"Run like hell, Barton."

She should have taken her own advice.

She started to, once she knew the bomb was secure. Upon exiting the boiler room, Natalia slowed to a stop. In the edges of her flashlight beam, pale faces and glittering eyes reflected the white glow back at her. The girls lay so still, they could be mistaken for dead. Natalia focused the beam on the bed closest to her. The girl squinted in the harsh light, proving life. Her expression was neutral, passive. Natalia had no doubt the girls knew what was happening, but they were not afraid. They were trained to not know fear.

Natalia wasted precious seconds studying the girl. Her wavy blonde hair was fanned out on her poor excuse for a pillow. Both her wrists were locked firmly to the bed posts by cuffs. Like Natalia's, her wrists were red from the chaffing of metal against skin. It couldn't be helped in sleep, especially against nightmares. The girl squirmed once beneath the thin blanket under Natalia's scrutiny, then stilled again. Her green eyes studied Natalia in return, waiting and watching.

The girl looked no older than fifteen. She looked like what Natalia imagined Yelena looked like at this age. She imagined Yelena lying there, trapped and minutes away from death. The pang of compassion in her chest surprised her.

Natalia jogged down the row of beds, ignoring all the eyes following her. Hanging by the door was a ring of keys. Thankfully, the locks on the handcuffs were all the same and she made quick work of unlocking them. One by one, the Widow trainees slowly swung their legs over the side of the bed and rubbed their raw wrists as they watched Natalia free the next girl. As the number of able-body Widows multiplied in the room, Natalia grew more wary.

At last, all twenty girls were free. They stood at the foot of their beds in their white nightgowns, staring at Natalia with blank faces that sent a chill down her spine. Natalia cursed herself for starting with the girl closest to the exit and working her way down, leaving twenty future assassins between her and the door.

"Here." She thrust the keys at the fifteen-year-old that reminded her of Yelena. "The bombs will go off in about seven minutes. Take these and free the others, then run."

The girl didn't move. Impatience rising in her chest, Natalia jingled the keys with urgency. The girl blinked, then slowly reached for the keys.

She snatched Natalia's wrist and yanked. A strong kick met Natalia's midsection and she gasped as the air was forced out of her lungs. She stumbled back, dropping the keys to hold her stomach. As she struggled to draw breath, the other girls surged forward while the blonde one slowly crouched down and picked up the keys.

Natalia raised her arms to protect herself from the onslaught of blows. She blocked two punches and dodged a kick by rolling across the floor. The space she gained opened her up to make her move. Natalia kicked one of the metal beds as hard as she could, sending it flying into the swarm of potentials.

"Please," she tried as those who had avoided the attack moved towards her. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm trying to help." She stepped back for every step forward they took.

Natalia didn't blame them. She knew better than anyone how the Red Room brainwashed them. If it hadn't been for Barton's offer, she would still be under their control.

Then a desperate plan came to her.

"Hawkeye?" she called into the comm as she ducked a punch. From the other end, she could hear grunts, panting, and the exchanging of blows. "Hawkeye, come in!"

Her head suddenly snapped to the side. Distracted by Barton's absence, a girl no more than eight landed a slap on Natalia's cheek. A Widow's slap was no pathetic, ordinary slap. Natalia's cheek stung then burned as she felt blood well from the scratch left by the girl's fingernails.

Before Natalia could gather herself, another girl–the oldest at around seventeen, nearly a graduate–ensnared Natalia's red hair at the roots and smashed her head against the brick wall. She slumped to the floor with a groan, black spots compromising her vision.

"Natasha?!" Barton's voice shouted in her ear. He sounded worried.

Natasha?

"'m fine." She rolled out of range of the kick aimed at her ribs. "Are you by a window?"

"What? Hold on." Another crash and a curse filtered through the comm.

As Natalia waited, she searched for her flashlight while fending off the trainees. She slammed her skull into another girl's forehead–what's more brain trauma anyway?–and swept the legs of another. Her hand found the flashlight and she swung it, making contact with a Widow trainee's temple. Placing the flashlight between her teeth and her palms beside her head, Natalia vaulted onto her feet.

"Okay, I'm by a window."

Taking the flashlight into her hand again, Natalia ducked under a punch, jammed her elbow into a girl's stomach, then held her in a headlock. With her free hand, she shone the beam at the window.

"Can you see that?"

"Yes!"

"Send a line!"

Natalia pushed the trainee into another, then ran to a bed and snatched the thin blanket. The telltale sound of an arrowhead impacting brick caught her hearing above the scuffle. She rolled over a girl's back, pulling out her gun. One, two, three bullets impacted the glass as she ran towards it. The thick heel of her boot shattered the weakened glass and a gust of freezing air swept into the already chilled room. The seventeen-year-old grabbed onto Natalia's belt in a last ditch effort. The Black Widow kicked the girl away and the momentum tipped her out the window. She managed to fling the blanket over the wire and grab the other end before it was too late.

