we're just the children of the wild ones

[enemeriad]

Title: we must be killers, part 1
Fandom: avengers mcu
Characters: natasha romanoff, clint bolton, phil coulson and nick fury
Pairing: clint/natasha
Warnings: m
Summary:inspired by the prompt 'he made a different call' and of course, the difference in their recollections of budapest


+

For one of them, it starts in Volgograd. Petrovitch becomes a second surname and red is a colour she knows, she understands, she breathes.

It drips from the tips of her fingers before she reaches her 14th birthday. On her 15th, she blows out someone's candles and has learnt to keep her kills tidy. She counts the amount of times they scream but never the amount of bodies.

She tells herself that it's good to keep a distance from your profession.

.

For the other, it starts in Waverly. Family meant nothing and the traveling circus is a surrogate security blanket.

A bow was placed in his hands and he was told to 'make it work'. The temperature of the air and the speed of his target are his only considerations. They die with flourish and flair and a certain amount of exaggeration. It keeps things interesting.

Nick calls him and it's like what, "1am, sir? Really?"

"Are you busy, Bolton?" Fury's clipped tone echoes over the line.

"Well if you must know, I was attending to myself."

Fury ignores him, but Clint can just imagine him rolling his eyes at the phone.

"I'm guessing you're giving me another chance to get myself killed?"

"Something like that. S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters at 0800 hours. Coulson'll come get you."

"I'm pretty sure I can manage to get there on my-"

But he hears the dialtone and Fury's disapproval loud and clear in reply.

Coulson looks exactly as he does the last time Clint saw him. Clean-shaven, a blue tie that Bolton thinks looks nice with his eyes.

'Howdy.'

Coulson just sighs. 'Bolton, this is the second time I've had to bail you out with Fury.'

Clint snorts. 'Aw, c'mon. It was one car bomb.'

'You blew up a embassy convoy. The Knesset was not impressed.'

'I only do that on a 'need-to' basis.'

'Fury was never happier that you're state-less.'

Clint rolled down the windows, shrugging. 'It doesn't help sometimes.'

'You know that one more left turn and you're going to be out.'

'Great, thank you for reminding me that I'm fucked if Fury decides to chuck a tantie.'

'Clint, I'm telling you this because you know what it's like for ex-communicated agents.'

Bolton doesn't reply. It's not like Coulson is telling him anything he doesn't know.

Nevertheless, by 0900, Fury has given him back to Coulson and twitched his eyebrows enough times that Clint is pretty sure they're going to jump off his face and attempt to kill him.

'Don't screw this up, Bolton. I'm counting on you.'

Clint nods where he needs to and they take him down to the armoury and he's fitted out with all the bells and whistles. He's given a new recurve bow and a new uniform which Clint can't help but think is too little material and too much pretense.

'Were our last suits not sexy enough for Fury?'

Coulson hands him a glock and tells him to 'try not to get himself shot in the face.'

Clint laughs. 'C'mon man, you doubting me again?'

Phil tries not to scowl. 'You know what Bolton? You're an idiot.'

'A sexy, loveable idiot though.'

'Shut up and go suit up. Fury wants you in Minsk by tomorrow morning.'

'Belarus?'

Coulson frowns. 'Did you listen in the debrief?'

Bolton chews his cheek. 'Yeah..'

Phil shoves a thick folder into his hands and mutters something about him being redundant.

'Hey! That's mean.'

'Read this. I'm telling you Clint, this is nothing you've ever done before.'

Pffff, sure.

Minsk is fucking freezing.

There is no describing the way the powdery snow chills the bones. No amount of thermals and skarves lessen the stiffness in his joints.

'Getting old,' He mutters to himself and walks into the local pub outside his hotel.

'Pivo.' The bartender gets him warmed beer, a local specialty and he sips quietly, fingers curled around the glass. He's glad that his mediocre Russian covers essentials like demanding beer and asking 'do you want to get out of here?'

He cricks his neck and groans inwardly. This mission is going to be one of those excruciatingly long, boring ones where he does a shitload of waiting and then gets to kill a lower-level agent in about five minutes.

A young woman slides into the seat next to him, glossy brown hair in a high ponytail. She orders a vodka tonic and chats up the bartender with a quiet innocence and reticence Clint finds charming.

Whatever, it's an interesting point of what's sure to be an awful few weeks.

He introduces himself as Colin no last name, human resource head hunter at a random company he makes up. She smiles and it's all flooding out of her mouth: she's twenty nine and isn't Anja a pretty name? and she's been working as an journalist before she got moved back to Russia and her accent is disjointed.

