Title: Rituals
Author: celesteavonne
Fandom: Avengers (movie)
Pairing/Characters: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, with mentions and cameos by the Avengers throughout
Rating: R to M
Word count: This is a longish fic with 10 chapters, 17150 words total
Warnings/Kinks: Sex. Swearing. Angst with resolution.
Summary: After defeating Loki, Natasha and Clint spend 24 hours in a hotel room, trying to sort out what happened to him under Loki's control, and what they should do with this "time off" Director Fury suggests. The story flashes back to Hawkeye and Black Widow's past as Clint slowly reclaims the memories damaged by Loki.
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone.





Cairo
2005

Agent Cornish licked one finger and pointed to the rafters, like he was testing the wind – his variation of an all-clear signal – before swanning into the smoky dance floor of Club Melange.

“That guy is such a cowboy,” Agent Varella groaned.

Agent Barton crouched in the catwalk above the stage. From here, he saw the top of Cornish’s head, his shiny black hair picking up the red tinge of lighting. Cornish took up his place at the west edge of the dance floor, snagging a champagne flute from one of the turbanned waiters circulating among the patrons.

Barton touched a finger to his earpiece. “Sir, Sheriff’s in position,” he said, his tone crisp, businesslike.

“And the Deputy?” the Director asked.

“Why am I the Deputy?” Varella whined. “Can’t I be, like, the Ranger or something?”

“I’m the Ranger,” Barton answered.

“Thought you were the Hawk,” Varella said.

“Whatever,” Barton snapped. “We discussed this. Keep the com clear. Blacksmith, come in?”

“I'm in position,” Agent Scott answered. “And I agree. We gotta come up with better names. Next time we use Hollywood actors. I call Mae West.” She sounded nearby, and Barton scanned for her. Directly below, a 1940s swing band was taking the stage. He caught Agent Scott’s reflection in the brassy curve of a trumpet – backstage and well-concealed.

“Just so long as it’s not Hitchcock movies again,” Varella said, and both Cornish and Scott groaned in unison.

“Wh— Hey,” Barton stammered. “Just ’cause you guys don’t appreciate the classics—“

“It helps to have code names we can remember,” Scott said.

“And I don’t wanna have to be Agent Bates again,” Varella said. “Ever.”

Scott said, “But you were great at it. One might say a master...”

“Hey, all right, enough,” Barton snapped. He touched his earpiece. “Sir, the team’s in place.”

“Good,” the Director answered. “Now, be forewarned, the target has escaped custody three times in the last six months. Meaning we had her in our hot little hands and she beat us. Three times. This makes me less than happy. She is well-armed, well-trained, and will use deadly force. All we need from this transaction is Urbanov’s command drive. We don’t need her to get to Zimsky. We clear?”

Barton heard Varella’s snort when Cornish didn’t answer.

“Are we clear?” the Director asked again.

“Aye, Captain,” Cornish answered. “Kill if necessary.” He downed his champagne and eased into a conversation with a Texas oil tycoon and a Sudanese dignitary.

Barton cranked a tranq dart into a hand-held crossbow. Beneath him, the band began to tune, and the crowd lit up with excitement. This was his favorite part of a mission – the taut anticipation as weeks of preparation tightened into focus. He balanced on a two-inch strut above the stage, his feet poised to spring into the rigging at a second’s notice. From here, he could see every inch of Club Melange: the stage and the dance floor, the dining area and casino flanking it, the bar and entrances up front. The place smelled of dirt and kerosene, but it was classy enough to pack in a crowd.

He touched his earpiece again. “Any sign of the Widow’s mark?”

“Not yet,” came Varella’s response. Then, “Wait. Yep. There he is. Yaro Urbanov. Sheriff, he’s at your eight. Copy?

Barton saw Cornish’s head tilt and followed his gaze. There he was, a grim man in a grim suit – Yaro Urbanov, human trafficker, arms dealer, your basic scumlord. Urbanov cut across the dining room like a scythe, bound straight for Cornish’s group. Barton tensed, his hand going to the bow at his back.

Then Urbanov’s face split into a fierce smile as he shook the oil tycoon’s hand. The Texan introduced Urbanov to Cornish and the dignitary, and the three eased into a boisterous conversation.

Barton caught a familiar flicker from the corner of his eye. He checked the opposite side of the room and confirmed his suspicions.

“Visual confirmation of Urbanov’s comrades,” Barton said. “At least two: One south, one west, copy?”

“Noted,” Scott answered.

“Yep,” Varella agreed. “Pretty obvious. That guy in back looks like a Bond villain.”

Barton’s hackles rose. Urbanov’s “friend” did have a conspicuous air. “Something’s not right,” he muttered.

Scott said, “Like the love child of Lurch and a Bond villain.”

“Keep the com clear,” Barton growled. He shifted his weight forward to better scan the wide bar at the front. Varella covered the east entrance near the Black Jack table, and – there –

“Deputy, eyes on the bartender,” Barton said. “He’s looking squirrelly.”

“Yeah, I see him,” Varella said. “Gonna run a thumbnail search, see if we’ve met this guy before.”

Barton heard the familiar whine of bandwidth access over the com as Varella launched his retinal database.

“That was quick,” Varella said. “Gotta match, Captain. Bartender is none other than Perlo Metryvich, one of Urbanov’s henchbuddies. I could run a check of the wait staff, but I’m pretty sure Urbanov’s got this place seeded.”

