Characters/Pairing: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Rating: M, for swearing and sex
Word Count: Ten chapters at ~17150 (Completed) 
Disclaimer: For fun and fun alone. All hail the great and mighty Joss and the venerable Stan Lee.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Avengers movie; not really spoilers, just vague nods at stuff that happened.
Summary: After defeating Loki with the Avengers, Clint and Natasha spend 24 hours in a hotel suite. Together they recover from the trauma inflicted on each of them by Loki. As Clint’s memories return, he relives the various encounters with Natasha that lead them to where they are now, beginning with Agent Barton’s failed mission to kill the Black Widow in Cairo.







New York
Present Day
10:14

After Stark’s phone call, they shower again. They nibble at muffins left over from last night. They curl into bed, exhausted.

Natasha sleeps. He’s watching her in the dazy light trickling from the suite’s blackout curtains. Her head rests on his forearm. Her hair’s a blaze across the pillow. He’s memorized each scar and mole and freckle. They’re like points on the map of her life, he thinks. Then he thinks it’s never as simple as that.

Because physical scars fade with time. Sometimes they disappear altogether. You can see them growing smaller, vanishing, healing. There’s tangible closure, and it’s better. Mental pain, though. You can’t see the damage or the scars. You can’t check the bandages because there are none. You don’t know if they’ll ever go away.

He imagines himself telling her these things. He hears his own voice in his head, and it’s as good as speaking them aloud. She already knows what it’s like. She’s been here. That’s a comfort by itself.

Then he’s off on other thought paths, the ones that remind him of how their lives have crossed and re-crossed, each time like a course correction nudging them closer together.

Clint puts a stop to those thoughts. He doesn’t believe in destiny. Those thoughts belong in the domain of children, along with Santa Claus and fairy dust and wishes made on stars. They don’t believe in such things.

Only...

No. What they have is tangible. The training. Their missions. Their rituals. It’s real, it’s rational. It’s something they can trust. Like the ocean running up to the shore or the turning of the earth, it’s always there.

And it works because they don’t talk about it or fluff it into fantasy. Their lives are too chaotic for anything beyond what they can hold in their hands.