After a while, the little Russian he knows comes in handy.

She spills uncomfortably honestly about her work and her constant need for adventure.

'So how'd you end up here?'

She swirls the ombre cognac around in her glass, swathed lazily in scratchy sheets.

'Accident. Chasing a story.'

'About?'

She grins lasciviously. 'Wouldn't you like to know.'

He laughs despite himself. 'Top secret information?'

'It wouldn't be a good story if it wasn't.'

'Not even a hint?'

'I'd much rather make you pay for it.'

It's central heating in the hotel room, but he feels colder than he did before. Sitting up, he reaches for his wallet.

'Fifteen?'

She laughs and the sound rises in clear vowels up towards the ceiling fan.

'You're obviously new around here.'

'That obvious, huh.'

She shrugs, playing along.

'Sex pays much better in the Soviet Union than money.'

'Inflation comes in handy sometimes, then.'

He spends an hour or two getting to know the locals.

The next morning, the sun is a bright white light. The room is warmer, central heating kicking in. His companion is gone, the disturbance visible only in the crumpled right side of the bed.

He dresses for the weather, Nick's stupid suit underneath and goes to unpack. It's a time-consuming task reassembling the recurve and reacquainting himself with the suit.

Then he sits down at the folded kitchenette, makes himself a mug of coffee and spends the entire day reading Coulson's notes.

It isn't until Saturday that he makes contact with a small fisherman on the Svislach. The man nods, hands him a phone and goes ashore to get rid of his haul.

'Bolton? You copy?'

'You didn't fucking tell me I was going in blind.'

He can hear Nick gritting his teeth. 'You're supposed to read the material before you go in.'

'No fucking picture. Are you kidding me? It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.'

'You were the only one that can do this,' Coulson butts in.

'Am I on speaker? Fuck, Fury. This isn't some dumb shit science experiment, this agent is elusive.'

'You can do this.'

'Of course I can but you didn't tell me I was signing up to sit around for weeks until, maybe, she comes to kill me.'

'It's not like that-'

'Am I expendable Nick? Is that it?'

'I did try to tell you, Clint.'

'Shut up Phil. Seriously. You're supposed to be my friend.'

Fury cuts him off. 'You knew exactly what you were signing up for. Or at least you would have if you had been listening.'

'So what am I supposed to do?'

'Wait.'

'Until a person that vaguely matches the physical description just appears?'

'Precisely.'

'This is a fucking waste of time.'

'Goodluck Clint.'

'Fuck you both.'

His case notes read thusly:

Name: Natalia Romanova {aliases: unknown}
Skill Set: Unknown
Age: Early to late 20s
Height: Tall
Build: Strong
Hair: Indescriminate. Partial to red.
Early Life: Raised in Volgograd in Soviet Operation alias The Red Room (see case note ix57.093 for extrapolation)
Mother and father, deceased. No known family/siblings.
Believed to have been programmed for use for the Red Room Initiative.
Comments: All data approximate, note physical apperance is variant to current operation.
Last Known Location: Minsk, Belarus (see eye witness 48.039)

He shreds the folder. Fucking great time this'll be.

He finds Anja in the bar next to his hotel after changing out of Fury's Fuck Suit and she smiles as he orders a beer.

'Tough time with the client?'

He nods. 'Nothing works with these idiots.'

She nods to the bartender and presents him with a rakija.

'What is this?'

'It's made from fruit.'

'Nothing girly right?'

'Try it. You'll see.'

The stuff is strong - stronger than anything he's tried before. It's an effort to keep down the cough - and the wince. She laughs.

'That's the bravest thing I've seen you do.'

'It's not that bad,' he rasps out.

'Wait till you've had a few more.'

It's probably not the wisest thing (on many levels) but they end up on the table singing Across the Universe out of tune, sloshing beer down themselves.

As the bar clears out, they end up in the elevator, forcing themselves up to their floor.

'Nine?'

'Shit memory you've got. Ten.'

'Oops.'

She pushes him into the control and stops the lift, tilting his chin.

'Oh Anja. I think I really like Belorussia.'

She laughs against his throat, toying with his shirt. 'I'm not even a native.'

'You'll do.'

His fingers find the waistband of her jeans but it's mid winter and she's got leggings and stockings and boots and 'oh fuck..'

