Clint saves the Black Widow’s life, even though he’d been brought in to end it. Years later, she will say she owes him a debt.

In the end, things are not quite so black and white.

--

The mission goes poorly, information old, twisted. Purposefully or not, who knows. It doesn’t fucking matter, because it’s over anyway. The night explodes with noise, the rapport of guns, screaming and yelling and the sharp edged fall of Bulgarian. Nat’s fine, he’s sure, but there are more and more people running about, lights flickering haphazardly back on.

Clint curses, shoots once, twice, two bodies falling even as he races past, turning a corner maybe too fast. He goes sliding, catches sight of red hair and -- “Widow!” He barks, trusting her to duck as he snipes the person behind her.

“Backway’s blocked,” she says instead of thanks, though he didn’t expect it anyway.

This too, he expected.

“Yeah, front’s off limits too. Guess we’ve gotta get a little Macgyver.”

She tosses him a droll look, shooting a man without looking. He’s pretty proud -- she must have practiced this one in the mirror. But that’s the last they say, beyond quick signs, and monosyllable words. In the end, they snag their documents and set the boss’ office on fire, racing up to leap out a window. Not necessarily easy, but it works, Natasha slipping out with catlike grace, Clint following.

Maybe he was a bit too confident, maybe he didn’t see everything. But the second he hauls himself up, there’s a sharp sound of rapid gunfire, and pain blossoming just above his kidney. The force shoves him forward, desperately twisting despite the pain in an effort to grab something to hold on to, to keep himself from falling.

He misses.

--

When Clint wakes up, nothing makes sense. He can feel agony lacing through his torso, fire behind his eyelids, across his skin. Everything hurts, muffled, but in the way it is when you’re not sure if what happened was real or not. His ears ring, dulled, aching, and he, he--

--he set off the bomb. Clint groans, scrabbling at the ground, forcing his eyes open, one hand slick with blood against his stomach. Shrapnel, that’s -- he shouldn’t move, right? That’s what they told him, every fucking time. You get hit, you stay down, we’ll get you-- Only, only he was protecting the rest, and they might not have made it and he has to know--

Hands grab at him and he bites through his lip to keep from screaming, falling back into the black of unconsciousness as someone drags him away.

--

The second time he wakes up, not much has changed. There’s something soft beneath his back, bandages wound around his torso, and the vague sense of safety Clint’s never really felt.

“Sam--” He murmurs, muzzily, vision hazy and doubled, the roof above them dark as night. But Clint knows he’ll be there, knows this as sure as the sun will rise and the tides will turn.

“Shh,” Someone shushes him, delicate fingers stroking through his fringe, “Go back to sleep, Clint.”

He does, subsiding before the grasping pain can keep him there. He doesn’t remember it come morning.

--

The thing about Natasha is that she misses nothing, even if she doesn’t pursue it that moment. Weeks pass after that disastrous mission, until Clint’s mostly healed up and escaping Medical becomes more route than anything. They’re not on official roster yet, but soon enough and Clint’s chomping at the bit.

This, then, is when she strikes.

“You mentioned something, when you thought you were dying.” Natasha states, in that sharp, blunt way she has. Clint doesn’t think she’ll ever grow out of that, is grateful she hasn’t. Here now, he looks up, brow raised, taking a gulp from the drink in his hand.

“Which time?” Dryly, though it’s a joke all his own. “You mean when the vendor ran out of hotdogs? Because I’m pretty sure I was--”

“Clint,” She cuts him off sharply, though there’s longsuffering humor in her eyes. It’s short lived, though, something cautious flitting over Natasha’s pretty features. Clint stills, eyeing her warily, unsure. Something tells him he’s not going to like this conversation, some inborn instinct. Instinctively he takes another gulp, perched on the edge of his chair, readying for war.

He still isn’t ready.

“Who’s Sam?”

There’s a pause, fingers tightening on his beer. For all his bravado, for all the years between, Clint’s not ready for this and he’s not so sure he ever will be. It’s his own damn fault, but--

He laughs, a brittle little burst of it.

“Going right for the jugular, Widow.”

