Avengers (2012): "Shot in the Dark" (6/6) (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Shot in the Dark (6/6)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,327
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for Notes.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
New York, New York, U.S.A.
Clint wasn't expecting company when he finally reached his apartment after a day and a half of debriefing. In retrospect, he supposed he should have.
"You fucked her, didn't you?"
He made a deliberate show of not reacting to the man sitting on his couch like he owned the place. Instead he headed to his kitchen, chucking his duffel bag into the corner near the washing machine and carefully setting his weapons bag on his table.
"Can't say that I did, sir."
"You expect me to believe that, Barton? After the stunt you just pulled?" Fury rose, stalked his way into the kitchen. It was a small room, not designed for two full grown men. Clint had never been one to let people physically intimidate him, and while he had a healthy respect for the Director, he wasn't afraid of him.
So he pulled two bottles of beer out of the fridge, shoved one at Fury and took the other one back into the living room, sprawling across his couch so that the other man couldn't sit back down.
"I don't care what you believe, sir. I didn't sleep with her, unless we're redefining that to mean being in the same room when actual sleep was happening. You did tell me not to let her out of my sight, after all."
This was another reason Fury didn't like him much, Clint decided. He never had known when to keep his mouth shut. But the accusation rankled him just a bit, the idea that obviously he'd been making his decisions with his dick instead of his head. Unless he was in a SHIELD facility, in uniform and on the clock, he was going to talk to the Director however he goddamn pleased.
So maybe the sleep deprivation had left him a little bit... edgy.
He knew he was being studied, and that Fury was probably doing that "not really psychic or at least you can't prove it" shit he was so good at. Since he actually wasn't lying to him, he wasn't too worried about it.
"She's been moved to the main HQ for debrief and evaluation."
Clint mentally gave himself a gold star for not grinding his teeth. He had an inkling what that would probably entail, and didn't like the idea of her having to go through it. She also wasn't exactly in anyone at SHIELD's good graces, which wouldn't make it any easier.
"I need you in Santiago."
At that, Clint raised both eyebrows and didn't bother to hide his displeasure. "Seriously?"
"We've got a wiretap and observation set up on a money laundering racket that might be funding some weapons dumps from the former USSR. Coulson'll have your mission brief in the morning. You're meeting him at 0800 at HQ."
He vanished as stealthily as he'd arrived and Clint looked up at his ceiling as if it could explain anything to him.
"Fuck me."
Same Day ~ Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
Being on board the SHIELD ship was unsettling, Natasha decided. She had endured her share of debriefings, of interrogations, both from hostiles and her own people. She didn't remember details of most of her Red Room debriefings except for right at the very end, but she had a general sense that they had occasionally been... unpleasant. Since she was at best a hostile asset, she certainly wasn't expecting to be served tea and sandwiches while they questioned her.
On the outside, nothing belied her calm when they led her into a detention area in SHIELD medical. She had even steeled herself to expect them to turn on her, once she was in their custody. She knew they weren't happy about the hospital fire. She was prepared, if necessary, to break her way out of SHIELD just like she had the Red Room, and to endure whatever they put her through in the interim.
Ice still settled low in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the gurneys and monitors, IVs and prep trays. The agent escorting her, who Barton had referred to as "Coulson" indicated she should sit on a nearby exam table and she forced herself to do so gracefully, without hesitation. They’d given her scrubs after they searched her, the kind that itched and reminded her of where she was and what sorts of things might be about to happen.
If they knew this much about her fears, they had better intel than they had any right to. She kept telling herself it was much more likely chance than design and she sat, calmly, through the examination and the blood draws, very aware not only of the armed agents surrounding her, but that her every move was being observed, evaluated, and considered. When the nurse came back through with a loaded hypodermic needle and an IV lead it took all of her considerable control and acting skills not to bolt outright or show any fear.
She didn't ask what they were giving her, because she wasn't about to let them see any hesitation or chink in the armor she'd so carefully forged.
Coulson led her to another room, this one more in line with the interrogation rooms she'd seen in the past. There was a table and two chairs, all bolted into place, a two-way glass posing as a mirror that didn't fool anyone, and blank walls, a blank floor, and a tiled ceiling. She doubted the ceiling would actually give her access to anything useful. There was a steady stream of cool air blowing from a vent near the ceiling and as it moved over her exposed skin she realized she was starting to sweat.
