Disclaimer: None of the characters or organizations from Marvel belong to me. And neither does North Korea. Shame.

A/N: I took a bit of inspiration from the movie Salt to create the atmosphere of this scene. I did a little research to make sure it wasn't too similar, but I figure I should credit. Enjoy!

Several things had impressed Clint the first time he met Natasha Romanoff. At first glance, she was beautiful; she had full lips and piercing eyes and skin like untouched snow and a perfect pair of legs. Upon closer inspection, her body exhibited tell-tale signs of rigorous expert training. Her fists had been loosely clenched as he approached, every muscle relaxed but on point, all but daring him to attack her. She had held herself with confidence, without a trace of fear, despite the fact that he had just entered her apartment via the window, armed to the teeth while she wore pajamas. It had taken him some time to reconcile himself to the fact that he had been intimidated—only for a minute. She had snapped something at him in Russian, and he remembered that a surprised little smile had crept onto his face because she had made a language he had always considered harsh and ugly sound like music.

He had opened his hands and held them out to her for inspection. "I'm American," he said, "and this thing on my back doesn't work well in tight spaces." He watched her gorgeous eyes flick to his bow and then return to his face.

"You're an archer." Clint was pleased to hear her speak English without a trace of an accent, but there was a small amount of skepticism in her voice. "You shoot arrows."

"Yes ma'am," he had responded. "I was supposed to shoot one at you tonight."

She cocked her left eyebrow. "How long were you watching me?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes." Clint shrugged dismissively. "It took me a while to come up with a decent introduction."

"And this is what you settled on?"

He laughed. "I'm not so good at planning, I guess."

The corners of her mouth had twitched and Clint had a sudden, compelling desire to see her smile—not once, but several times, over and over again.

"Why don't you pour me a drink," he suggested, "and we'll talk." She had agreed—provided he disarm—and they had gotten to know one another over a bottle of authentic Russian vodka.

He could use some of that vodka right now, Clint thought to himself, because he felt as though his knees were about to give out on him. He was creeping through a mess of pitch black, labyrinthine hallways, as taut as the string on his bow. The air was so wet it condensed inside his nostrils with every measured, silent breath. He was three floors below ground, blindly traversing the catacombs beneath a North Korean military base. SHIELD's intelligence was dangerously limited for this operation, but this one was not arbitrary. Clint himself had a dearth of experience in this type of mission, but he wouldn't dream of letting someone else take the lead. Not on this one. Not where Natasha was concerned.

The passage ahead was broken by a sharp left turn that made Clint uneasy. In the event that guards were posted around the corner, there was nowhere for him to hide. He was careful about every footstep as he approached the bend. When he was less than a yard from the corner, he froze, for the faint sound of a scuffing boot had brushed by his ears. His eyes were wide, peering into the darkness with exceptional sight, listening desperately for a second scuff. After a full minute, it hadn't come.

Clint adjusted his grip on his bow, swallowed his apprehension and set his jaw, and whipped around the corner. Two uniformed guards, pale as the salamanders that dwelt in cave pools, had less than twenty seconds to open their mouths in shock before the pair of them were lying on the wet concrete floor with arrows in their chests. Clint sprinted past their bodies on his toes, finally succumbing to the immense pressure that clung to him like an acrid smell. His adrenaline was peaking and he was anxious to reach his destination in the next few minutes. He belonged on the top of buildings, not beneath them. He was worried for Natasha, worried that he would reach her holding cell and find her beyond his help. Every second dropped on his shoulders like a ten-ton weight—every second meant another guard racing after him—every second meant less air in this hellhole—every second meant one more moment of suffering for his partner.

Clint raced through the tunnels until what sense of direction he had left was destroyed. He had been out of contact with SHIELD ever since he left the surface; his earpiece was worthless down here. But he had gotten the gist of their directions: keep moving until he came to the darkest, dampest, most isolated corner, the corner worthy of a poisonous spider. He encountered pairs of guards at irregular intervals and floored them all in seconds, until at last he stumbled into a group of six that gave him a run for his money. His bow was all but worthless in such an enclosed space with so many attackers, so he abandoned it in favor of his bare hands and the small knife he kept in his belt. In minutes, he was the only one left standing in the corridor, and he knew for a fact that one guard had set off an alarm.

