Title: Extraction Point
Author: AutumnEnnui
Chapter One: As You Remember It
Agent Barton threw his duffel bag on the bed and looked around. It was exactly as he remembered it: gray walls, black doors, simple metal-framed bed with no headboard, scratchy white sheets on an overly firm mattress, and a thick gray blanket folded over the top of the sheets. These were all standard-issue for military barracks, save that these standard-issue items were in a private room when you were one of SHIELD's top agents. Agent Barton knew of four other apartments in this wing of the military complex: Director Fury, along with Agents Hill, Coulson, and Romanoff all shared a living and working space here, though in most cases none of them crossed each other's paths on a regular basis due to scheduling and assignments.
Agent Barton walked over to one of the walls and put his palm flat against the cool surface. "Natasha," he murmured in a curious tone. She slept on the other side of the wall he was touching, in a room identical to his save that Natasha had a rack full of undercover clothing where he had a rack full of bows and a shitload of arrows. Since each of his bows was strung and calibrated for him it didn't make sense to put them in the armory. Plus, he didn't trust anyone with his gear.
He couldn't recall how many nights he'd laid on his bed, fingers interlaced behind his head, listening to the muted sounds of Agent Romanoff getting ready for bed. In those moments, as in most moments, he didn't think of her as Agent Romanoff: it was Natasha, or Nat. Never Tasha, because she said it sounded like the name of a Russian porn star. One night while on a mission in frosty Oslo things had gone to shit fast and they had hidden themselves in a sewer tunnel covered in icy grime. While his teeth chattered slightly and they were close together for warmth she had told him that they were past the point where it made any sense to call each other "Agent Barton" and "Agent Romanoff" all the time.
"It's too formal," she had remarked, "Natasha. Or Nat. Sometimes even Natasha sounds too formal."
Since it had been more words from her at one time than he was used to he had just nodded his head and willed his body to get warm, but he didn't forget what she said. So when people were around she was Agent Romanoff or Black Widow and he was Agent Barton or Hawkeye , but when there were no other eyes or ears around she was Nat and he was Clint. He had grown attached to her name, and to his dismay he had grown attached to her as well. Attachment, as it was well-known, is never a good thing for agents. Clint knew this, but it had happened anyway so it was on his shoulders to play that hand as close to his chest as possible.
She didn't know. Agent Barton had taken great care to make sure she never found out. Partnerships were about loyalty and respect, of course, but they were also about knowing that your partner won't flinch and will keep to the mission no matter the cost. At this point he considered it apt to say that he was compromised. He trusted Natasha implicitly, respected her immensely, knew she would never flinch, and was sure she would always keep to the mission. What he couldn't account for, though, was himself. That was why he had left for three months after New York: he needed to clear his head. But for all his running and hiding he had gotten nowhere. He just kept butting his head against the same stubborn brick wall he knew to just be himself. He had fallen in love with the one person he never should have and he was scared that someday she would find out. He didn't know what that would mean, for either of them.
He stripped everything off the bed and threw it all into a corner. He replaced the scratchy white sheets with soft white cotton ones, and replaced the gray blanket with a thick blue one. He hated pillows. They always made his head sweat and came in too handy in matters of smothering. Keeping it simple was the Clint Barton way; well, the majority of the time at any rate. Clothing went into drawers or in the small closet, toiletries were placed in the small bathroom, and three pictures in frames were places on top of the chest of drawers: A shot of the Chain Bridge across the Danube in Budapest at night, a glassy lake as seen from his cabin in the Adirondacks in the fall, and a snow-white unnamed beach near Goa. No personal pictures: it was never a good idea. But Clint had found a work-around by taking pictures of places that reminded him of what was personal to him.
It had been a bemused quip that had come from him in New York when he had told Natasha that he remembered Budapest differently than she did, but the assertion did have a ring of truth to it. There had been violence, guns, injuries, seemingly improbable odds, and more; but what he remembered so differently was sitting on top of a beautiful, tree-covered hill, looking down at the Chain Bridge waiting for an illegal arms drop to happen. Natasha had the binoculars and was lying on her stomach when a young couple stopped in the middle of the bridge. Both agents tensed, but then the man and woman embraced one another before moving on. Clint looked down at Natasha and she looked up at him with those eyes.