Still, it’s been a long time coming he supposes. Clint drains his drink, pressing the cool glass to his cheek, and sighs, “Alright, story time. Pass me another--” She tosses him a displeased look, and he smiles, “please, and I’ll tell you.”

In the end, he takes his time, nursing the dregs of his drink before he’s got any sort of courage. But even so, Clint’s quiet for a long while, leaning gingerly into the chair he’s straddling, arms resting atop the back of it. Natasha, sharp eyes and brilliant, sits quiet and patient as can be, sipping at her drink. It’s only this -- her steadfast trust, her quiet patience, that parts his mouth and draws his story free.

“Before I was SHIELD, I was in the army,” he tosses her a look, easy, “Y’already knew that.”

She tips her head, agreeing, and takes another sip of her drink. Carefully poised and attentive. Clint’s mouth twists with brittle humor, bottle pressed against his lip.

“I was a cocky son of a bitch back then, runnin’ from the circus and all that shit. Lucky for me, a sharpshooter that never misses was something they wanted and I got snapped up quick.”

“And then SHIELD recruited you.” She concludes, finality in her voice.

“Nah.” Clint shakes his head, placing the bottle on the table, turning it between his fingers. There’s a brief silence, a momentary pause, “Well, yeah, they did. But before that, I died.”

--

They’re stuck. Pinned down, screaming and cursing and gunfire in the air. Clint’s jaw tenses so hard his teeth creak, the gun hot in his hands as he fires, bullet after bullet finding purchase. The boys are rallying, but there are too many, just enough that they’re pushed back, ammo running out.

The gun clicks, empty, and Clint swears, half-desperate, swiping at his face.

He has an idea -- a stupid fucking idea -- and Clint acts, not letting himself over think.

“Go!” He roars, as he takes aim. Feet slip slide in sand, the sound of packs and guns jostling, the groan of injured men. He shoots once last time, surging to his feet, turning as he runs. He’s too close, he knows, he knows. The world explodes, dizzying, heat and noise crashing over him, sends Clint sprawling in the sand, half-senseless. If time passes, he doesn’t know how much.

“Bar--,” His hearing swims in and out, muddled and ringing, dazed as he turns sluggishly, pushing himself up. Falls, gasping in the sand, hand shakingly pressed to the wicked piece of shrapnel punched through his stomach. “--don’t pu----EDIC--!”

The world goes dark.

--

His skin prickles with heat, uncomfortable and familiar. But Clint’s had years to suppress the mess his mind likes to create. There’s no sand under his feet, no blackened crackling glass breaking under his back. No hot desert sun burning his skin and certainly no flame licking at his toes.

He breathes in and out, slow and steady; one, two, three. Careful, a sniper’s patience in his blood, as he lifts the bottle once more to his mouth.

The beer has gone lukewarm in his hands, bitter on his tongue. Good enough, he supposes, for one of those shitty off brand kinds. Natasha, to his left, waits with the patience of a sphinx, legs tucked under her, gaze like liquid gold in the dark. She might play at it, but Clint knows her patience won’t last forever. A corner of his mouth kicks up with faint smile, and he leans back. Wasted enough time, he supposes.

“Short story? I set off a mine and got caught in the crossfire.” Natasha lifts one slim brow, purposefully, and Clint snorts, unsurprised. Yeah, he didn’t think that’d fly. “Alright, buckle in.”

--

“You better watch your ass out there, Barton!” A holler, easy and playful. Bright teeth against dark skin, a familiar arm slung across broad shoulders. A pair of EXO-7 pilots against the world, Sam and Riley unbowing against the desert heat.

It’s a familiar sight these days, and Clint simply lifts a hand, tossing a toothy grin over his shoulder.

“What, I thought you were watchin’ enough for me!”

It sends the rest of his team laughing and jostling, even as they double check straps and ammo, Peters jeering -- “Stop flirting, Hawkeye!” But it’s all in good fun, Jameson hooking an arm around Clint shoulders, Reyes hemming them in as he roughly messes up the short shorn spikes of Clint’s hair. They all laugh, even as they haul out.

It’s the last time the three of them see each other.

