand that rested over her heart, tightening her grip around his lower back as a choking silent sob vibrated through him. She laid her forehead on his chest and they sat there, wrapped around each other with Clint feeling her heartbeat for minutes on end, neither willing to fall asleep just yet. It wasn’t until Clint felt Natasha’s breathing grow labored under his fingertips, did he remember that she had been shot, had suffered from serious blood loss and was tired. And honestly, so was he. He leaned back against the pillows, his hold on his partner never loosening. The Russian stretched her neck to kiss him gently – another promise – before she fell asleep.
Hours later, Phil’s head shot off of the desk he had fallen asleep on, groaning at the loud sound his phone made as it vibrated on the metal table top.
“Yes sir?” he muttered sleepily into the receiver

“Get Barton and Romanoff to my office in ten. We’ve got to talk about this.” Fury ordered.

“Sir…We should give him some time to…” Phil protested.

“Whether they like it or not.” Fury said with his signature tone of finality.

“Yes sir.” Phil sighed unhappily, eyes narrowing in frustration at the buzzing dial tone. Shutting down the desk top, he left his messy office, walking the memorized hallway to Natasha’s room. “Natasha!” he called loudly as he rapped on her door. He listened carefully for the sound of moving around, something he could only hear when she was still half asleep. “Fury wants you and Barton down in ten.” He continued. The door flew open, revealing a slightly disheveled looking assassin. He could see in her obviously angry countenance that she was just as frustrated that Fury insisted on talking about it today, as he was. “Is he ok?” he asked softly. Natasha shrugged sadly.

“We’ll meet you down stairs.” She deflected. He nodded acceptingly, starting back down the hallway.

Natasha turned around, looking analytically at her still sleeping partner. Sighing, she crept closer to the bed, taking the knife off of his bedside table before lightly tapping his arm. That was all it took to have him up and swinging a strong fist at her face. She blocked the hit, his right hand colliding with her forearm while his left reached toward the knife that was no longer beside his bed. His blue eyes widened in recognition as he dropped his arm from where it was in bruising contact with his partner’s arm. He scrubbed his over his face, looking guiltily at Natasha.

“Don’t.” she interrupted when he opened his mouth to apologize. He sighed shakily, taking her wrist between his calloused hands. He brushed his fingers over the bright red mark circling her forearm. She pulled her arm away, staring at him warningly. “Fury wants us.” She spoke clearly. His shoulders slumped and Natasha turned towards the dresser, avoiding having to look at his completely beaten down face.

She switched her shorts out for a pair of skin tight jeans and pulled her leather jacket on over her grey tank top. She rummaged in the next drawer for a shirt for her silenced partner. Kneeling down at his feet, she set a pair of folded jeans and a dark brown shirt in his lap, successfully gaining his attention. She tilted her head, looking up at him through her lashes, ‘Are you ok?’ He shook his head once in honest reply, ‘No.’ She took a deep breath, used his knees as leverage to push herself off the floor. She brushed through her hair with her fingers, French braiding it over her left shoulder while he changed.

“Barton, Romanoff.” Fury greeted gruffly when his agents walked through his office door, standing stoically as they waited for instructions. “Sit.” He ordered. Phil stood stiffly in the corner as he watched Fury with a disapproving glare. Fury wordlessly slid a copy of the same file he’d shown to Phil earlier, across the table.

Clint’s posture grew progressively straighter as he read through the file, Natasha reading over his shoulder. He looked up at Natasha with a lighter expression than she had seen on his face since he’d woken up something Natasha could almost call hope. Then his icy eyes flashed toward Fury’s.

Phil averted his eyes – unable to stand the look in his agent’s gaze knowing that this could all be causing false hope if it didn’t work.

“The idea is to build a comm. into the hearing aids, make it water proof…” Fury added as Clint looked up from the packet.

“What about my music?” he asked quietly, studying Fury’s mouth in concentration. Natasha bit back an exasperated chuckle at her partner’s words.

“In the long run, the hearing aids will be small enough that your ear buds will fit… Are you catching any of this Barton?” Fury sighed, slower. Clint shook his head, eyes flitting away in frustration. Natasha’s hand closed over his knee in reassurance.

“How long?” he asked shortly.

“Three months minimum.” Fury replied coolly. Clint exhaled. “You are on medical leave until then.”

