Summary: Natasha had no idea that such a coincidental meeting would change her life so dramatically. He spared her life, giving her a second chance to find purpose and a way to balance her ledger. Their friendship? She didn't over analyze it. It didn't need defining. It was hers. Hers and his. That was all that mattered. Until he was compromised and she came face to face with Loki and discovered herself unwittingly compromised as well. Black Widow/Hawkeye. Movieverse with a touch of comic canon per author's prerogative.
Author’s Note: This story kind of started as a simple vignette to explain the bond between Clint and Natasha as we see it during The Avengers, especially that final scene during Shawarma. But as I started to write a simple story that explained the relationship, I realized it wasn’t so simple and that what I was writing would just be another shallow, short tale, easily overlooked and quickly forgotten. How could I treat such a complicated and beautiful relationship so lightly? Very simply, I cannot. I hope it’s a tale worth reading. It’s certainly been a tale worth writing.
Many thanks to Alpha Flyer for her brilliant beta help. Without her, this story would be far less readable. Her knowledge has been an invaluable resource.
Defining Points
By Avenging Archer
Prologue
May 2012
New York
Shawarma
“So, when did you and Barton first meet?”
Natasha looked up, surprised that someone had broken the heavy silence that had accompanied most of their meal in the small café. Then she blinked as she realized the inquiry was directed at her.
It was an innocent enough question, especially coming from Steve Rogers, who asked out of curiosity, and not out of provocation as Stark would.
And yet, it wasn't.
Natasha could feel his eyes on her again.
Clint had watched her frequently during their meal, but whenever she looked back, he would only hold her gaze for a moment before looking away. She stared at him each time, trying to reassure herself that he was himself again, that Loki’s hold was truly broken and that aside from a few survivable injuries, he was going to be okay. But he wouldn’t look at her beyond a quick, curious glance, so she’d drop her eyes back to her food after a minute of studying him.
It was rude, she knew, the way they were watching each other while not watching each other and ignoring everyone else at the table, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She was very aware of his foot propped up on her chair; he’d hurt his leg at some point during the fight. She’d seen the limp, though the others had not. His gaze burned into her as it always did, but she didn't turn to look at him this time.
Instead, she considered Steve's question.
She remembered that day well. It was, in fact, a day Natasha would never forget. It was a defining point in her life (she'd never admit that to anyone, least of all him, though he probably knew it), and while she couldn't honestly say he was the reason everything changed (because it had started before she ran into him…literally), everything that came after had a lot to do with him.
It was a day she remembered fondly, as evident by the slight tilt of her lips. But it was personal, complicated, twined too intimately with who she had been in that other life. Those were things she did not discuss, not even with those closest to her (she could count them on one hand), except him, and even then only rarely. Her almost smile slipped into a frown. At the moment, she could feel the awkwardness between them. It had been there since he had awakened from Loki's spell.
Steve's question made it seem even more awkward — until Clint bumped her with his foot, and she glanced up to see him look pointedly at Steve, who raised his brows and made her realize that the Captain would think she was ignoring his question.
Clint could just as easily have answered it himself, but he wouldn't. It hadn't been addressed to him. And now, since she had hesitated answering, she had the complete attention of the others at the table as well. They all looked at her expectantly. Why did she have that chilling feeling that she'd become a part of a predominantly male team that would gossip and stick their noses into her life worse than Maria Hill?
She took another bite, chewed slowly, then swallowed before answering. “We met briefly seven years ago. About a year later we met again, when Clint recruited me and helped me defect. It was almost a year later that we were assigned our first mission together.”
She carefully did not look at any of them as she said the words, keeping her eyes on her food, but she could feel his eyes on her again, his amusement at her veiled answer. It was the truth, if the bare bones of the facts. She tossed him a meaningful glance to keep his mouth shut. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners with his hidden laughter, and her heart lightened to see it. The hell Loki had put him through hadn’t damaged him as severely as she’d feared if he could laugh. She knew there was still a lot of guilt and repercussions to be worked through, but she could see her Clint there, lurking behind the shadow of fatigue and guilt. He acknowledged her silent demand to keep his mouth shut with a nearly imperceptible nod.
“So five years working together.” Steve looked as if he’d figured out something important. “That explains it then.”
The others nodded, each of the men staring at her with a knowing expression on their faces that made her want to run. Except him.
Clint looked smug, even though he was looking down at his food, as if contemplating whether to eat any more. He had only been picking at it for most of the meal. She ignored the others and moved her hand from her thigh to flick his leg. When he moved only his eyes to gaze at her from under his lashes with what she’d coined as his “puppy dog expression”, she stared pointedly at his food then back at him. He sighed, dropped his gaze and took another bite, chewing slowly.
The others were watching them and smiling and making rather wrong conclusions as people always did. It rather unnerved her, the intensity with which these men did so. Were they really that curious about her and Clint and how long they’d known each other? She supposed it was only natural since she’d exposed how much Clint meant to her while he was under Loki’s spell. It had been careless of her to expose that weakness. Loki had used that connection to the point of compromising her. Or rather, making her aware of just how compromised she was.
She swallowed down the rising emotions within her and focused on only what they wanted to know. “A lot can happen in five years,” she said without expounding. Let them think what they would. Most of SHIELD assumed the two of them were fucking each other. It didn’t matter if those assumptions were false. Denying it wouldn’t change what people thought, and her new team was already thinking it as well.
Clint made a sound, then coughed a bit, but didn't add anything. He sipped his drink and kept his eyes deliberately on his food. He was trying not to laugh. She almost smacked him, but settled for shifting her foot against his on the floor and pressing her heel down on his toes. He winced and stuffed another bite into his mouth. She removed her foot.
Thor tilted his head, then nodded. “That is very true. You two have…an affinity for each other. It is like you can read each other's minds. You speak your own language without words. You do so even now. Throughout the meal, you have said not two words to each other, and yet you have spoken volumes with your body language.”
