Doomsday
Title: Doomsday
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: none, actually. characters in the fic are Natasha, Clint, and Coulson
Rating: mature. some language and violence. there's this thing with a hairstick and an eyeball.
Word Count: 8,849
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: Clint, Natasha, and Coulson are sent on an undercover mission by S.H.I.E.L.D. They have to retrieve a magically enhanced weapon and consign it into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s care to protect the world.
Too bad their cover gets blown.
With death imminent, the three of them are forced to fight their way out of a tight situation. Good thing they're all very good at what they do.
Author's Note: this fic is written for lucdarling as a birthday gift. she wanted Clint, Coulson, and Natasha being amazing and kick ass. it could be either pre-initiative or a side mission. i chose pre-initiative and set it roughly in the late 1990s or the early 2000s.
also, der Jüngste Tag is German for Doomsday. so yeah. there you go.
~*~
"Barton. Report." The voice was soft in his ear, barely a sound in the silence of the night that had wrapped around him.
"Its fucking cold, sir," he retorted, watching the fat white flakes drift toward the ground through the glass of his scope. He was camped out on the roof of a tall building half a block down from the private residence where the party was taking place. He'd watched, through that same scope, as Natasha had slipped inside that private residence to "attend" the party. That had been over an hour ago. So far, there had been no sign that she was in trouble. No sign that she wasn't, either.
"I believe we warned you to pack your long johns," Coulson replied, a hint of amusement coloring his words.
"Says the man not sitting outside in the cold," Clint muttered.
"Contrary to your beliefs, I do not have the engine running. This means there is no heater to warm the interior of the van. I am no better off than you." There was silence over the comm unit for the span of one whole second before Coulson went on as if he hadn't just called Clint a pussy without actually saying he was a pussy. "Report." The single word was accompanied by a touch more force.
"I've seen no sign of Natasha since she slipped inside. I don't like that she's out of contact with us, sir. I should have accompanied her," Clint replied quietly, eye still trained on the party house through the scope on his rifle.
Coulson was silent for the beat of a heart before Clint heard what he thought might be an actual snort of mirth. "You, of all people, know that Natasha is more than capable of taking care of herself. She's more capable of taking care of herself than you are."
Clint had nothing to say to that, so he strengthened his focus on the target house. The scope allowed him a good view of the building at large, giving him glimpses of the interior through windows that were cheery with soft golden light. In many of those, he saw men and women moving about, mingling with one another while drinking champagne and nibbling on finger foods. Other windows were dark, but it wasn't a deterrent. He checked those windows, too, and was more often than not treated to shadowy images of couples getting naked. He brought the scope back to the lit windows in order to start the process all over again.
He tuned the cold out, ignored the way it clawed under his winter gear to kiss along his skin. He ignored the hard surface of the roof top under him. He forgot that there was snow falling down around him, coating everything with a fresh layer of pristine white. His focus was solely for the house and the lit windows, his scope never still as he searched for some sign that Natasha was well, that she wasn't in need of his help.
Even as he kept an eye on the windows, a small section of his mind played over their mission once more. He, Natasha and Coulson had been sent in to Belarus looking for a weapons dealer. This weapons dealer, Yuri Antonov, was rumored to have gotten his hands on something called der Jüngste Tag and he was willing to sell it to the highest bidder. According to the debriefing before the mission, it was some kind of seriously amped up, powered by magic weapon that could destroy the world. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted it so it could be locked away in a vault somewhere, never to be used or fired. Fury hadn't needed to tell them that there was no option for failure in this mission, that the fate of the world rested upon their shoulders.
So it was that he found himself on a roof in Minsk, freezing his balls off while Coulson sat in a van and stayed moderately warm, keeping an eye out through his scope as Natasha mingled and tried to win them a meeting with Antonov.
"Barton. Report," Coulson sounded absolutely unaffected by everything, but Clint knew otherwise. He'd worked with the man for some time now and he knew that there was tension threaded through his words. He was just as concerned about Tasha as Clint was.
"Still freezing my balls off, sir. And still no sign of Natasha." They both knew that an hour without contact was a bad sign. Even if it was Natasha they were talking about. Coulson was right. Natasha was far more deadly than people might be willing to believe. The sultry, seductive beauty she presented to the world was a perfect cover for the deadly assassin that lurked under her skin. Despite that, she was on her own in there and Clint didn't liked the idea of her working a job without backup.
"Maintain your position for another fifteen minutes. If we don't receive any type of communication from her in that time, we'll go in after her." There was steely determination in Coulson's voice, easy to pick up over the comm unit. Clint imagined he was already busy checking his side arm and any spare weapons he had on him.
"Copy that, sir," he replied, taking a second to glance down at his watch. Fifteen minutes meant they'd be storming the Bastille at midnight. Lifting his gaze from his watch, he refocused on the house. The scope showed him a pair of individuals talking in one of the windows. He recognized the flame colored hair worked up into a sleek chignon. "Sir, I have Natasha in my scope. She's at the third window on the right, first floor. It appears she's talking to someone."
"Copy that," Coulson replied. There was nothing else, allowing Clint to settle back into his frigid nest and keep watch over Tasha as she spoke to a tall, thin gentleman with a knowing smile on her face and an occasional touch to the man's arm. She was working him hard, priming the pump for the next part of their mission. "Keep visual contact for as long as possible."
Clint snorted, made sure it was loud enough for Coulson to hear it across the comm. As if he needed to be told.
Natasha and her friend stood in the window for a good ten minutes before she leaned in and either whispered in his ear or pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was the opposite side of the man's face, so Clint couldn't see to be sure. The man pressed a card into her hand when he lifted it to brush a kiss across her knuckles. He slipped away first, leaving her to turn and shoot a look at them out the window. He could clearly read the smugness of her expression through the scope. Then she was gone and Clint shifted his focus toward the entrance.
It took her ten minutes to extricate herself from the party, no doubt playing her part to the hilt by giving her thanks to the owner of the house for the invite that she'd never actually had. It was straight up midnight when the front door opened to allow her out into the dark night. She was wrapped in a thick fur, a matching hat covering her head to keep her exposed ears warm. She made her way down the stairs that led up to the front door, stepped down onto the sidewalk, and turned up the street toward the non-descript van parked at the curb several blocks away. As she approached the dark vehicle, the door slid open smoothly and Natasha climbed inside.
"Barton, pack it up and join us," Coulson ordered absently. No doubt his brain was already working on the debriefing that would take place when they returned to the rental house that helped sell their cover story.
"I'll be down in ten," he replied, already taking the rifle down to its basic components. The comm went silent and left him to his thoughts. Thoughts that revolved around choosing a hot shower to thaw out his balls or kicking the shit out of Tasha for going in without some kind of backup. After thinking about the bruises she'd give him for suggesting she couldn't take care of herself, he decided that a hot shower to thaw his balls was better than a hot shower to ease the ache in every single part of his body. Because that's what he'd be doing if he dared question her decisions to her face.
Ten minutes later, he was climbing into the van with equipment cases in hand and a hot shower on the brain.
~*~
The rental house was a lush, furnished thing that had nearly as many rooms as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s base and the look of excess that seemed more predisposed to the New World than a former Soviet country. It had been chosen in order to help maintain their cover. Given the nature of their mission, their cover required that Coulson and Tasha pose as a couple. Coulson was supposed to be some big shot with a lot of money while Tasha played his girlfriend. Clint had been slated to play the muscle. S.H.I.E.L.D. had rented the house based on the idea that a reclusive rich man would want something grand and plush to remind him of home.
It was far too big for just the three of them, the place difficult to defend from any enemies. Not that they hadn't worked out a way to defend the perimeter on the off chance someone did try to storm the castle. But... illusions and images and all that. Clint sighed, his feet silent on the floor as he made his way up the hall toward the scheduled, after mission debriefing. Doors hung open, allowing for a peek into the room beyond. He paid attention without seemingly paying attention, mind already turning over possibilities for the next part of their mission. Each room was filled with heavy wooden pieces that gleamed with polish. Thick cushions and pillows adorned the couches and chairs. Expensive art decorated the walls and stood silent sentinel on shelves and tables. The house was a forest of dark woods, glittering crystals, and vivid colors. It was the kind of home Clint had once dreamed of having.
Strolling through it now, clad in clean clothes and fresh from the shower with water still weighing his hair down, he saw it for the glittering trap it was. It might have looked beautiful, but it felt cold and unwelcoming. He was glad that it was only a cover because he'd go insane living in this place.
Then again, the vases and crystal pieces and paintings would make good target practice.
He joined Natasha and Coulson in the study, pushing the door closed behind him before settling into an empty chair. He knew there was no need to shut the heavy wooden panel as they were the only ones in the house, but habit had prompted the action. Clint shifted his position, fitting one shoulder into the corner of the wing backed chair so that he could throw his legs over the arm. Coulson shot him a look that suggested he thought Clint had all the manners of an untrained puppy. Natasha only shook her head and gave her attention back to the other man. "Glad you could join us, Barton," Coulson intoned, focus already on several sheets of paper that had been spread across the wide surface of the desk.
"I had to thaw my balls," he remarked casually.
Natasha snorted and rolled her eyes. "It would be such a loss if they remained frozen."
Clint considered shooting her the finger, but he was too mature for that. And she could kick his ass. So he turned to look at Coulson and waited for the debriefing to begin.
"Natasha?" Coulson said without looking up from his papers. The tip of his pen scratched lightly against the sheet he was writing on, no doubt making notes as they went along. Then again, knowing Coulson, he was already filling out reports so that when they got home, he could file them right away.
