Fic: Defining Points 5/? (Rating: R)
Author: Avenging Archer
Pairing/Characters: Clint/Natasha, the usual SHIELD and Marvel characters
Word Count: Novel length ongoing WIP. Estimate when complete 80K words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence as per fitting a spy story, profanity suited to an ex military Army Ranger, some sexual situations and innuendo. No gratuitous gore or porn, but this isn’t a children’s tale either.
Many thanks to Alpha Flyer for betaing the early chapters!
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.
Previous chapters can be found linked HERE
Five
“Are those shots I’m hearing?” Coulson’s voice came over his comm.
“No, they’re firecrackers!” Clint barked as he rolled off of Natasha.
She glanced at him as if he were crazy, then registered to whom he was speaking and proceeded to snort with amusement. Clint shook his head and took a quick assessment of the situation.
He didn’t like what he concluded. She had rolled into a crouch behind a nearby pile of rock, her face an expressionless mask of calm despite the fact that they were trapped against a wall with an indeterminate number of enemies firing from the abandoned building and all they had for cover was some scattered rubble and rocks from upper sections of the wall that had fallen over the course of time.
Idiot.
She had been wary of the situation, but he had been too focused on her. This was a damn rookie mistake! If he got out of this alive, Coulson would never let him live it down.
“Did she shoot you?”
Amazing. Even in the middle of a fire fight, Coulson sounded bored and unconcerned.
Clint knew the opposite was true. Phil would be worried and frantic, but he’d never show it. The man would keep up a running dialogue of dry banter, the norm when Clint found himself in these situations. There had been quite a few over the past few years, so he shouldn’t be surprised to find himself in another.
This time the situation was a bit different, however. He looked over at the woman who had brought him here. This time he had walked into it of his own accord.
Natasha had leveled her gun and was taking calculated shots at the building. He turned his focus from her to what she was shooting at and began looking for targets himself.
“You’d probably be happy if she had, Watchdog. Save you a lot of paperwork and trouble.”
And fuck, he was in a lot of trouble. Even if he got out of this mess alive and with Natasha in tow, he had a lot of explaining to do to Coulson and Fury. And there was no telling how the Council would react.
Who was he kidding? The Council would be pissed as hell and probably demand his head on a platter, or at least his resignation and his butt back in a prison cell. He really didn’t want to go back to that, but what else could he have done? Killed her?
He glanced back at the fiery woman. Natasha fired at the building. There wasn’t a lot of room for maneuvering, and he could see that her body still trembled with whatever illness beset her, but her aim was dead on. He watched as two men fell out of windows.
He eyed the empty windows, waiting for some sign of movement and wishing for his bow. He had dropped it when Natasha had attacked him and he’d had to flip over to avoid her. He could see it on the other side of the rubble, in an open spot with no cover. Damn it! If he had his bow, he could end whatever this was before it got ugly.
Guess it’s just going to get ugly, then.
Coulson’s voice came over his comm again. “It’s not me I’m worried about, Hawk. What’s the situation?”
For Phil to admit that he was worried was in and of itself rather amazing, even if there was no trace of that emotion in the man’s tone.
“I never knew you cared so much, Watchdog. Unknown assailants, unknown numbers. They’ve got us pretty nailed down here.”
He held his fire, refusing to waste his limited ammo until he had a clear shot. At this range, his pistol wouldn’t have the accuracy he was used to, but since it was all he had…
There. Movement in the far right window.
He took aim and fired and the shots coming from that window ceased abruptly as a body slumped over.
“Nice shot.”
He darted a glance at Natasha then focused back on the building. “Thanks. I’d be better with my bow though.”
“Shouldn’t have dropped it, then.”
Really, she was almost as good as Coulson.
Clint smiled as he realized that his instincts had been spot on. She would be brilliant to work with. He just hoped they would live long enough to get the chance.
He leaned around a boulder and fired again. “You think?”
She laughed - bright and free - and something in his chest puffed out that he had been the cause of that sound. He was certain she rarely laughed, at least, not for real. He found even amidst the insanity of a firefight that he wanted to hear that sound again.
“I could cover you if you want to make a grab for it?” she asked, popping off another couple rounds.
“Or she could just shoot you herself,” Coulson added in his ear, eavesdropping, as per usual.
