With the Black Widow in her trademark catsuit, Clint was feeling a bit left out in his damp, wrinkled party attire. He emerged from the bathroom refreshed and comfortable in his S.H.I.E.L.D. winter uniform.

Romanoff was still sitting at the table. Her back and shoulders hunched over her project in a slouch unlike the graceful assassin. He threw his soiled clothes onto a chair. As he passed her, Clint peered over her bowed head to check her progress. Nearly complete.

He opened what looked like an ordinary closet, revealing the Quinjet's armory. A poor move on his part to do that in front of the Russian assassin, not that it mattered. If she wanted to kill him, she would have done so already.

Clint's spine tingled as he felt her eyes on him. He replenished his quiver and added some knives to the sheaths on his belt and boots. Then he grabbed two handguns and tossed them carelessly onto the table. Romanoff eyed them both critically before staring at him with a marginally raised eyebrow.

"I know you used most of your ammo back there," Clint began. "I don't have any ammo for Makarov PMs, but those are Walther PPK/Ss. I have extra cartridges here, too."

Romanoff gave the handguns a long look before slowly removing her Makarov PMs and her last cartridge from her holster and placing them onto the table. She took one of the new guns and turned it over, feeling it in her hand and running her fingers over the barrel. Finally, she grabbed some ammo and loaded it, repeating the process with the other one before slipping them both into her empty holsters. The swiftness of her movements told Clint she was satisfied.

  "Need anything else?"

  "No. Thank you."

Before closing the doors, Clint grabbed two more pieces off the shelf. He tossed one to Romanoff, who caught it easily despite being unprepared.

  "One last thing," Clint said as she opened her hand. "These earpieces are programed to each other on a private channel. Only we can hear what is said." S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't listening.

  "Unless someone hacks the channel," Romanoff pointed out, tucking the tiny device into her ear anyway and positioning her red hair to hide it.

  "Well, there's always the possibility," conceded Clint to her pessimism. His sarcastic tone earned a small smile from the Russian assassin.

A blast of cold air greeted them as the ramp lowered. Past the glow from inside the Quinjet, it was pitch black. All Clint could see were pinpoints of light from the Academy in the distance. Between them and their target was less than a mile of shin-deep snow. Without a word, the two assassins started walking.

The crunch of ice under their boots and their labored breaths were loud in the silent darkness. Clint and Romanoff didn't dare use a flashlight as the beam would bounce off the glistening white and alert the enemy.

Clint clenched and unclenched his fists as he stomped through the snow. His fingers were growing numb and he needed them warm to shoot. He blew on his hands, his breath freezing before it could hit his skin. He turned his head to check on Natasha. She seemed unaffected by the cold, he observed with envy.

  In a quiet voice, he asked anyway, "You good?"

She nodded.

He averted his gaze back to their destination. He could see the walls now. The archer rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.

As they closed in, Clint and Natasha crouched low and quieted their footsteps. At last, Clint pressed his shoulder against the rough concrete brick of the wall.

It was go time.

In one smooth motion, Clint selected an arrow from his quiver, aimed high, and fired. The grapple arrow latched securely to the wall, leaving a line behind. Intending to do what they had done before, Clint extended a hand to the Russian.

  Her eyes narrowed into a glare that made him draw his hand back quickly. "No, thank you," she growled in a tone that was anything but polite. She raised a fist to the sky and a line shot out from the gadget on her wrist. Like a spider on its web, Natasha scaled the wall, her wire pulling her up. Clint followed.

Barbed wire, broken glass, and metal shards greeted them at the top. Carefully, Clint detached the line from his bow and reattached it to his belt. He let the wire hold him as he leaned back, bracing his boots against the wall. Black Widow did the same, only using her wrist gadget instead of her belt.

  "What's next?" Clint asked.

  "I thought you had a plan?" Her Russian accent enhanced her annoyance.

  "I'm more of an improvise kind of guy than a planner," Clint admitted.

  "I've memorized the guards' rotations," she finally answered. Natasha leaned on her toes to peer over the wall. Clint copied her. Beyond the two feet thick wall was an open courtyard. He counted about twelve guards; all burly, six foot Russians carrying big guns. They all patrolled in groups of two or more. "After each patrol, there's a thirty second opening before the next," Natasha whispered, watching a pair of guards pass beneath them. "There's no cover in the courtyard, so I chose the closest point from the wall to the Academy. We can easily avoid the guards and get to the door. The hard part begins once we're inside."