Ice bit into her skin like needles as she zipped through the storm. The flurry of snow blinded her and she would have splattered against the window like a bug if she didn't feel herself hurtling closer to the ground. Instinctively, she raised her legs and, with a prayer, kicked through glass.

A body caught her fall, going down with her on the shard-carpeted floor. Glass pricked her skin, but her leather suit and gloves prevented the sharp edges from cutting through.

A hand gripped her bicep and hauled her to her feet. The bruised and bleeding face of Clint Barton greeted her with a grim expression. Behind him waited a small army of guards and a few women she recognized as her handlers. One of them spoke, her cold yet smug voice filling her with both hatred and dread.

"Welcome home, Natalia Romanoff."

* * *

It was nearly impossible to "run like hell" when traveling by ventilation shafts, but Barton did his best. When he cut the power, Clint calculated he had T-minus ninety seconds before the facility would be teeming with guards. So despite being a slower means of escape, Clint chose to crawl through the vents up from the basement to the ground level rather than fight waves of men strong enough to take a Widow trainee. The archer winced as his quiver and tool belt rattled against the metal walls in his haste.

Slow and steady wins the race, Clint. That was hard to believe when you have a ticking bomb at your backside and the shouts and pounding boots of soldiers wanting to kill him below.

He forced himself to move more carefully, which was no easy feat because, again, bomb.

He could smell her favorite lemon shampoo, feel the softness of her hair when he would burry his face in it and breathe in the scent. Laura laughs, making the most beautiful sound in the world, and kiss his temple. Cooper clings to his leg while baby Lila demanded "Up!" with her short arms raised, tiny hands grabbing the air and a pout on her lips. Cooper made him promise to play trucks when he came home. In her limited speech, Lila would pester for him to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the hundredth time. He would happy fulfill their requests, stealing kisses from his wife between giving attention to their demanding children. With a blink and a shake of his head, that all faded into wisps of smoke.

The heartache in his chest spurred him on faster in spite of his better judgement.

A loud crash startled him. Then the large hand gripping his ankle informed Clint that he was caught.

Legs and shoulders banged and scrapped against the edges as he was yanked out of the vents. Barton fell onto the cold floor, landing non-too gracefully on his stomach and elbows.

"Didn't your mothers ever teach you to knock?" he groaned, craning his neck up at the five burly men.

Instead of a verbal response, he found himself staring into the nozzles of five machine guns.

"Get up," one of the guards grunted. "Slowly."

Another stepped closer and jabbed his ribs with his weapon. Clint threw him an annoyed look.

"All right, all right. Take it easy. So impatient."

At a snail's pace, Clint worked his hands underneath him in order to push himself up, his palms flat on the ground by his waist. With his left hand mostly obscured from view, he snatched a tiny smoke grenade from his belt, hiding it between his palm and the floor. As he rose to his feet, he had the device prepared in his fist.

Before the guards could react, Clint threw the capsule down, which exploded on impact. In seconds, a thick cloud of gray smoke filled the hallway. The Russians blindly fired a spray of wild bullets, but Clint was already gone.

Although he had given them the slip, he knew his position had been compromised. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he prepared an arrow at the bowstring as he ran. All hopes of accomplishing this side mission without a fight shattered.

So much for a plan, he complained as he turned a corner. In the darkness, his shoulder checked the wall, throwing him off balance for a moment and turning his foul mood even more sour. "I hope Natasha is having better luck than I am."

He wasn't even supposed to be here. All this came about because he disobeyed orders, because he had empathy for a Russian assassin. He cursed what little humanity he had left. Maybe he can twist the blame on Coulson for that one.

Did he regret sparing his target? Not yet. He could feel that she wanted out. He was giving her the second chance that he had received all those years ago. This mission, this two person crusade... it was more than a testament of sincerity for both sides. Romanoff was making sure she would never go back. And Barton was all for burning the past.

A flash caught his eye and Hawkeye instinctively dodged. Something whistled past his ear and met the wall behind him with a thwack. Warm blood welled from the nick on his ear from the throwing knife. In the faint moonlight reflecting off the snow and through the window, Clint found himself ten feet away from the women who trained the world's deadliest assassins.

One of them stepped forward. Unlike the monotonous women around her, this lady was garbed in a smart blue dress and matching jacket instead of the Widow uniform. Despite the late hour, her gray hair was twisted into a professional bun with a complete yet simple face of makeup. With her arms folded in front of her and her red lips frowning in disapproval, she practically screamed mean elementary school teacher, and Clint had plenty of those back in the day.