“And what stops you from shooting me yourself?” he had to ask the question. He knew in his gut that she wouldn’t, but he found it irresistible to tease her. And he was curious how she would respond.
“Nothing,” was her deadpan reply. She flipped a lock of red hair out of her face and over her shoulder. “Except they seem to want us both dead and the enemy of my enemy…” She gestured in the air with her gun. “You know the saying?”
He did. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Cover me.”
She drew another gun from a holster on her thigh and began laying down cover fire, but just as he shifted into position to roll out and make a grab for his bow, movement caught his eye from back up the alley, the way Natasha had come.
They were boxed in.
“They’re on your right too!” he shouted, abandoning any thoughts of grabbing his favorite weapon.
“Bojemoi!”
It was the first time since the bullets started soaring past them that Clint heard emotion in her voice.
Unless one counted her laughter. He’d rather her laughter than the frustrated panic he heard in her expletive.
“No kidding.”
He angled himself to allow for clear shots at the new threat, putting him nearly back to back with Natasha. He needed a plan. This wouldn’t last long if he couldn’t find a way out of this dead end.
“Where is your extraction team?”
Good question! The quinjet would be excellent back up in this situation, if only it were close enough to fly in before they were taken or shot.
“Watchdog?”
“I hear you, Hawkeye. Situation?”
Clint could hear the distraction in Phil’s voice. It just meant his handler was juggling communications, probably in an effort to get them some air support.
“We’re under fire by unknown hostiles, boxed in with nowhere to go and a limited amount of ammo and cover here.” He paused to squeeze off a couple shots, a smirk tilting his lips when both bullets found a mark. “My bow is out of reach or I’d have ended it already. You got an estimate time on extraction? We really could use some back up here.”
“I wasn’t planning on this kind of extraction, Hawk!” That tone wasn’t a good sign. It meant they wouldn’t be seeing the quinjet in the next few minutes. “We left our team in Germany, or did you forget?”
Of course he hadn’t forgotten. But he had hoped that Coulson would have sent for them as soon as he had mentioned a change in plans. If he hadn’t, then they were screwed. “Get ‘em here ASAP.”
“Already in route. ETA in…”
Clint didn’t hear the rest. Coulson’s voice was muffled as the number of shots suddenly increased, ringing out from several windows of the building. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the men in fatigues darting out the sides of the building to take up strategic positions, moving closer to where the two of them crouched. The enemy had the advantage when it came to cover. Clint couldn’t get a clear shot.
He focused back on the men in the alley. They were taking their cue from the other group and were moving in closer as well, despite Clint’s firing at them with his glock and taking out two more as they moved from one pile of rubble to another. He didn’t like the way they were inching forward, but allowing them to come closer would give him the opportunity to use one of his lesser known skills.
It wasn’t the greatest plan, but it was a plan at least. The attackers didn’t appear to be trying to kill them, but were moving in to take them alive. That was worrisome, but he could take out a good portion of them if they came within throwing range.
A sudden pain in his right thigh drew a grunt from him. Perhaps they wanted her alive. He appeared to be a target, though he could tell from experience that it was little more than a flesh wound. The bullet had only grazed him.
Natasha glanced at him, took note of the growing wet patch on his pants and seemed to determine he would live, all in the split second before she returned to firing at the advancing men.
Clint noticed that very few of her bullets bit into dirt or stone instead of flesh.
The approaching men were getting closer and with the sun having sunk below the horizon, twilight was upon them, and they were situated at a huge disadvantage.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the firing ceased and a voice called out in crisp Russian. Clint’s grasp of the language wasn’t great, but he understood enough to interpret the words in his head
“Give it up, Black Widow. We do not wish you any harm. You are ill. Let us help you.”
Clint glanced back at Natasha. Her face seemed to have drained of all color. In the misty light she looked pale, beautiful and deadly. She didn’t answer, not with words. Instead she took aim in the direction of the voice, and for the first time that evening, she didn’t appear ill. Instead, a calm determination settled over her as she let her gun do the talking.
The Russians returned fire, and Clint lifted his gun to fire back. But they were greatly outnumbered and running out of time, and very soon, ammo. He hadn’t come armed for a firefight, but for an assassination.