“Sir…” he protested after a heavy minute.

“I don’t want to hear it agent. We will keep you updated on the project – Dismissed. A word Agent Romanoff.” He ordered as they both stood to leave. She looked at her partner to see if he’d caught what Fury had said. Clint’s fisted hand twitched almost imperceptibly, ‘Gym.’ The red head nodded once in understanding. “That just creepy, Romanoff.” Fury noted once Clint and Phil had slipped out of the office. Natasha shrugged. “You won’t be available for active duty until that injury heals. I suggest you make good use of it. You’ll be back in the field before he will, agent.”

“Is that all, sir?” she asked tiredly. He nodded curtly and watched the assassin spin on her heel, walking quickly out his door before he could call her back.

Natasha watched from the locked down doorway to the gym as Clint landed bone breaking hits on the rapidly swaying punching bag. He growled in frustration, breaking the near silence as he suddenly produced one of Natasha’s daggers seemingly out of nowhere, plunging it into the vinyl, causing sand to spill out of the gaping hole like blood. Watching as he seethed in self-deprecating pity, she flicked the light switch off and on, drawing the hawk’s unconfused attention. His eyes opened a little more and he looked down at her wounded abdomen. He hissed a curse under his breath, reaching her in six large strides.

“You shouldn’t be up, Tasha. You got shot – what, three days ago?” he muttered as he forced her down onto a bench, reaching into the first aid box on the floor and pulling out a package of fresh gauze and medical tape. He redressed her stitched gun shot for what seemed like the hundredth time, looking up at her when he’d finished. She took the half used roll of wrapping in one hand, and Clint’s abused hand in her other. The hold tightened when he tried to pull away. He shook his head, ‘I’m fine.’ She stared right back with an unwavering glare.

“That’s how we do this remember?” she reminded heatedly. “You patch me up, I patch you up. So put up and shut up.” She warned, pulling his hand closer. Clint didn’t need to read each word to know what she had said. He had known she would say as soon as he protested. They looked at each other, silence pulsing around both of them. Natasha bit her bottom lip, eyes moving back and forth across Clint’s angry face. “We need to get out.” She decided. Clint’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, ‘You are insane.’ She winked at him, pulling him off the floor and pulling out her cell phone.

Clint watched carefully as Natasha spoke into the phone. Her head was angled so that he could only make out a few words out of the sentence, but he had caught enough to know she was talking to Phil.

“Phil’s gonna cover for us.” She filled him in, ducking into the shadows of the hallway to avoid the security cameras. She removed the cover of the air vent and ushered Clint ahead of her. He gripped the edge of the opening, pulling himself up, muscles rippling in exertion. He extended a hand to his beautiful partner once he had slid in, pulling her up after him. She let him lead the way he knew so well after years of sneaking around in the air ducts. The man made light of the always locked entrance room seeped into the tunnel and Clint pushed his arm out in front of him, pushing the vent cover out. It clattered to the floor, and Clint reached to his right to punch out the security camera, it too falling to the floor. He curled his hands around the edge, falling forward out of the vent, flipping over by the hold he had on the vent opening, and landing on his feet. Natasha slid out after him, knowing Clint would be standing right below, waiting to catch her. His firm arms locked around her body before she could hit the ground. She smiled up at him, ‘See - I do still trust you.’ She contradicted what she knew he was wondering. He responded with the ghost of a smile. The expert lock pick sauntered forward, crouching down as she fiddled with the key pad that monitored who left and when. The blinking red light flashed green and the agents rushed out.

Clint Barton never once questioned his partner as she walked purposefully through New York, pulling him by his hand. Not only because he didn’t care, but because he was focusing – on the taxis, people, tour buses – things he knew had sounds, and voices and things he should’ve been able to hear and could hear one week ago. He looked up when Natasha stopped walking, met with the sight of a place he hadn’t been since his brother had taken him when he was five. His brother… he would probably laugh if he could see him now. And to Clint, that realization was enough to break him further. Natasha tugged on his hand and they walked through one of three of the twenty foot tall doors.

They sped through the aisles and aisles of books, Natasha seemingly looking for something in particular. She finally stopped her wild search in the language aisle. Her pale hand – the one not clasped in Clint’s – brushed over a certain collection, dragging Clint’s attention to those.
Sign Language.