As soon as she stepped into the room, Coulson said someone would be coming in to speak with her soon, then closed the door with a metallic click that echoed louder than it should have in the mostly empty space.
Natasha was beginning to feel like she was mostly empty space. The drug, whatever they'd given her, was starting to take effect, she realized. With precise, controlled motions she sat down in the chair before she lost the power to stand on her own. Her vision wasn't swimming, but everything was starting to seem brighter, sharper. Her skin was hypersensitive and the rough fabric of the scrubs was becoming even more uncomfortable.
There wasn't a clock on the wall and her sense of time was thrown off. She couldn't tell if she sat there for minutes or hours before the door opened again. It sounded like a gunshot.
"Natasha Romanov. AKA the Black Widow."
The man standing in front of her was tall and dressed head to toe in black tac gear, even down to the black patch covering his left eye. She bit down on her tongue to keep herself from responding.
"My agent seems to think you'd like to join up."
A long pause, and it took her a minute to work out that he was waiting on a response from her.
"Yes," she croaked out. Words, emotions, fears all tried to bubble up, as if by speaking she'd cracked open a seal that had been holding everything it. Part of her training had been resistance to chemicals like sodium pentothal, but none of the drugs they'd ever pumped into her held a candle to whatever SHIELD had concocted.
"And why, Miss Romanov, is that?" He stood almost casually, hands clasped behind his back, regarding her steadily.
What she wanted to say was that she was bored. She wanted a change of pace, a new challenge. Pretty lies that made her seem calm and logical, not terrified and desperate.
"Pr... protection. Can't run anymore," she stuttered on her words. The sweat was running down into her eyes which didn't make sense because she was so very cold.
"I'd say we're the one's you need to be running from. We're the ones who've been trying to eliminate you, after all."
"No. They're worse. The Red Room... no. I won't go back and be unmade again." She hadn't noticed that she'd switched to Russian until he'd responded in kind. She knew over twenty languages in whole or in part, but could not remember any of them, just her mother tongue.
"Unmade, huh? And what does that mean, exactly?"
"Needles. Drugs. Pain. They take you out, put someone else back in and you forget... everything."
It went on like that. She didn't know how long, wasn't aware of anything else but his voice and the turmoil in her head. All her nightmares, her hopes and fears and they were spilling out all around her for this man, along with information - far more than she'd ever intended to give them.
In some ways it was worse, much worse than anything anyone else had ever done.
By the time another orderly with hard, steady hands took her arm to give her another injection, she was on the floor in the corner of the room, wrung out and bled dry. This time the world spun almost as soon as the drug hit her bloodstream, and it was blessed relief when she passed out.
*****
When she woke, she was sore, hungover and felt dry and brittle. The cuffs were gone and she was lying on her side in what passed for a normal (if military grade) bed. The lights were off in the room, but she could see the glow from the low lights in the hall through what she imagined was a reinforced window on the door. Some kind of holding cell then, she realized and tried to sit up. She wasn't sweating anymore and the sense of distortion and lack of control was gone. Natasha was relieved, but angry. That had been unexpected. The fear had been unexpected.
She wondered if she'd passed their test, while a part of her was grateful that it hadn't been Barton in the room with her. Not that he couldn't have been observing from outside, or even over a video feed. All of SHIELD could very well know her deepest secrets by now, and at this juncture there wasn't anything for her to do about it.
There was a bottle of water on the floor by the bed and after a brief hesitation she decided to risk it. They'd already demonstrated they could poison her if they wanted to, the water was either safe or not but she needed the hydration.
A guard rapped her knuckles on the glass and at Natasha's nod, opened the door. "Director Fury has requested to see you once you were awake. If you would follow me?"
No one tried to cuff her. They led her down several nondescript hallways, past what looked like a cafeteria across from what sounded like it was probably a gym, until they came to a locked section that required the lead guard to use both a retinal scan and a complicated code to unlock. The hallway narrowed dramatically, and she was delivered unceremoniously to an office.