The disturbing truth of the situation was that if Phil couldn’t get the quinjet here quickly, there would be no escape for him. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sent to take out a Russian operative. Denying it would accomplish nothing. The Russians would not believe him, and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate losing a spy like the Black Widow, be it to death or defection. He was certain they had lured her here in order to take her back, and based on what he’d read, to reprogram her through the use of psychological drugs, hypnosis and various other questionable forms of manipulating the psyche.
His death would be an added bonus, relieving S.H.I.E.L.D. of one of its most valuable assassins.
He kept an eye on both groups, but kept his gun trained on the smaller group advancing up the alley. Without backup, he couldn’t see any way out of this mess. But he’d learned long ago that being unable to see a way out didn’t necessarily mean one didn’t exist. He just hadn’t discovered it yet. So, he let his eyes wander the ever darkening street, seeking a path that had eluded his first glances.
And his distraction cost him as another burst of pain exploded in his right bicep. “Fuck!”
“Will you stop getting shot!” Her voice was laced with exasperation.
Clint rolled his eyes at her. He didn’t think the wound was that bad, but he was losing blood from two places now, and it was definitely going to make getting out of this mess more difficult. At least it wasn’t his throwing arm.
“You think I’m enjoying this?”
“Some assassin you are. Ow!” She gripped her left shoulder.
He grinned as he watched a streak of red trickle over her fingers. “You’re one to talk.”
“Shut up, Barton.”
Coulson’s voice broke into the fray. “I think I like her, Hawk. We should keep her.”
“I already told you that. ETA on extraction?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“We won’t live that long, Watchdog.” Clint took a closer look at the wall behind them. There, not ten feet from where they crouched was a crack running through the stone. “I have a plan.”
“Will it get you out of there alive?” Coulson would accept nothing less.
“Possibly. We’ll find out.” He continued to eye the crack, making mental calculations.
“Hawk…”
“Stand by, you old dog.” Clint was in no mood to hear Coulson have a sudden bout of emotionalism.
“Roger that.”
Wedging himself between enough rubble to provide some sort of cover from at least two sides, he removed his quiver, grimacing at the pain the movement induced. He knew both burning pains were little more than flesh wounds, but they hurt like hell. Probably needed stitches. He hated stitches. Maybe he could convince Doc to use that surgical glue, though that stuff burned like hell, too.
Focus, Barton! he reminded himself, drawing an arrow from his quiver.
“What are you doing?” Natasha’s voice came to him over the sounds of the ongoing gunfire.
“I have a plan,” he told her, removing an explosive tip from the arrow and fiddling with the firing mechanism. Usually it was triggered by impact or a signal from his bow, but being as he couldn’t reach the latter and he couldn’t throw it hard enough to cause detonation, he had to fall back to turning it into a basic hand grenade. Thankfully, with his skill in marksmanship extending to throwing projectiles, he had taken that into consideration when designing the tips. Remove a small pin, and he had a few seconds before detonation.
“Ever played the game Hot Potato?” he asked, removing another tip.
“My childhood was not exactly filled with games,” she retorted through gritted teeth as she knelt behind the rubble and fired at anything that moved. "At least not the kind of games you would have played." Her sleeve was now coated in blood. She was wounded worse than she let on.
“You heard of it or not?” He prepared a third for throwing.
“No.”
“Too bad.”
He took assessment of where both groups of men were, used his teeth to pull the pin from one tip, then threw it. The second followed, aimed at the opposite group, before the first landed. The third he tossed towards the weakness in the wall even as he reached out and grabbed Natasha and pulled her down behind the rubble.
“What are you doing?” she yelled as he tumbled her to the ground.
“Playing Hot Potato,” he retorted, as three explosions detonated within seconds of each other.
Natasha grimaced. Men screamed out and all became utter confusion. Smoke and dust filled the air as a section of the wall crumbled, leaving a hole large enough for the two of them to scramble through.
Natasha saw it and didn’t wait for him to tell her what to do. She lunged for it.
Smart girl.
Clint used the momentary confusion and limited visibility from the smoke to make a grab for his bow, then ignoring the pain in his leg, he darted with his weapon and his quiver through the dust and debris of the crumbled wall.
Just as he made it through to the other side, another section of the wall gave way above him. He attempted to leap out of the way, but a sharp pain lanced through his head and everything went dark.
