And here is the result of my entry into the one shot universe. Ta-da.

Natasha Romanoff wove her way through the throng of noisy sweaty bodies filling the street, doing her best to look inconspicuous, which, of course, wasn't what she would have called a difficult task. After all, wasn't that one of her areas of expertise? She lived and worked to blend in with any crowd. It was what S.H.I.E.L.D. paid her for.

At least, they did a month ago.

A month ago, blending in was her second nature, or maybe even first. A month ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still standing. It had yet to be labelled a terrorist organisation by the government of the United States of America, her adopted homeland. Just a month ago, HYDRA was a ghost of the past, and if anyone put forward the idea that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been infiltrated so deeply... they would've been laughed at. Maybe even ridiculed. One month ago, she belonged to something. The name Nick Fury had held weight.

That time had passed.

For the second time in the life of this particular assassin, she was a loner. 'Home' did not exist. There was nothing to fall back on. No one to fall back on.

She was Natasha Romanoff. Not the Black Widow. That alias was all but useless now, like so many others. Her identity had been compromised. And, to the world, Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. was dead. He wasn't of course, but for all Natasha heard from him, he might as well have been. He had been taken away.

The events of Loki's insanity replayed in her mind. He took Phil. Murdered him. In cold blood. And now, HYDRA had taken Nick from her as well. She would make them pay. Collect the debts owed by oh so many to her across the globe, use and manipulate people in every way necessary until HYDRA was turned to dust. This time for good.

Loki was on Asgard - there was no hope for her to reach him. But HYDRA? What was to stop her from taking them down? From destroying them for doing the same to her identity, her home? Nothing. And so, that was what she would do.

She still was the Black Widow. That name may be useless at concealing her true self, but it did hold weight, unlike her allegedly deceased director.

And then, as she passed a quaint antique store, her eyes automatically fixed on a bow and quiver displayed in the shop front. She froze. No, she was not becoming sloppy. She was not losing her edge. There was only one message that could sound so loudly in her mind that would force her to stop in her tracks. For, this was not just an antique shop like all the others in Rome, no. This was the antique shop. The one that was used so rarely by her partner and herself as a means of communication that it had almost slipped her mind.

An arrow. An arrow, in the quiver that was always - always - empty, unless her partner, the only person who she trusted completely, the only one who knew her, the only one who worried as much about her as she did about him, wanted to say something, a message: Clinton Francis Barton is alive.

She passed off her abrupt halt as a spell of dizziness to any onlookers; placing two thin digits to her right temple and raising her rate of breath, then lightly gripping a nearby unoccupied café chair, and allowing her knuckles to whiten just a tad. Several diners gave her a look of mild concern, but she brushed them off with a small wave and a shaky, gratifying smile (which was very convincing even if she did say so herself), before continuing down the cobbled street at a slower pace.

Natasha and her partner had come across that store years ago; so long, in fact, that she had still been Natalia.

"You know," the agent said, "if you really want to change, to join S.H.I.E.L.D., you might want to talk a bit more. They'll appreciate it if you don't give them the silent treatment." His tone teased her, and, much to her distaste, he was managing to get on her nerves.

"I might talk more if I had someone interesting to speak with," Natalia replied coolly.

"Oh, Nat, stop. You're hurting my feelings," Barton retorted, grinning triumphantly. "Congrats, by the way. That was a whole sentence."

"I've spoken to you before," she pointed out. Romanova was not keen on the fact that she was causing him amusement. She was a murderer, an assassin. A spy, trained to serve Mother Russia whatever the cost. She was simply not someone you laughed at.

"Yeah, but only the official stuff. Russians aren't big into small talk, are they?"

"I find your sweeping generalisation about my country an excellent source for my judging of your character, Agent Barton."

"Oh, really?" he questioned. "And what have you deduced thus far, soon-to-be-well-possibly-Agent Romanova?"

He was enjoying this. How did he find everything so amusing with the line of work they were both in? That being their only similarity. Ignoring his jab she stated, "You're proud. And confident." He nodded, clearly pleased with her comments so far. For now, a snide voice in Natalia's head said. "Dangerously so. That much self-confidence could get you killed."

"Humph." Clearly he wasn't having so much fun now. "Well," he said, regaining some of his composure, "maybe that's just part of my charm."

"And what use is charm unless it is part of an act? You're big headed, Barton. You are abrupt and rude. You are too trusting."