When she spoke, her Russian accent was dripping with mocking sympathy. "You are making a mistake, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Oh yeah? Taking down a program that brainwashes little girls into assassins feels pretty right to me."

The smoke bomb trick won't work a second time, especially not against the Black Widows. He needed to bide his time though it was quickly ticking away.

"Romanoff is one of the best assassins I've ever trained," the woman continued. "However, she lacks conviction. She fought so hard to pass, to be the best, yet when her time for graduation came, she feigned failure. I knew her betrayal would come. Even marble can break when the sculptor strikes it in the wrong place." Her gaze turned hard as if Romanoff's revenge was his fault.

The woman's eyes pierced his own, scouring his brain for his every thought and emotion like a carnivorous spider. He maintained his neutral expression like he was trained to do, but inside he felt his barriers cave to her practiced scrutiny. Her pseudo pity curled into a satisfied smirk as if she was please with what she found.

"She is using you, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Once she gets what she wants, she will dispose of you. She has no loyalty."

Neither did he before his second chance.

"I'm willing to give her a shot," he replied before sending an arrow into the floorboards. He managed to turn and dive before the arrow exploded.

Then all hell broke loose.

Hawkeye knew a small exploding arrow wouldn't be enough to kill five veteran Black Widows. However, it gave him an edge because though their insane reflexes spared them, they were stunned and mildly injured. Clint will take any advantage he could get.

He alternated between fight and flight, fending off attacks while searching for an exit. With five minutes left on the clock, Natasha's voice finally filtered through the comms.

When he found a window, he didn't have time to open it. So he shot a line through the glass and anchored it to the head casing just in time to raise his arms to block a punch. Fifteen seconds later, he found himself on the glass-covered floor with a new bruise on his side from where Natasha had collided into him. Nevertheless, he helped her to her feet just as a swarm of guards joined the Widow handlers. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and outgunned.

Three minutes.

Hawkeye's chest ached with every labored breath. His limbs were deadweight, his muscles sore and burning. He smelled of sweat, the perspiration making his bleeding cuts sting. The prospect of more fighting made Clint mentally groan.

"Welcome home, Natalia Romanoff."

Natalia? S.H.I.E.L.D. suspected "Natasha" was just a cover name, but they had very little information on the illusive Black Widow.

Natasha–or Natalia, he should say–visibly tensed. Her hands clenched into tight fists by her sides, shaking with what Clint at first assumed was rage. Then he looked at her face and noticed the way her eyebrows knit together, the crease of her teeth biting the tiniest bit of her lip, and the paleness of her cheeks.

A little boy with dark blond hair on the verge of turning brown cowered before his father. He was also pale, shaking, and bleeding. An older brother stood at his side slightly in front of him, hurt yet unafraid.

"Madame B." Her voice came out in a low growl, sharp and cold. "I'm putting an end to this. Once and for all."

Madame B clicked her tongue, condescending. "Foolish, Natalia. The Red Room will never fall. It has lasted longer than you know and has grown beyond your fathoming. Stop this meaningless crusade, Natalia. You have no place in the world."

Clint watched the effect of Madame B's word ripple through Natalia. The defiance melted and she seemed to shrink under her hander's gaze. He could see the gears turning in her brain, fighting the words that were used to brainwash her.

Natalia released a shaky breath. "Maybe not, but this is my chance to find out."

Thirty seconds.

Clint nudged her in warning. She read his alarmed expression and understood immediately. Natalia faced Madame B again, her head held high.

"Dasvidaniya, Madame."

Natalia spun on her heel and grabbed Clint's arm. Bullets whizzed past them as they sprinted towards the window ahead.

They smashed through and fell into a mixture of snow and glass. Clint recovered a bit quicker, placing a hand on Natalia's back.

"Come on. We got to get some distance."

"Right."

Keeping their heads down to avoid the bullets and knives flying out the open window, they dragged their legs through the thick snow. Clint had lost count of the seconds; all he could do now was brace himself.

The explosion was deafening. The darkness turned bright and the white powder turned orange. Heat burned his back as the force of the explosion threw them both violently off their feet. Ears ringing, Clint thought he blacked out for a second.

For a long moment, the two assassins lay in the ice, restoring the breath knocked out of their lungs. When he was able, Clint raised his head to look at the other. Natalia watched the academy burn, the flames reflecting in her green eyes. There was no peace in them, only finality.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. You?"

Clint let his head fall back onto his snow pillow. "Eh. I could eat."

A chuckle escaped the Russian's lips, breathy and painful sounding. It made him laugh with her, his bruised and possibly fractured ribs making it more of a wheeze.

  "Yeah. I could eat, too."