"I had a very promising conversation with one of Antonov's underlings," she told them, settled in her chair in a pair of black dress slacks and a pale blue silk blouse. She offered them a knowing smile, then spoke again. This time, her voice thickened with a distinctive Russian accent. "I casually mentioned that my rich American boyfriend was eager to meet with Yuri Antonov because he had heard of der Jüngste Tag and wished to buy it." The Russian slid away, allowing her to pronounce the German perfectly.
Coulson continued writing, never once looking up from his paper work. "How did that go?"
Natasha lifted one shoulder in a shrug that could have meant anything. Since it was likely Coulson wasn't about to take a shrug for an answer, she spoke again. This time, there was no hint of an accent tainting her words. She sounded as if she came from somewhere in middle America. Tasha was a master of disguise and it was very evident by her vast repertoire of accents and languages. "He phoned his boss and they spoke at length. We will be meeting with him tomorrow at two o'clock."
"Where is the meet taking place?" Coulson lifted his head with his question.
"I'll get an email with directions. Antonov likes his secrecy." The tone of Natasha's voice told them both what she thought of that. Coulson just nodded his head and returned his gaze to the papers spread out before him. The room fell into silence as he scratched something out on the form directly in front of him.
Clint let it stretch for as long as possible before tossing out the question he knew was eating at Coulson's mind. "How are we playing this? There's no way I'm letting you go in on this alone again," he threw a meaningful look at Natasha. She only stared back, eyes narrowed on him threateningly. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, but went on regardless. "I know you're super badass, Tasha. I know you can single-handedly destroy a couple dozen men with a pen knife and your smile. But this is an entirely different matter and you are not going in without some kind of backup. Either of you." He let his gaze slide over to where Coulson sat, blatantly ignoring him. "Fury would have my balls in a vice if anything happened to either one of you."
Natasha spared him a knowing smile. But she said nothing about Fury and Clint's balls, instead returning to the topic at hand. "We'll all go together. I've already mentioned as much to Antonov's man. I made sure he believed that my boyfriend was very, very interested in the weapon and had a large supply of cash on hand with which to purchase it."
"You two make a cute couple," Clint grinned at her. A knife appeared in her hands in response. He'd pushed his luck about as far as he could for one night.
"He knows that we will be accompanied by a bodyguard. I was careful to imply that my boyfriend was slightly paranoid and never went anywhere without muscle." She made a point of glancing Clint's way, her gaze suggesting he would have to do as muscle. He took it as it was meant because he knew that she was teasing. In as much as she ever teased. Clint had worked quite a few missions with Natasha over the years and there was no one he trusted more at his back with possible exception of Coulson. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, though Tasha had fewer than he did, and they knew exactly how to work with one another.
Coulson nodded. "Good. We all know our roles. No doubt Antonov's people will be looking for obvious weapons. Guns and knives. We'll have to sneak a few smaller pieces in and hope that we won't need to use them." There was no need for Coulson to mention that they'd be on their own. S.H.I.E.L.D. had chosen the three of them for the mission because they didn't want to send in a large force. Too easily picked up on. It would give Antonov a chance to run before they could retrieve the weapon. A small group, one that wouldn't set off alarms, had been the best option. But that meant there would be no one there to help get them out of trouble if everything went tits up.
Things just couldn't go tits up.
"I suggest we get some sleep. We all need to be in top shape tomorrow. There's no telling what will happen and it would be good if we were ready for anything." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. It might have had more of an impact on Clint and Natasha if Coulson hadn't still been holding his pen, obviously intent on staying up until all hours of the night doing paperwork. Clint shared a look with Natasha. Neither one of them moved from their seats. After several seconds, Coulson looked up from his paperwork. "Debrief is over. You're both dismissed."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but seeing as you're as much a part of this mission as either one of us, it might be good if you included yourself in that 'we' you just used in your orders for sleep." Clint accompanied his words with a look of his own. Not that it phased Coulson. Nothing short of spontaneous combustion phased Coulson, and Clint had doubts about that.
Coulson's expression didn't change, but he was scowling at Clint just the same. Clint didn't let it bother him. He just stared back. "I have reports to finish before I can sleep."
"The reports will keep," Natasha said quietly. "Proper rest means you'll be sharp tomorrow." She gave him a look, then rose gracefully to her feet and glided toward the door. Hand on the knob, she turned back to look at him again. This time, there was a sly smile on her face. "Lover." She slipped out of the room without making a sound.
A soft clatter drew Clint's gaze back to where Coulson sat behind the large wooden desk. The pen had slipped from his grasp to land on the reports laid out on the desk's surface. And the look on his face...
Well, damn. It looked like something had just spontaneously combusted.
~*~
The email came showed up on Natasha's phone right at one thirty the next afternoon. Based on the directions and the provided map, the route they'd been given would take them back and forth around Minsk. Clint, being the muscle, was given the honor of driving the car that they'd rented. It was a sweet 1970 Mercedes Benz Grand 600 limousine that looked as fresh and new as the day it had come off the assembly line. The engine purred as the vehicle moved smoothly over the roads, a sleek jungle cat on the prowl. Part of him wanted to take the automobile home with him, but he expected that Fury would have a shit fit about that. And, honestly. What would Clint do with a limousine?
The ebb and flow of traffic made it hard to get anywhere, though the smaller cars on the road gave way in the face of the Mercedes' impressive size. The streets were narrow and made navigating difficult, but he managed well enough. By the time they'd wound their way in and out and back around the streets that the instructions told them to take, it was exactly two when they arrived at their destination.
The house before them was a large, rambling mansion on the edge of the city hidden behind tall stone walls and wrought iron gates. A pair of big, thick goons in cheap suits waited at the gates, glaring at anyone who dared get too close to them. When the car stopped, Natasha rolled down her window and stuck her head out to converse with the looming guards. Clint listened to the rapid flow of Russian as he waited, noting the distinct differences between the guard and Natasha. The big guy sounded like he was struggling to find the right words, his voice like rocks grinding against one another. Tasha's voice was smooth and effortless, a smoky, sultry thing that spoke of sex and cigarettes and the best vodka in the world.
Between being partnered with Tasha and going on missions to Eastern European nations, Clint knew enough Russian to know that the guy was trying to proposition her away from her wimpy American boyfriend. It was a good thing they were on a tight schedule, or the big guy might find himself missing a few body parts really damned fast.
Finally, when it became obvious that Tasha wasn't about to be separated form her rich boy toy, the big guy finally waved them through the gate. It opened before them, allowing them to wind their way up the long drive. Clint parked the limo before the doors, shut down the engine, and pocketed the keys. He was out of the car before Natasha could think of putting her hand on the handle. His fingers worked the door handle, then swung it wide and offered her his hand.
She clasped his hand and allowed him to 'help' her out of the car. One lean leg emerged, followed by its mate. She was clad in a tight, form-fitting black dress that he knew had just enough give to it so that she could kick ass in it if the need arose. Even her heels, four inch stilettos, could be used as weapons. She wore the same fur coat in deference to the cold weather and her hair had been done up in a twist that was secured with a pair of ornamental chopsticks. They were metal, painted with lacquer, and full on dangerous. She offered him a smile and reached up to pat his cheek with one hand, muttering at him in Russian. Good boy.
He cut her a look but said nothing. It was nice she was enjoying herself.
Coulson came out next, dressed to the nines in a three piece suit that Clint was sure cost more than the car. He wore a designer pea coat in black wool and a pair of black frames sat perched on his nose. The glasses were his own, worn mostly when he did paperwork in the office. He'd added them to the suit in the hopes of making himself look as unobtrusive as possible. Then again, most people looked at Phil Coulson and saw a paper pusher. They were unaware of the danger lurking behind the suit.
When he was on his feet, Natasha formed herself to his side, one arm sliding around his waist to sell the idea that they were a couple. Coulson gave her a look that, to an outsider, would appear to be one of affection. She tossed him a sultry smile before turning to the men waiting at the door. "Mr. Antonov is expecting us," she said in a thickened accent. The men standing guard nodded and turned toward the entry. One of the men bade them follow and started for the doors. Natasha and Coulson started after them, leaving Clint to bring up the rear.
"Gee, Natasha. Where's Boris?" Clint muttered to himself. "Moose and squirrel?" She heard him and shot him a glare that said he needed to watch the balls he'd been worried about the night before. He grinned at her briefly, then got serious about studying their surroundings.
The men at the door were carrying handguns. The coats they wore weren't cut to hide the extra bulk of a weapon, so it was plain to see the bulge under their arms where the weapons rested. A glance to either side showed there were several guards roaming the grounds carrying semi-automatics, a single strap looped over one shoulder to leave the weapon close at hand. Small. Probably Uzis. Some of the guards strolled with the gun in their hands, others allowed them to rest at their sides. Not a good thing. Inside, there were more men with the conspicuous bulges that said Yuri Antonov was as paranoid as they fucking came. If their mission went to hell in a hand basket, they'd be hard pressed to get out of the house without getting shot to death.
Their little entourage traveled up one hall and down another, into the deepest parts of the sprawling mansion. Clint kept track of the path they took by noting pieces of art or furniture. If they needed to make a quick break, they'd have the ability to do so. No doubt Natasha and Coulson were doing the same thing. Years of training took hold in the blink of an eye when faced with an unknown situation. One of them would have a way out for the others. If not, there was no way they'd make it out of the place alive.
It felt like a full five minutes had passed by the time the guards came to a halt before a pair of large, overdone wooden doors. They looked like something straight out of some medieval castle, all gilded wood and carved designs that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a very pornographic rendering of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. He squinted at one of the larger carvings for a second or two. Apparently Eve was as flexible as they came. And Adam... Wow. Who knew? That was going to be hard to top.
"You will submit to a search now," guard number two told them curtly while number one began patting Coulson down. It was a good search, taking into account any place that could hide a weapon. Clint was submitted to the same search, the man's hands brisk and efficient as they looked for any hint of a gun or knife. The pat down was modified for Tasha, but only a touch. By the time it was done, she had a look in her eyes that said number one was going to be missing his testicles very soon. Number one nodded at number two, who nodded and motioned to the door.