--

“I was part of a Spec Ops team, back then. We’d been making waves, getting known for pulling through on runs that should’ve been suicide runs. Weren’t the best out there, ‘course, but we were good at what we did.”

A drink, purposefully idle. No way Natasha misses it, but she’s softened enough to let him have it. Not enough to pull down the good bottle of vodka, not just yet, but that’s fine. These are memories Clint’s used to drowning in cheap liquor, something rough enough to burn the back of his throat.

So he simply downs the dregs of his drink, the curve of his mouth bitter.

“Eventually you make enough noise, and enough people start paying attention. I don’t remember all the details,” He sighs, peeling away the bottle’s label, “Head damage, y’know?”

Judging from the utterly unimpressed look she gives him, Clint’s well aware of just how familiar Natasha is with him and concussions. He snorts, mouth curving with easier humor, something softer, more tangible.

“It was supposed to be a simple in and out. A little light on intel, but that wasn’t unusual. Base was out in the hills, far enough from town it was hard to get anything but overhead scans and the occasional leaks from supply drops. Looking back, it was obvious from the get go something was wrong, but in the moment, it was just another Op.”

--

“I’ve got mines, boss.” Walker, short and sweet like always.

“Got it. Keep your heads, boys.” Sabella, all sharp teeth and a well-worn drawl.

The familiar weight of a gun in hands. The sound of Jacot at his shoulder. The quiet before the storm, slipping quietly over sand under the cover of dark. The sound of a broken neck as Reyes took out the guard, Jameson looking over the purloined gun with a frown. Peters’ soft, forgotten commentary.

And then the first report of a gun. Blood and guts, foreign screaming and the groan of a wounded Jameson. Jacot’s voice cracking -- “It’s a damned trap!” -- and Reyes’ breathless, vicious, Spanish swearing.

Then little more than flashes.

The desperate flight from that death trap, overheating guns and the stamp of boots, Sabella’s roaring -- “Go, go go go!” -- even as they spilled from the honeycombed cave. Walker supporting Jameson, Peters covering their backs. Jacot going down with a scream, arm severed from the shoulder. The hot bite of a bullet, sharp at the flesh of his hip.

Sand. Blood. Flames.

--

“It turned pretty quickly, but we got out in mostly one piece. Managed to get to cover and call in extraction, but there were too many men. We couldn’t pull back and meet ‘em. Lost a kid right there, and for a while, looked like we might all go down.”

--

“Back up ten minutes out!”

“Jameson won’t make that!”

“We won’t make it!”

“Fuck, I’m out!”

--

“So, I blew everything up. Took out the base and everything, but uh, I was too close.” Wry, shreds of the label sticking to his fingertips. “Burst my eardrums, took some shrapnel.”

“You haven’t answered the question, Clint.”

Trust Natasha not to let him get away with half-answers. Clint simply huffs, head lolling back to rest against the back of the couch. Breathes out sharply through his nose, eyes closed against the memory of heat and blood and static in his ears. He’s tempted to remove his ‘aids, ignore the entire thing. But, but -- he’s gotten this far, and some part of him whispers, doesn’t she deserve the truth?

So he opens his eyes, shifts to watch her. Poised and patient, the curve of her mouth, the sharp gleam of her eyes; he’s never found pity written upon her face, knows he won’t even now.

“Yeah, yeah.” A murmur, soft. “Sam.”

It’s been -- it’s been years, an entire lifetime, but the words still catch in his throat. Easier to talk about the way his head rang as his eardrums burst, easier to remember Jacot clutching the shredded remains of his arm, or the way Peters tried to hold in Jameson’s intestines as he died. Blood and death and the stink of war, the food he supped upon for decades and decades. But Sam, Sam. Sam has been the secret locked behind the calcite rows of his teeth, hidden behind the ivory cage of his ribs. Understanding and trust and God, something that might’ve grown into more more more had they been allowed.

But Clint had detonated that bomb, and he had let the world think he died.

The room is too dark now, oppressive in the silence. Natasha shifts, slow, unconscious grace, and Clint doesn’t look away. He meets her gaze, rolling the bottle between his hands, breathes in and out until the acrid scent of smoke fades. It’s all in your head, Barton; just rip off the bandaid.

