Title: Vietnam

Rating: T (Contains content not suitable for children, from fanfiction.net)

Characters: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Barton and Romanoff are partners, kind of friends, but mostly they're Hawkeye and Black Widow, SHIELD's most deadly duo. When tragedy strikes on a mission in Vientam, they're cut off from SHIELD and on the run. In order to survive, the two assassins must face everything they've been denying and must decide if they can really, truly, trust each other. Pre-Avengers, origin of BlackHawk

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them

Author's note: This is one of several stories in a universe I've created on fanfiction.net. I'm going to be adding those stories here as I find the time. 

Chapter Two: To Make It Through The Night

Last Time:

Natasha silently released the breath she'd been holding ever since he'd leaned over her to help her pilot. She swallowed, leaned forward, and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Carefully, she eased the jet to the right, then to the left, and then eyed the GPS and made a minor correction so they were back on the correct path.

"Very good," Clint praised, moving back to his seat. He cleared his throat again when he saw Coulson watching him seriously and slid back into the pilot's chair.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same- Emily Brontë

"Why do we always have a safe house with roof access?" Natasha asked Coulson curiously as they waited for Clint to return from where he was picking up take out from his favorite little place in this city.

Natasha had learned that Clint always had a favorite little place wherever they went. She didn't know when he'd found time on SHIELD missions to develop such a taste for local cuisine, but his choices were always tasty. Sometimes he cooked for them instead, managing to make amazing dishes from ingredients she couldn't even identify. She didn't know where he'd learned to cook, but he was exceptionally good at it.

They didn't always have safe houses on missions. Sometimes she and Clint were moving the entire time, finding a place to sleep on the fly. But she'd noticed about a year into their partnership that every safe house Coulson set them up with had direct roof access. She'd made no comment at the time, because she liked roof access too. But after two years of the same consideration, she had to know why Coulson went to the trouble.

"If Clint had his choice, he'd travel by rooftop everywhere he went," Coulson replied easily from where he was staring at an old coffee machine, waiting patiently for it to finish brewing.

Natasha nodded. She knew that already. Clint was arguably more agile than even she was when they parkoured across rooftops. When she asked how he got so good at it, he would shrug and make a joke about running off to join the circus as a child. She would always roll her eyes and wonder why he couldn't give a straight answer to a question.

"So?" she asked when Coulson didn't seem as if he were going to continue.

"He feels safer when he as direct access to the roof. Like you with windows."

Natasha nodded. She loved windows, specifically climbing in and out of them. Clint never seemed to enjoy that very much, usually mumbled something about crashing through them too often to like them very much.

She watched Coulson pour three cups of coffee. One he left unaltered. That was his, she knew. One he added a hint of cream to, that was hers. The final one he added cream and an unholy amount of sugar. Barton's. The man was addicted to sugar. He ate it all the time in many different forms, and yet still kept himself in nearly perfect physical condition.

Coulson kept track of the most innocuous things. Natasha didn't remember ever telling him how she liked her coffee. Or that she liked having a window with a conveniently located drain pipe nearby. He just always seemed to know.

The door suddenly swung open and Clint strode in carrying several containers of deliciously fragrant food.

"Dinner is served," he announced. He placed one of the containers in front of Natasha. "Bánh canh for the fiery spider."

She gave him a glare for the nickname and then eyed the food skeptically.

"Trust me." He winked.

She eyed the food again and hesitantly tasted it. She smiled suddenly and quickly took another bite.

"You like it?" He grinned.

She quickly schooled her features to a mask of indifference.

"It's adequate," she allowed.

Clint rolled his eyes and held out Coulson's container demonstratively.

"Bún Thịt Nướng for you." He set it at Coulson's place as the handler carefully carried their coffees to the table.

"Thank you." Coulson smiled in thanks. "You get your usual?"

"I won't eat Bánh tằm cà ri from anywhere else," Clint replied already digging into his dish before he'd even taken his seat. He took his coffee from Coulson gratefully.

"I considered adding some coffee to your sugar, but then thought better of it," Phil smirked.

"You know me so well."

Natasha stirred from her sleep suddenly, unsure what had woken her. She laid completely still, instinctively keeping her eyes closed and her breathing even as she used her other senses to figure out what had woken her.