Guard number one knocked briskly at the door and waited for a few seconds until he heard a voice from inside call out something in Russian. Clint knew it was the obligatory permission to enter that all thugs got from their bosses before walking into the bad guy's lair. Guard number one held the door open for them and allowed them to enter. Guard number two followed after them. His partner stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
If the doors had been grandiose, the room was something out of a dictator's residential palace. A casual gaze showed Clint that there were artifacts from all over the world sitting upon tables and shelves in every corner and on every wall of the large chamber. Persian rugs that probably dated back a few hundred years hid the floor from view, while paintings form the masters cluttered the walls. Urns and vases from Greece, Rome, and the Orient mingled with statues of gods and deities from every religion known to man. Yuri Antonov had made lots of money selling weapons and he'd obviously used that money to try and set himself up as some kind of real collector. Which might have worked, if he'd actually had some kind of taste.
Speaking of Yuri Antonov... The man himself stepped forward as they strolled toward the center of the room. He was tall and painfully thin, his suit expensively made but so poorly cut that it had to have been bought off the rack and not tailored for him. His hair was a wild swirl of dark brown around his face, framing deeply set eyes that seemed black and a pale face that obviously hadn't seen the sun in years. He lifted a heavily ringed hand and offered it to Coulson. "Mr. Stevenson?" Antonov asked, voice accented only lightly, dark gaze sliding up and down the three of them in a blatantly assessing manner.
Coulson lifted his hand and shook Antonov's. Each passing second left Clint feeling more and more uneasy about this meeting. He let his gaze slide over the collected art pieces once more, using it as an opportunity to reassess any areas of the room that offered protection if they needed to get away from gun fire. He'd already made note of the exits. There were only two of them and they'd be hard pressed to get out of the room with Antonov blocking the exit on one side while his thugs blocked it on the other side. If the situation went bad, they were going to need to improvise weapons.
"Mr. Antonov. A pleasure to meet you." Coulson's voice was steady and bland. Empty. A very plain voice for a very plain man. "I've heard a great deal about you from my underworld contacts."
One eyebrow went up at that and Antonov let a grin slither across his face. "You have underworld contacts? I find this surprising, Mr. Stevenson, as I've never heard of you before last night. You will, of course, list for me all of these underworld contacts."
Coulson inclined his head in a gesture meant to portray easy capitulation. All part of the act. "Of course. There's Schenk in Berlin. My last conversation with him was filled with high praise. Vincenzo Pizzati claims there's no one better to work with. The Lion out of New York said you are extremely trustworthy. And Shiro sends his regards."
The smile that Antonov wore somehow managed to become even oilier than before. Still, he nodded his head once again and swept an arm back toward a table behind him. Laid out upon its surface was der Jüngste Tag, a gleaming black weapon that bore the general shape of a gun with a few bulbous additions to make it look slightly space aged. Even from across the room, Clint could feel some kind of residual energy rising up off of it. He supposed that was the magic that had been used to create it. It looked and felt ominous just resting on a table. He hated to think what it would do if fired.
"And here she is. The prize of my collection. Der Jüngste Tag. Available to the highest bidder. I have been told you wish to spend copious amounts of money to purchase this weapon." Antonov sounded far too pleased with himself, setting off every single warning bell in Clint's head. He made a show of inching closer to Coulson and Natasha, craned his head like he wanted a better look at the weapon, and lightly touched his hand to Natasha's arm. A silent signal that things were not what they seemed. She acted as if she hadn't felt his touch, but her lips pursed as she studied the weapon. Message received and understood.
"She is beautiful, no?" Natasha asked in that same sexy accent from earlier, turning to look at Coulson while one hand reached out to lay casually on his arm. Clint saw it for the signal it was. Coulson nodded his head at her.
"She's very beautiful. I have to have her." He immediately refocused his attentions on Yuri Antonov and offered him a bland smile. "How much do you want for her?"
"No negotiating, Mr. Stevenson? Are you so eager to have such a unique weapon that you will not try to haggle me down?" Antonov asked, brows going up in faint surprise.
"I find that haggling is a pointless endeavor, Mr. Antonov. You know what you want for your weapon. I know what I'm willing to pay. I plan on having der Jüngste Tag in hand before I fly home tonight." Coulson held out a hand toward Clint, a smooth gesture that suggested he was in absolute control of the situation. Clint reached into a pocket and pulled out a special, S.H.I.E.L.D. designed smartphone that would allow them to simulate a funds transfer. He put it in Coulson's hand and watched as the man went to work on it.
The chirping of a cell phone filled the silence that had consumed the room and all eyes turned to Antonov. He pulled a sleek looking piece of tech from his pocket, hit a button, and put it to his ear. "Da?"
That sinking feeling he'd had in his stomach since arriving dropped even lower, until it felt as if his feet had gone cold. The phone call was definitely not a good sign. He casually began unbuttoning his coat, pressing his thumb hard against each of the buttons to crack the protective plastic covering. The only weapons he had on him were under the plastic, sharpened discs that he could toss and, hopefully, maim someone with. He watched as tension crept into Natasha's shoulders, her hands curled into the lapels of the coat.
Antonov was silent as he listened to the person on the other end of the call. Nothing in the man's face gave away what he was hearing or thinking and his expression never changed once in the five minutes that the conversation lasted. When the call ended, he hit another button and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Then he let his gaze slide from one of them to the next. It landed on Natasha last and the look he gave her reminded Clint of the fox just as he was about to eat the hen. Shit.
"Natasha Shostakova. Such a beautiful woman. A prize for any man with healthy appetites." Antonov let his gaze rake her frame, taking a moment to appreciate every inch of her curvaceous body. Then his leer turned into a frown and one hand waved at the air absently. "Except, you are not Natasha Shostakova. You are Natalia Romanova and you have made many enemies of your countrymen. Too bad you haven't changed your looks. Had you done that, you and your friends would not now have to die."
Antonov shouted something in Russian and the room exploded into motion. Clint felt more than saw guard number one come at him. Instincts that were nearly as old as he was took over and saw him ducking down to the floor even as he spun to face guard number one. Discs flew from his hands in a bright blur of silver. One of the discs sliced across the man's gun hand, opening it deeply enough to send a cascade of crimson washing down over his fingers. A second disc parted the skin on the man's cheek while a third one grazed the side of his neck. The wounds were enough to startle him into stillness. Clint rose up and launched himself at the guard.
He'd learned a long time ago that there was no such thing as a fair fight when fighting for your life. Bigger men might be stronger, but they weren't always better fighters. Guard number one was definitely bigger than he was, but Clint had the advantage of surprise and sheer determination on his side. His fist connected with the man's chin, snapping his head back even as Clint's booted foot drove hard into the man's knee. There was a loud crack. The man made a high-pitched noise of pain, hands clutched to his disjointed knee as he tipped sideways. Clint made sure to follow him with his fist, smashing his curled fingers against the side of the man's head to make sure he stayed down.
Clint came up to find that Natasha had kicked off her heels and used them in a manner similar to throwing daggers. Guard number two had one embedded in his thigh, one of her hair sticks jammed through an eye. The other stick was stuck in the arm of a second assailant. Natasha was currently working on putting him down. There was no sign of Coulson or Antonov or the weapon. And there was no time to go look because another guard appeared in the open door, the Uzi in his hands and aimed at them. Clint dove forward, arms out to catch Natasha around the waist.
The two of them hit the floor and rolled, taking refuge behind a leather sofa that wasn't going to offer them any protection. But the handgun of guard number two lay nearby. He threw himself at it, scooped it up and rolled onto his back all at the same time. The barrel of the gun came up even as his fingers squeezed down on the trigger. The room echoed with the shot and even before the bullet cleared the barrel, Clint was turning to take aim at the guard trying to sneak up on them from behind.
Pounding footsteps raced up the hall ahead of more of Antonov's guards. Natasha went for the other downed guard's handgun. She returned to her position behind the couch and pointed the weapon at the doorway. Her eyes met his briefly, a silent thanks, then she jerked her head toward the other door. "Go. Make sure Coulson has the weapon and Antonov. I'll hold them off."
He almost asked her if she was sure, but Natasha was already focusing her attention on the door. She wouldn't like his questioning her abilities. And, truth be told, Tasha had more lives than a damned cat. "Don't get shot," he suggested lightly, then sprinted for the door.
"Worry about your own balls," she retorted, never once looking away from the open portal.
"Play nice with the other kids, Tasha." It was the last thing he said before he slipped out the second door. The echo of a shot going off followed him down the hall toward a single door at the end.
Clint moved with quiet stealth, gun held out before him. There were no other doors beyond the one at the end. That meant he didn't have to worry about someone jumping out at him from the side but he still had to keep an eye on his back. Though he suspected, based on the way shots kept ringing out from the other room, that Tasha had his back for him. That knowledge kept him moving forward, kept him seeking out Coulson.
He paused at the closed door, put his ear to it in an attempt to figure out what was going on in the other room. There was a grunt, the meaty thud of flesh hitting flesh. A shout. The fingers of his left hand curled around the grip of his gun, he used his right to take hold of the knob. He turned it slowly, making sure that the knob didn't make any noise and give away his presence. It would be bad if he distracted Coulson in the middle of a fight. And there was the added bonus of being able to assess the situation and react accordingly if no one knew he was there.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a long, large room that was floor to ceiling shelves. Those shelves held stacks of crates and cases and boxes. Some were marked in German. Some were marked in Korean. He saw Japanese and Chinese, French, Portuguese, Arabic, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Spanish, and others. There were some covered with markings he didn't recognize. Various kinds of technology, DVDs and video cassettes. CDs. Weapons. All in the thousands. A line of tables ran straight down the center, from one end to the other. They were piled with shipping labels and scanners and so many things that Clint couldn't be sure what he was actually looking at.