And so he does.

“Sam,” he sighs, wry with humor, “was a punk-ass kid in pararescue.”

Natasha’s brow furrows, and Clint laughs, running a hand roughly through short shorn hair. “Yeah, I know, ironic comin’ from me. But man, Sam had a mouth on him that could get all a’us in trouble in a second. I met him and Riley -- his wingman -- by accident, got caught up in some trouble with our COs, and hell it was history from there.

‘Course Sam always said I was the worst, but he was lying. Half the shit we got up to was all his fault, he just had a way of grinning and gettin’ away with it all.”

God but they’d had fun getting into trouble, just the three of them against the world. Laughing in between fights, in between reprimands, in between missions and nightmares and the brutal reality that was a never ending war.

“He was a stubborn punk, but damn if he wasn’t good at what he did. Heh, the amount of times he yelled at me for getting near blown to shit even as he patched me up. If I had a dime for each I’d be rich.” Something fond, something fierce and brittle there in the sharp slash of his smile. Something softer in his voice. “Yeah, he was a good soldier, a good medic. Patched up guys one after the other and never flinched. But he was just, just good. For being such an angry guy, he knew how to hold people together. Knew when someone needed to fight or talk or hell just some quiet company.”

There’s a long pause, quiet and contemplative, Natasha watching him and Clint watching nothing. Simply remembering those too short years, so long ago. Eventually, he shakes himself out of it, shrugging a shoulder in a bid for casual that falls short of the mark.

“But uh, I was discharged, and SHIELD -- well, they figured having a legally ‘dead’ Agent was more useful. I slipped through the cracks, pissed as hell at the military and too full of guilt to try to get in contact with the guys.”

God but he’s wishing he had another beer, because remembering those years takes a lot out of him. Remembering the angry, guilt ridden piece of shit he’d been in his early years in SHIELD. All the reprimands, the split knuckles and lips, the fury spitting and building there beneath his ribs. The Military had dropped him on his ass, the ruined shells of his ears ringing incessantly, and Clint had taken that fury and turned it into success. Assassination after assassination, until the blood dripping from his hands couldn’t be washed or wished away.

His jaw tenses, gaze slipping from Natasha’s to somewhere distant over her shoulder.

“Clint,” she says, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to come across as a murmur. Enough to drag him out of the begins of a memory’s grasp, enough to pull him back. Watches him like the hawk he's named for, sharp and keen and picking him apart little by little. “You loved him.”

And he snorts, rubbing at his eyes, aching. “Maybe, I dunno. We didn’t get the chance -- DADT and all, and hell, we were goddamn kids against the world. We were too similar, too aggressive, maybe nothing would’ve come from it. But...but what little we had was good.”

Silence, again. Not quite as oppressive now, with a long forgotten truth hanging in the air, with Sam’s name still heavy on his tongue. And Natasha, near enough to touch, far enough not to crowd, the trusted unyielding shape of her waiting for him to fit the pieces of himself back together. It goes faster, now, after so many years. But still slow enough he still looks up in surprise as she gets up, the soft pad of bare feet and the delicate, fleeting, press of a hand upon his shoulder.

“If you had warned me, I would have pulled out the vodka,” A dismissive sniff, even as something understanding gleams in her eyes, “not that swill you call beer.”

And then she’s gone, down the hall towards the kitchen, leaving Clint in the dimly lit room. He’s slow to rise, incredulous, all but trotting to catch up. It carries in his voice, with a whine more akin to a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Warned you? Last time I even hinted at feelings you nearly stabbed me!”

“Well maybe you should have waited until we weren’t in Fury’s office.” Tossed over her shoulder, dry as a desert, even as Clint trails at her heels.

“What like he doesn’t have feelings too? Dude’s gotta have a heart somewhere, I swore I saw him smile once!”

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, and Clint can’t help the way he grins, heart worn out and beating fondly for the woman walking beside him. He had regrets, sure, but never for this. Sam was a secret hidden away for years, his and his alone, but now -- well, now he’s a bit easier to bear. Some of that regret levered away, until the good times gleam bright and shining once more.