Inside, sitting calmly behind the desk, was the man who had interrogated her. He nodded to the guards and they left - she heard the door lock behind her.
"Romanov, have a seat."
She did so, never taking her eyes off of him. "What did you give me?" There was no point in hedging or dissembling. He'd already seen her at her worst and most vulnerable. She was fairly certain she would never forgive him for it.
"Special SHIELD recipe. We needed to be sure what your motives were. I'm not about to invite the snake into my den without knowing whether or not it's going to bite me first."
"And what, Director Fury, did you conclude?"
"That you're dangerous as hell."
"Indeed." She felt it slipping over her, the mask she used to bargain with war lords and terrorists, with the mad and dangerously determined. Fury, she decided, fit all of those criteria. "So now you'll, what? Neutralize the threat?"
"Hardly. I've decided it's in our best interest to have you working for our side. You wanted the protection and opportunities of SHIELD? Fine. You've got them. I'll give you your warning now, and then we're done with that.
"You ever try anything, try to sink my ship or kill my people? You cannot hide, you will not survive. You don't get any strikes, you're just out. Got me?"
"I understand you perfectly, Director."
"You'll be on probationary status, just like any other independent contractor we bring on as a new agent. The next few weeks we'll need to evaluate you and you'll have to qualify on all major weapons and skill sets. You're also required to speak with a registered SHIELD counselor on a regular basis until we've got you cleared through to field duty."
She would've sworn she didn't flinch, but his gaze narrowed. "I'm going to tell you this exactly once. There was no one else watching when you were in that room. There is no recording of that conversation. You and I are the only two people who know what happened in there, and that's not going to change. I don't give a fuck what you tell the counselor, so long as you determine you're able-bodied and psychologically healthy enough to be out there in the field. I'm well aware that you're going to lie to them, just like you want to lie to me and everybody else. Don't lie to yourself. You need time, you need to bench yourself, you come talk to me and we'll work with that. Play nice, don't scare the civvies, and we'll all do just fine."
Her stomach clenched, with determination this time instead of fear. She was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down over the empty air, and she could either fall or fly.
She wasn't ready to fall.
"Then I'm in."
*****
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,327
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for Notes.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
New York, New York, U.S.A.
Clint wasn't expecting company when he finally reached his apartment after a day and a half of debriefing. In retrospect, he supposed he should have.
"You fucked her, didn't you?"
He made a deliberate show of not reacting to the man sitting on his couch like he owned the place. Instead he headed to his kitchen, chucking his duffel bag into the corner near the washing machine and carefully setting his weapons bag on his table.
"Can't say that I did, sir."
"You expect me to believe that, Barton? After the stunt you just pulled?" Fury rose, stalked his way into the kitchen. It was a small room, not designed for two full grown men. Clint had never been one to let people physically intimidate him, and while he had a healthy respect for the Director, he wasn't afraid of him.
So he pulled two bottles of beer out of the fridge, shoved one at Fury and took the other one back into the living room, sprawling across his couch so that the other man couldn't sit back down.
"I don't care what you believe, sir. I didn't sleep with her, unless we're redefining that to mean being in the same room when actual sleep was happening. You did tell me not to let her out of my sight, after all."
This was another reason Fury didn't like him much, Clint decided. He never had known when to keep his mouth shut. But the accusation rankled him just a bit, the idea that obviously he'd been making his decisions with his dick instead of his head. Unless he was in a SHIELD facility, in uniform and on the clock, he was going to talk to the Director however he goddamn pleased.
So maybe the sleep deprivation had left him a little bit... edgy.
He knew he was being studied, and that Fury was probably doing that "not really psychic or at least you can't prove it" shit he was so good at. Since he actually wasn't lying to him, he wasn't too worried about it.
"She's been moved to the main HQ for debrief and evaluation."
Clint mentally gave himself a gold star for not grinding his teeth. He had an inkling what that would probably entail, and didn't like the idea of her having to go through it. She also wasn't exactly in anyone at SHIELD's good graces, which wouldn't make it any easier.
"I need you in Santiago."
At that, Clint raised both eyebrows and didn't bother to hide his displeasure. "Seriously?"