It didn't matter what was in the room the next second when a loud crash saw one of the shelf sections hitting the wall behind it, the shelves bending and twisting so that the contents they held spilled across the floor in a thunderous noise. Antonov had Coulson pressed into the shelf. The Russian's hand were pressing steadily against Coulson's throat, choking off his air supply. Clint lifted his gun and took aim, knowing without a doubt that his shot would take off Antonov's head.
But even as he was leveling the weapon, Coulson's hands calmly tugged at his tie. The knot loosened up enough for him to pull one tail free, then he had that tail flying through the short space between them. The pointed end of the tie slapped Antonov in the face, bringing forth a muffled cry of pain. The man's hands loosened up their hold, allowing Coulson to bring his fist up. It slammed into Antonov's chin and sent him stumbling backward. Coulson followed him with a spinning kick, his foot catching Antonov in the stomach. The lanky Russian went down to his knees, hands curled protectively over his belly while his head hung in defeat.
"Do you have him neutralized, sir?' Clint asked, the barrel of his gun never once wavering from Antonov's head.
"Affirmative, Barton." Coulson was already using his tie to bind the gun runner's hands together.
"You're going to wrinkle it, sir. That's a shame. I like that tie. It looked good on you."
"Technically, it belongs to R&D. But I'll be sure to pass on your appreciation for their fashion choices, Barton." It appeared he was going to say more, but a loud burst of gunfire echoed up the hallway, reminding Clint that there was still work to be done. "Go ensure that Natasha isn't in dire need."
Clint was halfway turned around before the order was issued. Any other situation and he might have had a snarky, smart-ass reply to make. But this was neither the time, nor the place, and there was no telling just how many men Antonov had in his employ. Tasha was good, but even she could be overpowered if there were simply too many people trying to take her down all at once.
His steps were light as he hurried back the way he'd come. The door was still open from when he'd come through earlier so he approached it with caution, weapon once again held out before him. After pausing briefly to sneak a peak around the frame, he stepped in and let his gun sweep the room along with his gaze as he sought out any kind of danger.
There were at least half a dozen bodies scattered across the floor, limp and lifeless after their encounter with Natasha. She was dealing with the last guard, her legs twined around his neck while she performed some complicated tumbly-twisty-turny thing that ended with the guard laying face down on the ground and Tasha standing on her feet, idly inspecting her fingernails for signs of damage. Clint lowered the gun, a smile starting up at the evidence of her awesomeness.
The smile slid away, though, when a noise brought them both around to stare at the door. One last guard was standing in it, a weapon in hand and pointed at Tasha. Clint raised his gun and fired in the span of a single heartbeat, the action smooth and filled with fluid, deadly grace. The body dropped to the floor without a sound. Tasha picked her way over to pluck the weapon from the man's lifeless hand. Her toe nudged the man's head to the side so she could look at his face. "You were off, Clint. Your shot isn't dead center."
Clint shrugged and began retrieving weapons from limp hands. "He breathed."
"Keep telling yourself that," Tasha replied with a smirk before moving to retrieve her shoes from the limbs into which they'd been stabbed. Her nose wrinkled up in distaste as she got a good look at the stiletto heels. "I think my shoes are ruined."
"I'll see to it that Director Fury reimburses you for the cost of your heels, Natasha," Coulson said almost absently as he pushed Antonov into the room. The man looked a little more beat up than before, suggesting that he'd tried to overpower Coulson after Clint had left them. Clint thought Antonov should consider himself lucky that Coulson hadn't had a box of paper clips at his disposal. The man was positively deadly with office supplies. "Make sure you note it in your report." Natasha nodded before using the coat of one of the fallen men to clean the blood and matter from her shoes.
"Barton, box up the weapon. Make sure you don't touch the arming mechanism or the trigger. We don't want any accidents," Coulson told him, the smartphone in his hands so he could type something into it.
"How many times do I have to say that the round that hit Jackson was fired accidentally and it wasn't my fault?" he grumbled, flipping the handgun's safety into the "On" position before stowing it in his coat pocket. He thought he heard a faint snicker of amusement from Tasha, but he didn't bother to look and see if she was smirking at him.
"I know it was an accident, Barton." Coulson's voice suggested it was anything but. There may have been a hint of mirth in his words, too, but Clint didn't bother trying to pick up on it. The incident in question had put Jackson in the infirmary for a week. Upon being released, both he and his partner, Delancey, had insisted that Fury keep Clint as far from them as possible. And that there be some kind of disciplinary hearing. Fortunately for Clint, Fury had dismissed the issue with a warning that normal, rational people didn't sneak up on a sniper after he'd been in the field for more than four days without rest. In the end, both Delancey and Jackson had taken to avoiding him. That suited Clint just fine.
His hands were steady and careful as he returned der Jüngste Tag to its carrying case. The energy he'd felt earlier was oily against his skin as he worked to box the weapon up and he had to fight to keep from rubbing his palms on the thighs of his dress slacks until he had the thing fully packed away. He'd handled all manner of weapons over the course of his life. Guns, knives, crossbows, bow and arrow... All that and more. None of them had ever made him feel as dirty as the thing he was currently handling. He hoped that Fury could find a way to destroy it. If not, he hoped there was some place where it could be locked away and forgotten about. He didn't want to see what it could do.
"Agent Coulson, sir?" a voice called from the hallway.
"In here. All hostiles have been dealt with." Coulson never looked up from the smartphone in his hand, no doubt already working on a preliminary report on the events and outcome of the mission to send to Fury.
At least a dozen men and women in suits and jumpsuits poured into the room, each one holding a weapon at the ready in case Coulson had been coerced into lying about the situation. It took them less than a minute to conclude that there were no hostiles to kill. The weapons were holstered as the group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents began spreading through the room. A pair of them closed on Coulson's position and took possession of Yuri Antonov. Another pair came over and claimed the weapon that Clint had just finished packing away. He was happy to turn it over.
With the weapon securely in someone else's custody, he wandered over to where Tasha stood, eyeing the heels of her shoes critically. Clint stopped next to her, nudging her with one of his shoulders. She glanced up at him, a brief look that conveyed what she was thinking without a word needed to be spoken. They'd worked long enough that he could read her expression with ease and knew that she was telling him she was glad he'd come through their brief fight with nary a scratch on him. He flashed her a cocksure grin that saw her rolling her eyes before returning her attention to her shoes.
It took nearly several hours to finish up at Antonov's house. The Minsk police had been notified about the gun fight and subsequent deaths, as well as the black market merchandise found in the man's back room. They'd arrived on scene only about half an hour after S.H.I.E.L.D. and had started carting bodies away before tackling the room full of shelves in the back. For most of their time there, Clint and Natasha stayed close to one another and didn't speak to anyone unless someone asked them a question directly. Given their reputations at S.H.I.E.L.D., most of the agents left them be unless they absolutely had no other choice. Because they'd been involved in the gun battle, the Minsk police questioned them both thoroughly.
Eventually, though, even the questions came to an end and the post-mission activities were starting to wind down. Coulson was still playing with his smartphone, his attention divided between communication with Fury, directing his agents, and dealing with the Minsk police. The last few items were being hauled from the back room and Antonov had been carted off, securely held in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s custody for the attempted sale of a magically enhanced weapon and the attempted murders of three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
When the last of the agents was gone and only the highest ranking officers with the Minsk police was left at the scene, Coulson deemed it time to leave. Every last body and all of the evidence had been taken away. Der Jüngste Tag and Antonov were already on a cargo plane destined for New York City. There was nothing left to keep them there and the Minsk police could handle the rest of the clean up. They headed for the car in silence.
"Is the mission officially over?" Natasha asked, her gaze shifting to Coulson.
"With the exception of writing up reports, yes," the man nodded. He never once took his gaze off the smartphone in his hand. Clint rolled his eyes, considered making a joke about Coulson's love of paperwork. The opportunity was taken from him when Tasha dug the keys to the car out of Clint's pocket and stalked toward the driver's door.
"Good. We're going to celebrate. I know a place in town that serves the best vodka," she announced. Clint couldn't miss the gleam in her eye when she looked his way.
He shook his head at her, face grim with determination. "Oh, no. I remember the last time we celebrated the end of a mission with vodka. I woke up with a raging hangover and a very manly looking prostitute that called herself Star. You're not doing that to me again."
"Are you sure you didn't freeze your balls off last night, Clint? Where's your sense of adventure?" she teased.
"Its safely tucked away with my balls and that's where its going to stay."
"Chicken. And if I promise not to set you up with anyone?"
Clint thought on it for a few seconds, then gestured toward the third member of their party with one hand. "I'll agree, but only if Coulson comes with to ensure that there's no funny business." The mention of his name saw the other man lift his head from his smartphone. He glanced at Natasha first, then to Clint, then back at Natasha. She smiled, a frightening thing full of wicked promise. Coulson managed a twitch at the corner of his mouth and nodded his head.
"Very well. I believe I can spare a few minutes for a celebratory drink or two. And I think I can protect your virtue, Barton. Drive on, Natasha." Coulson tucked the smartphone away, then climbed into the back of the limo. He left the door open for Clint. Natasha smirked at him and motioned toward the car.
"You heard him. You're safe tonight. Now get in and let's go."
Clint was sure there was something going on here, but he couldn't put his finger on just what it might be. Shrugging, he climbed into the back of the car and tugged the door shut after him. Natasha got in and slid the keys into the ignition. The engine turned over with a low rumble that faded into a purr. The car shifted into gear effortlessly and pulled away from the house.
Settled on the leather seat next to Coulson, Clint got the distinct feeling that he'd been set up already. Well, shit.