As Natasha planned aloud, Clint schooled his surprise. The Widow had studied the Red Room's gaps in security. She had been waiting for this opportunity to get out. Some of his wariness about Romanoff's intentions faded.

  "We need to prioritize a quick exit over an easy entrance. What's the fortifications inside?"

  "Aside from an Academy full of Widow assassins... cameras, locks, and alarms mostly."

  "So we blind them by cutting the power and taking out the entire security system."

  Natasha bit her lip. "That could work... maybe."

  "Such optimism." They paused to duck behind the wall as another patrol passed below them. He counted to fifteen. "Let's go."

Clint ran the last few steps up the wall to gain momentum. The tip of his boot caught the edge and he jumped. He flipped onto his back as he soared over the glass and barbed wire. He fell, cold wind whipping through his hair and face. Close to the ground, his line caught him, flipping him right side up again as his boots braced against the wall. For the thousandth time in his career, he thanked the acrobats who trained him in his childhood.

Natasha followed him in a similar fashion, her agility rivaling his own if not better. Once confirming the coast was clear, Clint and Natasha cut their lines, dropping quietly to the ground.

They only had a few feet of open courtyard to cross to reach the closest entry point. Two men guarded the entrance.

  A hand gripped Clint's bicep. "Incoming patrol," Romanoff hissed.

They hurried to the facility, flattening themselves against the wall in the shadows. A patrol of four passed where they had been standing a moment before.

Once the guards were out of earshot, Clint raised three fingers. Two. One.

He jumped out from around the corner and grabbed the closest guard in chokehold. Romanoff raced forwards and tackled the other guard. There was a crackle of energy and the man was dead before he could make a sound. Clint's grip on the guard slipped as the much taller man struggled. Before he could break free and call for backup, Clint snapped the guard's neck. The limp body to collapsed onto the snow-covered ground.

  "Cameras." Natasha pointed at two cameras that were beginning to swerve in their direction.

Clint produced two arrows and fired them in quick succession. Purple goo exploded from the tips, covering the lenses. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him.

  "What? They're covered, not broken. They won't send any alerts."

  "Purple putty? How old are you? Five?"

  "For your information, that is polydimethylsiloxane. And I like purple."

Romanoff rolled her eyes and examined the building. "This is the handlers' facility. The next building over is the trainees' quarters."

  "I got the handlers," Clint cut in. "I'll meet you outside the walls before the explosives go off."

  "No, Barton. Wait." Instead of acknowledging her, Clint kneeled down, produced a lock pick from his belt, and began working on the door. "They're too dangerous. I'll take them."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Clint grunted as the lock made a satisfying click.

  "Barton–"

  "You said it yourself, Romanoff," Clint interrupted, rising. "These people trained you. They know all your moves. I, at least, have an edge on unpredictability."

  Natasha's lips formed a grim line. "Fine. Keep in contact. Don't be late. Don't die."

  "Back at ya, Romanoff."

With a nod, the Black Widow assassin vanished into the dark. Taking a deep breath, Clint placed an arrow against the string before slowly opening the door with his foot. He exhaled and entered the building.

It was cold. Not freezing like outdoors, but cold enough to figure the heating system was not in use. The halls were dimly lit overhead. He could see, but so could his enemies.

The comm crackled in his ear.

  "Hawkeye."

  She was using his code name, so he responded in kind. "Widow?"

  "I'm inside the second building." Natasha's voice was a soft whisper. Clint dropped his to match her.

  "Any trouble?"

  "Just a couple dead guards outside. It's all quiet so far."

  "Same here. Where's the security room?"

  "Back right of the first floor. The boiler is down in the basement."

  "Great."

  "There should be very few guards in the faculty quarters. Just security. Nevertheless, I would find a quick and safe route."

  Clint's first instinct was to look up. He smirked in triumph as he was rewarded. "Got it. I'll contact you when the power's out. Hawkeye out."

The archer took the arrow into his hand and collapsed his bow. Using the arrowhead to hook the grate, Clint slid the vent cover to the side. It would be tight, but it wouldn't be his favorite means of sneaking around if he couldn't fit.

Taking a running leap, Clint snagged the inside of the ventilation system with the tips of his fingers and pulled himself up. His shoulders, quiver, and hips banged against the sides, causing him to wince. Eventually, his entire body was in the vents and he closed the opening behind him. With the quiver on his back, there was just enough room for Clint to army crawl. With a determined huff, he began his long journey on his elbows and knees.