"We've got a wiretap and observation set up on a money laundering racket that might be funding some weapons dumps from the former USSR. Coulson'll have your mission brief in the morning. You're meeting him at 0800 at HQ."
He vanished as stealthily as he'd arrived and Clint looked up at his ceiling as if it could explain anything to him.
"Fuck me."
Same Day ~ Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
Being on board the SHIELD ship was unsettling, Natasha decided. She had endured her share of debriefings, of interrogations, both from hostiles and her own people. She didn't remember details of most of her Red Room debriefings except for right at the very end, but she had a general sense that they had occasionally been... unpleasant. Since she was at best a hostile asset, she certainly wasn't expecting to be served tea and sandwiches while they questioned her.
On the outside, nothing belied her calm when they led her into a detention area in SHIELD medical. She had even steeled herself to expect them to turn on her, once she was in their custody. She knew they weren't happy about the hospital fire. She was prepared, if necessary, to break her way out of SHIELD just like she had the Red Room, and to endure whatever they put her through in the interim.
Ice still settled low in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the gurneys and monitors, IVs and prep trays. The agent escorting her, who Barton had referred to as "Coulson" indicated she should sit on a nearby exam table and she forced herself to do so gracefully, without hesitation. They’d given her scrubs after they searched her, the kind that itched and reminded her of where she was and what sorts of things might be about to happen.
If they knew this much about her fears, they had better intel than they had any right to. She kept telling herself it was much more likely chance than design and she sat, calmly, through the examination and the blood draws, very aware not only of the armed agents surrounding her, but that her every move was being observed, evaluated, and considered. When the nurse came back through with a loaded hypodermic needle and an IV lead it took all of her considerable control and acting skills not to bolt outright or show any fear.
She didn't ask what they were giving her, because she wasn't about to let them see any hesitation or chink in the armor she'd so carefully forged.
Coulson led her to another room, this one more in line with the interrogation rooms she'd seen in the past. There was a table and two chairs, all bolted into place, a two-way glass posing as a mirror that didn't fool anyone, and blank walls, a blank floor, and a tiled ceiling. She doubted the ceiling would actually give her access to anything useful. There was a steady stream of cool air blowing from a vent near the ceiling and as it moved over her exposed skin she realized she was starting to sweat.
As soon as she stepped into the room, Coulson said someone would be coming in to speak with her soon, then closed the door with a metallic click that echoed louder than it should have in the mostly empty space.
Natasha was beginning to feel like she was mostly empty space. The drug, whatever they'd given her, was starting to take effect, she realized. With precise, controlled motions she sat down in the chair before she lost the power to stand on her own. Her vision wasn't swimming, but everything was starting to seem brighter, sharper. Her skin was hypersensitive and the rough fabric of the scrubs was becoming even more uncomfortable.
There wasn't a clock on the wall and her sense of time was thrown off. She couldn't tell if she sat there for minutes or hours before the door opened again. It sounded like a gunshot.
"Natasha Romanov. AKA the Black Widow."
The man standing in front of her was tall and dressed head to toe in black tac gear, even down to the black patch covering his left eye. She bit down on her tongue to keep herself from responding.
"My agent seems to think you'd like to join up."
A long pause, and it took her a minute to work out that he was waiting on a response from her.
"Yes," she croaked out. Words, emotions, fears all tried to bubble up, as if by speaking she'd cracked open a seal that had been holding everything it. Part of her training had been resistance to chemicals like sodium pentothal, but none of the drugs they'd ever pumped into her held a candle to whatever SHIELD had concocted.
"And why, Miss Romanov, is that?" He stood almost casually, hands clasped behind his back, regarding her steadily.
What she wanted to say was that she was bored. She wanted a change of pace, a new challenge. Pretty lies that made her seem calm and logical, not terrified and desperate.
"Pr... protection. Can't run anymore," she stuttered on her words. The sweat was running down into her eyes which didn't make sense because she was so very cold.
"I'd say we're the one's you need to be running from. We're the ones who've been trying to eliminate you, after all."
"No. They're worse. The Red Room... no. I won't go back and be unmade again." She hadn't noticed that she'd switched to Russian until he'd responded in kind. She knew over twenty languages in whole or in part, but could not remember any of them, just her mother tongue.