Steve nodded in agreement with Thor’s wordy statement of the obvious. Bruce’s eye brows raised as if just considering it. Tony rolled his eyes. If it had felt awkward before, now she found it rather unsettling. All eyes were on her, even his. What was she to say to Thor’s observations? What did they want her to say?
She gritted her teeth in annoyance. She really shouldn't be surprised that they'd noticed the level of intimacy she and Clint shared. Most people did within an hour of meeting the two of them, though most were wrong as to exact nature of the intimacy between them. Still, this wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with anyone.
The friendship — and that was all it was no matter how many people assumed there was more to it than that — between her and Clint was not something she could define or explain. It just…was. It was one of those things she chose not to examine too closely, just accepted. It was a gift, something special that didn't need defining. It was hers. Hers and his. That was all that mattered.
“Most long term partners are like that,” Clint's voice rumbled softly as he answered for her. “You work with someone long enough, closely enough, you get to know their idiosyncrasies. Natasha and I just click, that’s all.”
He shrugged and then promptly took another huge bite of his food, making it impossible to say anything else about the matter. She could feel his eyes on her again, and she followed suit, taking a bite, figuring that if her mouth was full, she wouldn't have to talk anymore. It wasn’t any of their business anyway.
Tony sat back looking a bit annoyed that they hadn't been more forthcoming. But she was grateful for small favors. So far he hadn’t opened his mouth to comment about them himself. Nearly dying after having the crap beat out of you several times over several days would be enough to wear anyone out. Bruce looked rather bored. Or maybe he was just tired as well. They all were.
Thor set back into his food with a flourish. Natasha had never seen anyone eat like that and she'd spent the last five years mostly in the company of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, so that was saying something. Steve just drooped, dropping his head into one hand, his elbow propped on the table, his exhaustion palpable. And Clint went back to his watching but not watching her. So much for conversation.
But really, it was hardly the time to have a heart to heart pow-wow. First off, she didn't do those. Second, she was still too raw. There was too much she needed to process after all that had happened. But Steve's question stirred memories, and she suddenly found thinking about the past to be much more reassuring than processing the events of the past several days. It was easy to take comfort in remembering the past, especially the day Natalia Romanova first laid eyes on S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Clint “Hawkeye” Barton.
Her lips twitched with amusement. Stark had called him Legolas. But to her, he would always be Robin Hood, though she had never told him why. Maybe she should? She could feel his eyes on her again, but she ignored him, taking another bite of her pita wrapped whatever it was.
Funny how at the time Natasha had no idea that such a coincidental meeting would change her life so dramatically in ways she had never imagined possible. She didn't see him again for many months, but during that time, she thought about him. Everything had changed after that first encounter.
One
April 2005
Amsterdam
The hotel had three floors. Natalia found it unimpressive, having stayed in five star accommodations in various exotic locales. The lobby, with its vaulted ceiling, was like a large box, three levels high, and viewable from all floors via open balcony rails. The halls branched off away from the center, and she counted herself lucky that her target’s room was not on the stretch that overlooked the lobby. That would have made her job far more difficult, invisibility being imperative for a successful assassination.
She noted the layout in an instant, including potential escape routes, and set up her backup team in strategic locations to keep a look out. She preferred to work alone. It was far easier for a single person to slip in and out unnoticed, but her superiors had insisted on a four man team. She had acknowledged the order with a raised brow but did not question it.
Why should she? She had been psychologically programmed from an early age to accomplish whatever task they gave her without batting an eye.
Her intel suggested she was running a race with the Americans in trying to collect Frederik Berkov, a Russian scientist attempting to defect with crucial research her government did not want to lose. Whatever he was working on, her superiors were taking no chances of Berkov making it out alive to deliver that information to another country. The larger team would watch her back, ensuring she accomplished her task with no hindrances.
Not that she had ever needed a team before, especially with something as simple as this hit.
It should be an easy task: locate the scientist, kill him in a manner that left no fingers pointing back at the FSB, collect his research and get the hell out. But something about the added men, the sense of danger, blared that this task would be anything but easy.
Her true identity lay safely hidden beneath jeans and a bulky sweater that hid her weapons. Her red hair was hidden with a long blonde wig and her green eyes masked behind blue contacts and thick framed glasses; she looked like a college student touring Europe as she sauntered down a second floor hall towards Berkov’s room.
She had the scientist’s door in sight when all hell broke loose.
Shots were fired from the vicinity of the lobby. Her team called out warnings over her comm. She heard shouts from further up the hall, coming her way. Was nothing ever easy?
Natalia slipped into the nearest room (thankfully empty) and, through a small crack she left open, watched a team of four men in black fatigues storm the scientist's room. She did not know who they worked for, nor did she care. Her team was engaged in a firefight (did they know nothing of stealth?), while her target was being rescued (the Americans?), and she was caught somewhere in between.
She contemplated going into Berkov’s room anyway and taking out the four men along with the scientist, but her superiors would not be happy with a blood bath. Besides, another team arrived and entered the room, leaving one man to guard the door.
Her team was greatly outnumbered and outgunned. With her men radioing for instructions, she called an abort. This mission had failed before it had begun. It was time to get out and think about the repercussions of her failure later.
Natalia glanced out at the man guarding the door, but his back was to her. She could slip out and get down the hall before he turned around. She pulled open the door and darted out — and ran directly into another man in black.
She had never seen or heard him coming down the hall. It startled her, because she always saw and heard everything. But not him.
They both stumbled, and he reached out a hand to steady her. She took note that this one was dressed differently. His short sleeves were tight over the muscles of his arms; all the others had worn long-sleeved fatigues. He was young, somewhere in his late twenties to early thirties — one of those faces that made it difficult to guess his age. His dark hair was spiked up in a bad haircut, but he had the air of a leader: confident, precise, cool headed.
She easily fell into the role of a hotel patron, a frightened young woman in the midst of an attack by gunmen. She glanced up fearfully into his rough but handsome face, and was pinned by steel-blue eyes so intense she froze. Never had she seen eyes like his. This was a man who saw everything. It was unsettling.