* * *

She hadn't been back here since she graduated at eighteen. It was exactly how she remembered. There was a musty smell of hundred-year-old building and gunpowder. Despite her training, she shivered in cold, dead air.

She crept forward, avoiding all floorboards that creaked. Natalia turned into a large room. It was empty aside from the piano and the grand staircase. She couldn't see in the dark, but she didn't need light to know where the blood and sweat stains tarnished the floor. Her muscles cramped at the memory of the brutal ballet routines that nearly broke her. Over and over again she was forced to dance in an image of perfection. Instead of breaking her, it turned her into marble. Other girls were not as strong.

Shaking away the memories, Natasha began to ascend the stairs. Her fingers brushed the smooth, dark wood railing. Unlike its twin, this boiler room wasn't in the basement. It was on the same floor as the Widow quarters.

Ghosts of memories surfaced as she silently moved down the halls she grew up in, gun in hand. She knew she shouldn't, but Natalia couldn't help peering through an open doorway into a familiar room. Her flashlight illuminated the neat rows of desks and projector behind them. She remembered sitting at those stiff desks for hours. She remembered the words that flashed on the screen every few seconds. Her scrambled brain struggled to remember the exact words.

Shaking her head, Natalia moved on.

At the end of the hall, Natalia hesitated. Beyond the yawning darkness was the Widow trainees' quarters. The place she called her bedroom along with about twenty other girls. As time progressed, fewer and fewer girls were shackled to their beds at night. It was to keep the girls from escaping, but now it was a security habit Natalia couldn't break. The scars on her wrists grew worse everyday as the cuffs chaffed her skin every night.

Taking in a deep breath and blowing it out, Natalia quit stalling and slipped into the room.

Rows of beds greeted her, if the metal frames and paper thin mattresses could be called beds. It was as cold as the rest of the building as she could see her breath freeze in the beam of her flashlight. A quick scan of the room and Natalia switched off the light. Nearly every bed was occupied by a sleeping Black Widow trainee.

To all appearances, they were dead. With their arms by their heads, their bodies lay unmoving on the mattresses beneath the thin blankets. The room was silent, yet she couldn't hear them breathe. Nothing has changed since she was a child.

Guided by memory and the light from the windows, Natalia crept down the room. She didn't dare look at the girls, not wanting to know if they were awake or asleep. Every breath she took sounded loud to her ears. Every step, every breath, every thought–she was certain they could hear it. They were watching her.

She made it to the end of the room when the comm crackled in her ear.

  "Widow, I'm in the security room. I can see you on the cameras now."

Natalia glanced up to find the red light of a camera winking at her. She cursed her sloppiness.

  "My Russian may be rusty, but I know that's a naughty word," Barton chided. Natalia rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Red Room's going dark in three, two, one."

The red light vanished.

  "Contact me when you reach the boiler room," Natalia reminded him, stepping into another room. "I'm already there."

  "Copy. Give me two minutes."

* * *

Clint stepped over the body of the guard he had killed. Just in time, too. The guard had spotted him on the camera to the entrance of the control room and was about to lock down the academy.

He peered down the now dark hallway. There was no one, but it wouldn't be long before they would figure out someone killed the lights and would converge onto his location.

Barton shined a beam of light from his bow down the corridor. According to a map in the security room, the door to the stairs leading down to the basement was at the other end. 

As he was about to move, a voice filtered through his other comm. A voice too masculine, too deep, and too angry to be Natasha's.

  "Hawkeye."

  "Coulson," Agent Barton responded cheerfully as he started towards the door. "I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

  "Are you?" the man deadpanned. "Your last check in was hours ago. What happened?"

  "Just a detour, sir. Then I'll return to base."

  "Has the target been terminated?"

  "To be determined, sir," Hawkeye answered grimly as shouts and running footsteps echoed down the once silent facility. The sounds were cut off by the door shutting behind him. He started down the metal stairway. "I'll let you known when I'm in route. Hawkeye out."

The channel fell silent. Clint reached the bottom of the stairs and switched comms.

  "Widow, I'm in the basement."

  "Took you long enough. Is your bomb ready?"

The archer slung his bow over his shoulder to remove the device from his belt. It magnetized to the boiler.

  "Ready to arm on your mark."

  "Okay. On three. One. Two. Three."

The bomb beeped as a blue countdown flashed in the darkness. 10:00, 9:59...

  "Ten minutes in counting."

  "Same here. Meet you on the outside, Hawkeye."

  "Be careful," Clint warned. "We may need to fight our way out."

  "Copy. Run like hell, Barton."