She didn't hear anything, didn't sense anything amiss in the room. Satisfied, she opened her eyes and sat up, looking around. She frowned when she noticed the two other cots in the room were empty. Both men were gone.

Curious, she slid off her cot and moved silently to the door. It opened without a sound and she moved out onto the roof. She heard them before she saw them. The low rumble that was Clint's voice was a sound she could identify anywhere. He somehow managed to speak with a remarkably quite tone that carried an intensity most had to yell to achieve. She had noticed that tone intimidated people more effectively than if he barked forcefully at them.

The tone fit him.

She crept around the corner that was the outer wall to their room and froze, drawing back. They were sitting casually, side by side, their legs dangling over the edge of the building. Clint had apparently just finished whatever he'd been telling Coulson, because he sighed deeply, shaking his head in a familiar show of self-derision. She'd never met anyone who was as hard on themselves as Clint Barton.

She watched Coulson reach out and squeeze Clint's shoulder in a show of affection she was used to seeing. Coulson did that and similar gestures with her partner often. He could convey several different things with that shoulder squeeze. Natasha had seen him do it to comfort, to calm, to refocus, to physically restrain, and she was sure there were several other meanings she hadn't noticed. When they sparred, which was considerably less often these days because Clint sparred with Natasha most of the time, she'd seen Coulson grip the back of the archer's neck in a playfully affectionate fashion as he crowed his praise for a particularly fantastic move.

They were what she imagined two brothers would be like if they worked for a covert agency. Coulson was the older, protective, and more serious brother. Clint was the younger, rash, and more energetic brother. And somehow they just fit.

She refocused when she heard Coulson speak.

"It was a long time ago, Clint. Over six years."

"I know. Being here just brings it back," Clint replied quietly, Natasha shifted against the wall she was hiding behind, pulling back so she couldn't see or be seen should they turn around. She could still hear them though, and wondered if she should feel bad about eavesdropping.

"You had the same dream last time we were here," Coulson remembered.

"Some days I think it's getting better, you know?" Clint sighed. "When I haven't had one of these dreams in a while and I think that maybe next time I do, it won't be so bad. Then I have one and it guts me, as usual."

"I'd be more concerned if it didn't gut you," Coulson pointed out quietly. "It'll never be easy, Clint, you know that. It's in all of that "not easy" that you know you're one of the good guys."

She could imagine Clint's warm smile at that, the smile that was usually reserved for Coulson alone. She wondered what it would feel like to have a smile like that meant just for you.

"And it is getting better," their handler went on. "You haven't had one of these in what? Six weeks?"

"Sounds about right."

"Well there you go."

Natasha rested her head against the brick of the wall as she listened. She wondered what they were talking about. What it was that Clint dreamed, apparently with decreasing frequency, that affected him so deeply. He dreamed more often than every six weeks. She knew that for a fact. When you operated in close quarters with someone as much as she did with Barton, you learned their sleeping patterns.

She'd woken from her own nightmares while on a mission with him, only to watch him flinch awake minutes or hours later. He would always look around with wild eyed terror for a few moments before inevitably focusing on her and blinking away his emotions. He would take a calming breath and without fail do one of two things. Bee-line it for the roof without a word. Or he would stare at her with that heavy intensity his eyes got sometimes before seeming to come to terms with whatever he'd dreamed and promptly return to sleep.

That look of wild terror cut her deeply every time. Because Clint was the strongest person she had ever known and whatever put that look in his eyes must have been horrifying. She would see that look and have to fight the urge to tell him firmly that he was safe.

Then there were the times she could only guess that he'd dreamed, because he was awake when she flinched awake. There were times when just looking at him sitting up in his bed, back against the wall, ear buds in, head leaned back and bouncing in a rhythm to whatever song he was listening to, and his eyes closed, settled her frayed nerves and emotions enough that she could just roll over and go back to sleep.

There were other times she'd wake to find him watching her with that heavy, intense gaze that could say so much more than his mouth when he wanted it to. He would nod once, and she'd nod back. He would watch her back. She always slept soundly after those exchanges.

Finally there were the times when she'd wake and he'd be nowhere to be seen. He'd stay gone, on the roof she assumed, until dawn. Then he'd walk back into their safe house as if nothing had happened.