There was a door set deep in the nearby wall, and he knew by gut instinct it was the one he wanted. He frisked the limp guards and came up with a basic card key. Offering up a disjointed prayer, Clint approached the door with trepidation and plugged the key into the available slot. His hand closed over the frigid handle, he turned and pushed, and the door swung inward. Tense with anxiety, he stepped inside.

A metallic, musty, fecal scent filled his nostrils and he gagged on the putrid air. The room was waterlogged; Clint's boots sloshed in puddles every other step. His head was mere inches from the ceiling, layered thick with oozing pipes. If he were to reach out his arms, he could easily touch both coarse concrete walls. The narrow crawlspace was colored by a dim yellow swath of light that fell dramatically on a crumpled figure at the far end of the room. Clint felt the floor drop out beneath him. Even matted, streaked with grime and blood, and discolored by the jaundiced light, there was no mistaking that red hair.

He strode to her side and knelt on the ground, disregarding the slime that immediately soaked through the knees of his pants. His hands hovered over her, as though she threatened to shatter at his first touch. She was curled up defensively, face hidden in her arms, dressed scantily in white like a sacrificial lamb. Her sides trembled with each shallow breath. Every bone jutted out from beneath her flesh, every inch of her porcelain skin was darkened by filth or blood or bruises. Half of her slender fingers were bent at obscene angles. Clint couldn't see her face and he wanted to—he thought he wanted to—if only to be sure that it was really her. Because it couldn't be her.

"Natasha," he whispered, "Natasha. Natasha, honey…it's me. It's Clint. Look at me."

She stirred slightly, and one matted curl fell over her hands. Without a thought, Clint reached out and pushed it back into place. To his surprise, the action was met with a muffled sob, like the mew of a stranded kitten. He heard his breath rasping loudly in his ears and felt the tiny room quiver, because in all the years he had known her, that sob was the only sound of weakness that he had ever heard her utter.

With the bitter taste of dread coating the inside of his mouth, Clint took hold of her wrists and gently pried her arms away from her face. He wanted to see those perfect lips, those eyes that had pinned him to the floor the first time they met. She made a feeble protest that broke his heart, but it amounted to the struggling of a crippled butterfly. The light hit her face straight on and Clint felt sick. Her lips were split and swollen. Miscellaneous cuts and bruises ruined the symmetry of her features. And Clint could barely see her eyes for the black swelling that surrounded them both. Her mangled cheeks were damp with tears and he heard another sob building in her throat.

"Tasha." The nickname stuck in his throat. His voice didn't sound like his own, constricted and hoarse. "We gotta get you out of here."

He worked his arms beneath her fragile body and her breath quickened. She tried clumsily to push him away, shaking her head.

"Tasha. Tasha, it's Clint. I'm here for you. I'm going to take you home. Tasha, listen to me." She acted as though she didn't hear him, shaking her head insistently. Clint furrowed his brow and looked over his shoulder, certain that the guards would come swarming in any second. They had to move. "Sorry, Natasha. I'm sorry." He readjusted his arms and picked her up; she had always been light, but now she weighed no more than a child. She cried out in pain and the horrifying thought that maybe she was badly wounded inside flitted across his mind. But what choice did he have? He pressed a kiss to her hairline and moved for the door. The room was so narrow Clint was forced to sidestep for the sake of Natasha's head and feet. He maneuvered the pair of them through the low doorway and reflected absently on the fact that she still had beautiful legs.

Once out in the hallway, Clint's eyes fell on the six guards still strewn across the ground. He realized he had no ability to fight off the coming onslaught and his heart sank. The echoes of an oncoming clamor were already making the walls quake. He made a split-second decision and knelt down, setting Natasha on the driest section of the floor.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Tasha. I'll be back, I swear on my life. I promise I'll be back." He kissed her palm and searched her face for some sort of understanding, but her gaze was fixed blankly on the wall behind him. Clint swallowed hard, felt the bulk of everything he so wanted to express squeeze down his throat, stood up and strode off with a last mumbled apology.