Thankfully, as always, her brief flash of true emotion aided her cover. He might see all there was to see, but she was an expert at masking her true self and only showing what she wished for others to see.
“Please don’t kill me!” she shrieked in an American accent, shaking violently in his hold. He held her tight by the arm, but broke their gaze to glance back down the hall towards her target's room. In that moment, she caught sight of the patch on his shoulder: a stylized eagle with spread wings.
S.H.I.E.L.D.? Here? Bojemoi!
“I won't hurt you,” he assured, returning his attention and that disconcerting gaze to her. “We're the good guys. You alright?” he asked, setting her away from him.
S.H.I.E.L.D.? Good guys? That was laughable!
She nodded frantically, not breaking her wide-eyed fearful expression. Her lower lip trembled and tears filled her eyes. “I'm so sorry,” she babbled. “I heard shooting. Oh my God, why is there shooting?” Her voice wavered.
He did not seem to notice her question; his attention focused on the sound of shots being exchanged downstairs. “Best you return to your room, miss. And lock the door.”
He shoved her towards it, and she allowed him to do so, closing the door, but leaving enough of a sliver open for her to watch him go, her eyes taking note that while he had a gun holstered on his thigh, he also wore a quiver strapped to his back and carried a folding bow in his other hand.
That was rather…confounding. How had she missed seeing the bow and quiver? And since when did S.H.I.E.L.D. agents carry bows and arrows? Who did he think he was? Robin Hood?
He disappeared up a flight of steps leading to the next floor, and she slipped out of the room, keeping out of sight of the guard down the hall. Her intention at this point was to just get out and as far away from the hotel and S.H.I.E.L.D. as she could.
She made it downstairs without being seen and eased her head around the doorframe into the lobby, taking in the situation. She could just barely make out Yuri, one of her team, bleeding from a bullet wound to his shoulder. He was holed up against a wall behind a large grandfather clock as he held off two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
She could see another member of her team lying dead on the floor, but he was not the only fatality. There was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent down and several civilians who had been caught in the initial crossfire. That left one of her teammates unaccounted for, but Aleksei would not be seen; he moved like a shadow. She had called an abort, and he would already be headed to their extraction point.
Time for her to go as well. Yuri…was on his own.
She had taken a single step when a child's whimper reached her ears over the mayhem. Her gaze found the small girl trying to crawl towards a limp body. The woman was clearly dead.
Natalia should not care, should not stop, but that sight sparked something inside her, reminded her of something she had all but forgotten.
She had only been five when she had lost her own mother. The memory flash was brief, accompanied by a sharp pain in her head and a sudden bout of nausea. She had been programmed to forget the past. The combination was enough to make her shudder.
Frozen in place, she could only watch as the child stood, right as Aleksei showed himself off to her right, his gun leveled at the agents firing at Yuri. The girl was right in the line of fire.
Natalia did not think, only reacted, exploding into motion.
She drew her gun at the same time as she dove, sliding across the floor on her side and grabbing the child to her body, even as she used her momentum to spin and fired her weapon. Her shots hit Aleksei in the chest, and he went down, even as she slipped with the child from the line of fire behind a sofa.
Then she peered over it to aim her weapon at Yuri in order to end it, but it was already over. Yuri dropped to the floor, an arrow sticking from his chest. He was dead.
Natalia glanced up and her gaze collided with puzzled, but sharp steel-blue eyes.
The archer she had run into earlier stood leaning over the third floor balcony rail, his bow still raised. As their eyes met, she saw something in them, caught a glimpse of him, a hint of deep, hidden scars, but also strength and free will. This was a man with choices, who did what he did because he believed it was right.
The sight stirred something deep inside her. What would it be like to have control of her own destiny? To have a choice, to think for herself?
Then the moment passed. She had to get out. It would only take him a moment to process that he had seen her upstairs by the target's room, and what she had just done…
She broke her gaze away, released the girl and scrambled back to the doorway, expecting to feel the bite of an arrow in her back. Those eyes followed her; she could feel them burning into her as she retreated.
“Stop her!”
But it was too late. Natalia was out the front entrance and had slipped into the night, blending in and fading away as only she could do.
“Stop her!”
Clint Barton stood at his perch on the third floor, his bow still outstretched over the balcony railing from his fatal shot that ended the gun fight below, and watched as the blonde beauty he’d encountered on the second floor disappeared.
What the hell just happened?
This was supposed to have been an easy mission. He nearly snorted at that thought. Easy? He’d known the moment Fury insisted on more than one team to extract the defecting Russian scientist that it wouldn’t be a simple in and out mission. But one could always hope, right?
Clint didn’t know what the scientist’s research was about. He didn’t want to know either. That part wasn’t his job. Then again, picking up strange Russian scientists from tourist frequented parts of Europe wasn’t usually in his job description either. He was an assassin, not a babysitter. But from what he could gather, whatever the strange little man had been working on was important enough to the WSC that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been sent to collect the man. And Fury had assigned Hawkeye as Team Leader.
He’d thought it was something of a reward for his last mission ending so successfully. He should have known better. Fury never gave his top operatives a walk in the park assignment. No, he’d been given this assignment in case something went wrong.
And something had gone terribly wrong. Clint just wasn’t sure what.
The sound of a child’s crying brought him back from his thoughts. He shuddered and glanced down at the little girl crying beside her mother’s body. His heart clenched in his chest, and he pulled back from the banister.
“Coulson, we have a situation.”
“Copy that, Hawk. Report.” Coulson’s voice came over the comm stuck in his ear.
“Mission accomplished, sir, but… We have a mess here. Multiple casualties: civilian, enemy and our own.” The child’s cries could be heard even though Clint could no longer see her. His hands shook.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Intel said the Russians would send an assassin to eliminate our package, but I count three dead Russians in the lobby and based on performance, none of them are of assassin caliber. Not a typical hit by the FSB. I’d say possibly a strike team, but not a very efficient one. Backup for the assassin, perhaps? But that also isn’t in keeping with an FSB hit. I count one that escaped…”
He paused, then glanced back over the balcony at the weeping child, seeing again in his mind the blonde girl, first on the second floor not far from their package’s room, then down in the lobby…
“Oh fuck.”