She pulled herself out of her musings when she heard them standing. Quickly and with silence born of a lifetime of training, she retraced her steps, slipping back inside a breath before they rounded the corner. She slipped back into bed and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. They came back in quietly and Coulson returned immediately to his cot. Clint moved more slowly to his, sitting down with a sigh.

She heard him rustling in his pack and resisted the urge to open her eyes and see what he was doing. She heard his cot creak as he shifted more fully onto it and then all was silent. Without realizing it, she drifted back to sleep.

Clint watched Natasha pretend to sleep, wondering if she'd give up the ruse. She didn't, and he realized a few minutes later that she'd drifted off. He glanced down at his iPod and switched tracks. He sighed quietly, the relaxing tones of The Eagles filling his head and focusing his mind.

He returned his eyes to his partner, staring at her fiery red hair, splayed out across her pillow. He'd always heard red heads had tempers to match the shade of their hair. The Russian assassin proved that saying undeniably true. She would be absolutely calm and collected, seemingly unruffled and unaffected. Until she wasn't. Then you'd better run like hell because when she got pissed enough to show it, heads tended to roll.

She was a complex creature, his partner.

Like when she spied on him when she thought he wouldn't notice.

She'd been watching them tonight. He'd felt her eyes on his back while he'd been sitting with Coulson. The time between his nightmares from his year as an assassin were becoming more few and far between. But he still needed to talk it out with Coulson when they did rear their ugly head. When he and Romanoff were on mission on their own and Coulson wasn't there, he called him. And damn it if his friend didn't answer the phone every time, no matter what hour it was.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about his nightmares. He focused again on Natasha and wondered idly if she'd dreamed tonight and that's why she'd woken, only to find them gone. She had nightmares nearly as often as he did. He'd wake sometimes to find her watching him. Or he'd wake, only to watch her wake a short time later.

He knew what nights her dreams were worse. Because on those nights, she would look at him with a look of unshielded vulnerability and he'd do his best to show her with his own eyes that it was okay. She was safe with him. He didn't think she knew how much she revealed in those moments, how deeply she let him see into her soul. She kept to close a guard on her every thought and feeling to ever let that much show intentionally.

He knew he helped, at least in some small way. Because usually, unless it was really bad, the vulnerability and fear would fade and she would nod back when he nodded at her and then roll over and go back to sleep. He was glad he could help. He was glad he could do for her what Phil always did for him.

She shifted in her sleep and Clint waited until she settled again before shifting to lie down again. Eventually his mind quieted and "Hotel California" filled every space in his consciousness and he drifted to sleep.

Natasha watched Coulson move over to Clint's bed. The archer slept like a soldier in the trenches, and had for as long as she'd known him. Even with his ear buds in and his iPod playing, she knew his highly trained body would be attuned to his surroundings. The only reason he was still sleeping now was because he knew, even subconsciously, that she and Coulson weren't threats.

Even so, all Phil had to do was touch the archer's foot lightly and his eyes flashed open.

"Breakfast," Coulson stated simply.

Clint reached to rub his eyes, stretching his lithe body out to its full length.

Natasha looked away abruptly when she caught herself staring. She glanced self-consciously at Coulson, who was watching her thoughtfully. She shifted her gaze away, choosing to study a pattern in the wood of their table.

Clint stood from his cot, ear buds still in place, and stretched again.

Natasha wished he'd just get stretched already.

"You made breakfast?" Clint moved to Coulson's side.

"I got the ingredients for you to make breakfast," the handler announced with a smirk.

Clint hummed doubtfully. Giving Coulson a look that spoke volumes.

"You won't eat what I make," Coulson defended.

Clint shrugged.

"True."

Without further discussion, Clint got to work.

Natasha didn't think kitchen knives were meant to be spun around one's hands quite as much as Clint tended to. It did make it entertaining to watch him cook though. She found herself watching him more than she studied the map she was supposed to be learning. Clint had learned it on the flight in about five minutes.

That was another area Clint was more skilled than she was. While they could both memorize maps and building layouts before a mission was put into motion. It took him a fraction of the time it took her. He'd told her once that he had a photographic memory. She envied him that.

With a sigh, she tore her gaze away from his back and focused on her map, imprinting it into her brain.