The hawk looked at the spider with an unsure expression even as she reached for the books, cradling them against her chest. They sat down at one of the mahogany desks, spreading the books across the table. She picked up the first in the line-up, reading through and subtly making the hand gestures. After five minutes of watching Natasha learn the language, something they both excelled at doing quickly, he picked up a book and began learning the signs as well.

Phil Coulson looked up as Clint and Natasha entered the mess hall, arms moving around them in what almost seemed like a conversation. Phil’s mouth fell open as he put two and two together. In the short five hours they had been gone, they had learned a new language; one that could make his friend’s life easier.

He returned to his office later that night, to find three books on his desk, the stack topped with a sticky note.
If you want to learn.

Coulson refilled his cup of coffee, settling down at his desk with an open ASL book in his lap.

Clint sat stiffly on the metal examination table. Natasha leant against the wall by the door, still as stone. His usual doctor, Alex Taylor, stepped into the room, followed by Coulson and a cocky looking man that he recognized as the chief mechanic that had been working on his hearing aids.

“Agent Hollin,” the man greeted slowly, forcing Clint to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He had mastered lip reading, weeks after the Tunisia mission and people had long since learned to stop treating him like glass. Clint caught sight of Natasha’s emerald glare over Agent Hollin’s shoulder, ‘Do not mess with him.’

“Agent Barton.” Clint replied politely, shaking Hollin’s hand. Hollin started a sentence, turning away while he continued talking. Clint took a deep frustrated breath, fisting his hands and looking up at Natasha while she translated the irritating mechanic’s words into sign language. In the four months it had taken the SHIELD mechanics to build Hawkeye’s hearing aids, sign language had become exceedingly easy for the two, Phil trailing not far behind.

“My team and I have been creating hundreds of models of these, trying to create something the fit yours and Fury’s standards. It’s not easy creating a miniscule way for a man who is eighty percent deaf to hear and frankly, I thought both…” Natasha froze, hands stopping midway through the next sign. Clint glared at her, daring her to not tell him. “you and the project were useless.” Clint’s breathing picked up as he forced back the involuntary stinging hurt he felt. Natasha’s hands twitched toward her gun at her thigh. The man didn’t know how lucky he was that he kept talking with his back to the deaf SHIELD agent. If Natasha wasn’t forced to keep translating for her partner, the mechanic’s life would’ve been ended with a bullet to the forehead. Coulson took a deep breath to keep from launching himself at the infuriating man, and Taylor’s eyes widened a fraction, the young doctor looking at everyone at once.