Clint mentally berated himself as all kinds of a fool. She was good — the image of an American college girl touring Europe. He hadn’t seen her for what she was.
“Talk to me.”
“I believe our assassin is a young woman. Blonde, wearing jeans, grey sweater and glasses. She slipped out before we could stop her. My guess is she aborted her mission when we entered the package’s room. She… She shot one of her own team, sir.”
“Come again?” It was one of the rare times he actually heard surprise in Coulson’s voice.
“There was a firefight in the lobby. I’m not certain how that started, but she saved a child and shot one of the Russians and turned to kill the other, but I got him first. Then she fled.”
The silence over his comm was telling. Hell, he was having a hard time processing it himself.
“Coulson?”
“Clear that building and make certain there are no more Russian operatives lurking about and get Alpha Team and the package to the roof for extraction.”
“Yes sir.”
“And Barton, get me any video surveillance of the woman that hotel security might have caught.”
Clint glanced at the one camera in the lobby. He hoped it was recording. In his mind he could still see the blonde sliding across the floor, grabbing the child and turning to fire… He’d never seen another woman move with that kind of precision.
Clint took a deep breath. He could still hear the cries below above the murmurs of other guests who had taken cover when the shooting had begun. Team Delta had secured the lobby, holding position at the exits, and keeping anyone from entering.
“Beta Team, sweep the hotel for hostiles. Alpha is to remain put with the package until further notice. Shoot anything that comes in the door of that room.”
Both teams acknowledged the orders.
“Check in when it’s clear.”
Clint glanced at the mess in the room, skipping over the weeping child and the bloodied body of her mother. “Coulson, we’re going to need one hell of a clean up team here, sir.”
“I’m already on it.”
With a calmness he didn’t necessarily feel, Clint made his way from his perch down to the lobby. Then he forced himself to cross it to the little girl huddled by the body of her mother. A man’s body lay not far away. The child’s father?
He picked the girl up in his arms, cradling her against his chest. “Shhhh… It’s alright, little one. It’ll be alright.”
How he wished he didn’t have to lie. Her life would never be the same again. If she was lucky, she had grandparents or an aunt or uncle who would take her in. But if she did not, then she very well might end up in an orphanage. And Clint knew all about orphanages.
He glanced at the Russian the blonde woman had shot. Clint had taken position at the railing of the third floor just as the little girl had stood up, putting herself into the line of fire. He’d drawn, nocked and aimed his arrow at the man in a split second, unwilling to watch another child die if he could help it. But the blonde had dived into the fray and shot the man, so Clint had turned his arrow to the final gunman, ending the bloodshed.
A disturbance near one of the doors caught his attention, and he turned towards it. A man was arguing with one of Delta Team securing the lobby, but Agent Black held his position, gun drawn, and refused the man entrance.
“That’s my daughter!” the man shouted, pointing to the girl in Clint’s arms. “My God, that’s my daughter!”
Clint’s eyes slipped closed in relief for a moment, then he nodded at Black to let the man enter. He made his way over to him. As soon as the girl saw the man claiming to be her father, she started struggling in Clint’s arms and reaching out for him.
“Papa! Papa!”
Clint gladly handed the child over to her father, who wept and rocked the girl in his arms, even as his eyes locked on the body of his wife. There was nothing Clint could do about his loss, except to express his sorrow and explain that he could not answer any questions as to what had happened at this time. Coulson could handle this part much better than he ever would.
Stepping away, Clint moved to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent lying on the floor. He stooped down and checked for vital signs he knew he would not find. The agent stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.
Clint hadn’t known Thomas Burland well, but had heard good things about the younger agent. He reached out and closed the man’s eyes. One never got used to losing a fellow agent in the field, but he’d learned emotion wouldn’t change the past. He stared hard at Burland for a moment.
“Hawkeye, this is Beta.”
“Go ahead,” he replied, rising to his feet. There was no time here for grief. That would come later, with a single glass of whiskey and loud pounding music.
“Building is clear. Exits are covered.”
“Roger that. Coulson, you have extraction in place?”
“Waiting on you, Hawk.”
“Alpha, proceed to the roof with the package.”
“Package is moving.”
When it was all over, the scientist safely extracted, debriefings and reports delivered and the mess cleaned up, Clint climbed aboard the Quinjet with Team Beta. The mission was listed as successful, but it did not feel that way.
A little girl had lost her mother. Another family had lost a father. S.H.I.E.L.D. had lost a good man…
Clint turned his thoughts from their dark paths and instead went back to puzzling out the mystery woman that had escaped.
The surveillance camera had indeed caught a fraction of her rescue of the child in the lobby. S.H.I.E.L.D. had confiscated the tape. But Clint had the image burned into his mind.
Who was she? Why had she been there? Why had she killed her own team member to save a child?
He knew better than to ask about her. If he needed to know, Coulson would tell him. But Coulson was being silent on the subject, and that only peaked his curiosity more.
Who the hell was she? And why was he even thinking about her?
In the aftermath of all that had happened, he found himself unable to stop his thoughts long enough to catch some much needed sleep on the flight back. Over and over he saw her in his mind, sliding across the floor, grabbing the child, spinning to fire and making that shot.
And her eyes. There had been something about her eyes when their gazes had locked. It felt as if he’d looked into her and caught a glimpse of the woman beneath the mask of an assassin.
As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was intrigued.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thinking about those eyes…and her pouty lips, and what secrets she held. He might never know, but he could imagine, right?
Two
Early February 2006
Boston
“This is what I want. You will get it for me, yes?”
Natalia took the folder with hardly a glance at the man. Juan Torres was under the impression that she was here to work for him, but that was not the game she played. She had been sent by one of his competitors.
The faint odor of wood smoke tinged the air as she opened the manila folder and glanced down at a single photograph. She glanced up with a raised brow.
“I’m confused, what is it exactly that you want?”