They ate in mostly silence. Clint was reviewing the route he was going to take for his surveillance run. Natasha continued to study the map of the area surrounding the compound they were targeting. Coulson was reading The New York Times. Neither of the assassins knew where he'd gotten it from.

After breakfast Clint went over his route with both of them, so they would know exactly where he was if something went wrong. Then he changed his shirt, slipped his quiver onto his back and secured his folded bow into its slot at the small of his back.

"Don't look so depressed, Romanoff. I'll be back before you know it," Clint teased before tossing them a two fingered salute and disappearing out the door.

Natasha scowled at the door as it swung closed. She had agreed, ungracefully, that Clint would move faster alone. He knew the area from past visits and since it was just a look-and-see surveillance run, she wasn't really needed. It didn't mean she was happy about Clint being out there without someone to watch his back. Her partner was a trouble magnet on his best day.

They expected him to get within binocular distance within about four hours. Another several hours to watch, move around the compound, and scope out what they were dealing with. Then another four hours to get back. If all went well, he'd be back for dinner.

"Comm check."

Her attention was pulled from the door and to Coulson, who had settled in front of his computer. She moved to sit next to him, accepting the earpiece he offered her.

"You know, you can let me get more than twenty seconds away before checking in. I promise I haven't fallen off any rooftops yet."

Natasha rolled her eyes. Her partner was such a smart ass sometimes. It drove her crazy. Coulson just smirked though and came back with his own smart ass comment that had Natasha applauding in her head.

"Well you do have a tendency to fall out of, off of, and down from things."

"I don't fall." Clint sounded downright offended. "I jump or get pushed. I don't fall."

"If you say so."

"Romanoff, how's it going? Miss me yet?"

Coulson smiled at Clint's blatant attempt to ignore him.

"I'm relishing the silence," she replied with a smirk.

"If that were true, you wouldn't be so excited to talk to me right now." She could hear the smirk in his words. She rolled her eyes.

"You're absolutely right," she smirked. "He's all yours." She motioned at Coulson. "I'm going for a run to enjoy the silence."

Coulson nodded in understanding. Something about putting Clint on a comm. line made the man turn into a chatter box. He'd been that way since Phil had known him.

Natasha slipped out of the safe house silently and Phil turned his attention back to his agent in the field.

"Try not to get into any trouble."

"I never try, Phil," Clint pointed out. "This is just a look-see, I'll be back by dinner."

"Keep the line open, but otherwise you can go silent. Check in when you get into position."

"Talk to you in a few hours."

"Stay safe."

"Always."

Coulson pulled out his ear piece and made sure his computer was monitoring Clint's comm. If Clint said anything, he'd hear it through the computer and have time to put his ear piece back in if a response was needed. He pulled his stack of files from his bag and sat down at the table.

"Guards here, here, here, and here." Clint pointed marked four different points on the satellite image they had of the compound. "They rotated in two man teams on a two hour schedule and always kept their eyes on the tree line or the water."

"Training?" Coulson asked tossing Clint a blue Gatorade from the fridge. The archer caught it and immediately unscrewed the top.

"Pretty legit. I'd guess they're hired mercs. Paid to keep prying eyes out."

"Entry points for the building itself?" Natasha asked after giving Clint a chance to take a swallow from his drink. She pushed her hair over her shoulder, still wet from the shower she'd just taken.

"Two. Here and here." He made two more marks on the image. "We get past the guards and we'd be in good shape. They never once glanced back at the compound. They aren't worried about keeping people in, just keeping people out."

"So we need to find a way to get inside the fence without them seeing us."

"Good thing we're extra sneaky."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"It needs to be quick. Get in, take out Carter and his men, get out," Coulson instructed.

"What about the people being held inside the compound?" Clint asked. "We breach the compound and they're all dead."

"You know the mission, Clint. Destroying this operation is the priority," Coulson reminded quietly.

Clint shook his head, obviously in disagreement, and looked away. Natasha looked back and forth between them before pulling their focus back to the map.

"Where are we operating from? I don't know about him," She nodded at Clint, "but I don't want to spend four hours getting there and then have to run the op. That's asking for fatigue mistakes."

