Written for clintasha-week's Clintasha advent project on Tumblr. This idea has been floating around in my head for a few months now, and I finally made the time to write it. I feel like the ending kinda got away from me, but whatever.
Enjoy! :)
Barton and Romanoff were running through the halls, following the winding path of the empty corridors through the intelligence base. The base was ominously silent; the only noise came from their echo-y footsteps and labored breathing as they raced through hallway after identical hallway, all lit by harsh overhead lights.
Barton slowed to a stop. He leaned his palm against the white, sterile wall, panting and heaving for breath. Romanoff paused at his side, breathing hard, her head swiveling around to check for hostiles.
"We can't be far now," Barton panted, flopping back onto the wall. "I swear I saw a sign back there for the Resource Center. That's gotta be where they stash their intel."
"But we still don't know where that is," Romanoff said dryly, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Yeah," Barton said breathlessly. "Think we should ask someone?"
Romanoff stared incredulously at him. "Are you out of your mind? AIM is a hostile organization, they're not going to just tell two SHIELD agents where their—" She broke off as Barton started chuckling.
She scowled at him. "You were making a joke, weren't you."
Barton nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Romanoff crossed her arms irritably. "Stop making jokes on the field."
"Yes, ma'am," Barton replied snarkily. Then he glanced down the hall. "How much longer do you think we've got?"
"Five minutes at best."
"That's what I thought," Barton agreed. He glanced at one of the many security cameras that decorated the ceiling. "As soon as they realize there's a breach, they'll be after us."
Romanoff took a deep breath.
"We should split up," she said.
Barton looked quickly at her, studying her face without speaking.
"We can cover more ground that way, and save time," she said.
Barton didn't answer. He looked thoughtful.
Romanoff exhaled. "You think I'll try to run."
"No." Barton shook his head firmly. "I trust you." Then he hesitated. "I just don't think Fury would be impressed. He wants me to keep an eye on you since you're still on probation."
Romanoff bit her lip, knowing he was right.
Then Barton pushed himself off the wall. "You know what? Screw it. Since when do I give a damn what Fury thinks?" he said. "We're splitting up. Comms on, and let's get moving."
They both reached up to switch on their comms as they headed out opposite doors.
"Testing." Barton's voice spoke directly into her ear. "How do I sound?"
"Clear," Romanoff said. "And on your end?"
"A-OK."
"Why did they give us comm units if we're not supposed to split up?" Romanoff wondered aloud.
"I dunno. As a fashion accessory?"
Romanoff rolled her eyes.
"That was another joke, by the way."
"I'm aware," Romanoff said dryly. "Try to stay focused, if at all possible."
"Roger that."
They both fell silent as they rushed through more quiet, empty hallways, searching for any clue as to where they could find the intel they were hunting for. Romanoff could hear Barton's labored breathing over the comms, and her own quick footfalls, but apart from these she could hear nothing.
Romanoff was mostly focused on staying alert and finding the Resource Center. But a time passed, she began to wonder why their presence hadn't yet been discovered. Barton had detonated a decoy arrow on the far side of the base to buy them some time to look around, but that had been a good half-hour ago. And by now, the lack of security alarms and armed AIM agents on her tail was convenient, but surprising. Suspicious, even.
This idea had barely crossed her mind when he turned a corner and glimpsed, at the end of a long hall, a door labelled "Resource Center."
Finally.
Romanoff raised a hand to her ear. "Barton, I—"
"Oh, Christ." Barton's voice spoke suddenly over the comms, and he sounded horrified.
Romanoff frowned, apprehension rising. "Barton?"
"It's a trap," Barton said in a low voice. "It was all a trap. They knew we were coming."
"What are you talking about?" Romanoff demanded.
"I just found the control room," Barton said. "I can see the whole base through the security cameras. There's no one here, Natasha. They're all gone."
"What?"