“Information, my dear. That is your specialty, is it not?” He came closer and trailed a finger down her arm. She ignored the touch. It meant nothing. “Among other skills, I am told.”
“Not all my skills are for hire.” Her voice was cold. There was a time and place for those skills, but it was not here.
Torres froze, briefly met her eyes, and then took a step back. “That is too bad. I would pay well to see all of your…skills.” He smirked.
“You would pay with your life.”
She pretended not to notice that he took another step away from her, his face paling as the smirk disappeared. She was the Black Widow, after all.
“What is it you want?” She glanced back down at the image. It was of a computer monitor. Pulled up on the screen was a list of file names. One was highlighted.
“This is just a photograph of a computer. I’m afraid photography is not my forte.” She smiled sweetly at him.
“But hacking into high security systems is according to my sources.” Torres smiled back.
She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “Could be, for the right price. Depends on what it is you want and from whom. I do not work cheap.”
“Money is not a problem. Provided you can get me the information I desire?”
“And what information is that?” For whatever reason, he seemed hesitant to explain exactly what he wanted and that made her cautious.
“Highly sensitive data, concerning an…organization and specifically, its operatives.”
He smiled again, in what he probably thought was a charming manner, but which actually made him look something of a fool. Natalia had little use for fools. His vague answer also fueled the warning in her gut.
The last time she had experienced that feeling, she had found herself up against S.H.I.E.L.D., even if that failed mission had led to her freedom from the program — at least until they caught up with her. Eventually, her Russian handlers would find her, but in the meantime, she kept her eyes and options open. But this vague intel…
She tapped her fingernails on the folder, determined to get the information she needed.
“Which organization and what kind of information about its operatives?” Her question was more of a demand than an inquiry. She was getting tired of asking.
His brows rose on his forehead. “Does it really matter?” He looked genuinely perplexed.
Bojemoi! The man is truly a fool. She raised a brow right back.
“It might. There are organizations that would mark me for relieving them of such information. I would have to watch my back for months, if not years, kill a lot of people…” She lifted one hand and glanced at her perfectly manicured fingers. “I could break a nail. It gets messy.”
She looked back at him with a calculated half smile. “So let me ask again, which organization and what information?”
She was gratified that Torres took another step away from her. “And just how did you manage to get a photo without getting the file itself?”
He looked away, not meeting her eyes.
“I had a contact on the inside that took the photo on his phone and sent it to me. But due to the sensitive nature of the information, he would only give me the name of the file and its location. He refused to access it and risk being caught.”
“What exactly is in the file?” It had to be something valuable.
“The file contains a list, matching operative’s codenames with their true identities. There is a certain operative who has caused me some difficulty by relieving my second in command of his duties…permanently.”
Ah, so the fool had enemies besides the one who had hired her.
“So?” Natalia could care less about personal vendettas. More than likely, the moron wanted to sell the information to the highest bidder. Not a bad idea. She might just forget to mention the file to her employer if it turned out to be worth her while to obtain it. “Hire a new second.”
“He was also my brother,” Torres snapped.
“My condolences on the loss of his job.”
Her tone was dry, her face void of any emotion. The fire popped in the grate, reminding her that the temperature was dropping outside. He was wasting her time.
He ignored her sarcasm.
“Get me the file. I will take the information I want, you can have the rest and sell it. It’s a win-win situation for us both.”
She perked up at that, or pretended to do so. Not that she was above selling the information, but she was finding this whole scenario rather boring. She let her eyes go wide with feigned interest.
“So you’ll pay me to steal the information and then give it to me to sell?”
“Yes.”
“Where do I find the file?”
He shifted ever so subtly, and Natalia’s gut twisted in warning. Her fingers twitched towards the knife in her pocket.
“That is the tricky part.”
There was always a catch.
“Where is it?” She remained calm and patient outside though inwardly she seethed. Just spit it out.
He hesitated, and she handed the manila folder back to him. It was time to push him a bit.
“I’m sorry, but without a location…” She shrugged and turned to walk away, prepared for any attack that might come from him.
She knew he would not let her walk away, and he did not. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“S.H.I.E.L.D.”
She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“The data belongs to S.H.I.E.L.D.” His voice was stronger, but he looked nervous.
He should. Torres was asking her to break into a S.H.I.E.L.D. database and steal an assassin list. Natalia’s face remained an impassive mask, even as she cursed internally.
“And who or what exactly is S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
Her question seemed to jar him from his wariness.
He smirked, some of his earlier attempt at charm returning. “Come, come now. You do not expect me to believe that the Black Widow is ignorant of the organization known as S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Of course she wasn’t.
“Never heard of it.”
He opened the file again, and pointed to the picture, tapping a blurry emblem on a corner of the screen. Then he reached into his jacket. She tensed, preparing to attack should he pull a weapon, but instead he pulled out an embroidered patch.
“You have never seen this before?”
The patch was familiar: a stylized eagle with spread wings. And she had seen it far more closely than she would have liked almost a year ago, when she had run into that archer she had thought of as Robin Hood ever since. She had known about the organization known as S.H.I.E.L.D. for many years, but until that failed mission in Amsterdam, she had avoided any run-ins with them.
That failure had cost her even as it had freed her. Her superiors had been most displeased at the loss of the scientist and his research. She might have walked away from the hotel unscathed, but she had not walked away from her handlers the same. She had spent two days in the infirmary after their “correction” for her failure to eliminate the scientist, not to mention that she had killed her own teammate just to save some kid who should not have mattered to her…but had.
It had been her breaking point.
Everything that had been building inside of her over the months leading up to that mission had silently exploded. After she had healed enough, she had broken out, leaving the Program behind her and striking out on her own, free of her handlers and their control.
“Never seen it,” she lied, frowning at the patch. “Where did you get it? Does it mean something?”
Bitterness flashed across his face.
“I got it off the jacket of the operative who killed my brother. He was spotted on the roof right after the arrow hit Alejandro in the eye. My men gave chase, but in their pursuit, they only managed to get his jacket, which he had shed after it snagged on a fence.”
