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be_compromised2014-07-14 08:09 pm
Fic: Defining Points Chap 3/? (R)
Pairing/Characters: Clint/Natasha, the usual SHIELD and Marvel characters
Word Count: Novel length ongoing WIP. Estimate when complete 80K words
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence in keeping with spies/assassins, sexual situations. No gratuitous gore or porn, but this isn’t a children’s tale either.
Author’s Notes: I've been out of the writing loop for over a year due to some personal issues, but I am determined to finish this story before Age of Ultron comes out!
Summary: She'd had no idea that such a coincidental meeting would change her life so dramatically. He'd 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 found herself unwittingly compromised as well. Black Widow/Hawkeye. Movieverse with a touch of comic canon per author's prerogative.
Defining Points - Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Three
April 2006
Somewhere over Europe
"The Black Widow has been a very naughty spider over the past year."
Clint glanced up from his folder to look at Phil Coulson, whose lips quirked in a slight smile at his own joke, which for Coulson meant that they barely moved.
Clint smirked. He had never met anyone who could pull off expressionless as well as Phil. And it wasn't just his expression. Nothing seemed to phase the man. Ever. Even in the midst of a full out hand to hand fight, Coulson was all business.
And the man could kick ass, Clint knew that first hand, having had his own kicked a few times when he'd first come on board with S.H.I.E.L.D. and had the "honor" of having Phil Coulson assigned as his handler.
He'd been a cocky son of a bitch back then.
He still was, Clint could admit to himself, but he was good enough now to get away with it. He hadn't been when he'd first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., although he'd thought he was. He'd been an Army Ranger, after all, and one of the best. Coulson had been one of several to teach him that the skills he'd learned in the Special Forces were only a stepping stone to what he was capable of accomplishing. Special Forces was one thing. A level seven S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was something else entirely. Coulson and his other mentors had taken his skills and talents and honed them into such proficiency that he was now considered one of the deadliest weapons on two legs that S.H.I.E.L.D. employed.
And that was with his only being level five.
When he had achieved that level a few months ago, Coulson had stated that when Clint reached level seven, they'd all be screwed. Several agents had laughed at the seeming joke, but Clint knew Coulson hadn't been joking.
In the four plus years he had been with S.H.I.E.L.D., he had made a name for himself, both with his fellow agents as well as their enemies. He advanced quickly because Clint was damn good at what he did, and not just marksmanship, hand to hand combat, or stealth, but weapons design, security systems and electronics. He had always been mechanically inclined and good with his hands. Even back in his circus days as a kid, he had been able to fix just about anything. He had designed his folding bow and automated quiver along with various arrowheads himself, refusing to even let Stark Industries see the plans. It had taken him a couple years to get it right, and he still tinkered with improvements, but it was his and his alone, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had approved it as his primary weapon.
When he'd first been recruited, his use of a bow had garnered him some ridicule from the other agents. That derision ceased when, a mere six months into his training, he scored highest ranking in marksmanship within S.H.I.E.L.D. — with any weapon handed to him, be it his bow, rifle or a handgun. The handgun was his least favorite weapon, and he had bested the other top marksmen only marginally — pure damn luck he had managed that! A pistol just never felt right in his hands, not like his bow or even his rifle. With those, he had scored so far above the other marksmen, they had given him the codename, Hawkeye.
There had been a time, not that long ago, when his skill as well as the respect of his fellow agents would have gone to his head and made him something of an arrogant prick. But those first couple years working with Coulson had helped to strip him of the chip on his shoulder — or most of it. Phil had pointed out to him that he had nothing left to prove, that he had already demonstrated his superiority, multiple times.
Coulson also reminded him that being the best didn't make him better than everyone else, and when Clint had smarted off in reply, Coulson had kicked his ass again, just to remind Clint that he could still do it.
And he'd done it without any expression whatsoever on his face. Clint could never figure out how the man did that. He himself felt things too deeply to hide his emotions the way Phil did.
Which reminded him that he needed to keep his emotions in check or Phil would pick up on his attraction to his current target. He didn't know why he had…well, for lack of a better word, feelings for a woman he had briefly run into and hadn't even met, but something about her had touched a part of him in a most unsettling manner.
This mission was going to prove to be one of his most difficult. He knew that in his gut. He focused back on his file.
"When did she break with the FSS?" Clint asked, trying to make heads or tails of the information he had been given. When the USSR had fallen apart, the KGB had become the FSS. From what Clint had read, it was pretty much the same thing.