Natalia had no time to consider how her new comrade in arms had given them the means to escape from a bad situation. She just went with it, darting through the hole in the wall, then glancing about for an escape route.
She was familiar with this part of the old city, but had to get her bearings. A street ran off to her left, angling away from the crumbling wall. It would lead them in as good a direction as any and would provide plenty of places to take cover.
Behind her came the sound of crumbling stone. She whirled just in time to see Barton had made it through the gap only to have to dive from more of the falling wall. As luck would have it, a large rock caught him in the side of the head, and he went limp.
Is there anything else that could possibly go wrong today?
She regretted that question as soon as she asked it, because she knew from experience that the answer was most assuredly, “yes”.
There was no point in wasting time fretting over the unfairness of the situation. Instead, she scrambled to Barton’s side and checked his vital signs. He was still breathing, and his pulse was strong enough, but he was unconscious and bleeding from a gash on his scalp, as well as the two wounds he had taken to the arm and leg.
Her own injury throbbed, but she could block it out.
Getting Barton up the street would be difficult, but not impossible. But she would not be able to drag him far or fast enough to escape the Russian troops shouting on the other side of the wall. There was very little time before the air cleared enough for them to realize what had happened and where their targets had gone.
Faced with the choice of both of them being caught - and Barton most likely being killed while she was taken back to Russia - or the chance that one of them might escape, she chose the latter, even if it meant sacrificing herself.
There was a first time for everything, right?
Besides, if anyone deserved to live, it was him. He had choices. He did what was right. She was dead anyway.
Ignoring the pain in her arm, she hefted Barton by lifting under his arms and began dragging him to a place not far up the street. She just needed to get him hidden where the Russians could not find him, and trust that Barton’s Watchdog would be able to locate him. The comm unit in his ear should have a tracking device as well. He would be found by S.H.I.E.L.D. and they could get him the medical help he needed.
Whereas she…
Natalia - No! Not Natalia. NATASHA! - shoved aside any other thoughts as she dragged the unconscious man as quickly as she could up the street. She could not afford to consider what would happen to her. It did not matter. She could only hope that once she forgot everything, once her handlers reprogrammed her, that S.H.I.E.L.D. would find a way to eliminate her. It would be for the best all around.
Chances were slim that Barton’s offer would be backed up by his superiors. At best she would be a lab rat and a source of intel. Worst case, she would be dead.
But at least you would be free.
No time to think about that. She had to keep moving. It was not far now.
The best place to hide Barton would be an old warehouse. Plenty of places to hide him in there. Her arm burned with the exertion of dragging him, but she ignored the desire to stop and rest.
Ten more feet.
Five more feet.
She kicked in a door and drug Barton through it, noting that even in his unconscious state, he had a death grip on that bow of his. When had he grabbed that? His quiver strap was threaded through the arm holding the bow. Amazing. The man had an uncanny dedication to his weapons.
She wondered what had led him to become so proficient with the tools, but knew that she would never get the chance to ask. There was so much that intrigued her about this man. Just something about his manner that drew her to him, like a moth to a flame.
He was dangerous. Better for it to end without ever discovering the answers to her questions. Without ever having a friend.
She pushed the door shut, then maneuvered Barton to the far side of the room. It was dark but she dare not risk any light. The Russian unit would waste no time following her. She needed to get out of here and lead them away from her fallen ally.
But first, she leaned down near his ear.
“Watchdog, I do not know if you can hear me or not, but Hawkeye is down: gunshot wound to the right shoulder, right thigh, and head injury, unconscious but alive and safe for the moment in a warehouse next street over. The men attacking us are Russian. I will lead them from this place so he will not be discovered. Tell him…”
She paused, wondering what to say. Really there was only one thing. “Tell him I said thank you and I am sorry.”
Natasha did not attempt to remove the comm or hear anything Watchdog said. She lurched to her feet and slipped out the door and began the task of attempting to escape while luring the Russians as far from Barton as possible.
She knew she would not succeed in the escaping part. The last weeks had taken their toll and whatever was wrong with her was getting worse. Her head ached fiercely and she felt she would vomit. Still, she stumbled down the street, determined to make her capture as difficult as possible.
She glanced back only once, and felt an odd emotion: regret.