Sloppy. Shouldn’t leave his stuff behind like that.
Natalia reached for the patch, and he let her take it. She fingered it thoughtfully as her mind processed what he had just said.
“Arrow?”
He snorted. “Yes, this operative is a bit unique. He prefers a bow and arrows to a gun.”
Robin Hood?
“He should be an easy kill if he gives himself away during a hit, then leaves his things behind afterwards.”
But she knew better. She had seen his eyes. Robin Hood was too good for those kinds of blunders. There was more to what had taken place than the man had yet mentioned.
“No. It was simple luck that one of my men decided to change his routine. He went to the roof instead of the main floor and spotted the operative just after he had released the shot. My man managed to land at least one bullet in the killer, so the Hawk was a bit incapacitated in his flight.”
“Hawk?”
“Hawkeye. That is his codename.”
Strange. She was feeling just a bit irate that this idiot’s man had wounded Robin Hood. She shook off the feeling. What happened to him should not matter to her.
“And you discovered his codename how?”
He reached into his pocket again, pulling out another patch: a grey rectangle embroidered in black with the name “Hawkeye”.
Well, so much for calling him Robin Hood.
“And what will you do once you have his name?”
“Track him down and kill him.”
“I see. Good luck with that. Where exactly is this file? You said it belongs to, what was it? S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
He smiled and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, fingering it.
“You do not fool me. You know exactly what S.H.I.E.L.D. is.” He held out the paper with the address of the building. “Get me the file, and I will make it very much worth your while.”
She looked hard at the slip of paper.
It would not be easy getting that kind of information. Definitely a challenge, however. Maybe even fun. Her lips quirked into a sneer. She could use a challenge, even if she had no intention of turning over the file to Torres. He would not need it anyway.
She took the paper, and as she slipped it into her pocket, she palmed one of her small knives — her widow’s sting. Her hand left her pocket even as she spun, her movements so swift that he did not even have time to dodge as the blade bit into his throat, slashing it open.
She left him gurgling in a pool of his own blood, his death similar to the modus operandi of a well known drug cartel. The police would also find evidence in his files linking the man to the cartel and come to the appropriate conclusions. The competitor who had hired her would never be suspected.
She calmly picked up the folder he had dropped, memorized the information in the photo as she walked to the cheerfully burning fireplace in the north wall. Then she tossed the manila folder into the flames. The scrap of paper with the address followed, its information safely stored in her memory. Her employer did not need to know about it. She had no intention of turning that information over to them.
For her, it would be a bit of entertainment and a challenge. Just why she was even curious about his name, she did not bother to ponder.
What she did consider for a moment was that her plotting would put her on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar in a big way. And for what? A name? A bit of fun? But the more she considered the game, the less she cared about the danger.
As she walked calmly away from the fire, she pulled out her phone and keyed in a number.
“Target eliminated. Nothing of value. Please verify funds have been deposited.”
The two patches she stuffed into her boot. She did not ponder that either.
Helicarrier
“You summoned me, sir?”
Clint stood at the door to Nick Fury’s private sanctum. He could count on one hand the number of times he had been summoned here, with a couple of fingers left over.
“Agent Barton.” Fury stood. “Come in. Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair situated at a computer terminal. At the moment the screen was dark.
Oh, this will be fun. Just like sitting in the heat, scratching fly bites.
Clint flopped down in the chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles even as he crossed his arms over his chest. He despised assignments being presented to him in this manner.
Fury — damn him — liked the intimidation factor of standing over the shoulder of an agent, pointing out whatever information could just as easily have been absorbed without his hovering behind them. Being here, in Fury’s sanctum, made it even worse.
But he said nothing.
Clint had learned during his first months of working with S.H.I.E.L.D. that you didn’t piss off Director Nick Fury. Not without serious repercussions. Clint had no desire to spend another month in a tropical climate, infested with fleas and plagued by flies — and don’t forget the lice! — waiting for some bad guy to decide to do something other than scratch his ass.
So he kept his mouth shut, as he sat in the most comfortable but disrespectful position he could manage without fear of backlash, and waited.
Fury ignored it, of course.
“I have an assignment for you.”
No shit. Clint inclined his head, keeping his eyes on the dark screen, his face an emotionless mask.
Fury reached over Clint’s shoulder to touch the screen. Clint gritted his teeth in annoyance but maintained his lackadaisical posture. He had long suspected Fury of subterfuge, but wouldn’t give the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. the satisfaction of manipulating a reaction out of him.
Besides, it was more entertaining to remain passive and annoy Fury without doing anything other than sitting there.
The screen flickered to life, and Fury began to talk as pictures began to flash on the screen. Clint paid close attention to every detail while managing to pull off looking bored. Fury continued without pause in his briefing, though his one-eyed gaze flickered in Clint’s direction with a look of clear annoyance. Clint repressed a smirk.
“Drakov,” Fury was saying. “A Russian diplomat who happened to be a threat to certain factions within the Russian government. That’s his daughter. She was everything to him after his wife died. Their only child. When he refused to bend to manipulation, the little girl disappeared. They found her body a month later. She was seven.”
Clint swallowed hard and flinched mentally away from the images summoned from his nightmares, grateful when the Director continued.
Several other pictures flashed and Fury continued his monologue. Sensitive information had been leaked. Important officials had turned up dead. A hospital fire that had killed more than thirty people, including a high profile general, and injured dozens more.
Several minutes passed like this, with Clint watching the photos, knowing that Fury intended to assign him to a hit. Give the agent a reason to disassociate from the target being human. Make it clear the target deserved to die, that the hit was justified. Clint had done it before, more times than he cared to remember, yet he watched vigilantly, letting the images register.
Death, however necessary, always added red to his ledger. He’d wipe it out another day. Today somebody deserved to die.
But who?
He blinked in surprise as a new image flashed on the screen. A familiar hotel in Amsterdam. A photo of the dead Russians in the lobby.