“We knew this was a possibility,” the Director said. “A trap within a trap.”

Barton flexed his forearms and whispered. “So they want the Widow, too.”

“Yes, well, this makes things more complicated,” the Director said. “Not that it needs being said, but be careful.”

“Trapception,” Varella said.

“Actually, it’s not,” Agent Scott chimed in. “It’s two traps, side by side, not one within the other—”

“Will you please keep the com clear?” Barton bit out.

“Sorry, boss,” Varella said.

“Sorry,” Scott said.

Just then, the band leader swung onstage, and the crowd around the dance floor burst into applause.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he crooned in a cheerful Australian accent. “Have we got a show for you! Swing City is here...” The crowd answered with raucous cheering. As the band leader continued, static crisped over the com.

“I’ve got movement backstage,” Agent Scott intoned.

Barton pivoted on his heel and crept along the catwalk. The band launched into Beyond the Sea, and couples flooded the dance floor.

“Visual?” Barton hissed. No reply. Barton swung across the lighting ropes to just above where Scott was supposed to be.

“I got visual,” Varella blurted. “Sheriff, she’s right behind you.”

“No—” Barton dived to his original position in time to see a flash of light. Urbanov and the Sudanese man shared a grin as Cornish tottered sideways, but the smile was short-lived. Urbanov crumpled into Cornish just as the song burst into the horns’ solo. Both men sprawled onto the dance floor. Barton saw only a flash of white – the inside of Urbanov’s coat? – as Urbanov’s henchmen barreled into action.

It was happening so fast. None of the civilians understood what was going on. The band continued to play, ramping into the blaring chorus.

Barton shouted into the com, “Sheriff and Blacksmith are down! So is Urbanov. Varella, watch yourself.”

“That’s impossible. It’s too fast, nobody’s that fucking fast!” Varella babbled. “Is she working with a team? I don’t see her!”

“No one does,” Barton said. He swept the bow from his back, nocked his arrow, fired. Before the first henchman fell, Barton had taken down the bartender, and was aiming for the third when he saw a black-clad figure snap Varella’s neck.

“Dammit!” He popped the crossbow from his belt and as he took aim, she turned and stared straight up at him.

Then she blew him a kiss before disappearing into the crowd.

Barton released a trembling breath. “Captain, she’s gone,” he muttered. “It’s over.”

A wave of anger and disbelief swept through him. How had she known they were there? How had she seen him? And how had one woman taken out his entire team – one of the finest, best-trained ops teams in the world – in less than 90 seconds.

There was only one explanation. Someone betrayed them. And the one person with answers just blew him a kiss and breezed from the room like it was all part of the show.

“Agent Barton! Hawkeye! Do you copy?”

Barton touched his earpiece. “Director.”

“Report!”

“Not yet, Sir,” he said. “I’m going after her.”

“That is not advisable. It is not sanctioned. Your team—”

“My team is dead, Sir,” Barton said. He ripped the com from his ear and let it drop. Beneath him, the crowd dissolved into chaos as they discovered the fallen bodies around them. He laced his hands in the rigging ropes and hauled himself into the rafters, slipping back through the open window, and into the dust-choked night.

~~~

New York
Present Day
12:14

He slots the key card into the lock and pushes the door open. After the last few days, even that seemed like a Herculean feat. But the air inside the suite feels cool and welcome and dark, and once that door shuts, they are cut off from the world, on their own. Finally alone.

They drop their bags behind the door. She grips his arms and they tumble backward. She presses him against the wall. Partly playfulness. Partly exhaustion. He goes with it, pulling her body to his. He buries his face in her hair, which somehow still smells like berry-banana-something despite the metric ton of city dust caking every exposed inch of their skin.

She’s cut her hair recently. He doesn’t remember when, but it’s shoulder length now. He wonders if he should know. They often go months without seeing one another. Maybe he hadn’t seen it yet? He tries to think back to when he last saw her – before – and winces.

“Hey,” she whispers into his neck. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

He runs his fingers through the fringe of her hair. “I know,” he says. “This remembering thing might take some time.”

He tries to think of some way to describe what he feels when he tries to remember. Not exactly pain, but a stretching unpleasantness, like skin snagging on razor wire that’s so sharp you don’t feel it until the damage is done.

“We have time,” she says, bringing her forehead to his. “We’ll figure it out.” She unclasps her belt and lets it slide to the floor. “Shower?                                                              

“Hmm.” He brings one hand to the zipper of her suit and slowly draws it down. Strange, he thinks, and not for the first time, that no matter how beaten and bruised they are after a mission, get them behind closed doors, and they’re randy as a pair of wild minks. 

“Some things you never forget,” she says, dipping down to nip his neck.

The simultaneous buzz of their cell phones interrupts them.

He snaps it from his belt. “Turning that off,” he groans as he thumbs the off button, but she’s already reading the text on her screen.

“It’s Director Fury,” she says. “Medical screen. Oh-nine-hundred, tomorrow morning.”

“I’m thinking... no,” he says. He tugs the zipper down to her navel, then slips his hands under the suit’s shoulders and shoves, sliding the leather down to free her arms. Then his hands go to work on the laces of her secondary armor.

“Yeah,” she agrees, as he rips the lacing free and tosses the garment aside. “We’re gonna be busy.”