~*~
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: none, actually. characters in the fic are Natasha, Clint, and Coulson
Rating: mature. some language and violence. there's this thing with a hairstick and an eyeball.
Word Count: 8,849
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: Clint, Natasha, and Coulson are sent on an undercover mission by S.H.I.E.L.D. They have to retrieve a magically enhanced weapon and consign it into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s care to protect the world.
Too bad their cover gets blown.
With death imminent, the three of them are forced to fight their way out of a tight situation. Good thing they're all very good at what they do.
Author's Note: this fic is written for lucdarling as a birthday gift. she wanted Clint, Coulson, and Natasha being amazing and kick ass. it could be either pre-initiative or a side mission. i chose pre-initiative and set it roughly in the late 1990s or the early 2000s.
also, der Jüngste Tag is German for Doomsday. so yeah. there you go.
~*~
"Barton. Report." The voice was soft in his ear, barely a sound in the silence of the night that had wrapped around him.
"Its fucking cold, sir," he retorted, watching the fat white flakes drift toward the ground through the glass of his scope. He was camped out on the roof of a tall building half a block down from the private residence where the party was taking place. He'd watched, through that same scope, as Natasha had slipped inside that private residence to "attend" the party. That had been over an hour ago. So far, there had been no sign that she was in trouble. No sign that she wasn't, either.
"I believe we warned you to pack your long johns," Coulson replied, a hint of amusement coloring his words.
"Says the man not sitting outside in the cold," Clint muttered.
"Contrary to your beliefs, I do not have the engine running. This means there is no heater to warm the interior of the van. I am no better off than you." There was silence over the comm unit for the span of one whole second before Coulson went on as if he hadn't just called Clint a pussy without actually saying he was a pussy. "Report." The single word was accompanied by a touch more force.
"I've seen no sign of Natasha since she slipped inside. I don't like that she's out of contact with us, sir. I should have accompanied her," Clint replied quietly, eye still trained on the party house through the scope on his rifle.
Coulson was silent for the beat of a heart before Clint heard what he thought might be an actual snort of mirth. "You, of all people, know that Natasha is more than capable of taking care of herself. She's more capable of taking care of herself than you are."
Clint had nothing to say to that, so he strengthened his focus on the target house. The scope allowed him a good view of the building at large, giving him glimpses of the interior through windows that were cheery with soft golden light. In many of those, he saw men and women moving about, mingling with one another while drinking champagne and nibbling on finger foods. Other windows were dark, but it wasn't a deterrent. He checked those windows, too, and was more often than not treated to shadowy images of couples getting naked. He brought the scope back to the lit windows in order to start the process all over again.
He tuned the cold out, ignored the way it clawed under his winter gear to kiss along his skin. He ignored the hard surface of the roof top under him. He forgot that there was snow falling down around him, coating everything with a fresh layer of pristine white. His focus was solely for the house and the lit windows, his scope never still as he searched for some sign that Natasha was well, that she wasn't in need of his help.
Even as he kept an eye on the windows, a small section of his mind played over their mission once more. He, Natasha and Coulson had been sent in to Belarus looking for a weapons dealer. This weapons dealer, Yuri Antonov, was rumored to have gotten his hands on something called der Jüngste Tag and he was willing to sell it to the highest bidder. According to the debriefing before the mission, it was some kind of seriously amped up, powered by magic weapon that could destroy the world. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted it so it could be locked away in a vault somewhere, never to be used or fired. Fury hadn't needed to tell them that there was no option for failure in this mission, that the fate of the world rested upon their shoulders.
So it was that he found himself on a roof in Minsk, freezing his balls off while Coulson sat in a van and stayed moderately warm, keeping an eye out through his scope as Natasha mingled and tried to win them a meeting with Antonov.
"Barton. Report," Coulson sounded absolutely unaffected by everything, but Clint knew otherwise. He'd worked with the man for some time now and he knew that there was tension threaded through his words. He was just as concerned about Tasha as Clint was.
"Still freezing my balls off, sir. And still no sign of Natasha." They both knew that an hour without contact was a bad sign. Even if it was Natasha they were talking about. Coulson was right. Natasha was far more deadly than people might be willing to believe. The sultry, seductive beauty she presented to the world was a perfect cover for the deadly assassin that lurked under her skin. Despite that, she was on her own in there and Clint didn't liked the idea of her working a job without backup.
"Maintain your position for another fifteen minutes. If we don't receive any type of communication from her in that time, we'll go in after her." There was steely determination in Coulson's voice, easy to pick up over the comm unit. Clint imagined he was already busy checking his side arm and any spare weapons he had on him.
"Copy that, sir," he replied, taking a second to glance down at his watch. Fifteen minutes meant they'd be storming the Bastille at midnight. Lifting his gaze from his watch, he refocused on the house. The scope showed him a pair of individuals talking in one of the windows. He recognized the flame colored hair worked up into a sleek chignon. "Sir, I have Natasha in my scope. She's at the third window on the right, first floor. It appears she's talking to someone."
"Copy that," Coulson replied. There was nothing else, allowing Clint to settle back into his frigid nest and keep watch over Tasha as she spoke to a tall, thin gentleman with a knowing smile on her face and an occasional touch to the man's arm. She was working him hard, priming the pump for the next part of their mission. "Keep visual contact for as long as possible."
Clint snorted, made sure it was loud enough for Coulson to hear it across the comm. As if he needed to be told.
Natasha and her friend stood in the window for a good ten minutes before she leaned in and either whispered in his ear or pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was the opposite side of the man's face, so Clint couldn't see to be sure. The man pressed a card into her hand when he lifted it to brush a kiss across her knuckles. He slipped away first, leaving her to turn and shoot a look at them out the window. He could clearly read the smugness of her expression through the scope. Then she was gone and Clint shifted his focus toward the entrance.
It took her ten minutes to extricate herself from the party, no doubt playing her part to the hilt by giving her thanks to the owner of the house for the invite that she'd never actually had. It was straight up midnight when the front door opened to allow her out into the dark night. She was wrapped in a thick fur, a matching hat covering her head to keep her exposed ears warm. She made her way down the stairs that led up to the front door, stepped down onto the sidewalk, and turned up the street toward the non-descript van parked at the curb several blocks away. As she approached the dark vehicle, the door slid open smoothly and Natasha climbed inside.
"Barton, pack it up and join us," Coulson ordered absently. No doubt his brain was already working on the debriefing that would take place when they returned to the rental house that helped sell their cover story.
"I'll be down in ten," he replied, already taking the rifle down to its basic components. The comm went silent and left him to his thoughts. Thoughts that revolved around choosing a hot shower to thaw out his balls or kicking the shit out of Tasha for going in without some kind of backup. After thinking about the bruises she'd give him for suggesting she couldn't take care of herself, he decided that a hot shower to thaw his balls was better than a hot shower to ease the ache in every single part of his body. Because that's what he'd be doing if he dared question her decisions to her face.
Ten minutes later, he was climbing into the van with equipment cases in hand and a hot shower on the brain.
~*~
The rental house was a lush, furnished thing that had nearly as many rooms as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s base and the look of excess that seemed more predisposed to the New World than a former Soviet country. It had been chosen in order to help maintain their cover. Given the nature of their mission, their cover required that Coulson and Tasha pose as a couple. Coulson was supposed to be some big shot with a lot of money while Tasha played his girlfriend. Clint had been slated to play the muscle. S.H.I.E.L.D. had rented the house based on the idea that a reclusive rich man would want something grand and plush to remind him of home.
It was far too big for just the three of them, the place difficult to defend from any enemies. Not that they hadn't worked out a way to defend the perimeter on the off chance someone did try to storm the castle. But... illusions and images and all that. Clint sighed, his feet silent on the floor as he made his way up the hall toward the scheduled, after mission debriefing. Doors hung open, allowing for a peek into the room beyond. He paid attention without seemingly paying attention, mind already turning over possibilities for the next part of their mission. Each room was filled with heavy wooden pieces that gleamed with polish. Thick cushions and pillows adorned the couches and chairs. Expensive art decorated the walls and stood silent sentinel on shelves and tables. The house was a forest of dark woods, glittering crystals, and vivid colors. It was the kind of home Clint had once dreamed of having.
Strolling through it now, clad in clean clothes and fresh from the shower with water still weighing his hair down, he saw it for the glittering trap it was. It might have looked beautiful, but it felt cold and unwelcoming. He was glad that it was only a cover because he'd go insane living in this place.
Then again, the vases and crystal pieces and paintings would make good target practice.
He joined Natasha and Coulson in the study, pushing the door closed behind him before settling into an empty chair. He knew there was no need to shut the heavy wooden panel as they were the only ones in the house, but habit had prompted the action. Clint shifted his position, fitting one shoulder into the corner of the wing backed chair so that he could throw his legs over the arm. Coulson shot him a look that suggested he thought Clint had all the manners of an untrained puppy. Natasha only shook her head and gave her attention back to the other man. "Glad you could join us, Barton," Coulson intoned, focus already on several sheets of paper that had been spread across the wide surface of the desk.
"I had to thaw my balls," he remarked casually.
Natasha snorted and rolled her eyes. "It would be such a loss if they remained frozen."
Clint considered shooting her the finger, but he was too mature for that. And she could kick his ass. So he turned to look at Coulson and waited for the debriefing to begin.
"Natasha?" Coulson said without looking up from his papers. The tip of his pen scratched lightly against the sheet he was writing on, no doubt making notes as they went along. Then again, knowing Coulson, he was already filling out reports so that when they got home, he could file them right away.
"I had a very promising conversation with one of Antonov's underlings," she told them, settled in her chair in a pair of black dress slacks and a pale blue silk blouse. She offered them a knowing smile, then spoke again. This time, her voice thickened with a distinctive Russian accent. "I casually mentioned that my rich American boyfriend was eager to meet with Yuri Antonov because he had heard of der Jüngste Tag and wished to buy it." The Russian slid away, allowing her to pronounce the German perfectly.