A little less than a year ago, Clint’s team had been sent in to grab a Russian scientist who wished to defect, along with his valuable research. They had managed to find Berkov before the Russians could kill him, but there had been one hell of a firefight that had caused several civilian casualties and killed one member of his team.
And her. That’s where he’d seen her.
The image changed again, and this time he was looking at her.
He straightened in his chair, pulling his legs under him. He stared at the image of the blonde woman from the hotel. The one who had run into him and whom he had at first mistaken for a frightened innocent. She had confused the hell out of him not ten minutes later by diving into the fray and saving a child, while turning her weapon on the Russian Clint had just managed to get in his sights. She would have taken out the other one, too, if his arrow hadn’t hit the man first.
She’d glanced up at him and their gazes had locked, and he’d seen her. Not the Russian operative, but the woman. He’d seen her pain, the festering wounds that disguised themselves as scars, the longing in her eyes for something more. Then the moment had ended and she’d been gone.
She had crossed his mind more times than he could count since that day. He sank back in his seat as he wondered who she was.
The screen changed again, showing a video of the same woman, only this time her hair was a deep red.
Oh hell yeah, that suits her better than the blonde!
Clint almost grinned but caught himself before Fury saw it. He forced himself to relax his posture as he watched. Beautiful, graceful as a ballerina, and agile as a gymnast, she was dressed in a black bodysuit, weapons of all kinds strapped to her thighs, waist and wrists.
And I thought she was sexy in the faded jeans and baggy sweater. Damn.
He leaned toward the screen, resting his arms on the desk. He watched her flip up and wrap her thighs around a guard’s neck — is that Paul; the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? Paul dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Another agent stepped into the fray, and to his astonishment, Clint found himself inwardly cheering her on as he watched her skill in hand-to-hand combat. She moved with fluid grace and purpose, like a cat on the prowl.
Amazing.
There weren’t many women like this one. She singlehandedly beat the shit out of several agents with a finesse that he found exhilarating. He’d give a lot to spar with that woman, whoever she was.
Too bad she’s an enemy. He sighed.
She reached the end of a hall, her green eyes piercing as she smirked up at the camera, obviously wanting to be seen. This was a different woman than the one he’d seen in Amsterdam, and he wondered where the wounded woman had gone.
She pulled open a door, and the surveillance camera view switched to the room she entered. She sauntered to a computer terminal and pulled out a disk, inserting it into the drive. Then she proceeded to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D. security with the speed and finesse of the legendary Tony Stark. Apparently finding what she was looking for, she glanced up at the security camera and blew it a kiss.
Incredible!
The video screen stopped, freezing on her triumphant face. Fury’s voice brought him back to reality and made him aware that his jaw had dropped. He snapped his mouth shut, blanked his face and kept his eyes on the screen, on her.
And then he saw it, caught another glimpse of her, the young woman he’d seen in Amsterdam screaming out to him to help her. He swallowed.
“Your target,” came Fury’s dry voice, “is Natalia Romanova. She’s also known as the Black Widow, among other aliases. Ever heard of her?”
Clint tensed, his hands forming fists where they rested on the desk.
That’s who she was? Fuck!
“Who hasn’t? She’s the best Russia has. I’ve heard none can touch her in hand-to-hand. I see why.” He forced himself to relax and sit back in the chair, recrossing his ankles and arms. So much for late night fantasies about a pretty blonde in a baggy sweater wielding a Makarov in an Amsterdam hotel.
Fury nodded. “She was. We’ve learned that she was able to slip her handlers’ leash and has been acting independently since. The Russians aren’t very happy about that. They’d also like her dead.”
“Understandable.” Most governments didn’t tolerate loose cannons. Clint knew that first hand.
“She was a valuable commodity until she started working for whoever paid the most, even if it meant working against her own government. Prior to this, we didn’t worry a whole lot about her. Oh, we’ve kept tabs on her while she was working for the Russians, and she’s been a concern, but over the past ten months, she’s taken a different course. This last incident made it clear just how dangerous she can be. She had no problems getting past our security and accessing a file that contains some, well, shall we say, sensitive information?”
Fury moved to lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, facing Clint. “That computer system contains some information we’d rather not have in anyone else’s hands.”
“And you want me to recover it?” Clint blinked. That wasn’t his customary assignment and not really his skill set. He was a sniper. He made the clean, distant kills and he preferred it that way. Of course, he already knew where Fury was headed with all this; he just didn’t want to accept it.
“No.” Fury’s voice sent a shiver down Clint’s spine.
He glanced up from the screen he’d been staring at intently. Pretty or not, Natalia Romanova aka the Black Widow was the enemy, and from the sound of it, his arrow was going to be the last thing she felt. It was a bitter truth he would rather not accept. It felt wrong.
“What is it you want me to do?”
Fury breathed out and gazed down at Clint with a calculating look that made Clint nervous. Fury wanted to know something he either wouldn’t or couldn’t outright ask, but Clint would be damned if he knew just what.
Please don’t make me kill her.
There was something about that woman that appealed to him. And it wasn’t just about how attractive he found her body or how fascinated he was with her fighting skills. Oh sure, that was part of it, but there was more to her than met the eye, more than she let anyone see.
But he saw it. She had saved that child! Cold assassins didn’t stop to save children in the line of fire.
Well, he did, but that was different. He was far from the typical assassin. And she…
Best not to think about it too much, Barton. Only get you in trouble. Again.
“Here’s the thing.” Whatever Fury had been looking for, he must have found it. The tension left the man and one corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “She didn’t actually take anything. That’s the strange part of all this.”
“She didn’t take anything?” Clint’s brows rose and he looked back at the image on the screen.
“Nope.”
Just what was she up to? Smart, capable of breaking into a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. facility and hacking into one of the toughest computer systems in the world. She should have been able to waltz out with all sorts of valuable information. So why didn’t she?
“She broke into a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, beat the shit out of at least a half a dozen of our agents, hacked into our computer system and then…didn’t take anything?” He glanced from the screen to Fury with a baffled look.