To Be Continued…
M
Pairing/Characters: Clint/Natasha, the usual SHIELD and Marvel characters
Word Count: Novel length ongoing WIP. Estimate when complete 80K words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence as per fitting a spy story, profanity suited to an ex military Army Ranger, some sexual situations and innuendo. No gratuitous gore or porn, but this isn’t a children’s tale either.
Many thanks to Alpha Flyer for betaing the early chapters!
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.
Previous chapters can be found linked HERE
Five
“Are those shots I’m hearing?” Coulson’s voice came over his comm.
“No, they’re firecrackers!” Clint barked as he rolled off of Natasha.
She glanced at him as if he were crazy, then registered to whom he was speaking and proceeded to snort with amusement. Clint shook his head and took a quick assessment of the situation.
He didn’t like what he concluded. She had rolled into a crouch behind a nearby pile of rock, her face an expressionless mask of calm despite the fact that they were trapped against a wall with an indeterminate number of enemies firing from the abandoned building and all they had for cover was some scattered rubble and rocks from upper sections of the wall that had fallen over the course of time.
Idiot.
She had been wary of the situation, but he had been too focused on her. This was a damn rookie mistake! If he got out of this alive, Coulson would never let him live it down.
“Did she shoot you?”
Amazing. Even in the middle of a fire fight, Coulson sounded bored and unconcerned.
Clint knew the opposite was true. Phil would be worried and frantic, but he’d never show it. The man would keep up a running dialogue of dry banter, the norm when Clint found himself in these situations. There had been quite a few over the past few years, so he shouldn’t be surprised to find himself in another.
This time the situation was a bit different, however. He looked over at the woman who had brought him here. This time he had walked into it of his own accord.
Natasha had leveled her gun and was taking calculated shots at the building. He turned his focus from her to what she was shooting at and began looking for targets himself.
“You’d probably be happy if she had, Watchdog. Save you a lot of paperwork and trouble.”
And fuck, he was in a lot of trouble. Even if he got out of this mess alive and with Natasha in tow, he had a lot of explaining to do to Coulson and Fury. And there was no telling how the Council would react.
Who was he kidding? The Council would be pissed as hell and probably demand his head on a platter, or at least his resignation and his butt back in a prison cell. He really didn’t want to go back to that, but what else could he have done? Killed her?
He glanced back at the fiery woman. Natasha fired at the building. There wasn’t a lot of room for maneuvering, and he could see that her body still trembled with whatever illness beset her, but her aim was dead on. He watched as two men fell out of windows.
He eyed the empty windows, waiting for some sign of movement and wishing for his bow. He had dropped it when Natasha had attacked him and he’d had to flip over to avoid her. He could see it on the other side of the rubble, in an open spot with no cover. Damn it! If he had his bow, he could end whatever this was before it got ugly.
Guess it’s just going to get ugly, then.
Coulson’s voice came over his comm again. “It’s not me I’m worried about, Hawk. What’s the situation?”
For Phil to admit that he was worried was in and of itself rather amazing, even if there was no trace of that emotion in the man’s tone.
“I never knew you cared so much, Watchdog. Unknown assailants, unknown numbers. They’ve got us pretty nailed down here.”
He held his fire, refusing to waste his limited ammo until he had a clear shot. At this range, his pistol wouldn’t have the accuracy he was used to, but since it was all he had…
There. Movement in the far right window.
He took aim and fired and the shots coming from that window ceased abruptly as a body slumped over.
“Nice shot.”
He darted a glance at Natasha then focused back on the building. “Thanks. I’d be better with my bow though.”
“Shouldn’t have dropped it, then.”
Really, she was almost as good as Coulson.
Clint smiled as he realized that his instincts had been spot on. She would be brilliant to work with. He just hoped they would live long enough to get the chance.
He leaned around a boulder and fired again. “You think?”
She laughed - bright and free - and something in his chest puffed out that he had been the cause of that sound. He was certain she rarely laughed, at least, not for real. He found even amidst the insanity of a firefight that he wanted to hear that sound again.
“I could cover you if you want to make a grab for it?” she asked, popping off another couple rounds.
“Or she could just shoot you herself,” Coulson added in his ear, eavesdropping, as per usual.