Phil didn't even look up from where he was fiddling with some of the communications equipment that would keep them in touch during his mission. It all had to be checked and double checked before he went into the field.
"Our intelligence reported that she broke off shortly after Amsterdam," Coulson said in that monotone voice of his as he fiddled with a cable. "There was rather a mad scramble by Moscow. She just disappeared on them. Nothing to explain why."
Clint wondered about that. He had seen something in her when their eyes had met in that hotel lobby. Some emotion that led him to believe she fought an internal battle. And she had saved that kid, killing one of her own to do so. Perhaps that had something to do with her decision to leave the FSS, but it didn't explain why she had struck out on her own.
He flipped ahead to the pages that expounded on the various exploits of the Black Widow over the past ten months and came to the conclusion that the woman either didn't care or had a death wish. She was accruing enemies faster than any other wild card out there. Her own government had a contract out on her.
But she was good. Very good, and to date had eluded all sent to take her out.
He flipped back to the earlier pages with the information they had about the program that had trained the Black Widow. He had never heard of the Red Room Academy before.
"What kind of program is this anyway? Brainwashing? Chemical control protocols? Hypnosis?" He turned the page and the blood drained from his face. "Children," his voice was hoarse, "they start them as children?" He glanced over at Coulson, one of the few people who knew his past in full.
Coulson looked up at his words, and Clint saw a rare flash of emotion cross his handler's face. "Yes, as young six, though from what we could learn, Romanova was a little older when she was 'recruited', if you can call it that. She was an orphan they took off the street."
Clint shook his head. He could imagine what kind of 'training' the woman had endured to become considered the best in the espionage business. Certainly not the kind of training he had been put through with S.H.I.E.L.D. For certain, he'd had his own internal wounds and scars from having a less than ideal childhood, but he had been an adult, if young, when he was recruited and had already endured all the Army could throw at him.
In a bizarre twist of fate, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s recruitment had been a balm to his wounds, giving him a reason to hope and a future he couldn't have dreamed of when Phil had found him. Thanks to the man he now called his handler and friend, he had a career he loved with a purpose that helped him begin to balance the red in his ledger.
It could have been very different. Should have ended with him dead. Coulson had been sent to kill him, after all.
But Phil had made a different call, one that had gotten him in deep shit with the Council, even though Clint had eventually been proven innocent of the crimes of which he had been accused. Phil's punishment, for bringing him in instead of killing him, had been to become Clint's handler, responsible for overseeing his training and held accountable for any mistake Clint made.
Clint was grateful, not just for having his life spared, but for the man Phil had helped him to become. Phil had looked at him and seen something no one else had: Potential. He had helped Clint find the person he was meant to be, deep down inside.
But Natalia didn't have that. She had been a child, orphaned like himself, but instead of a circus, she had spent her formative years in what consisted of an espionage training camp. The information they had was limited, but he could imagine what it would take to turn a child into the lethal killer who could take out one of her own without blinking an eye.
But what about her saving that child then? Why did she do that?
There was more to Natalia Romanova than met the eye.
Clint had tried to explain that to Fury during his briefing, but Fury had refused to listen. Come to think of it, that wasn't exactly like Nick Fury. Sure the man was a hard ass, but he usually kept his options open, which meant listening to his agents. After, if he disagreed, then he'd make it clear that there was no discussion, but to not even listen…
And what was with that look Fury had given him? "Phil, has Fury ever given you an odd look during a briefing."
Coulson looked up at him, and Clint had the vague impression Phil thought he'd lost his mind. "Which look? The man has dozens. I can categorically name at least twenty-five..."
Clint rolled his eyes. "That look he gets when he's not saying what he's really thinking but he expects you to read his mind and just know what it is he wants."
A flash of something passed quickly in Coulson's eyes, and the man stared at him hard a moment, before slowly asking, "What exactly did Fury say to you during your briefing?"
"You want it all word for word?"
"Smart ass." Deadpanned, as only Coulson could do. Clint smirked. "When he gave you your orders, what did he say?"
Having always prided himself on his good memory, Clint replayed the briefing over in his mind. "He gave me the basic intel, and then there was a video of the Widow beating the hell out of our agents and pulling up that file, and that comment she threw over her shoulder, which really bugs me a bit too."
"Spider bugs you? That's surprising." Coulson's lips twitched again in a hidden smile.
Shaking his head, Clint ignored him. "But it was after, while I was trying to get a grasp on why she would break in to see that list and then not take it. Fury didn't come right out and tell me what I was expected to do, though I knew where it was going. He just looked at me. And I asked him what he expected me to do, and he said the Council had determined she was a threat and they'd ordered her eliminated."