"You ever have that?" she asked him, seeming genuinely curious.
He shook his head. "Never part of the plan."
The moonlight caught one side of her face and illuminated briefly her red hair, changing it to a deep auburn.
"It was never an option," she said as her eyes turned back to the task at hand.
Clint had gone back several months later to the same spot, under the same weather conditions, and had taken this snapshot. It was something he wished for her someday.
The picture of the glassy lake was new. When he had taken his three months off to collect his thoughts he had retreated to his cabin. For weeks all he did was sit on his large wooden chair on the porch, watching the leaves turn as he contemplated his present and future: the green drained out, then there was yellow giving way to orange and red and burgundy until finally the brown leaf fell to the ground, providing the brown base for the white covering that would soon follow. There was one red leaf that had fallen serendipitously onto his chair one morning before he sat down. He picked it up and stared at it for at least twenty minutes before putting it down beside him. It was the shade of her hair.
The beach in Goa. Now, that one was a mistake. It was a reminder of what not to let out, and why you don't ask the personal questions. Personal items, tidbits, talents, feelings – those were things one volunteers. You don't ask. You may not like the answer. People have been killed for less.
It had been one long swim to shore, but they knew SHIELD had already picked up their signal and would be on their way to extract them. Clint made conversation as Natasha combed her hair with her fingers.
"Say this wasn't a mission and we were most definitely stranded on a desert island: what five things would you want with you?"
Natasha looked at him like he was crazy, which was a look he was well-used to by then. He decided to go first.
"My wooden bow, a knife, a flint, a sewing kit, and someone to talk to."
Natasha scoffed, "Why someone to talk to? You'd be responsible for someone else when you'd be pushing to keep yourself alive. Why risk that? Why be selfish enough to bring another life into your mess? Why add more debt to the account?"
Clint didn't know what he expected her to say, but what she did say knocked sense into him. Of course someone who thought so deeply every day about all the hurt she had caused while under someone else's control would never entertain knowingly dragging someone into a mess that might possibly add even more guilt and shame to her internal resume. Even more than this hit Clint deeper: Natasha thought less of him for entertaining this selfish idea. That stung but he knew he deserved it. Espionage, intrigue, sabotage, politics, war – these were all things that their minds and bodies had been trained for. Idle thoughts, idle hands… those weren't part of the picture and they showed your mind was somewhere else. Clint's mind was on her. A normal person might compare it to walking the high-wire, this balancing act of caring for the welfare of your partner but not caring for them as an individual important to your life, but since he could walk a high wire like it was sidewalk he didn't consider it an apt metaphor. Actually, he didn't think there could be an apt metaphor for how this balance needed to work inside of his mind.
Clint walked over to the small computer embedded in the wall next to his door. A few quick clicks told him Agent Natasha Romanoff wasn't on the premises: she was out on mission. It was both a relief and not: he wanted to see her, but he also wanted to get his bearings again before confronted with the idea of seeing her again. Especially when he knew they'd more than likely be thrown right back into mission work together.
He walked out the door and toward the actual headquarters of the SHIELD base, a square, three-story building that had about six other floor hidden beneath the surface. Some areas he knew intimately, others not at all. Right now he sought his boss, looking for orders or just work until orders came in.
"Agent Barton. Welcome back," Director Fury greeted him tersely even as Agent Hill brushed past him and out the door.
"Hill trouble?" Barton asked as he tossed a curious look over his shoulder. He knew the non-committal stare was what he would get, so it didn't surprise him when it occurred.
"What can I do for you, Agent Barton?" Fury asked as he reviewed some security data on a large screen. Color video provided images of Captain America beating down a large group of violent men. Clint didn't pay too much attention to it, since he knew Steve would come out on top.
"I'm awaiting orders, Sir."
Fury rolled his eye at the agent before him: "You just got back and now you want back out? Not even going to take the time to settle in?"
"Settling isn't my style, Sir. Never has been."
"Didn't think so. That's all right. I have a mission for you anyway, hot off the press." Fury tossed Clint a dossier.
Clint opened the folder and looked at the top page before staring at his boss, a little lost for words.
"Yeah, I know. It's rare as hell, but our Black Widow seems to have been caught. Go get her out, would you?"