"That's not all," Barton said grimly. "The place is on lockdown, and… there's a countdown. This place is rigged to blow in less than five minutes."
Der'mo.
"We need to pull out," Barton said. "We need to pull out now."
Romanoff hesitated and glanced toward the Resource Center. She could hear Barton's heavy breathing over the comms system and knew he was getting out. She had to make a decision.
"I just found the Resource Center," she said slowly.
"What? Nat, don't even think about it," Barton said firmly. "We need to get the hell out of here."
Romanoff cast a glance up the hall toward the exit, and made up her mind.
"I'm going in," she said, and started down the passage.
"What? No!" Barton yelped. "Mission abort – that's an order, Romanoff!"
Romanoff switched off her comm and sprinted down the hall.
She pulled out her false AIM ID as she reached the door, praying that the lockdown was partial rather than full, and that only the exterior doors were affected. She swiped the card under the scanner. The door clicked open, and she pushed her way in with a breath of relief.
Beyond the door was an enormous room, filled with rows of looming file cabinets.
Hard copies then. Just as I expected.
Romanoff scanned the labels on the cabinets. Ab… Ac… Ad. I need Ta.
She moved quickly through the towering rows of cabinets, carefully tracking the door labels. At last she reached T, and hastened into the row, her eyes rapidly skimming the letters.
Ta—Ti. There.
Romanoff yanked the drawer open, and a row of manila folders fell forward. She flicked hastily through them, searching the titles.
Tactical Defense… Tadrow, Thomas… Tagging Rubric…
And then there it was.
T.A.H.I.T.I.
Romanoff's fingers closed around the file, and she pulled it out of the drawer.
Mission accomplished.
Romanoff glanced at her watch. Two minutes.
I need to get out of here.
She took of running down the aisle and retraced her steps back to the door and out of the Resource Center.
As she ran down the hallway, she realized it would be impossible to try to exit the base the same way she'd entered. She'd been trekking the winding labyrinth for the better part of an hour; even if she could find the way back, it would take too long.
Her head swiveled back and forth as she ran, scanning her surroundings for an alternate escape route, and her gaze fell on a stairwell. Perfect. At least if she could get out of the basement, a window would be a viable option.
She threw the door open and took the steps two at a time. Her wristwatch showed just under one minute. She turned a corner, and relief washed through her at the sight of daylight spilling into a neat rectangle on the floor.
Romanoff unholstered her gun and fired off a round into the windowpane without breaking her stride. The glass splintered and shattered, and Romanoff tucked her knees to her chest in midair and threw herself at the window.
She tucked into a roll when she hit the pavement and came up on her feet. The momentum from her somersault sent her running across the street, and she narrowly escaped being hit by a bus, which blared angrily as it swerved to avoid her. She hit the sidewalk and took off running away from the intel base. For a moment, it was only her heavy breathing and the wind in her face and the impact of her boots on the concrete. Romanoff glanced at her watch.
3—2—1—
The building exploded.
Even from a distance, Romanoff felt the heat sear her back. Cries of shock and horror erupted around her, and a sense of urgency pervaded the air as chaos broke out on the sidewalks. Romanoff gradually slowed from a run to a brisk walk, disappearing into the crowd.
Once she judged that she was a sufficient distance from the explosion site, Romanoff ducked into an empty alley. She could hear sirens screaming in the distance as she switched on her comm.
"Widow to Hawkeye, do you read me?"
"Natasha," Barton said hoarsely.
"Barton. I'm clear. Regroup on the south side—" She craned her neck, looking for a street sign. "—42nd Street alley."
Barton didn't reply.
Romanoff frowned and tapped at her comm unit. "Hawkeye? Do you copy?"
There was a pause.
"Copy," Barton muttered.
Romanoff's frown deepened at the displeasure in his tone. Clearly he was upset with her for going against his orders. She wasn't too concerned about it, though – she was sure he'd be fine once he saw the T.A.H.I.T.I. file.