"Agreed." Coulson nodded. "Satellite footage shows that there's a small hut here." He circled a location on their map. "It's a little out of the way. But it's only an hour's hike from the compound. You can get there, run your final surveillance, rest up for a night, and then do the op. If all goes well, you can rest up there again before heading back."

Clint leaned forward to look at the location.

"I saw that place. Good place to hide out. Good visibility and easy escape into the woods if needed."

"Good. You two can head out in the morning. With any luck we can be headed home in a few days. I'll stay here, monitor radio chatter, get plugged into our satellite and basically sit on my hands while you guys do the fun stuff."

"Awe, Phil, that was depressing." Clint chuckled, pushing himself to his feet and downing the last of his Gatorade. "Next mission, I'll let you do the four hour preliminary surveillance run and I'll stay at the safe house."

"That's so generous." Coulson glared.

Clint laughed and moved towards the bathroom to shower, stopping to grab a fresh set of clothes from his bag. Natasha packed their gear while he bathed and was already lying down on her cot when he emerged, towel drying his hair, cargo pants riding low on his hips and t-shirt tossed over his shoulder.

She didn't realize she'd been staring until his back was to her and he was pulling on the shirt, hiding the scars she didn't know the stories to. Clint had never been particularly cagey about her seeing his any of his, admittedly numerous, scars. But he'd never volunteered any explanation for them either. It was almost like he'd forgotten some of them were there. Like the ones on his back, that she'd never seen him acknowledge.

Clint was either oblivious to her observation of him, or just too tired to care, because he just lay down, jerked his sheet over him, and closed his eyes. His breathing evened in seconds. Coulson moved quietly to his cot and lay down as well.

Natasha rolled onto her side, putting her back to the wall out of habit, and let out a sigh as she closed her eyes. She hoped both she and Clint slept through the night. It was going to be a long couple of days.

She reflected ruefully, later, that she hadn't known the half of it.

Clint woke with a sharp inhalation, eyes snapping open to assess if the threat he'd been subject to in his dream was actually present or not. Of course it wasn't. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He supposed dreaming of the clusterfuck of a mission Croatia turned out to be was better than remembering another name. Even if it did make his shoulder ache at the memory of the bullet he'd taken for Phil.

He needed fresh air, just for a minute. Maybe do some parkour to clear his mind. Silently, he rose from his cot, glaring at it when it creaked. He picked up his socks and his boots, intending to put them on outside, and made for the door. He had just stepped out into the night when he felt her behind him.

He turned, watching her close the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked in confusion.

"I could ask you the same thing," she replied, arching an eyebrow in amusement at his bare feet.

"Just gonna clear my head a little and go back to sleep," he shrugged, balancing easily on one foot to pull on a sock and shoe and then switch and do the same for the other foot.

"Do you mind company?" she asked, her green eyes glowing a little from the light of the moon. Clint glanced at her, taking in the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the very subtle hint of desperation in her tone. She'd had a dream.

"Not at all." He assured.

She smiled gratefully and followed him as he moved to the edge of the roof.

"Once around the block?" he offered.

She nodded and they were off.

Twenty minutes later they rolled, almost in synchronization back onto their roof, both rising to their feet easily.

"Think you can sleep now?" Clint asked as they moved towards the door.

She nodded, eyeing him curiously.

"You?"

"Think so." He nodded, pulling the door open and allowing her to precede him in. They moved silently to their cots.

"Thank you," she whispered almost too quietly for him to hear.

"Anytime," he replied in the same tone.

From the cot across the room, Coulson listened. He'd woken to find them both gone. Unconcerned, because honestly they were highly trained assassins and could take care of themselves, he'd waited for them to return. He hadn't expected them to return together. He hadn't expected them to have left together. He frowned slightly and hoped this wasn't heading where he thought it was heading. There were rules and protocols for that sort of thing.

Of course he knew exactly what Clint thought of rules and protocols.

End of Chapter 2

I'm used to writing those two already together, so this is an adjustment, lol. As for the Vietnamese food's Clint got. I got those off the internet and they're supposed to be actual dishes. I don't know, I've never been to Vietnam.

Comments make me happy! :D

Here's your preview

"Door is opening," Natasha announced. Her breath caught sharply a moment later. "Barton."

"What is it?" he asked sharply, hearing horror and anger in her tone. He shifted to see what she was seeing. "Shit."

"Barton, those are children."