Coulson continued writing, never once looking up from his paper work. "How did that go?"
Natasha lifted one shoulder in a shrug that could have meant anything. Since it was likely Coulson wasn't about to take a shrug for an answer, she spoke again. This time, there was no hint of an accent tainting her words. She sounded as if she came from somewhere in middle America. Tasha was a master of disguise and it was very evident by her vast repertoire of accents and languages. "He phoned his boss and they spoke at length. We will be meeting with him tomorrow at two o'clock."
"Where is the meet taking place?" Coulson lifted his head with his question.
"I'll get an email with directions. Antonov likes his secrecy." The tone of Natasha's voice told them both what she thought of that. Coulson just nodded his head and returned his gaze to the papers spread out before him. The room fell into silence as he scratched something out on the form directly in front of him.
Clint let it stretch for as long as possible before tossing out the question he knew was eating at Coulson's mind. "How are we playing this? There's no way I'm letting you go in on this alone again," he threw a meaningful look at Natasha. She only stared back, eyes narrowed on him threateningly. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, but went on regardless. "I know you're super badass, Tasha. I know you can single-handedly destroy a couple dozen men with a pen knife and your smile. But this is an entirely different matter and you are not going in without some kind of backup. Either of you." He let his gaze slide over to where Coulson sat, blatantly ignoring him. "Fury would have my balls in a vice if anything happened to either one of you."
Natasha spared him a knowing smile. But she said nothing about Fury and Clint's balls, instead returning to the topic at hand. "We'll all go together. I've already mentioned as much to Antonov's man. I made sure he believed that my boyfriend was very, very interested in the weapon and had a large supply of cash on hand with which to purchase it."
"You two make a cute couple," Clint grinned at her. A knife appeared in her hands in response. He'd pushed his luck about as far as he could for one night.
"He knows that we will be accompanied by a bodyguard. I was careful to imply that my boyfriend was slightly paranoid and never went anywhere without muscle." She made a point of glancing Clint's way, her gaze suggesting he would have to do as muscle. He took it as it was meant because he knew that she was teasing. In as much as she ever teased. Clint had worked quite a few missions with Natasha over the years and there was no one he trusted more at his back with possible exception of Coulson. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, though Tasha had fewer than he did, and they knew exactly how to work with one another.
Coulson nodded. "Good. We all know our roles. No doubt Antonov's people will be looking for obvious weapons. Guns and knives. We'll have to sneak a few smaller pieces in and hope that we won't need to use them." There was no need for Coulson to mention that they'd be on their own. S.H.I.E.L.D. had chosen the three of them for the mission because they didn't want to send in a large force. Too easily picked up on. It would give Antonov a chance to run before they could retrieve the weapon. A small group, one that wouldn't set off alarms, had been the best option. But that meant there would be no one there to help get them out of trouble if everything went tits up.
Things just couldn't go tits up.
"I suggest we get some sleep. We all need to be in top shape tomorrow. There's no telling what will happen and it would be good if we were ready for anything." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. It might have had more of an impact on Clint and Natasha if Coulson hadn't still been holding his pen, obviously intent on staying up until all hours of the night doing paperwork. Clint shared a look with Natasha. Neither one of them moved from their seats. After several seconds, Coulson looked up from his paperwork. "Debrief is over. You're both dismissed."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but seeing as you're as much a part of this mission as either one of us, it might be good if you included yourself in that 'we' you just used in your orders for sleep." Clint accompanied his words with a look of his own. Not that it phased Coulson. Nothing short of spontaneous combustion phased Coulson, and Clint had doubts about that.
Coulson's expression didn't change, but he was scowling at Clint just the same. Clint didn't let it bother him. He just stared back. "I have reports to finish before I can sleep."
"The reports will keep," Natasha said quietly. "Proper rest means you'll be sharp tomorrow." She gave him a look, then rose gracefully to her feet and glided toward the door. Hand on the knob, she turned back to look at him again. This time, there was a sly smile on her face. "Lover." She slipped out of the room without making a sound.
A soft clatter drew Clint's gaze back to where Coulson sat behind the large wooden desk. The pen had slipped from his grasp to land on the reports laid out on the desk's surface. And the look on his face...
Well, damn. It looked like something had just spontaneously combusted.
~*~
The email came showed up on Natasha's phone right at one thirty the next afternoon. Based on the directions and the provided map, the route they'd been given would take them back and forth around Minsk. Clint, being the muscle, was given the honor of driving the car that they'd rented. It was a sweet 1970 Mercedes Benz Grand 600 limousine that looked as fresh and new as the day it had come off the assembly line. The engine purred as the vehicle moved smoothly over the roads, a sleek jungle cat on the prowl. Part of him wanted to take the automobile home with him, but he expected that Fury would have a shit fit about that. And, honestly. What would Clint do with a limousine?
The ebb and flow of traffic made it hard to get anywhere, though the smaller cars on the road gave way in the face of the Mercedes' impressive size. The streets were narrow and made navigating difficult, but he managed well enough. By the time they'd wound their way in and out and back around the streets that the instructions told them to take, it was exactly two when they arrived at their destination.
The house before them was a large, rambling mansion on the edge of the city hidden behind tall stone walls and wrought iron gates. A pair of big, thick goons in cheap suits waited at the gates, glaring at anyone who dared get too close to them. When the car stopped, Natasha rolled down her window and stuck her head out to converse with the looming guards. Clint listened to the rapid flow of Russian as he waited, noting the distinct differences between the guard and Natasha. The big guy sounded like he was struggling to find the right words, his voice like rocks grinding against one another. Tasha's voice was smooth and effortless, a smoky, sultry thing that spoke of sex and cigarettes and the best vodka in the world.
Between being partnered with Tasha and going on missions to Eastern European nations, Clint knew enough Russian to know that the guy was trying to proposition her away from her wimpy American boyfriend. It was a good thing they were on a tight schedule, or the big guy might find himself missing a few body parts really damned fast.
Finally, when it became obvious that Tasha wasn't about to be separated form her rich boy toy, the big guy finally waved them through the gate. It opened before them, allowing them to wind their way up the long drive. Clint parked the limo before the doors, shut down the engine, and pocketed the keys. He was out of the car before Natasha could think of putting her hand on the handle. His fingers worked the door handle, then swung it wide and offered her his hand.
She clasped his hand and allowed him to 'help' her out of the car. One lean leg emerged, followed by its mate. She was clad in a tight, form-fitting black dress that he knew had just enough give to it so that she could kick ass in it if the need arose. Even her heels, four inch stilettos, could be used as weapons. She wore the same fur coat in deference to the cold weather and her hair had been done up in a twist that was secured with a pair of ornamental chopsticks. They were metal, painted with lacquer, and full on dangerous. She offered him a smile and reached up to pat his cheek with one hand, muttering at him in Russian. Good boy.
He cut her a look but said nothing. It was nice she was enjoying herself.
Coulson came out next, dressed to the nines in a three piece suit that Clint was sure cost more than the car. He wore a designer pea coat in black wool and a pair of black frames sat perched on his nose. The glasses were his own, worn mostly when he did paperwork in the office. He'd added them to the suit in the hopes of making himself look as unobtrusive as possible. Then again, most people looked at Phil Coulson and saw a paper pusher. They were unaware of the danger lurking behind the suit.
When he was on his feet, Natasha formed herself to his side, one arm sliding around his waist to sell the idea that they were a couple. Coulson gave her a look that, to an outsider, would appear to be one of affection. She tossed him a sultry smile before turning to the men waiting at the door. "Mr. Antonov is expecting us," she said in a thickened accent. The men standing guard nodded and turned toward the entry. One of the men bade them follow and started for the doors. Natasha and Coulson started after them, leaving Clint to bring up the rear.
"Gee, Natasha. Where's Boris?" Clint muttered to himself. "Moose and squirrel?" She heard him and shot him a glare that said he needed to watch the balls he'd been worried about the night before. He grinned at her briefly, then got serious about studying their surroundings.
The men at the door were carrying handguns. The coats they wore weren't cut to hide the extra bulk of a weapon, so it was plain to see the bulge under their arms where the weapons rested. A glance to either side showed there were several guards roaming the grounds carrying semi-automatics, a single strap looped over one shoulder to leave the weapon close at hand. Small. Probably Uzis. Some of the guards strolled with the gun in their hands, others allowed them to rest at their sides. Not a good thing. Inside, there were more men with the conspicuous bulges that said Yuri Antonov was as paranoid as they fucking came. If their mission went to hell in a hand basket, they'd be hard pressed to get out of the house without getting shot to death.
Their little entourage traveled up one hall and down another, into the deepest parts of the sprawling mansion. Clint kept track of the path they took by noting pieces of art or furniture. If they needed to make a quick break, they'd have the ability to do so. No doubt Natasha and Coulson were doing the same thing. Years of training took hold in the blink of an eye when faced with an unknown situation. One of them would have a way out for the others. If not, there was no way they'd make it out of the place alive.
It felt like a full five minutes had passed by the time the guards came to a halt before a pair of large, overdone wooden doors. They looked like something straight out of some medieval castle, all gilded wood and carved designs that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a very pornographic rendering of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. He squinted at one of the larger carvings for a second or two. Apparently Eve was as flexible as they came. And Adam... Wow. Who knew? That was going to be hard to top.
"You will submit to a search now," guard number two told them curtly while number one began patting Coulson down. It was a good search, taking into account any place that could hide a weapon. Clint was submitted to the same search, the man's hands brisk and efficient as they looked for any hint of a gun or knife. The pat down was modified for Tasha, but only a touch. By the time it was done, she had a look in her eyes that said number one was going to be missing his testicles very soon. Number one nodded at number two, who nodded and motioned to the door.