“And what stops you from shooting me yourself?” he had to ask the question. He knew in his gut that she wouldn’t, but he found it irresistible to tease her. And he was curious how she would respond.
“Nothing,” was her deadpan reply. She flipped a lock of red hair out of her face and over her shoulder. “Except they seem to want us both dead and the enemy of my enemy…” She gestured in the air with her gun. “You know the saying?”
He did. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Cover me.”
She drew another gun from a holster on her thigh and began laying down cover fire, but just as he shifted into position to roll out and make a grab for his bow, movement caught his eye from back up the alley, the way Natasha had come.
They were boxed in.
“They’re on your right too!” he shouted, abandoning any thoughts of grabbing his favorite weapon.
“Bojemoi!”
It was the first time since the bullets started soaring past them that Clint heard emotion in her voice.
Unless one counted her laughter. He’d rather her laughter than the frustrated panic he heard in her expletive.
“No kidding.”
He angled himself to allow for clear shots at the new threat, putting him nearly back to back with Natasha. He needed a plan. This wouldn’t last long if he couldn’t find a way out of this dead end.
“Where is your extraction team?”
Good question! The quinjet would be excellent back up in this situation, if only it were close enough to fly in before they were taken or shot.
“Watchdog?”
“I hear you, Hawkeye. Situation?”
Clint could hear the distraction in Phil’s voice. It just meant his handler was juggling communications, probably in an effort to get them some air support.
“We’re under fire by unknown hostiles, boxed in with nowhere to go and a limited amount of ammo and cover here.” He paused to squeeze off a couple shots, a smirk tilting his lips when both bullets found a mark. “My bow is out of reach or I’d have ended it already. You got an estimate time on extraction? We really could use some back up here.”
“I wasn’t planning on this kind of extraction, Hawk!” That tone wasn’t a good sign. It meant they wouldn’t be seeing the quinjet in the next few minutes. “We left our team in Germany, or did you forget?”
Of course he hadn’t forgotten. But he had hoped that Coulson would have sent for them as soon as he had mentioned a change in plans. If he hadn’t, then they were screwed. “Get ‘em here ASAP.”
“Already in route. ETA in…”
Clint didn’t hear the rest. Coulson’s voice was muffled as the number of shots suddenly increased, ringing out from several windows of the building. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the men in fatigues darting out the sides of the building to take up strategic positions, moving closer to where the two of them crouched. The enemy had the advantage when it came to cover. Clint couldn’t get a clear shot.
He focused back on the men in the alley. They were taking their cue from the other group and were moving in closer as well, despite Clint’s firing at them with his glock and taking out two more as they moved from one pile of rubble to another. He didn’t like the way they were inching forward, but allowing them to come closer would give him the opportunity to use one of his lesser known skills.
It wasn’t the greatest plan, but it was a plan at least. The attackers didn’t appear to be trying to kill them, but were moving in to take them alive. That was worrisome, but he could take out a good portion of them if they came within throwing range.
A sudden pain in his right thigh drew a grunt from him. Perhaps they wanted her alive. He appeared to be a target, though he could tell from experience that it was little more than a flesh wound. The bullet had only grazed him.
Natasha glanced at him, took note of the growing wet patch on his pants and seemed to determine he would live, all in the split second before she returned to firing at the advancing men.
Clint noticed that very few of her bullets bit into dirt or stone instead of flesh.
The approaching men were getting closer and with the sun having sunk below the horizon, twilight was upon them, and they were situated at a huge disadvantage.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the firing ceased and a voice called out in crisp Russian. Clint’s grasp of the language wasn’t great, but he understood enough to interpret the words in his head
“Give it up, Black Widow. We do not wish you any harm. You are ill. Let us help you.”
Clint glanced back at Natasha. Her face seemed to have drained of all color. In the misty light she looked pale, beautiful and deadly. She didn’t answer, not with words. Instead she took aim in the direction of the voice, and for the first time that evening, she didn’t appear ill. Instead, a calm determination settled over her as she let her gun do the talking.
The Russians returned fire, and Clint lifted his gun to fire back. But they were greatly outnumbered and running out of time, and very soon, ammo. He hadn’t come armed for a firefight, but for an assassination.