“Yep.” Fury continued to stare at him with that unsettling one-eyed gaze. It felt as though the Director wanted Clint to figure everything out without giving him enough information to do so.
Clint hated that. It was one of the many reasons he’d rather deal with Coulson. Phil actually explained everything in that dull but matter-of-fact way of his. However, Clint wasn’t talking to Coulson but Fury, which meant that whatever the Black Widow had accessed wasn’t just important, it was detrimental.
With Fury calling the shots, there was no room for any errors or his ass would be toast. He rather liked his ass, too. One of the girls down in logistics had told him he had a cute ass, and he’d prefer to keep it intact.
Clint shook his head, trying to make sense of just what the Black Widow had done. Was there something he had missed? He replayed the video in his mind, and came to the only possible conclusion.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Fury agreed. “Especially considering which file she accessed.” Fury lifted his one visible brow.
“Yeah, because I know what that was,” Clint muttered in frustration. He knew Fury would get to it eventually, but he really hated the way the man could beat around the bush to make a point.
“Don’t be a smart ass, Barton.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“No, you’re not.”
Clint smirked, but kept his mouth shut. Fury could just be pushing his buttons, still trying to get a reaction from him. But some niggling sensation at the back of Clint’s mind disagreed. It was more likely that Fury was making a point of some kind, a point he could not come right out and say. It would be up to Clint to figure out what it was.
Fury leaned forward and tapped the screen again, continuing the video at an angle that showed the computer screen.
The Widow clicked on a file, opening a document of some kind. She ran a finger down the screen, as if searching for a specific piece of information, then she smiled. Using the mouse, she highlighted a single line in the document. Clint squinted at it, but couldn’t read the tiny print, though he knew the surveillance video would have been enhanced to reveal exactly what Natalia Romanova had noted.
Then to his surprise, she glanced up at the camera again, winked, then stood and walked away.
Clint blinked, even his internal sarcasm speechless at what he was seeing.
The Black Widow paused to look back over her shoulder at the camera one last time. She said something, but the video didn’t contain audio. The best he could tell by reading her lips, she said “See you later, Robin Hood.”
He must have read her wrong because that made no sense. None of what he’d seen made any sense. Unless she was making fun of him for using a bow? In which case… Had she been talking to him?
What in Hell???
Then she walked out. Just walked out and left the file pulled up on the screen with that one line highlighted.
“What was in that file?” he asked, looking up at his boss and thinking if Fury didn’t give him a straight answer, he might just get a little bit irritated. Clint didn’t like being irritated.
Fury winced. Oh, that can’t be good.
“It’s an operative’s list, matching code names with their identities.”
The blood drained from Clint’s face and a chill ran down his spine. His name was on that list.
“But she didn’t take it?” Why would a spy break into a facility, access such information and then leave it behind? That list would be worth millions to the right parties and S.H.I.E.L.D. had plenty of enemies willing to pay for it.
“Yep.”
“Why?” Now he was feeling really confused and completely off kilter, a state he almost never found himself in.
“We don’t know. From the looks of it, she was only interested in one name.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“Whose?”
Fury cocked a brow that spoke volumes without his actually coming right out and saying it.
Great. “Am I a target sir?”
“Don’t know, Barton. I can’t read the woman’s mind.”
Clint blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head. “What is it you expect me to do?”
“The Council feels that she cannot be allowed to live, not waltzing in like she did and thumbing her nose at us while looking like she was merely there for some R & R. Not to mention having seen that list. You are ordered to eliminate her.”
Clint closed his eyes. Such a waste of talent. He’d give a lot to have that woman working with him.
An idea popped into his head. “Sir, what if…”
“The Council wants her dead, Barton.”
He blinked his eyes open and glared up at Fury. “But sir…”
“Did you not hear a thing I have told you? The woman is a menace. She kills and makes it look fun. She toyed with our agents like they were training dummies, blew kisses at our security cameras and waltzed out like she owned the place. And that was just today! I’ve not even touched the tip of the iceberg of what she’s done over the last ten months. The Council wants her dead.”
But she didn’t kill anyone to get the information. And the way she’d managed it!
“Yeah, but…”
“And she knows the identity of one of our top assassins.” Fury looked at him pointedly. There was no mistaking just whose name she had been after.
He couldn’t really argue with that, now could he? But why did she want his name? He had the oddest impression it wasn’t because she wanted to kill him, though he wouldn’t unnecessarily bet his life on that notion. But this was wrong. He didn’t want to kill her.
“Sir, she saw me in Amsterdam. She’ll recognize me. That should preclude me from this assignment.”
Something that Fury should damn well know, based on his debriefing after Amsterdam. Though he hadn’t been on that mission as an assassin, but as team leader, his weapon of choice would make it easy for a woman as smart as Natalia Romanova to put it all together. So what game was Fury playing here?
“Being as you’re going in with hit orders, she won’t see you. That’s what you do best, isn’t it, Agent Barton?”
Clint sighed loudly and his arguments died a swift death. There was nothing for it then.
Fury slid him a case containing a computer disk with the details of his mission. Clint picked it up and clambered to his feet, taking one last look at the video screen.
“When do I leave?”
Fury glanced down at his watch.
“That video is less than two hours old. I want you in place ASAP. Coulson will meet you on the flight deck. He’ll handle the rest of your briefing in flight and will be running the comm and overseeing exfil. Wheels up in thirty.” Fury’s brows rose in question.
Clint inclined his head in an unspoken acknowledgement. He could make that time. He started to head out but Fury’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“I expect you to do the right thing, Agent Barton.”
The words were ominous and filled with a deeper meaning. Clint nodded and left, but the words played over and over in his head as he collected his gear. What was Nick Fury up to? Was this a test of some kind? Clint knew in his gut that Fury expected something else from him, beyond following the Council’s orders. But what?
Shaking his head and mumbling under his breath, he jogged through the Helicarrier towards the flight deck, where Coulson waited for him. As he approached, a feeling of dread settled on him. This mission was going to forever change his life. He could feel it.
To Be Continued…