The archer took hold of his weapon and nocked an arrow, moving at a brisk pace to put as much distance between Natasha and her approaching captors. He could hear their rushed footsteps and staccato shouts louder and louder as the distance between them closed fast. Clint stationed himself near a tight bend in the corridor that provided a natural defense system. He planted his boots firmly on the ground and watched the passage with his jaw set, waiting for the first pale face to turn the corner.

The second it did, Clint loosed his arrow. The projectile shot down the corridor and missed the soldier's face by centimeters. All the same, the man faltered, staggered as though he had been hit. That split-second pause in his advance ended his life, for the arrow exploded before he could regain his momentum and the yellow flame engulfed him and his nearest comrades. Although he had positioned himself well away from the range of the explosion, Clint had to squint his eyes against the blast of heat that blew past him. By the time the remaining soldiers stepped over their charred colleagues and came through the haze of black smoke, he was ready with an arrow for each of them.

While Clint picked off those still cautiously turning the corner, one of the soldiers who had already fallen had pulled himself through the carnage with his ebbing strength. He lurched up in front of Clint and took the arrow meant for the soldier behind him. Clint scrambled backwards, his next arrow flying through his fingers from the quiver to the bow. But the moment's distraction had been enough—because the man who had been granted the ultimate favor by his comrade barreled into Clint before he could loose the arrow. Clint went down hard and felt his bowstring tear skin from his fingers as the weapon was ripped out of his hands. No sooner had he elbowed the soldier off of him when another two took his place. The advantage had slipped through his fingers.

They hauled him to his feet, pinned him to the wall, and set their fists loose on every inch of his body. He hadn't been beaten like this since before he had joined SHIELD and now was not the opportune moment to relive the experience, not with Natasha wasting away down the hall. Because if they bested him here, there was no doubt in his mind that she would be dead in hours, and he would most likely never breathe fresh air again. Fueled by irritation and desperate to deliver them both safely to the surface, Clint kicked out and used their distraction to wrench his arms away. He had lost his knife, but he had grown up fistfighting, and he had been taught how to win without a weapon. Adrenaline extended the limits of his strength and he yelled in their faces before he fought every one of them to the ground.

Without even surveying his work, Clint picked up his bow and ran back down the hallway for Natasha. Sixty percent of his body was throbbing and he simply could not inhale another wisp of putrid air or he would snap. He came to the place where he had left her…and found the corridor empty of anything but motionless guards.

For a moment it felt like he had been hit with one of his own arrows. He sidestepped the prone soldiers and checked the hallway in the other direction, but it was empty. Something was coming up his throat; it could've been bile or a scream of utter frustration, or both. Digging his blunt nails into his palms, he peered into her cell with desperation stinging his eyes. And there she was, sprawled in the middle of the floor, having dragged herself back to somewhere familiar, if not safe. Though the sight chipped another piece off his heart, Clint slumped with relief to find she had escaped further harm.

He stepped in after her. She cringed almost imperceptibly at the sound of his boots and he could see her entire body trembling. His bowstring had really done a number on the fingers of his left hand; he wiped the blood on his shirt before picking her up again. There were fresh tears leaking down her face and she looked up at him without a single spark of recognition in her eyes. Clint stopped his lip from trembling by pressing it to her forehead.

"I got them, Tasha. I got them all. They're not going to hurt you again." He offered her a tremulous smile. "I'm going to take you home, okay? And we'll fix you up…you're gonna be fine." He could see she didn't understand, but he took comfort in the words. She was going to be fine. They would both be fine.

Clint carried her through the halls as though she were made of glass, a glass doll borne by a man made of cracked clay. When they were met halfway by a team of heavily armed SHIELD agents, Clint's arms were quivering and his steps were as steady as a drunk's. Reluctantly he let them take her, and when they led him out into the pale, cloud-strained sunlight, he fell shamelessly to his knees. He was alive.

They both were.

Hope you enjoyed! More coming soon. Reviews are love!