Am I the only one who likes to call this ship BlackEye? I mean, it's so fitting. THEY GET INTO FIGHTS ALL THE TIME GUYS, GET IT? No? Okay. Enjoy anyways!

She was shaking as the tremors of battle rocked the Helicarrier. Her entire forehead had broken out in a cold sweat and her hands were instinctively clamped around her ankle, which ached savagely.

Only seconds ago, she had been saved from certain death at the hands of the Hulk by a demigod. As she heard them clash in the next room over, it sounded like two boulders colliding. The two were indestructible. As a human, a rather small one at that, there was nothing she could do if either of them turned on her, as the Hulk just had.

Natasha Romanoff was only human, and perhaps that was her greatest downfall. She was nothing but human in the Gods' arena.

"Agent Barton is on the bridge, does anybody copy?" Director Fury's voice was nothing but a gasp in her earpiece. It took her a moment to pry an ashen hand from around her tender ankle. She softly pressed on the earpiece and tried to speak without shaking.

"This is Agent Romanoff. I copy." Natasha said tremulously. Because despite the human origin of her partner, he was all but a god now.

Hawkeye moaned in aggravation as he forced his eyes open. Everything was strangely tinted, and his head was rebelling against his body, as if he had just woken up from a massive bender. As he looked up, he saw a head of flaming red hair, and recognized the distinctive features of the Black Widow. Somewhere, deep within he felt a horrifying urge to destroy her. But when his body lurched to attack, he found himself restrained at the wrists and waist.

"Shit," he groaned, his voice cracking unimpressively.

"It's going to be okay," Black Widow- Natasha- assured him. He shook his head violently, trying to rid his mind of all the horrible plans it had concocted for his partner and closest ally.

"I can't... I can't get him out." Clint said weakly, shaking his head again, as if that could somehow lift the fog of pain that was settling beneath his temples.

"He's already out, Clint. You're just experiencing the after-effects. Hang in there." She reached for his hand and upon contact, he swallowed down the urge to crush every bone in her hand. You could have done it, even in restraints, his mind told him. But he just continued to fight himself.

"Have you ever felt like someone's pulled you out of your own head? And stuffed something else back in?" Clint asked her. He knew the answer, but he felt the need to be reassured by her voice. She didn't smile, but rather caught his eye and refused to look away.

"You know I do." Slowly, she began to unbuckle the leather restraints that bound his wrists and he winced, not from pain but from fear.

"Tasha," he said quietly. She obliged and down at him. Natasha was naturally skilled at hiding whatever emotions were brewing beneath the surface, but he could see the slightest flicker of fear in her eyes.

"It's alright," she assured him, grasping his hand more tightly than before. "You're going to be fine." They looked at each other wordlessly again. He thought about fighting the way that Natasha was shrugging off his betrayal. But that wouldn't do either of them any good. So he just swung his legs down so they could sit side by side and he held one of her hands between both of his. There was pain in her eyes, ever present it seemed. When he raised her hand for a gentle and chivalrous kiss, she didn't pull away, but rather watched solemnly as his lips delicately traced the purple-blue bruises on her knuckles.

Natasha understood his apology and permitted the touch affection. Clint understood that her permission equated to forgiveness.

Natasha whirled around to strike down whatever Chitari warrior had snuck up behind her, but restrained herself when it was only Steve. She stumbled unsteadily, leaning on the alien weapon in her hand to offer support. Her ribs were cracked, if not broken, and her brain was fried from the lack of sleep and hat of battle. There was blood oozing down her forehead. Blood proving her own mortality. She tried to ignore it.

Clint leapt from the building and with incredible dexterity, he managed to fire his last arrow as a grappling hook, allowing him to swing away from a death-by-30-story-drop. His bow jerked in his hands, creating a tearing sensation in his triceps. He grunted unintelligibly. As he broke through an office window and rolled onto the glass-studded floor, he winced painfully. He wasn't going to last five minutes if the Chitari found him now.