"Unmade, huh? And what does that mean, exactly?"
"Needles. Drugs. Pain. They take you out, put someone else back in and you forget... everything."
It went on like that. She didn't know how long, wasn't aware of anything else but his voice and the turmoil in her head. All her nightmares, her hopes and fears and they were spilling out all around her for this man, along with information - far more than she'd ever intended to give them.
In some ways it was worse, much worse than anything anyone else had ever done.
By the time another orderly with hard, steady hands took her arm to give her another injection, she was on the floor in the corner of the room, wrung out and bled dry. This time the world spun almost as soon as the drug hit her bloodstream, and it was blessed relief when she passed out.
*****
When she woke, she was sore, hungover and felt dry and brittle. The cuffs were gone and she was lying on her side in what passed for a normal (if military grade) bed. The lights were off in the room, but she could see the glow from the low lights in the hall through what she imagined was a reinforced window on the door. Some kind of holding cell then, she realized and tried to sit up. She wasn't sweating anymore and the sense of distortion and lack of control was gone. Natasha was relieved, but angry. That had been unexpected. The fear had been unexpected.
She wondered if she'd passed their test, while a part of her was grateful that it hadn't been Barton in the room with her. Not that he couldn't have been observing from outside, or even over a video feed. All of SHIELD could very well know her deepest secrets by now, and at this juncture there wasn't anything for her to do about it.
There was a bottle of water on the floor by the bed and after a brief hesitation she decided to risk it. They'd already demonstrated they could poison her if they wanted to, the water was either safe or not but she needed the hydration.
A guard rapped her knuckles on the glass and at Natasha's nod, opened the door. "Director Fury has requested to see you once you were awake. If you would follow me?"
No one tried to cuff her. They led her down several nondescript hallways, past what looked like a cafeteria across from what sounded like it was probably a gym, until they came to a locked section that required the lead guard to use both a retinal scan and a complicated code to unlock. The hallway narrowed dramatically, and she was delivered unceremoniously to an office.
Inside, sitting calmly behind the desk, was the man who had interrogated her. He nodded to the guards and they left - she heard the door lock behind her.
"Romanov, have a seat."
She did so, never taking her eyes off of him. "What did you give me?" There was no point in hedging or dissembling. He'd already seen her at her worst and most vulnerable. She was fairly certain she would never forgive him for it.
"Special SHIELD recipe. We needed to be sure what your motives were. I'm not about to invite the snake into my den without knowing whether or not it's going to bite me first."
"And what, Director Fury, did you conclude?"
"That you're dangerous as hell."
"Indeed." She felt it slipping over her, the mask she used to bargain with war lords and terrorists, with the mad and dangerously determined. Fury, she decided, fit all of those criteria. "So now you'll, what? Neutralize the threat?"
"Hardly. I've decided it's in our best interest to have you working for our side. You wanted the protection and opportunities of SHIELD? Fine. You've got them. I'll give you your warning now, and then we're done with that.
"You ever try anything, try to sink my ship or kill my people? You cannot hide, you will not survive. You don't get any strikes, you're just out. Got me?"
"I understand you perfectly, Director."
"You'll be on probationary status, just like any other independent contractor we bring on as a new agent. The next few weeks we'll need to evaluate you and you'll have to qualify on all major weapons and skill sets. You're also required to speak with a registered SHIELD counselor on a regular basis until we've got you cleared through to field duty."
She would've sworn she didn't flinch, but his gaze narrowed. "I'm going to tell you this exactly once. There was no one else watching when you were in that room. There is no recording of that conversation. You and I are the only two people who know what happened in there, and that's not going to change. I don't give a fuck what you tell the counselor, so long as you determine you're able-bodied and psychologically healthy enough to be out there in the field. I'm well aware that you're going to lie to them, just like you want to lie to me and everybody else. Don't lie to yourself. You need time, you need to bench yourself, you come talk to me and we'll work with that. Play nice, don't scare the civvies, and we'll all do just fine."
Her stomach clenched, with determination this time instead of fear. She was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down over the empty air, and she could either fall or fly.
She wasn't ready to fall.
"Then I'm in."
*****