The disturbing truth of the situation was that if Phil couldn’t get the quinjet here quickly, there would be no escape for him. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sent to take out a Russian operative. Denying it would accomplish nothing. The Russians would not believe him, and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate losing a spy like the Black Widow, be it to death or defection. He was certain they had lured her here in order to take her back, and based on what he’d read, to reprogram her through the use of psychological drugs, hypnosis and various other questionable forms of manipulating the psyche.
His death would be an added bonus, relieving S.H.I.E.L.D. of one of its most valuable assassins.
He kept an eye on both groups, but kept his gun trained on the smaller group advancing up the alley. Without backup, he couldn’t see any way out of this mess. But he’d learned long ago that being unable to see a way out didn’t necessarily mean one didn’t exist. He just hadn’t discovered it yet. So, he let his eyes wander the ever darkening street, seeking a path that had eluded his first glances.
And his distraction cost him as another burst of pain exploded in his right bicep. “Fuck!”
“Will you stop getting shot!” Her voice was laced with exasperation.
Clint rolled his eyes at her. He didn’t think the wound was that bad, but he was losing blood from two places now, and it was definitely going to make getting out of this mess more difficult. At least it wasn’t his throwing arm.
“You think I’m enjoying this?”
“Some assassin you are. Ow!” She gripped her left shoulder.
He grinned as he watched a streak of red trickle over her fingers. “You’re one to talk.”
“Shut up, Barton.”
Coulson’s voice broke into the fray. “I think I like her, Hawk. We should keep her.”
“I already told you that. ETA on extraction?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“We won’t live that long, Watchdog.” Clint took a closer look at the wall behind them. There, not ten feet from where they crouched was a crack running through the stone. “I have a plan.”
“Will it get you out of there alive?” Coulson would accept nothing less.
“Possibly. We’ll find out.” He continued to eye the crack, making mental calculations.
“Hawk…”
“Stand by, you old dog.” Clint was in no mood to hear Coulson have a sudden bout of emotionalism.
“Roger that.”
Wedging himself between enough rubble to provide some sort of cover from at least two sides, he removed his quiver, grimacing at the pain the movement induced. He knew both burning pains were little more than flesh wounds, but they hurt like hell. Probably needed stitches. He hated stitches. Maybe he could convince Doc to use that surgical glue, though that stuff burned like hell, too.
Focus, Barton! he reminded himself, drawing an arrow from his quiver.
“What are you doing?” Natasha’s voice came to him over the sounds of the ongoing gunfire.
“I have a plan,” he told her, removing an explosive tip from the arrow and fiddling with the firing mechanism. Usually it was triggered by impact or a signal from his bow, but being as he couldn’t reach the latter and he couldn’t throw it hard enough to cause detonation, he had to fall back to turning it into a basic hand grenade. Thankfully, with his skill in marksmanship extending to throwing projectiles, he had taken that into consideration when designing the tips. Remove a small pin, and he had a few seconds before detonation.
“Ever played the game Hot Potato?” he asked, removing another tip.
“My childhood was not exactly filled with games,” she retorted through gritted teeth as she knelt behind the rubble and fired at anything that moved. "At least not the kind of games you would have played." Her sleeve was now coated in blood. She was wounded worse than she let on.
“You heard of it or not?” He prepared a third for throwing.
“No.”
“Too bad.”
He took assessment of where both groups of men were, used his teeth to pull the pin from one tip, then threw it. The second followed, aimed at the opposite group, before the first landed. The third he tossed towards the weakness in the wall even as he reached out and grabbed Natasha and pulled her down behind the rubble.
“What are you doing?” she yelled as he tumbled her to the ground.
“Playing Hot Potato,” he retorted, as three explosions detonated within seconds of each other.
Natasha grimaced. Men screamed out and all became utter confusion. Smoke and dust filled the air as a section of the wall crumbled, leaving a hole large enough for the two of them to scramble through.
Natasha saw it and didn’t wait for him to tell her what to do. She lunged for it.
Smart girl.
Clint used the momentary confusion and limited visibility from the smoke to make a grab for his bow, then ignoring the pain in his leg, he darted with his weapon and his quiver through the dust and debris of the crumbled wall.
Just as he made it through to the other side, another section of the wall gave way above him. He attempted to leap out of the way, but a sharp pain lanced through his head and everything went dark.