Only. Something has changed. Something was unearthed. Loki fucked with his brain, and when he left, it was like the receding tide. And something strange and unexpected was left behind on the beach.

~~~

Sao Paolo
2007

“The noise could be a problem,” Barton said as he angled around an exterior concrete beam on the Estadio do Morumbi. Below him, seventy-two thousand futbol fans screamed with mind-numbing force as Brazil and Argentina took the pitch.

“That is partly the point,” the Director replied over the com. “Zimsky wants a spectacle. He’ll get a spectacle.”

“Seventy thousand,” Agent Coulson said.

“And you weren’t kidding about the vuvuzelas,” Agent Hill added. “Captain, the ground team is in place and awaits your order.”

“Hawkeye, what’s your ETA?” the Director asked.

Barton leapt up, caught a support strut, and swung into the maintenance cage beneath the stadium lights. His pulse raced as he scanned the distance between the metal mesh and the stands.

“I got the full panorama, Sir,” Barton said. “He makes a move, I’ll see it.”

“Good,” the Director said. “Hill, remind ground team that intel says look out for men in dark green or brown coveralls. They’re meant to appear like service uniforms. Coulson, you’re my eyes in the stands. Look for suspicious people with handheld gadgets. Could be anything from soda cans to cell phones. I realize that’s a broad order, but I also know that you are very good.”

Coulson brightened audibly when he replied, “Why thank you, sir.”

The Director went on without missing a beat. “Hawkeye: our mark is partial to custom Armani suits in light colors. He’s also fond of hats. Remember: Zimsky’s got three things working in his favor – one, a group of crazies loyal to his cause, and two, the chaos of Brazilian futbol. The third is that he has precious little left to lose, which makes him dangerous. Are there any questions?”

“No sir,” Hill snapped her reply.

“All clear sir,” Coulson confirmed.

Barton fitted an arrow into his bow. These arrows were light weight and designed to burn to ash once they struck their target. Quick and clean, just like the Director said. “All set,” Barton agreed.

“Great,” the Director said. “And now we wait.”

Using the high-powered sights of his bow, Barton swept the crowd repeatedly, searching out a man in a cream-colored suit. In previous missions, this was the part he lived for, that springy anticipation before spotting a mark, when everything slowed to heartbeats and breaths. This time, though, he felt a pinch of dread. He couldn't keep his mind from straying to certain questions. He couldn't afford to let it distract him, and yet it kept nudging him, pulling at him, driving him insane.

Time stretched through the first period with Argentina scoring one goal in the first ten minutes. The crowd continued to steadily ratchet up their enthusiasm. One section brought out colored boards which they flipped to create pictographs including the flag of Brazil. Throughout the crowd, children waved paper streamers and helium balloons sporting their team's logos.

And the noise. It was like a separate living thing writhing among the fans. He was grateful for his distance if only to escape that one thing.

“Captain, ground team has completed a check of the basement level and storage facilities,” Agent Hill said. “That area is secure. We've cordoned it off so that no--”

The communication ended with an abrupt sizzle of static. Barton's senses crackled to alert.

“Agent Hill, I did not copy that last,” the Director said. “Please repeat.”

At that moment, Argentina scored another goal just as the first half wound down. The crowd burst into a mad frenzy. Barton stretched his bow and panned a slow circle, measuring out careful breaths.

“Agent Hill!” the Director said again.

A tinselly whine shrieked over the com, followed by more static.

“Coulson, Hill is down,” the Director shouted. “Do you read and can you locate--”

“I'm here,” Agent Hill said. The com crisped static again, breaking her message into fragments. “– figure – some kind of Taser –  not sure – she incapacitated – team – moving out – stands –” The transmission abruptly cut out.

Barton hissed, “What did she say?”

“Hill is incapacitated,” the Director yelled. “Attacker's heading into the stands. Hawkeye, it's all you.”

Barton growled, “Location?”

“Unknown,” the Director said.

“Sir, this is impossible,” Coulson muttered into the com. “The period's just ended. People are all over the place.”

“It's not impossible,” Barton breathed. His focus drew in around him, sharpening every detail. Suddenly the noise was a distant wave rolling into shore, and he saw every person in his scope as clear and crisp as a photograph.

But he almost tumbled from his tower when he saw her.

She stood in a stairwell directly opposite him, at the furthest possible trajectory from his bow. She wore a vibrant red suit, bright and deadly as a knife slash, and in her hand she held the string of a single silver balloon.

Several seconds cranked by before he could convince himself that she wasn't an apparition, or that he hadn't actually plummeted to his death, and this was the last image his brain could muster before his body gave up. What made it all the more surreal, though, was that she was staring straight at him. Just like in Cairo

“’kay, maybe a little impossible,” he whispered. He swallowed. The part of his brain that knew she was probably acting as a diversion nagged at him. He told it to shut the hell up as he leveled his sights on her. She nodded once, an accentuated gesture, and then she released the balloon.

“What?” He followed its ascent, a tiny silver sphere lilting into the air.

“Hawkeye, report,” the Director snapped.

“Captain, I--” His heart thudded. The balloon continued to climb, past the upper stands and into the open air. In a flash, he understood. “The balloons,” he said in a rush. “The devices are in the balloons.”

A click, then, “Are you certain?” the Director asked.

Barton scanned the stadium. Natasha had vanished, but now he saw the genius behind Zimsky's plan. Thousands of balloons, each fitted with the X1-D5 device, completely inert until triggered by Zimsky.

“Thousands of them,” Barton said. “All in the hands of children.”

“And if they're released...” Coulson began.

“He'll detonate,” Barton finished. “It’s his M. O. Zimsky uses children—”

“Then we have to stop him before he gets a chance!” the Director shouted.

Barton gritted his teeth. “And the award for Understatement of the Year goes to--”

The Director sliced in. “Coulson, get your hands on one of those balloons, just to be sure. Hill, do you read me?”

“Sir,” she said. “I know where Zimsky is.”

“Where?” the Director yelled. “And how?”

“He's dressed as a referee,” Agent Hill said, her words slow and measured. “He's set to take the pitch from the East, section EE 16, right below the boxes.” She paused, and Barton knew. Natasha had Hill. He was moving before she came back online. “Clint,” Hill continued. “You'll have a clear shot... once the damned Russians are out of the way.”

“Got it,” Barton said. He leapt onto the rail of the maintenance cage and drew back his bow. His body went rigid as he sighted section EE 16. A throng of news casters, coaches, and managers clustered around the stairway into the boxes.

“What damned Russians?” the Director was shouting. “Are there now Russians working for Zimsky? Hawkeye? Report!”

“Be ready for extraction, Sir,” Barton said.

Zimsky emerged. Barton steadied himself. Breathed. Fired.

The arrow pierced Zimsky's left eye.

Barton vaulted from the metal cage. He slammed into roof of the stands and bolted for the rendezvous point. Below, the crowd grew restless as the Brazilian team called for paramedics.  As he ran, he touched his earpiece. “It's done, Sir,” he said. “He's down.”

Barton dropped into a designated service stairway and slipped silently from the stadium. As he descended, the Director came back online.

“This is good news. Agent Hill and the ground team are working out the logistics of getting those balloons out of the public's hands,” the Director said. “Meanwhile... it seems you have a visitor. And we need to have a conversation.”

Barton shoved through the service door and stepped into the corridor. She waited between Director Fury and Agent Coulson, hands cuffed behind her, red leather suit slightly creased, her mouth pursed in that enigmatic smile.

“Agent Barton,” she said.

“Lady Romanoff,” he said. And he actually bowed his head. A slight bow, but still...

“You said to come find you,” she said. “And so I did.”

“And so you did,” Barton said.