"The Council ordered..." Coulson paused, raising a questioning brow before going back to checking the equipment.
Clint blinked. Then he thought back over what Fury had said...or rather hadn't. "As I was leaving Fury's office, he told me he expected me to do the right thing."
Coulson froze, his eyes lifting slowly to Clint's face. The man of little expression for once looked deeply shaken, and Clint could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen anything phase Phil Coulson.
Phil swallowed, then his face returned to its usual expressionless mask as he looked back down at the equipment. "I'm sure that's exactly what you'll do, Barton."
Clint told himself he imagined the murmured, "God help us all."
"Mic check."
Coulson's voice came over the comm unit in Clint's ear. "Loud and clear, Watchdog."
"Copy that, Hawkeye. Drop zone in five."
Clint checked his straps one more time, then moved to the back of the quinjet and hit the switch. The air swooshed into the cargo bay as the door lowered, and he stepped out on the ramp. It never got old, jumping out into thin air.
At least once he overcame his fear as a child. You couldn't swing from a trapeze or walk a tight rope if you feared heights, and Clint had wanted so badly to be seen, to be recognized for some accomplishment after losing his parents and being nothing but another mouth to feed in the orphanage, that he had overcome his fears and cultivated something of an adrenaline addiction.
"Jump in 30 seconds," Phil's voice came again over his earpiece, even though the man stood not far from him, holding onto the cargo bay netting. "You know, Barton, we could have just landed."
Clint grinned at Phil. "Now where's the fun in that, Watchdog?"
Coulson shook his head and glanced at his watch. "Five seconds." Clint nodded. "Jump."
With a final grin at his handler, Clint stepped out into nothing and the freedom it provided. This was flying without wings, sailing along on the air currents like the bird for which he was named.
His eyes picked out his target site, and he leaned down, letting gravity pull him towards it until his altimeter read 2000 feet, then he pulled his shoot open, relishing the sudden jerk then enjoying the downwards floating. He landed right beside his target, a nondescript car left for them by S.H.I.E.L.D. to use in Europe while tracking the mysterious Black Widow.
"Nice landing, hotshot," Phil's voice came over his earpiece, and Clint lifted his hand, middle finger extended in the direction of the quinjet, which hovered over a nearby barren field. He heard Coulson's sniff of disdain. "Are you done playing and ready to work yet?" Phil's voice asked.
Clint snorted. "Affirmative, Watchdog. But it's not playing, it's called training. Got to keep in practice. I never know when you or Fury will want me to jump out of one of those things."
"You like jumping out of one of these things. I think you'd do it daily if we'd let you. Probably without a 'chute."
Clint grinned. "You might just be right." He unclipped from his parachute and began the task of refolding it as the jet set down.
Phil's voice interrupted his work. "New report came in. Target last seen in Prague."
Clint glanced up at the jet, where he could see Coulson stepping off the ramp laden down with their gear. "She's on the move then. She was in Berlin not twelve hours ago." He grinned. "And you were complaining about taking the time for a jump, but it's put us over an hour closer to Prague."
He laughed when Coulson gave him the same gesture he'd made minutes earlier. As far as he'd observed, he was the only one to ever get that response from Phil.
"Roger that, Watchdog. Hawkeye out."
May 2006
Vienna, Austria
Natalia was being followed and she knew it. It was not anything new. She was often followed; it went with her line of work. She had already dealt with two tails between Paris and Prague, but the latest one was proving more difficult to spot, and without spotting him, she could not determine who he worked for…
Oh who was she kidding. It was S.H.I.E.L.D. It had to be. After that stunt she had pulled with that damned list, she was not surprised that they were after her. Given the cunning of the tail shadowing her, she was more surprised that she was still walking. She knew that, almost welcomed it, but some small part of her still fought death.
Being as she was not dead yet, either her tail was not an assassin sent to kill her, or because she was keeping to crowded public areas as she traveled, he was waiting until she was alone to do the deed. She would bet on the latter. And because she had a job to do that would require her being in a less than public area of Budapest in just a few days, she needed to lose him.
She moved easily through the streets of Vienna, mingling and looking for all the world as a tourist, glancing up at the stunning architecture lining the streets. Only she was not looking at the buildings. She had seen them before, having intimate knowledge of this city after spending over a month here a couple years ago on an assignment.
She was looking for her shadow. He was up high; she could feel his eyes on her. They burned into the back of her neck.
