They Make Manipulation A Virtue – Part One
A/N: My edited and alternative version of Chapters Twenty and Twenty-One of my story, Mr. & Mrs. Barton. I hope you all enjoy these two chapters :) – Based in an alternative universe which stars Clint as a CIA Agent and Natasha as a SVR Agent.
The dark Russian night sky was illuminated by bright stars. The night was cold, wet and gloomy, fitting the mood of the sniper accurately. 'How was I so stupid? How did I miss all of the signs?' Taking a deep breath, Clint moved his scope to focus on the entrance to the SVR building in Moscow, directly across from the skyscraper he had set up on, waiting for his new target. She'd been in there for twenty-six minutes forty-seven seconds and counting. The lying, manipulative minx had fooled him for almost six years. Of all the people who had to be his next target, it had to be her. His stormy grey eyes narrowed in concentration despite all the thoughts and memories running through his mind. 'Were they all fake?' As the steady rain began to pour down in Moscow, one new prominent thought crossed his mind on repeat: tonight would decide the rest of his life indefinitely.
Thinking back to when he had been given his assignment, he couldn't help but remember the feeling of betrayal that bit him when he learned of her deception…
"Here's your new assignment, Barton," Phil Coulson informed the sniper as he handed the twenty-nine-year-old the manilla folder. "She's a tough one, Clint."
"Aren't they always?" Clint joked as he opened the folder, freezing in surprise as he looked at the picture of his next target.
"Natalia Romanova," Phil read, not bothering to look at his agent as he continued, "Russian operative and native. Very accomplished assassin, interrogator and manipulator. Total number of confirmed kills; unknown. Trained in all known styles of hand-to-hand combat. Multilingual: speaks over twenty languages fluently. Clint, she's almost like the female Russian version of you. Only she has red hair and green eyes. And she's three years younger than you…"
Clint didn't reply. He thought he was seeing things. How could she be his next target? How was this even possible?
"Clint? Clinton? Barton?!"
"Uh… sorry… Yeah?"
"Is there a problem? You just zoned out on me there…"
"No," Clint lied, keeping his eyes focused on the contents of the folder. "No, sir. There's no problem," he added even as he stared into the empty eyes of the assassin he had just been assigned to terminate. The same green eyes of his wife…
Clint gritted his teeth at the memory, biting back the anger and pain of the betrayal he had been made victim of that day. Why didn't he do that bloody background check on Natasha when they'd first met? Had he really been that stupid just because he'd been so love-struck?
Suddenly, his phone began vibrating in his pocket. Steadying his sniper rifle with his right hand, the sniper used his left hand to fish his phone out of his back pocket. He almost laughed at the irony. His wife, the mother of his two-year-old son, was calling him. Deciding to play along, he pressed the 'Accept Call' button and brought it to his ear. "Hello, sweetheart?"
"Hey, Honey. Have you arrived yet? Did Erik make any fuss when you dropped him off at your brother's?" she replied her voice holding no trace of her native Russian accent. It almost made him wonder if that folder had been right. Almost.
"I'm just waiting for a taxi to the hotel, sweetheart. Are we still going out for dinner tonight?" he asked, playing his wealthy persona which he had perfected throughout the six years of their marriage. "And no, Erik didn't make a fuss. But he's missing his mother."
"I miss him too, Clint. I'm nearly finished here with all the paperwork. We'll be able to go home soon," she answered. "As for dinner, if that's what you'd like, yes. The hotel serves lovely good. I'm almost finished at the office so I'll see you in twenty minutes. Is that okay?"
"That's perfect, sweetheart. I'll see you then."
"I love you, Clint."
"Love you too, Natasha."
Hanging up the phone, Clint glanced at the time; 20.97. Plenty of time for him to watch Natasha leave the building and still make it to the hotel before her. But recalling their phone call made him pause: she'd asked for their son immediately. Clint didn't doubt that she'd move mountains for their son. And that alone almost made him believe that she wasn't the woman described in his mission brief. That she wasn't the assassin that was to be terminated. But he wasn't going to be fooled by her fake personas. No, not this time. But damn, the revelation of his wife's manipulation did hurt him…
Ten minutes later, the twenty-nine-year-old watched as his wife exited the building, her red hair undeniable to his hawk-like eyes. Making her was to the black Audi R5, Clint watched on as the car took off towards their hotel. Quickly, the sniper packed up his rifle and other equipment, removing all traces that he'd been there. Once all traces were removed, he changed into his all black suit. When he was ready, he made his way down to his car, throwing his equipment into the boot. He got into the car, turned on the engine and pulled out onto the Moscow street, racing towards the Astrus Hotel. He took every possible shortcut he could take. And it worked out in his favour. He arrived a good ten minutes before Natasha, the sniper parking in the hotel's car-park and made his way to reception to collect his room key. Once he had everything he wanted in place, Clint made his way back to the dining-room. He found his wife already there, dressed in a black evening gown, her long red curly hair brushed over her shoulder in the way he had always told her – truthfully – that he loved. She looked as beautiful as the day they met. She looked like his wife, like Erik's mother. Mentally, he frowned. She was the enemy. Not his wife. Not Erik's mother. Not at that moment. He forced himself to focus, trying to ignore the contradicting memories playing in his mind.