Romanoff was leaning back against the brick wall when Barton appeared around the corner. He halted, glaring quietly at her.
Romanoff straightened and smirked at him.
"Barton," she greeted as he started towards her, still glowering darkly. "I have the file, and I—"
And then he was directly in front of her, taking her none too gently by the elbows.
"What the hell were you thinking!" he shouted in her face. "I told you to get the hell out of there, were you out of your damn mind?" He gave her a little shake; he was gripping her so tightly that her heels came off the ground a little.
Romanoff stared wide-eyed at him, heart hammering in her chest. Even while in danger of being blown to pieces in an intel base, she'd stayed calm and hardly broken a sweat, but somehow, this was much more unnerving.
"You disobeyed a direct order," Barton growled, his fingers digging into her arms. "What part of 'mission abort' do you not understand?"
Romanoff swallowed, her eyes scanning his face. This wasn't the Clint Barton she knew, the one who whistled bad 80's music and dozed off in debriefings and cracked lame jokes over the comms. She'd never seen him lose his cool like this before, and it scared her. She had always thought of herself as the more intense of the two of them; it had never occurred to her that he could get as angry as she could.
Once he realized he had the file, he would calm down.
Romanoff swallowed.
"Barton," she said faintly. "I got it."
"I just can't believe you did that! That was way out of line!" Barton raged on. "Do you even realize what a stupid move that was?"
Romanoff scowled.
"Barton, I told you, I got the file."
"DO YOU THINK I GIVE A RAT'S ASS ABOUT THE FILE!" Barton yelled.
Romanoff blinked.
Didn't he?
"Romanoff, I don't care about the goddamn file," Barton said, more rationally, but no less angrily. "I'm more concerned about your behavior in the compound."
He was glaring down at her, and Romanoff squirmed under his gaze. She suddenly felt very small.
"That was foolish and reckless, Widow," Barton said harshly. "You barely had time to get out, you could easily have—" He bit the sentence off, scowling. His fingers tightened around her elbows.
He released her abruptly and stormed away.
. . .
Romanoff was immersed in thought throughout her walk back to the safe house. She couldn't understand Barton's extreme reaction to her decision – she knew it was more than just the fact that she had gone against his orders. Although he was her SO, Barton rarely gave her direct orders – he was always more interested in listening to her input and taking her ideas into consideration. Even though she was technically a SHIELD probie and he was the senior agent, both of them thought of themselves as an equally capable team. So her decision shouldn't have angered him as much as it did.
Besides, Barton had too long a history of making different calls to be bothered when she did the same.
Of course, she knew she was a valuable asset to SHIELD, and that Barton wouldn't want to lose her for that reason. But she had thought that once her risk had paid off, it would have appeased him. It hadn't, and now she was at a loss as to why her decision had upset him as much as it had.
She had arrived at the safe house: a small upper-story flat in town, tucked away between rows of apartment buildings. She let herself into the complex and headed up to their room.
Barton was sitting in the living quarters of their flat, fiddling with the SHIELD transmissions set. He glared accusingly at the device when Romanoff entered.
Romanoff tossed the T.A.H.I.T.I. file onto the table.
Barton didn't look up. "Exfil is at ten tonight," he said passively.
Romanoff folded her arms and got straight to the point. "Why exactly are you so pissed about it?"
Barton scowled at the transmissions set. "About what?"
Romanoff lifted an eyebrow.
At last, Barton looked up at her. "You mean what happened back at AIM?"
Romanoff waited.
Barton's gaze returned to the transmitter. "I told you. It was a dangerous move, Romanoff."
Romanoff shook her head vehemently. "Everything we do is dangerous," she returned. "Our lifestyle is dangerous. How was this any different?"
Barton paused.
"Well… it was a pretty big risk for a piece of intel."
"I know it was a big risk," Romanoff said, "but it was a risk that paid off.—"
Barton was shaking his head.