It had started in Prague, that burning feeling. She had felt it briefly, before eluding it long enough to slip from the city. But it had not taken long for him to catch back up to her. She had felt it in a small town between Prague and Krakow as she sat in a small pub. There were few windows and she had made certain to sit in a corner away from them, and yet she could feel the tingling burn of his gaze. She had searched the faces of the other patrons, but she could not identify him. It was a bit unnerving. She could usually spot her shadows easily, but this one…
He was good. Very good.
Unable to locate him, and knowing if she left the pub alone, she would wind up dead in the dark street, she had idled up to a brute of a man at the bar and smiled seductively. It had not taken much to get him talking and even less to get him to leave with her. She used his presence to keep the tail from getting trigger happy, letting the man accompany her back to her room in a local inn with the lure of sharing her bed.
Instead he had slept on the floor, thanks to a swift knock to his thick skull when he got grabby.
In Krakow, she had been sipping coffee in a small café when she had felt it again, that tingling burning feel on her neck. It was becoming familiar and more frequent. But again, she could not spot him. Not in the crowds, not across the street or in the café, and not even along the roofline. He stayed hidden, watching her movements, making none of his own, and that unnerved her.
She took a bite of her pastry, then dabbed at the crumbs on her lips daintily, letting her eyes drift curiously over the buildings across the street. He had to be there. She could feel him, but there was no movement, nothing out of place.
Damn he was good. This one knew his job and did it well. He was patient, quiet and still as a shadow, and could sit for hours without twitching a muscle. She knew because that was all it would take for her to notice him.
It definitely had to be S.H.I.E.L.D. Only they had agents of that caliber, and this one must be their best. She had been a fool to go after that list.
She still did not understand why she had gone to all that trouble, put herself on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar, just to learn the name of a man she had seen for less than two minutes and would most likely never see again.
Clinton Barton.
Robin Hood had a simple name.
She was glad she knew it, though learning it had put her in jeopardy. Knowing his name made her feel as if she knew him on some small personal level. In a way, she did, and for some reason it was comforting to her.
When he had looked into her eyes that last time in that hotel, she had seen him. She had seen the man, not the agent, and she had felt something tug at her.
She wanted what he had. Freedom.
To do what she wished without being controlled or manipulated, without having her mind toyed with, her memories twisted. Without being forced to use her body to achieve her handlers' demands.
So she had broken with the Program and set out on her own, not caring what she did or for whom. She was in control for the first time, but it did not free her, nor wipe the memories that haunted her.
It did not change whatever they had done to her.
Her time was running out. She knew that. She could not keep on as she was. The unexplained headaches came more frequently, and with it the bouts of nausea. Memories returned; deeds she had done that she had been meant to forget. Most of them she wished had remained forgotten.
Without the reinforced psychological tampering, without the mind altering drugs and hypnosis—
Whatever the FSS had done to her was breaking down in her mind, and she was beginning to see herself for what she truly was — what she had done — and she found that inner part of herself that the FSS had never completely been able to touch recoiling in horror.
And then there were the nightmares. She had not suffered from those since early in her training, but now she could barely sleep. She wanted it to end.
Maybe that was why she had broken into S.H.I.E.L.D. and looked at the file. She knew they would come after her, put her down like the rabid dog she was. It was probably for the best. And yet, something inside her fought death. That same deep part of her that hated everything they had made her also refused to give up.
Ironic.
And so here she was now in Vienna. She had led him here purposely to lose him. She knew this city, and if she was going to make her meeting with her contact in Budapest, she had to lose him today.
She could feel his eyes on her as she moved through the crowds. He was up high. She smiled. That would work to her advantage.
She kept her eyes low, avoiding the skyline, until she came to a certain cross street. She turned a corner, then quickly scooted up another small street, then whirled as she came to an open plaza with a fountain. If he were following her along this route, he could not keep her in his sights and not actually move. And in a way as to make himself visible. She had traveled the rooftops and knew exactly where he would have to go to keep her in his line of vision, so as she spun, she spotted the shadow on the roof.
Got you..
It was only a brief glimpse, vague, but she had seen him. And knowing exactly where he was, and knowing the paths of the rooftops, she was able to disappear, leaving Vienna and the tingling, burning sensation behind her as she headed for Hungary.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading! Reviews are highly motivating!
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I was going to email you about it, but after such a long hiatus, I felt like a heel asking you for more input! But if you have any advice, I'd LOVE to hear it! :) You know how UNsaavy I am about military stuff. LOL
Thanks for reading!!
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ETA: Happy to help out if you want.
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