The glass roof above you shatters and before you have a chance to react, bullets are raining down upon you like hellfire. Quickly you spring into action, but not quickly enough as Natasha is injured immediately, struck in the stomach by a stray shard of glass, her blood running almost as red as her hair. You draw your bow and immediately begin to take inventory of the damage done around you.
And suddenly you are surrounded, the dinner you had been in the middle of overturned on the floor. Natasha is yelling something, but all you can see are the twenty guns pointed at you. The faces behind the barrels are covered in black cloth and the only thing you can think about is getting her out. Quickly you arm and draw an arrow out of your quiver, taking aim easily and precisely, just as the Swordsman had taught you so many years ago.
You and your assailants begin shooting at just the same time. Natasha has managed to get on her feet and begin taking them out by the ankles, managing to remain out of their line of fire. You take out fifteen of them before you feel a bullet graze your bicep. The pain is intense and you lose your focus for a moment. This could be your downfall, but Natasha has managed to take care of the last five.
"Are you okay?" You ask tentatively, ignoring your own wound and glancing at her stomach.
Her gaze is penetrating. "I'm fine." Her accent has returned, from the pain you suppose, and you are inappropriately turned on. As you start to shake that thought from your mind, she begins to speak again. Or, rather, yell. "Who the fuck are these guys? We can't have one fucking dinner together when we're finished with one of Fury's fucking missions, can we? I'm gonna tear that fucker a new asshole when we get back to S.H.I.E.L.D tomorrow."
This is the first time Natasha has shown true passion in as long as you can remember and you remember why you love her. Her fearlessness, her audacity, her fervor for everything she did. Without hesitation, you step over the bodies of your fallen attackers and take her into your arms. She is tense with anger and frustration but succumbs quickly to your manipulations as your mouths meet.
"What was that for?" she asks, smacking you in the arm whilst trying to catch her breath after your lips part.
You grimace and she immediately apologizes, and you smile down at her. You take a strand of her hair and twist it around your long finger and she rests her head on your chest.
"I just love you so much," you tell her.
"I love you too, Clint."
Later, after you return from Budapest and have been patched up, you reflect on just how often you're in situations like that. Trying to enjoy a nice, normal dinner or something equally domestic with your girlfriend when you're suddenly attacked/ambushed/what-have-you. Your lives are constantly put in danger and most of the time, you don't even know what for.
But as you look over at her curled up at the window reading a large book, most likely in Russian, everything is validated. You know exactly why you risk your life every day, why you follow orders blindly, why you've turned good.
Because without her, you'd be pointless.