"Natasha, no, you're missing the point," he said, suddenly intense. "I'm not concerned with whether or not it paid off.'
Romanoff blinked, confused. Since when was the outcome of a mission beside the point?
Barton took a slow breath. "Look, I know our job is dangerous. There's a lot of fighting, and injuries, and let's face it – most the people we meet on the job want to kill us. And yes, there are times when we put our lives on the line. For people, for individuals, those we're trying to protect. There are things that are worth risking your life for," he said. He cast a disdainful glance at the T.A.H.I.T.I. file. "'Loose scraps of paper' does not make that list."
Romanoff didn't reply. She was baffled by the fact that Barton was referring to the mission as not being of first importance. Back in Russia, she would have been punished for that kind of thinking.
"So you're saying that we shouldn't try to complete the mission?" she asked blankly.
"We should always try," Barton said. "But if it comes to taking unnecessary risks for things that aren't worth it, then the mission is secondary to staying alive."
Again Romanoff remained silent. She was bewildered by these new ideas – in the Red Room, she'd always been taught that her life was secondary to the mission objective. That was why she never failed a mission. She'd been told to use whatever means necessary to complete the job, yet here was her partner, suggesting that there were times when, even if she had a means, she should refrain from using it. Here he was, suggesting that mission results were not as important as her life.
But the Black Widow always succeeded. She had to. That was what made her so valuable. That was why so many sought her services. And it she wasn't the Black Widow, the one who always succeeded, then she didn't know who she was. Her identity and her mission achievements were, in her mind, inextricably linked.
Romanoff swallowed. "But… an agent is only as good as her mission record."
"What?" Barton looked up, almost laughing, but when he saw her face he grew serious.
"Romanoff, you're not your mission record," he said at last. "You're not a list of op results. You're just you."
Romanoff stared at him.
"You're not defined by what you have or haven't done, not any of it," Barton said. "That's not what makes you who you are. It's not what makes you important."
Romanoff frowned.
"But… I thought that's why you spared my life," she said. "Because of my mission record. Because of my reputation. Because I was an asset."
Barton shook his head.
"I did bring you back to SHIELD because you were an asset. But that's not why I let you live." His brow furrowed. "Y'know, I've thought long and hard about it, and I can never quite figure out exactly why I did what I did. I guess I just had a feeling about you. I knew you just needed someone to trust you, to give you another chance." He looked up at her. "I looked at you, and I saw someone who deserved to live."
'Deserved to live'. Not someone who had earned the right to live through her mission success. Not someone who was allowed to live because of her skill or appearance or usefulness. Someone who deserved to live just for the sake of living.
Romanoff could hardly fathom this idea. What possible worth could she have to anyone beyond her worth as a weapon?
Romanoff took a slow breath, trying to formulate the question aloud.
"Do you mean that… you think my life is worth something… other than as an agent…?"
Barton raised his head and looked at her. He looked at her for so long that Romanoff began to regret asking him She must have misunderstood; of course he didn't see her as anything beyond a business partner.
Then Barton stood up. Slowly, he crossed to room to where she was standing.
He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a hug.
Romanoff tensed, unsure how to respond. She couldn't remember ever having been hugged, and it took her a moment to register the fact that she liked it.
Hesitantly, she leaned into his warm chest, setting her hands on his back. Barton exhaled and spread his palms on her back, and then he drew away to arm's length, half-smiling at her.
"That answer your question?"
Romanoff nodded mutely. Warmth was spreading from the place where his hands met her back, all the way through to the tips of her fingers.
And then he stepped back, his hands falling away, and it was gone.
Barton tilted his head, watching her quietly for a moment.
"I should probably start getting my stuff together," he said. "If you have any more questions, don't hesitate to ask."
His fingertips brushed her shoulder and he was gone.
And Romanoff headed off to change, feeling, for the first time in her life, as if she had a friend.