Natalia had no time to consider how her new comrade in arms had given them the means to escape from a bad situation. She just went with it, darting through the hole in the wall, then glancing about for an escape route.
She was familiar with this part of the old city, but had to get her bearings. A street ran off to her left, angling away from the crumbling wall. It would lead them in as good a direction as any and would provide plenty of places to take cover.
Behind her came the sound of crumbling stone. She whirled just in time to see Barton had made it through the gap only to have to dive from more of the falling wall. As luck would have it, a large rock caught him in the side of the head, and he went limp.
Is there anything else that could possibly go wrong today?
She regretted that question as soon as she asked it, because she knew from experience that the answer was most assuredly, “yes”.
There was no point in wasting time fretting over the unfairness of the situation. Instead, she scrambled to Barton’s side and checked his vital signs. He was still breathing, and his pulse was strong enough, but he was unconscious and bleeding from a gash on his scalp, as well as the two wounds he had taken to the arm and leg.
Her own injury throbbed, but she could block it out.
Getting Barton up the street would be difficult, but not impossible. But she would not be able to drag him far or fast enough to escape the Russian troops shouting on the other side of the wall. There was very little time before the air cleared enough for them to realize what had happened and where their targets had gone.
Faced with the choice of both of them being caught - and Barton most likely being killed while she was taken back to Russia - or the chance that one of them might escape, she chose the latter, even if it meant sacrificing herself.
There was a first time for everything, right?
Besides, if anyone deserved to live, it was him. He had choices. He did what was right. She was dead anyway.
Ignoring the pain in her arm, she hefted Barton by lifting under his arms and began dragging him to a place not far up the street. She just needed to get him hidden where the Russians could not find him, and trust that Barton’s Watchdog would be able to locate him. The comm unit in his ear should have a tracking device as well. He would be found by S.H.I.E.L.D. and they could get him the medical help he needed.
Whereas she…
Natalia - No! Not Natalia. NATASHA! - shoved aside any other thoughts as she dragged the unconscious man as quickly as she could up the street. She could not afford to consider what would happen to her. It did not matter. She could only hope that once she forgot everything, once her handlers reprogrammed her, that S.H.I.E.L.D. would find a way to eliminate her. It would be for the best all around.
Chances were slim that Barton’s offer would be backed up by his superiors. At best she would be a lab rat and a source of intel. Worst case, she would be dead.
But at least you would be free.
No time to think about that. She had to keep moving. It was not far now.
The best place to hide Barton would be an old warehouse. Plenty of places to hide him in there. Her arm burned with the exertion of dragging him, but she ignored the desire to stop and rest.
Ten more feet.
Five more feet.
She kicked in a door and drug Barton through it, noting that even in his unconscious state, he had a death grip on that bow of his. When had he grabbed that? His quiver strap was threaded through the arm holding the bow. Amazing. The man had an uncanny dedication to his weapons.
She wondered what had led him to become so proficient with the tools, but knew that she would never get the chance to ask. There was so much that intrigued her about this man. Just something about his manner that drew her to him, like a moth to a flame.
He was dangerous. Better for it to end without ever discovering the answers to her questions. Without ever having a friend.
She pushed the door shut, then maneuvered Barton to the far side of the room. It was dark but she dare not risk any light. The Russian unit would waste no time following her. She needed to get out of here and lead them away from her fallen ally.
But first, she leaned down near his ear.
“Watchdog, I do not know if you can hear me or not, but Hawkeye is down: gunshot wound to the right shoulder, right thigh, and head injury, unconscious but alive and safe for the moment in a warehouse next street over. The men attacking us are Russian. I will lead them from this place so he will not be discovered. Tell him…”
She paused, wondering what to say. Really there was only one thing. “Tell him I said thank you and I am sorry.”
Natasha did not attempt to remove the comm or hear anything Watchdog said. She lurched to her feet and slipped out the door and began the task of attempting to escape while luring the Russians as far from Barton as possible.
She knew she would not succeed in the escaping part. The last weeks had taken their toll and whatever was wrong with her was getting worse. Her head ached fiercely and she felt she would vomit. Still, she stumbled down the street, determined to make her capture as difficult as possible.
She glanced back only once, and felt an odd emotion: regret.
To Be Continued…
M