"Hiya, Stranger," Natasha greeted with a loving smile, standing up to hug her husband.
"Hiya back," Clint replied, returning her hug. "Why so affectionate?" he asked, appearing to tease her but he was genuinely curious to see his wife's reply.
"I missed you. And I miss Erik," she answered as she sat down across from him. "And I learned something at work today. When were you going to tell me, Special Agent Barton?" she suddenly asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he responded, feigning innocence.
"Don't play dumb, Clint. It's not a good look on you. I know who you really work for. And it's not that crappy lie you gave me about owning your own security service," she stated, her usually playful green eyes narrowing into the same dark murderous and empty ones he'd seen in her profile.
"When were you?" he retorted, making his wife – was she still his wife? She married under an alias – pause and think about his question.
"Touché, Mr. Barton," she appeased slightly just as the waiter arrived to take their orders. "Pinot blanc," Natasha ordered, smiling at the young man as he quickly wrote down their orders. Once the young man left, she turned back to her husband. "You were waiting outside the SVR, weren't you, Honey?" she asked, her voice laced with bittersweet memories. They both knew it wasn't a question.
"Did you really need to ask?" Clint retorted sarcastically. "I'm not fond of my marks getting a head-start on me. I'm very efficient worker."
"What do you want me to say, Clint? We both lied to each other. Used each other to maintain aliases outside world. I'm not the only one at fault here."
"What about Erik? Is he really mine?" He was afraid to ask; afraid of the answer.
"I cannot believe you seriously just asked me that," she snarled at him, genuine hurt evident on her face and in her voice.
"I need to know. Is. He. Mine?"
"Yes. He. Is. Do a damn paternity test if you want. I can promise you that you're the only possible father to our son."
"I still want a divorce… Natasha."
"No. Really?" she deadpanned, cocking her head to the side and raising an eyebrow at him. The same look she used when he did something either highly amusing or highly stupid.
"Thirty-six hours ago," he started, watching the twenty-seven-year-old in front of him carefully as he spoke. "I was given the order to put an end to you. I also found out that my wife of six years and the mother of my two-year-old son had lied to me. Manipulated me. In all fairness that gives me the right to be an arrogant, sarcastic prick right now."
"Then we have mutual feelings about the situation. So it comes down to us having our last dinner together before what? One of us kills the other?"
"Why would you care?" he replied, genuinely curious. "I was just a cover. Someone for you to use so you could get a Green Card into the US."
"Clint," she started, frowning at him. "First off, who said you were just a cover? And secondly, I do not want our son growing up without either of us."
Clint paused at her words. 'What?' he thought to himself, completely thrown off balance by both his wife's question and statement. Glancing into her softening green eyes, he recognised the same hurt and sadness he'd felt since he'd been given his orders. Then he thought about Coulson's actions during their debrief: his handler had been too calm, too relaxed. 'Damn it!' he thought – all-the-while voicing, "Wasn't I?" out loud. His wife's answering silence was all that he needed. 'It wasn't Tasha who totally betrayed my trust after all.' The sniper took in their surroundings as the waiter returned to pour their wine. "You do realise that we have to redo every conversation we've ever had, right?" he asked after a few minutes of silence.
"That's your only concern right now?" she asked, a small grin crossing her face.
"No," he started, returning her grin with his own lopsided one. "No, it's not. But I thought you want me to be honest and let you know."
"We have a decision to make," she replied, watching her husband carefully.
"Follow our orders? Or take Erik, turn our backs on our respective agencies, and disappear?"
Natasha nodded in agreement to Clint's second option. "Do you still want a divorce?" she asked, surprising Clint with the suddenness of the question.
Clint raced over and caught Natasha's left hand with his right. "I only said that because I thought you were my enemy," he answered honestly, earning a soft smile from his wife.
"What should we do then?" she replied, tightening her hold on his right hand while her own picked at the white silk table cloth. She traced the hand stitched designs, her eyes flickering to Clint's every now and again. "Get Erik and go off grid? Both the CIA and SVR will come looking for us."
"And we know the way they both think. They won't be able to find us. We can disappear, leave this life. I have funds in various banks under different aliases, across the globe. The CIA don't know about them. Any of them. I'm sure you have the same.
"Are you sure you can turn your back on your friends? Aren't you going to feel guilty betraying them?" Natasha asked; her husband had been part of the CIA for the past twelve years.
"Not as guilty as I would've been if I betrayed you and Erik by terminating you," he replied. "My family comes first. Always."
Do you want the second part?