Clint chose to ignore the doctor, honing in on the miniaturized hearing aids Hollin had produced from a box instead. Natasha watched seething as Clint eyes betrayed the suppressed flinch as Agent Hollin unceremoniously jammed the small devices into place, fiddling with them inside her partner’s unhearing ears. She shot forward at Clint’s sharp intake of breath, almost bodily knocking Hollin out of the way. Her partner’s storm cloud eyes shot around the room in hyper active response to what Natasha hoped was hearing for the first time in almost five months. He watched her with an awed expression pinning her in place.
Clint tilted his head Natasha’s forehead, not caring in the slightest about what Hollin or Taylor thought. He listened intently to the sounds he had and hadn’t missed. Natasha’s quiet breathing, his own breathing, stunned laughing he realized was coming from him. Clint Barton longed for Natasha to say something – anything. The desire to hear her voice again, a burning he thought he had grown used to and therefore would never feel again was reawakened by hearing her breathy laughs; another sound that made his heart beat a hundred times faster than it should’ve. Her heartbeat echoed loudly in his mind, a smile breaking out across his face at the sound he had almost missed most of all.
They didn’t acknowledge the three men leaving the room, both silently vowing to thank Phil later.
“I love you.” She whispered fervently, letting her faint Russian accent bleed into the words for him. He stared at her bright-as-stars eyes, knowing that they were undoubtedly mirror images of his. He roughly shoved his lips against hers, hard enough to knock them both backwards. Clint slid his hand behind her head before she could hit the floor, kissing her as if he didn’t know that he’d ever get to again, like he always did. He pushed up on his forearms once he’d run out of oxygen, his slightly shaking arms framing her face as he stared down at her. His head fell against her clavicle.
“I love you.” He replied, lips moving against her collar bone. His own voice felt somewhat foreign to him after five months of not hearing himself speak. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling his lips down on hers again. Clint snaked his arms around her waist, holding her in place while he got to his feet. They pulled apart when Phil, Taylor and Hollin pushed in, ready to start testing. If he passed these, eval was the only thing standing between the archer and active duty.
He sat still, thoughts drifting further and further away from SHIELD medical while Taylor ran the same tests he had the first time they met; only this time, Clint’s hand didn’t stay immobilized in his lap.
“That’s a perfect score, Barton. I’ll get these reports to Fury. Dismissed.” Taylor spoke, reminding himself that he didn’t need to talk slow. Though the doctor still found himself looking over at Romanoff to watch her translate even though she wasn’t, it had become habit after all these months.
“I freakin’ love SHIELD tech, sometimes.” Clint muttered earning a chuckle from Phil and a faint laugh from Natasha.
Taylor all but pushed Hollin out the door ahead of him, shaking Phil’s hand as they left. Phil walked toward his agent, looking at his eyes – at the hope and happiness among other things that hadn’t been there this morning.
“Good to have you back, agent.” Phil smiled, pulling his agent into a hug.
“Want to join, Romanoff?” Clint asked innocently.
“I don’t do group hugs.” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You don’t really do hugs, Nat.” Clint countered, laughing. Natasha’s eyes softened at his laugh, one thing even she hadn’t heard since Tunisia.
“Both of you have evaluations at 4 am sharp, so get some rest.” He instructed, pulling away from Clint.
“Right.” Clint scoffed incredulously.
“I had all the alcohol removed from your room.” Phil replied with an uninterested tone as he looked down at the paper work. Both agents spun around with horrified looks on their faces.
“You did what?” they screeched.
“Like I said, you need rest. If you don’t pass tomorrow, Clint, its four months of retraining.” He told them, still not looking up. “You’ll get it back in the morning.”
“He didn’t get all of it.” Natasha whispered in a conspiratorial voice, an action that really made Phil feel like he was babysitting children.
“And Romanoff,” he called as they reached the threshold. “I would find a new hiding spot for your Vodka tomorrow.” He suggested. Natasha huffed disbelievingly, stalking down the hallway.
“You did not just confiscate the Black Widow’s Russian Vodka.” Clint gasped. Phil rolled his eyes at their dramatics, not looking up until the door slammed shut behind Barton.
"What was your first weapon of choice?" Natasha asked, licking the spoon clean of vanilla ice cream. Clint reclined in the cheap, under stuffed SHIELD issued couch, leaning against the armrest, tipping the remains of his energy drink into his mouth. Natasha lay on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder, and a bowl of ice cream sitting on his chest.
"Bow. Always." he clarified. She nodded, holding the cold spoon to her lips. "Trickshot taught me in the carnival with a bow he stole from the props car." He recited. "You?" he replied, spinning the bottle between his thumb and forefinger in his right hand, while left moved up and down Natasha’s back.
"Knife." She replied easily. “Red Room taught me twenty ways to kill with a knife before I hit five years old.” He nodded; a jerky motion that Natasha knew meant he was angry.
"Favorite mission?" he asked curiously with a devious glint in his grey eyes.
"Berlin." She answered after a moment. He smirked down at her. “Don’t even…”
"Budapest." He cut her off, jokingly.
His smile fell away seconds later and Natasha waited silently for him to speak. Reaching across her partner, she set the empty bowl of what used to be ice cream on the floor.
“Clint?” she called after five long minutes of silence.
“I can’t be your partner anymore.” He breathed sadly. Natasha beat back the panic crawling up her chest.
“What are you talking about?” she replied quietly.
“I can’t. What if the hearing aids malfunction? And something happens to you? I’d… Tasha… what if I can’t protect you?” he whispered brokenly. Natasha’s eyes darkened and she flipped off of his body. She held out a hand for his hearing aids, setting them on the dresser when he complied.
“No comm., Phil’s not there, no visual on me, what do you do?” she signed quickly.
“Thermal imaging.” He finger spelled. She nodded. “And if someone sneaks up on me?” the self-deprecating glare returned to his eyes. Natasha’s eyes narrowed and she disappeared into the shadows. Clint stared at the spot she had been standing seconds before.
He had spun around ready to attack before he even felt the tap on his shoulder. He twisted the offenders arm behind their back, forcing them onto the ground with his handgun pressed against the back of their head. Natasha flipped over in his loosening hold smiling up at him proudly.
“I trust you Clint.”