It's easier in his room. Her room? He can't remember but his drunk one-track mind is on the silvery slip of skin he's finally unearthed. Sloppy fingers drag against the curve of her hips and then it's all about dusting kisses to the inside of her bones. Trailing down, down until he's teeth find the catch of her underwear.

It would probably be a more sensual description, but neither his companion, nor his mind can be bothered with articulation.

His functions extend to finding a condom, unbuttoning his jeans and then she pulls his up and down for a kiss. She tastes like a cold burn and he's too drunk to know what the fuck that means before shes flipped them over and slowly, agonizingly, painfully impales him. She does it with a certain angular precision that is so opposite to her character. She talks flippantly, breathes carelessness but sex with her is like a velveteen knife. She's hot against him and yet her skin is cool against the damp air.

Knives or nails find themselves against his chest and she makes no sounds despite his embarassing choking gasps.

'Fuck Anja..'

And it's all a colourful blur of expletives and probably sentimental 'you're so fucking beautifuls' as she grinds into his pelvis. It's bone on bone, muscle against muscle, there is no cleft for drag. His hands find her hips and he anchors her to himself but she has a tempo of her own and he, fuck it, can't keep up.

'Just a sec-'

But she'll have none of it. She dips down as she gets close, her body betraying what her exterior will not and it too has a strategic compliance as she waits until his skin is practically on fire before she lets herself go, biting his neck.

His thumb digs into the sides of her hips and he stills her as she makes a move to leave.

'So tell me about the story then.'

The morning is a icy latte and a visit to the S.H.I.E.L.D informer by the riverbank.

'Bolton,' the man intones crisply. His hand reaches out for a handshake, his fingertips pink where Clints are blue.

'Morning Danya.' They exchange pleasantries and in Russia, that means half a pint of vodka before breakfast. Danya is shaped like a nordic man, taller than him with watery blue eyes and a Putin-esque posture. His face is wrinkled with the tides and the salty sprays of years on the water have leaked into his face.

'To keep warm,' Danya proclaims. 'Nazdravlje.'

'What have you got for me?' Because maybe, maybe, one of S.H.I.E.L.D's agents could function autonomously and efficiently.

Danya shrugs. 'She's not hard to find, really.'

Clint scoffs. 'We can't keep track of her. She keeps taking out our networkers.'

Danya nods, pouring himself another shot. 'Ay, ay, the problem is keeping her in the same place for a period of time.'

The American tilts the glass for a refill. 'The point is I can't even get a pin on her. Who does she associate with now? Where does she live?'

'You yankies are too impatient always moving, moving, running, running. You will never find her if you are always trying to be ahead of her. With patience, she will come to you.'

'How do you know so much about her?'

Danya laughs. 'You think S.H.I.E.L.D recruited me because of my pretty face? Ay Bolton, you are stupider than I thought. I worked on the Red Room project.'

'Not a fisherman?'

Danya ignores his smirk and condescending tone. 'I got out beause it got too easy, not because it got too hard, Bolton. I will give you the name of my friend. You go to him. He might know what she's up to. But if I were running this, I wouldn't be looking in Russia. You are moments too late, my friend. The trail is stone cold. Winter has set in. She is long gone now.'

This was starting to feel like a wild goose chase. 'Do you have a picture of her or anything?'

Danya laughs, crooked yellow teeth appearing like fangs. 'You think I spent my time taking photos of the little girls? You funny Americans.'

'And there's nothing from Fury?'

'No. Maybe he thinks even that this is stupid.'

Bolton didn't doubt it.

Danya's friend of a friend of a friend of a friend ends up being extremely unhelpful. And Clint is left with an expired passport and a litre of vodka from his fisherman friend.

The note on the bottle says 'Sladenki' and after half a bottle, he calls Anja. Because really, he's bored out of his mind and this mission is Fury's way of saying 'fix up your shit or I'm giving you something mind-numbingly fruitless.'

He should've known Coulson was taking the piss when it was all 'be careful Bolton!' and crap. He's pissed and pissed and all in all, he just wants the company of pretty brown hair and a little fun.

She arrives with a crisp knock and 3 inch stiletto's and she wasn't kidding when she said she was working because she pushes him onto the bed with such a perfunctory displeasure that he chuckles.

'Alright Tiger.'

He's also half drunk and so the whole experience is half-lived and she clicks her tongue and gets up before he can continue embarassing himself with 'oh Anja you are so bronzeny'.

'Goodnight Clint,' she whispers before she leaves.

He smiles. 'Night Anja.'