Tony was so geared up for the shwarma, he didn't seem to notice that not all of his teammates were sharing in his enthusiasm. Clint in particular was finding it difficult to focus on the sandwiches. His back and arms were speckled with puncture marks from when he had rolled in the glass of a newly broken window. As he stiffly rolled out his neck, a thousand little needles seemed to prickle at the back of his skull, confirming that the glass had embedded itself in his scalp as well. He nonchalantly followed his neck-roll with a shrug of his shoulders, and felt and uncomfortable and unfamiliar sensation of stiffness and fatigue in his bow-arm. Even for a trained assassin and soldier, this battle had taken its toll.

Clint ordered the shwarma mostly out of courtesy. But he wasn't hungry, and he could tell that Nat wasn't either. They were experiencing the pain and fatigue more than any of their colleagues could comprehend or tolerate- or at least, that's what Clint assumed.

He could only guess the sort of pain Natasha was experiencing. From her stiff gait and posture, he assumed that her ribs and back had taken a hit. Hopefully they were only bruised but judging by the lock of her jaw, there were several breaks. The cut along her hairline extended back over her skull, mostly concealed by her bright red hair. The gash was long and deep and Clint instinctively watched for signs of concussion or dangerous levels of blood loss, but thankfully found none. Beyond that, she seemed to be experiencing the same levels of soreness and fatigue that he felt, her eyelids heavy and her arms hanging limp at her sides.

As they took their food from the bewildered shop owners and approached the biggest upright table, Clint took the initiative to pull out a chair for the lady of the group.

"Tasha," he murmured. His voice was so low that only Natasha could have heard it, and she seemed too exhausted to chastise him for his chivalry.

"Spasibo." Thank you. She responded automatically in Russian. Clint didn't bat an eye. Speaking accidentally in Russian was just a little tic that popped up now and again when she was too tired or too emotional to restrain herself. He noted the way she lowered herself gingerly into the chair, her stony, tired expression almost breaking and openly revealing the pain that was evident to only Clint.

"Tasha." He dared to speak a little louder, forcing her to meet his gaze and answer his unspoken accusations. She knew that he knew and allowed a small, grim smile to grace her features. Clint felt his stomach drop a little, like it always did. He knew he couldn't keep her safe all the time, but it still pained him when the younger S.H.I.E.L.D. agent came back from an assignment looking like she'd been dragged to hell and back.

Unperturbed, Natasha patted the seat beside her and smiled a little more openly as Clint swung a foot up onto the extra space on her chair. The two assassins nibbled while their teammates all but inhaled their sandwiches. Thor went so far as to demand a second, larger sandwich, and he was chomping away blissfully as Natasha carefully took her first bite. At that point, Clint had given up any facade of wakefulness, and he allowed himself to slump forward onto one of his arms, despite the throbbing in his back.

As his eyes began to weigh themselves shut, he caught a glimpse of Natasha attempting to lean forward to rest her head on her hand. She almost immediately forced herself back up into a completely upright position, a completely unmasked look of pain and sorrow plastered across her face, a hand jumping to the ribs on her right side. At first he thought this display of emotion remarkable. In all their years as colleagues- no, friends, he has never seen such a raw, genuine display of emotion. But then it became clear to him.

All this time he had thought of Natasha Romanoff as something more than human. He had ranked her among the demigods and superheroes of their team. And this was his mistake. She was nothing more than he was. She was only human.

With a herculean effort, Clint forced himself to sit up again and below the table he reached for one of her limp, bloodstained hands and took it firmly in his. She only looked at him for a moment with a glance was imperceptible to their teammates, but her look was not one of anger or warning. Even as they sat in silence at their shwarma table, her face grew gradually more relaxed, as the stony exterior melted away. The pain flickered across her face more evidently on occasion, but when it did Clint only held her hand tighter.

Because on a team of six heroes, they were the only two who were risking everything. They were the only ones who couldn't bounce back from being thrown out a third story window or being stabbed in the stomach. They had to stick together. It was the human way.

Reviews are always appreciated. I'm considering writing some sort of follow-up for these two, so give me your feedback! Spasibo!