Guard number one knocked briskly at the door and waited for a few seconds until he heard a voice from inside call out something in Russian. Clint knew it was the obligatory permission to enter that all thugs got from their bosses before walking into the bad guy's lair. Guard number one held the door open for them and allowed them to enter. Guard number two followed after them. His partner stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
If the doors had been grandiose, the room was something out of a dictator's residential palace. A casual gaze showed Clint that there were artifacts from all over the world sitting upon tables and shelves in every corner and on every wall of the large chamber. Persian rugs that probably dated back a few hundred years hid the floor from view, while paintings form the masters cluttered the walls. Urns and vases from Greece, Rome, and the Orient mingled with statues of gods and deities from every religion known to man. Yuri Antonov had made lots of money selling weapons and he'd obviously used that money to try and set himself up as some kind of real collector. Which might have worked, if he'd actually had some kind of taste.
Speaking of Yuri Antonov... The man himself stepped forward as they strolled toward the center of the room. He was tall and painfully thin, his suit expensively made but so poorly cut that it had to have been bought off the rack and not tailored for him. His hair was a wild swirl of dark brown around his face, framing deeply set eyes that seemed black and a pale face that obviously hadn't seen the sun in years. He lifted a heavily ringed hand and offered it to Coulson. "Mr. Stevenson?" Antonov asked, voice accented only lightly, dark gaze sliding up and down the three of them in a blatantly assessing manner.
Coulson lifted his hand and shook Antonov's. Each passing second left Clint feeling more and more uneasy about this meeting. He let his gaze slide over the collected art pieces once more, using it as an opportunity to reassess any areas of the room that offered protection if they needed to get away from gun fire. He'd already made note of the exits. There were only two of them and they'd be hard pressed to get out of the room with Antonov blocking the exit on one side while his thugs blocked it on the other side. If the situation went bad, they were going to need to improvise weapons.
"Mr. Antonov. A pleasure to meet you." Coulson's voice was steady and bland. Empty. A very plain voice for a very plain man. "I've heard a great deal about you from my underworld contacts."
One eyebrow went up at that and Antonov let a grin slither across his face. "You have underworld contacts? I find this surprising, Mr. Stevenson, as I've never heard of you before last night. You will, of course, list for me all of these underworld contacts."
Coulson inclined his head in a gesture meant to portray easy capitulation. All part of the act. "Of course. There's Schenk in Berlin. My last conversation with him was filled with high praise. Vincenzo Pizzati claims there's no one better to work with. The Lion out of New York said you are extremely trustworthy. And Shiro sends his regards."
The smile that Antonov wore somehow managed to become even oilier than before. Still, he nodded his head once again and swept an arm back toward a table behind him. Laid out upon its surface was der Jüngste Tag, a gleaming black weapon that bore the general shape of a gun with a few bulbous additions to make it look slightly space aged. Even from across the room, Clint could feel some kind of residual energy rising up off of it. He supposed that was the magic that had been used to create it. It looked and felt ominous just resting on a table. He hated to think what it would do if fired.
"And here she is. The prize of my collection. Der Jüngste Tag. Available to the highest bidder. I have been told you wish to spend copious amounts of money to purchase this weapon." Antonov sounded far too pleased with himself, setting off every single warning bell in Clint's head. He made a show of inching closer to Coulson and Natasha, craned his head like he wanted a better look at the weapon, and lightly touched his hand to Natasha's arm. A silent signal that things were not what they seemed. She acted as if she hadn't felt his touch, but her lips pursed as she studied the weapon. Message received and understood.
"She is beautiful, no?" Natasha asked in that same sexy accent from earlier, turning to look at Coulson while one hand reached out to lay casually on his arm. Clint saw it for the signal it was. Coulson nodded his head at her.
"She's very beautiful. I have to have her." He immediately refocused his attentions on Yuri Antonov and offered him a bland smile. "How much do you want for her?"
"No negotiating, Mr. Stevenson? Are you so eager to have such a unique weapon that you will not try to haggle me down?" Antonov asked, brows going up in faint surprise.
"I find that haggling is a pointless endeavor, Mr. Antonov. You know what you want for your weapon. I know what I'm willing to pay. I plan on having der Jüngste Tag in hand before I fly home tonight." Coulson held out a hand toward Clint, a smooth gesture that suggested he was in absolute control of the situation. Clint reached into a pocket and pulled out a special, S.H.I.E.L.D. designed smartphone that would allow them to simulate a funds transfer. He put it in Coulson's hand and watched as the man went to work on it.
The chirping of a cell phone filled the silence that had consumed the room and all eyes turned to Antonov. He pulled a sleek looking piece of tech from his pocket, hit a button, and put it to his ear. "Da?"
That sinking feeling he'd had in his stomach since arriving dropped even lower, until it felt as if his feet had gone cold. The phone call was definitely not a good sign. He casually began unbuttoning his coat, pressing his thumb hard against each of the buttons to crack the protective plastic covering. The only weapons he had on him were under the plastic, sharpened discs that he could toss and, hopefully, maim someone with. He watched as tension crept into Natasha's shoulders, her hands curled into the lapels of the coat.
Antonov was silent as he listened to the person on the other end of the call. Nothing in the man's face gave away what he was hearing or thinking and his expression never changed once in the five minutes that the conversation lasted. When the call ended, he hit another button and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Then he let his gaze slide from one of them to the next. It landed on Natasha last and the look he gave her reminded Clint of the fox just as he was about to eat the hen. Shit.
"Natasha Shostakova. Such a beautiful woman. A prize for any man with healthy appetites." Antonov let his gaze rake her frame, taking a moment to appreciate every inch of her curvaceous body. Then his leer turned into a frown and one hand waved at the air absently. "Except, you are not Natasha Shostakova. You are Natalia Romanova and you have made many enemies of your countrymen. Too bad you haven't changed your looks. Had you done that, you and your friends would not now have to die."
Antonov shouted something in Russian and the room exploded into motion. Clint felt more than saw guard number one come at him. Instincts that were nearly as old as he was took over and saw him ducking down to the floor even as he spun to face guard number one. Discs flew from his hands in a bright blur of silver. One of the discs sliced across the man's gun hand, opening it deeply enough to send a cascade of crimson washing down over his fingers. A second disc parted the skin on the man's cheek while a third one grazed the side of his neck. The wounds were enough to startle him into stillness. Clint rose up and launched himself at the guard.
He'd learned a long time ago that there was no such thing as a fair fight when fighting for your life. Bigger men might be stronger, but they weren't always better fighters. Guard number one was definitely bigger than he was, but Clint had the advantage of surprise and sheer determination on his side. His fist connected with the man's chin, snapping his head back even as Clint's booted foot drove hard into the man's knee. There was a loud crack. The man made a high-pitched noise of pain, hands clutched to his disjointed knee as he tipped sideways. Clint made sure to follow him with his fist, smashing his curled fingers against the side of the man's head to make sure he stayed down.
Clint came up to find that Natasha had kicked off her heels and used them in a manner similar to throwing daggers. Guard number two had one embedded in his thigh, one of her hair sticks jammed through an eye. The other stick was stuck in the arm of a second assailant. Natasha was currently working on putting him down. There was no sign of Coulson or Antonov or the weapon. And there was no time to go look because another guard appeared in the open door, the Uzi in his hands and aimed at them. Clint dove forward, arms out to catch Natasha around the waist.
The two of them hit the floor and rolled, taking refuge behind a leather sofa that wasn't going to offer them any protection. But the handgun of guard number two lay nearby. He threw himself at it, scooped it up and rolled onto his back all at the same time. The barrel of the gun came up even as his fingers squeezed down on the trigger. The room echoed with the shot and even before the bullet cleared the barrel, Clint was turning to take aim at the guard trying to sneak up on them from behind.
Pounding footsteps raced up the hall ahead of more of Antonov's guards. Natasha went for the other downed guard's handgun. She returned to her position behind the couch and pointed the weapon at the doorway. Her eyes met his briefly, a silent thanks, then she jerked her head toward the other door. "Go. Make sure Coulson has the weapon and Antonov. I'll hold them off."
He almost asked her if she was sure, but Natasha was already focusing her attention on the door. She wouldn't like his questioning her abilities. And, truth be told, Tasha had more lives than a damned cat. "Don't get shot," he suggested lightly, then sprinted for the door.
"Worry about your own balls," she retorted, never once looking away from the open portal.
"Play nice with the other kids, Tasha." It was the last thing he said before he slipped out the second door. The echo of a shot going off followed him down the hall toward a single door at the end.
Clint moved with quiet stealth, gun held out before him. There were no other doors beyond the one at the end. That meant he didn't have to worry about someone jumping out at him from the side but he still had to keep an eye on his back. Though he suspected, based on the way shots kept ringing out from the other room, that Tasha had his back for him. That knowledge kept him moving forward, kept him seeking out Coulson.
He paused at the closed door, put his ear to it in an attempt to figure out what was going on in the other room. There was a grunt, the meaty thud of flesh hitting flesh. A shout. The fingers of his left hand curled around the grip of his gun, he used his right to take hold of the knob. He turned it slowly, making sure that the knob didn't make any noise and give away his presence. It would be bad if he distracted Coulson in the middle of a fight. And there was the added bonus of being able to assess the situation and react accordingly if no one knew he was there.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a long, large room that was floor to ceiling shelves. Those shelves held stacks of crates and cases and boxes. Some were marked in German. Some were marked in Korean. He saw Japanese and Chinese, French, Portuguese, Arabic, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Spanish, and others. There were some covered with markings he didn't recognize. Various kinds of technology, DVDs and video cassettes. CDs. Weapons. All in the thousands. A line of tables ran straight down the center, from one end to the other. They were piled with shipping labels and scanners and so many things that Clint couldn't be sure what he was actually looking at.