Clint and Natasha stood side by side behind the white line that marked the start of the indoor track, watching Agent Allen for his signal. Fury and Coulson watched them tensely from behind the one way glass that separated them from the agents in the evaluation room. The SHIELD team shot off down the track at Allen’s signal, Clint speeding ahead of Natasha. The redhead slowed her pace, if only barely, to smirk proudly before taking off in a vain attempt to catch up with him. She was fast – she had been trained to be fast – but Clint was still faster.
She skidded to a stop minutes after he did, watching Allen as he clicked a button on the stopwatch and recorded it on his eval report. Clint winked at her from behind the agent, earning an exasperated eye roll from his slightly winded partner. Allen waved the pair in the direction of the high tech shooting range. The Black Widow leaned tensely against the metal pillar as her partner took his stance in one of the stalls, sliding his handgun out of the holster strapped to his thigh. Hawkeye effortlessly fired thirteen rounds in rapid succession, and Natasha knew without looking at the target, each bullet had gone through the same hole the one before it had. Next he drew his bow, emptying his quiver into each of the moving targets. Allen raised a closed fist and Clint stepped back, walking back towards his waiting partner while their eval proctor checked the targets. Again, the agent marked his report, motioning Natasha towards the same stall her partner had occupied minutes ago. She glared seriously at the targets, whipping out her Glock 26 pistols and firing at two different targets. She turned around when she had unloaded her gun, with her hands on her leather clad hips, waiting for the professional agent to check. He walked past her with a glare, checking the targets like he had Barton’s. They both knew from memory, and years of being evaluated after injuries, that parkour was next.
Allen set them both up on different courses, standing between the adjourning courses with a bored expression. Clint launched himself off the wall, running up the cement prop building, grabbing onto the ledge, easily pulling himself up. He jumped off the window sill on the next level, swinging his legs up onto the next ledge. He ran across rungs that protruded from the wall, jumping onto the next platform and somersaulting across the metal paneling when he landed. He slid down the rusted paneling, landing in a crouch when he hit the ground.
Natasha carried out a more gymnastic based performance. She jumped up, locking her hands around the beams hanging from the ceiling. She flipped around the beam three times, letting go and catching another bar as she dropped through the air. She pushed up on the bar, dropping to the ledge below her. She flipped backwards off the ledge, leaning back into a backbend. Kicking her legs over, she stood upright, pulling herself onto yet another ledge, cartwheeling across it and vaulting across the gap that separated the two platforms.
Agent Allen marked the second to last category on the sheet while the two agents headed towards the sparring mat. Clint blocked Natasha’s kick, knocking her leg out of the way, and using it as leverage to spin her light body away. He blocked a round house kick aimed for his ribcage effectively throwing off her balance. Natasha ducked away from him, dropping down and kicking his feet out from under him before he could back away. Before she could get to her feet in time to pin him, he rolled out of the way pushing up to his feet. He faked a punch to her right side, knocking his forearm into her abdomen, bringing his partner crashing to the mat. She kicked her leg in the air, throwing it over his waist, lowering all her weight on top of him. She lightly pressed her forearm down on Clint’s throat, holding him to the mat. She leaned down so that she was inches from her partner’s lips and could feel his steady breaths. She smirked at the irony of the situation. They were in the exact opposite situation the last time they sparred.
“Dead.” She whispered in his ear. He smirked as he recognized the irony. Phil smirked proudly from behind the glass, eyeing Agent Allen as he jotted down even more notes on the crowded report sheet.
Allen walked out without a word, handing the completed report to Director Fury. Fury directed a very rare smile at the paperwork, clapping a hand on Phil’s shoulder.
“You’ve got your agents back.” He told him. Phil grinned, throwing open the door to the room where the Black Widow and Hawkeye were laid out on the floor.
“Welcome back to work, agents.” He announced, leaning against the wall. They sat up, looking at their handler. Natasha looked over at her brave partner, and at the smile that lit his rugged face and she knew that at least for a while, her protestations to his idea that he was useless deaf, would no longer fall on deaf ears.