The last one caught him way off guard. He stopped walking. "You say that like it's a bad thing.'

"With the jobs we do? Of course it is."

"Whoa, wait." He caught her arm to stop her from moving on. "The jobs we do? Nathalia, I'm not an assassin, not anymore. Maybe you thought joining S.H.I.E.L.D. would be the same as the last guys you worked for just with someone else calling the hits, but it's definitely not." She had him worried now. She could read it on his face.

"I know. I was implying we now had a common goal."

"Oh." His brow creased. "Okay. That's good. But, Natalia, honestly-" his volume dropped "-trusting people isn't as bad as you think. Not everyone will stab you in the back."

"Like who?" she asked, thinking of what a fool he was. Trusting was for children, just like love.

"Like me." It was now her turn to be caught off guard.

"You want me to trust you?" she questioned, disbelieving.

"Well, put it this way: I'm bringing you in, and giving you a chance. I was ordered to kill you, Natalia. The council wanted you dead. I don't want to kill you. Not even you deserve that. Now I'm not saying I have complete faith in you, not yet. But- I hope I will. I'd appreciate the return favour."

That had her stumped. He disobeyed orders? He saved her... why? In the Red Room, she was taught about trust. It made you weak. Weakness meant vulnerability. And vulnerability meant death. But, as much as she hated to admit it, she had faith in Agent Barton of S.H.I.E.L.D. who was told to kill her but made a different call. Did she like him? No. But she had faith in him.

"Okay," she murmured.

"Okay what?" he asked, clearly a bit ticked off at having to explain himself.

"Okay, I... I trust you." For the first time, Barton heard her voice waver.

"Okay," he repeated, a weak smile gracing his mouth. "So let's make a pact."

"Excuse me?"

"A pact. You have those in Russia, don't you?" Oh, joy. He was teasing her again. She rolled her eyes. "Excellent," he said. "So, let's say we're sent on different missions, we end up on different sides of the world."

"And?"

"And, let's say we come back here. Once a year, every year. Back to Rome. I just set up a safe house here a month ago. That's where we're headed, by the way."

"You seem awfully confident that we're friends, Barton," Romanova said dryly.

"Mm, maybe not yet, but I'll tell ya now; once you get to know me, you'll never get enough," he announced, grinning gleefully. She gave him a wry smile. His cockiness was becoming almost endearing. "This store, this store right here-" he jabbed a finger at the shop window in front of which they were standing "-that's how we communicate. You come her first and you check, you check the quiver there." Lo and behold, a bow and an empty quiver were in the centre of the display. "If there's an arrow in that quiver, it means I'm here. Alright?"

She nodded, still sceptical of his plan. "And what do I do if I'm here first? I don't carry arrows with me."

He shrugged. "You're the Black Widow." He winked. "Something tells me you're pretty damn resourceful."

"Right, fine. We'll do it. Just one teensy problem Mr Barton." She motioned with her fingers.

"What?"

"That's a shop, idiot. They'll sell the bow and quiver." It was fairly a obvious problem.

"No they won't."

"Enlighten me," she challenged.

"Alright," he agreed. He disappeared indoors only to walk out a minute later. "Sorted," he told her in a singsong voice. "Told the guy I'd give him €250 for every year he kept it."

"And he agreed to that?" Natalia was unconvinced.

Barton snorted. "Clearly you've never been to Rome before. The shopkeepers'll do anything to make money."

"There's another sweeping generalisation," she informed him as they continued their walk down the street.

"Well, it looks like you've got me down to a tee, haven't you?"

"Oh absolutely."

"One more thing," and she sighed.

"What is it, Barton?"

"If you're gonna start over and prevent your ol' gang from catching up with you, you might wanna change your name. Something more... American."

He had a point. That she was aware of. After several minutes careful consideration she decided. "I got it."

"Well," he asked, clearly intrigued.

"Not telling."

"Seriously? Why not?"

She shrugged. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me your name."

"You know my name."

"No, all I know is your surname."

He eyed her carefully for a second. "Clint. Clinton Francis Barton. But I swear; you call me Clinton and I'll put an arrow through you."

She laughed lightly. "Alright. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

Agent Barton - no, Clint - smiled again. "Remember this day everybody," he told the empty space.

"And why would anyone need to?" Natalia - or rather, Natasha asked him.