It didn't matter what was in the room the next second when a loud crash saw one of the shelf sections hitting the wall behind it, the shelves bending and twisting so that the contents they held spilled across the floor in a thunderous noise. Antonov had Coulson pressed into the shelf. The Russian's hand were pressing steadily against Coulson's throat, choking off his air supply. Clint lifted his gun and took aim, knowing without a doubt that his shot would take off Antonov's head.
But even as he was leveling the weapon, Coulson's hands calmly tugged at his tie. The knot loosened up enough for him to pull one tail free, then he had that tail flying through the short space between them. The pointed end of the tie slapped Antonov in the face, bringing forth a muffled cry of pain. The man's hands loosened up their hold, allowing Coulson to bring his fist up. It slammed into Antonov's chin and sent him stumbling backward. Coulson followed him with a spinning kick, his foot catching Antonov in the stomach. The lanky Russian went down to his knees, hands curled protectively over his belly while his head hung in defeat.
"Do you have him neutralized, sir?' Clint asked, the barrel of his gun never once wavering from Antonov's head.
"Affirmative, Barton." Coulson was already using his tie to bind the gun runner's hands together.
"You're going to wrinkle it, sir. That's a shame. I like that tie. It looked good on you."
"Technically, it belongs to R&D. But I'll be sure to pass on your appreciation for their fashion choices, Barton." It appeared he was going to say more, but a loud burst of gunfire echoed up the hallway, reminding Clint that there was still work to be done. "Go ensure that Natasha isn't in dire need."
Clint was halfway turned around before the order was issued. Any other situation and he might have had a snarky, smart-ass reply to make. But this was neither the time, nor the place, and there was no telling just how many men Antonov had in his employ. Tasha was good, but even she could be overpowered if there were simply too many people trying to take her down all at once.
His steps were light as he hurried back the way he'd come. The door was still open from when he'd come through earlier so he approached it with caution, weapon once again held out before him. After pausing briefly to sneak a peak around the frame, he stepped in and let his gun sweep the room along with his gaze as he sought out any kind of danger.
There were at least half a dozen bodies scattered across the floor, limp and lifeless after their encounter with Natasha. She was dealing with the last guard, her legs twined around his neck while she performed some complicated tumbly-twisty-turny thing that ended with the guard laying face down on the ground and Tasha standing on her feet, idly inspecting her fingernails for signs of damage. Clint lowered the gun, a smile starting up at the evidence of her awesomeness.
The smile slid away, though, when a noise brought them both around to stare at the door. One last guard was standing in it, a weapon in hand and pointed at Tasha. Clint raised his gun and fired in the span of a single heartbeat, the action smooth and filled with fluid, deadly grace. The body dropped to the floor without a sound. Tasha picked her way over to pluck the weapon from the man's lifeless hand. Her toe nudged the man's head to the side so she could look at his face. "You were off, Clint. Your shot isn't dead center."
Clint shrugged and began retrieving weapons from limp hands. "He breathed."
"Keep telling yourself that," Tasha replied with a smirk before moving to retrieve her shoes from the limbs into which they'd been stabbed. Her nose wrinkled up in distaste as she got a good look at the stiletto heels. "I think my shoes are ruined."
"I'll see to it that Director Fury reimburses you for the cost of your heels, Natasha," Coulson said almost absently as he pushed Antonov into the room. The man looked a little more beat up than before, suggesting that he'd tried to overpower Coulson after Clint had left them. Clint thought Antonov should consider himself lucky that Coulson hadn't had a box of paper clips at his disposal. The man was positively deadly with office supplies. "Make sure you note it in your report." Natasha nodded before using the coat of one of the fallen men to clean the blood and matter from her shoes.
"Barton, box up the weapon. Make sure you don't touch the arming mechanism or the trigger. We don't want any accidents," Coulson told him, the smartphone in his hands so he could type something into it.
"How many times do I have to say that the round that hit Jackson was fired accidentally and it wasn't my fault?" he grumbled, flipping the handgun's safety into the "On" position before stowing it in his coat pocket. He thought he heard a faint snicker of amusement from Tasha, but he didn't bother to look and see if she was smirking at him.
"I know it was an accident, Barton." Coulson's voice suggested it was anything but. There may have been a hint of mirth in his words, too, but Clint didn't bother trying to pick up on it. The incident in question had put Jackson in the infirmary for a week. Upon being released, both he and his partner, Delancey, had insisted that Fury keep Clint as far from them as possible. And that there be some kind of disciplinary hearing. Fortunately for Clint, Fury had dismissed the issue with a warning that normal, rational people didn't sneak up on a sniper after he'd been in the field for more than four days without rest. In the end, both Delancey and Jackson had taken to avoiding him. That suited Clint just fine.
His hands were steady and careful as he returned der Jüngste Tag to its carrying case. The energy he'd felt earlier was oily against his skin as he worked to box the weapon up and he had to fight to keep from rubbing his palms on the thighs of his dress slacks until he had the thing fully packed away. He'd handled all manner of weapons over the course of his life. Guns, knives, crossbows, bow and arrow... All that and more. None of them had ever made him feel as dirty as the thing he was currently handling. He hoped that Fury could find a way to destroy it. If not, he hoped there was some place where it could be locked away and forgotten about. He didn't want to see what it could do.
"Agent Coulson, sir?" a voice called from the hallway.
"In here. All hostiles have been dealt with." Coulson never looked up from the smartphone in his hand, no doubt already working on a preliminary report on the events and outcome of the mission to send to Fury.
At least a dozen men and women in suits and jumpsuits poured into the room, each one holding a weapon at the ready in case Coulson had been coerced into lying about the situation. It took them less than a minute to conclude that there were no hostiles to kill. The weapons were holstered as the group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents began spreading through the room. A pair of them closed on Coulson's position and took possession of Yuri Antonov. Another pair came over and claimed the weapon that Clint had just finished packing away. He was happy to turn it over.
With the weapon securely in someone else's custody, he wandered over to where Tasha stood, eyeing the heels of her shoes critically. Clint stopped next to her, nudging her with one of his shoulders. She glanced up at him, a brief look that conveyed what she was thinking without a word needed to be spoken. They'd worked long enough that he could read her expression with ease and knew that she was telling him she was glad he'd come through their brief fight with nary a scratch on him. He flashed her a cocksure grin that saw her rolling her eyes before returning her attention to her shoes.
It took nearly several hours to finish up at Antonov's house. The Minsk police had been notified about the gun fight and subsequent deaths, as well as the black market merchandise found in the man's back room. They'd arrived on scene only about half an hour after S.H.I.E.L.D. and had started carting bodies away before tackling the room full of shelves in the back. For most of their time there, Clint and Natasha stayed close to one another and didn't speak to anyone unless someone asked them a question directly. Given their reputations at S.H.I.E.L.D., most of the agents left them be unless they absolutely had no other choice. Because they'd been involved in the gun battle, the Minsk police questioned them both thoroughly.
Eventually, though, even the questions came to an end and the post-mission activities were starting to wind down. Coulson was still playing with his smartphone, his attention divided between communication with Fury, directing his agents, and dealing with the Minsk police. The last few items were being hauled from the back room and Antonov had been carted off, securely held in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s custody for the attempted sale of a magically enhanced weapon and the attempted murders of three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
When the last of the agents was gone and only the highest ranking officers with the Minsk police was left at the scene, Coulson deemed it time to leave. Every last body and all of the evidence had been taken away. Der Jüngste Tag and Antonov were already on a cargo plane destined for New York City. There was nothing left to keep them there and the Minsk police could handle the rest of the clean up. They headed for the car in silence.
"Is the mission officially over?" Natasha asked, her gaze shifting to Coulson.
"With the exception of writing up reports, yes," the man nodded. He never once took his gaze off the smartphone in his hand. Clint rolled his eyes, considered making a joke about Coulson's love of paperwork. The opportunity was taken from him when Tasha dug the keys to the car out of Clint's pocket and stalked toward the driver's door.
"Good. We're going to celebrate. I know a place in town that serves the best vodka," she announced. Clint couldn't miss the gleam in her eye when she looked his way.
He shook his head at her, face grim with determination. "Oh, no. I remember the last time we celebrated the end of a mission with vodka. I woke up with a raging hangover and a very manly looking prostitute that called herself Star. You're not doing that to me again."
"Are you sure you didn't freeze your balls off last night, Clint? Where's your sense of adventure?" she teased.
"Its safely tucked away with my balls and that's where its going to stay."
"Chicken. And if I promise not to set you up with anyone?"
Clint thought on it for a few seconds, then gestured toward the third member of their party with one hand. "I'll agree, but only if Coulson comes with to ensure that there's no funny business." The mention of his name saw the other man lift his head from his smartphone. He glanced at Natasha first, then to Clint, then back at Natasha. She smiled, a frightening thing full of wicked promise. Coulson managed a twitch at the corner of his mouth and nodded his head.
"Very well. I believe I can spare a few minutes for a celebratory drink or two. And I think I can protect your virtue, Barton. Drive on, Natasha." Coulson tucked the smartphone away, then climbed into the back of the limo. He left the door open for Clint. Natasha smirked at him and motioned toward the car.
"You heard him. You're safe tonight. Now get in and let's go."
Clint was sure there was something going on here, but he couldn't put his finger on just what it might be. Shrugging, he climbed into the back of the car and tugged the door shut after him. Natasha got in and slid the keys into the ignition. The engine turned over with a low rumble that faded into a purr. The car shifted into gear effortlessly and pulled away from the house.
Settled on the leather seat next to Coulson, Clint got the distinct feeling that he'd been set up already. Well, shit.
~*~