"Because," he told her, glancing at the setting sun before meeting her eyes, properly seeing her for the first time, "it's the day you started trusting someone."

She knew where to go. Where he'd be. This was a safe house they'd made so long ago that it was easily forgettable - except, of course, highly trained super spies did not simply forget. It was that feature, Natasha decided, that made her so excellent at holding grudges and collecting debts.

Being part of their proof to one another of their trust, S.H.I.E.L.D. was unaware of its existence. It was just for them, as were the half a dozen others they'd formed in private over the years. The route took her under ten minutes at a calm stroll like pace. No bystanders would ever have guessed she was so elated inside. Another feature on which she prided herself; her capability of disguising and morphing the appearance of her emotions.

Arriving outside the block of apartments, she headed straight for the alleyway to the right of the complex and took the rickety narrow fire escape to the top flat. She paused, of course, at the top, flattening herself against the wall.

Silence.

She placed one hand her gun - apologies, one of them - to reassure herself. How was she to know this place had been compromised? You could never - ever - be to careful in Agent Romanoff's career path.

She prised open the sash window, putting pressure on the frame in just the correct places she knew would prevent it from creaking, and slid indoors. The air was humid, but not stale. Someone had already been through that window, and she hoped to God it had been him. She slinked down the hallway, barely casting a shadow.

Noise.

A person.

Was that... humming? And coffee, she could smell it. Not that American Instant stuff, no: authentic Italian espresso. She sprang through the archway, into the open plan kitchen and lounge, whipping out her semi-automatic and directing it at the head height of the man who was perched on the counter top, bow drawn, arrow pointed right between her eyes.

The clenched feeling in her stomach loosened, but all was not right yet.

"Barton."

"Romanoff." His eyebrows were pinched together as they always were when he focused.

"See you're still musically challenged."

"And I see you still can't sneak up on me." His tone was even, calm. Neither partner lowered their weapon, but Natasha tilted her neck in question. "I knew you here before you made the fire escape."

"How?"

"Now that would be telling." He slowly released his grip on the taut string and tapped his nose with two fingers.

"What, no test?" Natasha questioned.

"No need. I know it's you." He dropped from the worktop and snatched a shot of espresso, holding it out for her. Natasha slid the gun into its holster and reached for the cup. "No one would be stupid enough to pretend to be you. And no one else would have made it to the shop without me knowing - never mind the fire escape."

They simultaneously downed their coffee, and Clint chugged a glass of water.

They stayed in silence for several minutes, and he regained his place on the counter, Natasha sitting on a chair in the corner.

"HYDRA's back."

"I know."

"They tried to kill Fury."

"I know."

"He's not dead."

"I know that too."

"Where were you?"

"On a mission."

"On whose orders?"

"Fury's."

"Can you tell me?"

"No."

"Will you do it anyway?"

Clint met her eyes, and he laughed one short bark. "Course I will. Do I have a choice, Nat?"

She smiled. "No. Tell me."

"Not right now."

She raised an eyebrow at this response, and took up place on the opposite counter, her legs hanging down.

He laughed again. "Gimme a break Tasha. I'm only just here an hour."

"Okay." Natasha was smiling, a real smile, one only Clint could get her to show.

He hopped down again and approached her, stopping just a foot from her. "Hi."

"Hey."

He stared at her, and only then did the relief truly hit either one of them. He placed his hands on the counter either side of her. "Nat," and she swore his voice almost cracked. "I missed you."

She looked him straight in his crystal blue eyes. "I missed you too," she said quietly. His lips quirked at the corners and Natasha rested her head on his chest as he enveloped her in a hug.

"You don't have to worry, Tash. We'll get through this. Don't we always?" he spoke in her ear. This was the part of him she had missed most. When he was with her, when it was just the two of them, he was not tough, but he was determined. He was not dangerously proud, but he was confident in her. In them.

"Moy Yastreb," she murmured, now fully content.

"What was that?" Clint asked softly, still not releasing her.

Her smile grew. "Nothing." He did not speak much Russian.

She was safe. She was happy. She had him. Her Hawk. Yes, she thought. I have my Hawk.

Any thoughts? Good? Bad? Awful? Please tell me what you thought! If anyone has any prompts for me, fell free to leave them in a review. Thanks for reading everyone.

"Moy Yastreb" is Russian for "My Hawk".